CONNECT/NOTHING

Why is the statue pointing at the window? And do we always carve ourselves toward escape?

The s/m concept of “vanilla” sex is sex devoid of passion. They are saying that there can be no passion without unequal power. That feels very sad and lonely to me, and destructive. The linkage of passion to dominance/subordination is the prototype of the heterosexual image of male-female relationships, one which justifies pornography. Women are supposed to love being brutalized. This is also the prototypical justification of all relationships of oppression—that the subordinate one who is “different” enjoys the inferior position.

I have swallowed whole all remnants of my past life.

My tongue back in my mouth like some small bird, love running from me like a feral deer.

I wish the god of this place would put me in its mouth until I dissolve, until the field doesn’t end and I am broken down like a rifle

if asked by God or the hush we’ll slip into at the end, who was your favorite storm, your adored calamity, who kissed you most like hunger?

When a man says knife is no form of seduction he means he’s never been split. But doesn’t everyone have a seam? Unravel to dark sugar?

I wanted to wake up and find that I was five years old and my parents and neighbors would say, “My, my, what an imagination.” I wanted to be physically erased and start over again. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be there. I guess I wanted to be nowhere, I wanted to listen to my brain talk inside of nothingness. I wanted to be untouchable and have no need…

I have noticed that when all the lights are on, people tend to talk about what they are doing – their outer lives. Sitting round in candlelight or firelight, people start to talk about how they are feeling – their inner lives. They speak subjectively, they argue less, there are longer pauses. To sit alone without any electric light is curiously creative. I have my best ideas at dawn or at nightfall, but not if I switch on the lights – then I start thinking about projects, deadlines, demands, and the shadows and shapes of the house become objects, not suggestions, things that need to done, not a background to thought.

Sometimes it gets dark in here behind these eyes I feel like the physical equivalent of a scream.

When a world does not accommodate how you are, when you appear wrong in some way, feeling wrong in your body, being wrong in your body, loving the wrong body, mourning a wronged body, you have to be less accommodating if you are to persist in being who you are being.