The book--more accurately an archive of email correspondence between the late Kathy Acker and Mckenzie Wark--opens with a letter from Wark, stamped 8 August 1995, to which Acker replies the day before, 7 August. This isn't science fiction but a trans-romance, a courtship across 10,000 miles of land and sea, and 15 hours of time difference. Acker and Wark's long distance relationship is unapologetic for its virtuality; in fact, it flourishes in ideas and imagination. Notwithstanding pornography, polyamory, and constant digressions into fist fucking, at the heart of the exchange is an unadulterated curiosity the writers have for one another that is quite childlike. Acker pleads, "do be my friend"; Wark: "Of course I'll be your friend." There is something pure about the hook-up. From brutally honest truth questions, "What turns you on in women when you're in bed with one?" "What do you like best sexually?" to "explain Blanchot to me," there is not enough distance between them for shyness. Both are eager to admit confusion, that they are sorry when they do not understand, that they are lonely.
A decade before Claudia Rankine's Don't Let Me Be Lonely, Wark and Acker were already well versed on the matter: Loneliness is what we can't do for each other. So they talk at length about themselves through anecdotes and theories. That way, any doubt between the lovers is mitigated by intellectual sparring, and, conversely, any disagreement in theoretical understanding is hushed by an "I miss you" of sort. (Note: the email thread with the subject title "the important stuff" ends with the eponymous line, I'm very into you.)
What is evident is the refusal of both parties to commit converge. For there is no need to get to the specific. No need to put a label to the state of their affairs. This extends to the way in which the writers view the world and the queer politics of the day. For them, there is no sense of distinctions--be they man/woman, top/bottom, straight/gay. The clearer the lines, the more exclusive a group becomes. Difference is well respected, but differentiation leads to demarcation leads to distinction. One is set apart from another and therein is the genesis of hierarchy.
Zero faith in differentiation does not stop Acker and Wark from flirting with categories. To Wark, Acker beseeches, "How to give the best blow-jobs? Guys are good at that." The response is a "not often very dick-centred" one, but it reminisces the couple's sexual encounters. They weave in and out of strongholds and dance on the lines between separates. Beginnings and ends are unimportant; salutes and sex aren't too. As Wark puts it, "Sometimes the flirting is as good as it gets. The sheer unlimited possibility of it..."
At the end of the two-week correspondence, virtuality gives way to tactility in a copy of Acker's drawing to Wark inserted just before the last email. The doodles are clumsy and the scribblings fall short of her lengthy ruminations. The childishness is consistent, though too real and confronting for the reader. It almost makes one want to nosedive into the virtual world again, never mind what happened to the relationship afterwards. The desire to be swept up by the emails is not nostalgic, neither is the virtual world one of memory. It was Acker who wrote that memory is redundant. I'm Very Into You does not chase or revive the memory of love. It is interested in the medium of love.