A telephone rings I answer it and a woman’s voice tells me “I can’t leave if I don’t break with the enemies that I’ve unmasked” I hang up the phone and walk across the street to a boarded up liquor store above it is an apartment building with blown out windows I climb the fire escape ladder to the top floor and crawl inside and shed my fear The room is full of women we talk and laugh planning discussing some in a corner of the room fucking but not separate as they add to the conversation This is the reality of participation— how to be separate but not a spectacle how to be included but not a spectacle of appearance We all feel the threat of narrative the weight of our bodies the not that holds our ecstatic refusal held by a stress unbearable an anxiety produced in waiting resonant querulous reports small family groups scuttling their soft vocalization WHERE are YOU? We wish we knew of better ways to help each other of better ways to fight what is this social truth we know formed by the absence of life a caricature of resistance we dance around we talk about the weather its pheromones undetected afraid to destroy this one space of recognition Our body sinks down to a radical emptiness dread wells up around this production to counter we learn configurations we use our force with each other in a skillful balance of resistance and capture how to destabilize but we never put it to use against each other to hold each other in a tender suspension of violence compelling meaning We place our bodies on each others they are full of erotic potential redirected rather than ignored How to build without producing each day another set of obstacles linked into commonality a pleasure shared to never be alone again to cross it all out |
Sunday, April 23, 2017
Cassandra Troyan, from POSTSCRIPT FOR A FUTURE’S PAST
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