Cori Seungeun Jeoung

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In Sound, Plum, Shard, I explored my sonic experience of hearing loss through corporeal writing. Instead of lexicons or philosophical citations, the book was filled with imitative words, analogy of hearing aids as a five-year-old wriggling on the floor of a supermarket to get a new toy, and unusual assemblages of words. The epistemological hierarchies collapsed, and things that seemed malfunctioning became the most active and interesting beings.

Through writing, publishing, and communicating with the book, I found myself grounded in autobiographical and embodied modes of writing as a way of generating a different kind of public space, which I started calling “corporeal writing”. Corporeal writing doesn’t aim for established words or well-completed logics, rather, I show my shiver, tremble, the moments of rupture. It is a pile of scribbles from the times I sprung toward something that feels like a fresh, unripe plum. They deliver the taste of sour, and the beat of tension to readers, transferring the same rhythm to their bodies. I find my roots from my long absorption in l’écriture féminine, in the works of Duras, Ernaux, and Lispector, and my savoring of knowledge that flows and transfers between bodies.