This one time in the 80s, Luce Irigaray said, and believe me this is a direct quote, “God impregnated a woman via an angel, but cheeks was still getting clapped.”
This is the fecundity of the caress at the threshold, the embodiment of the intersubjective interval in which communion between two is possible, manifesting itself outside language and in total spite of reason’s hegemony.
I hope she lives forever, cause at this critical and exasperated juncture bent on modes of survival, I really need her to.
And yet, the flesh still stages its revolt against despair. In this barren and desolate terrain, the body will insist on its own mischief.
Ununiversalising the Word, I step closer towards myself, hesitatingly looking for the self’s skewed invention. Whereby I become again and again. Encompass to be done with the re-curse-ive linearity of the temporal, the stranglehold of the Word. You see, the universal and the unchanging are hardly working out. They know nothing of the body or gym membership. Solipsistic survival within the autarchy of the supposedly unified subject of and in language rejects me as I am. Let there be silence once more in my flesh so that I may listen to what is else, rose petal mucous membranes and etc etc.