'the world is forcing me to hold your hand'
This game goes like:
What sigils- what accidental traps- have I netted for myself in wait, when I was non-chelantly wondering the city? When I thought i was just me.
I as paranoiac am wondering… the topographic net I make to catch myself is becoming increasingly sticky-explicit. I am with my younger brother in the city, he seems to be following me. Then in me I have to run. I begin running from him. He is perplexed and irritated. I run from him with the same contracting necessity of a gag reflex. I hate that we are not alone. The third is here. Run.
Because when my brother speaks It is now the third speaking also, that is spilling into his words. All language is permeated by the third. And I hate the third for doing this.
Last time I was faced with the third I named him butterfly man and performed a series of counter-gestures in attempts to perforate him. In such attempts my tongue gets heavy as I speak. My attention recoils from the meaning into the phonetics and the vibration returns to my mouth. Attention to the heaviness of my tongue is a moments respite and a meditation on myself as creator; it is just me, or just is just. But I come back out again like vomit and it tastes of the impulse to press against the limits of territorial law. Ending in the exhausting back and forth of a petty criminal which is the entropy of a spinning toy. Eventually it stops and I am just me. It relies on me to set it spinning, again.
But round two spinning, instigated by a Marxist talk I attend; here I am as is he. He is speaking through my friends now. I am simultaneously receiving the two sides of language. Very distracting. The exact same words but in one I hear him and in the other my friend. So I am responding not just to my friend but also to this third. And I want to violently evade this third. Because I feel he robs me of the essential joy of being just tongue. Tongue tongue fleur. Or being just with another. Maybe in the same way the collective can rob the individual of their specificity when it makes of them a means to an ends for sake of its cause, which I perceive as this third; butterfly man owns the means of production and he plays with propaganda? That was my version of events, that was yesterday.
After some violence on my part I eventually settle despite this heavy presence. I’ve been here before. It is potentially dangerous. I’ve sent mermaids into his ENIAC. Alien kelp is something other. It is a push and pull. And I am about to go out again. He is just a moment and this morning I laugh in the face of the immanently dangerous. The clouds could fold, I could fall at any moment yet I wouldn’t even. And if the world forces me to hold your hand, I will dig my nails in deep.
This game goes like:
What sigils- what accidental traps- have I netted for myself in wait, when I was non-chelantly wondering the city? When I thought i was just me.
I as paranoiac am wondering… the topographic net I make to catch myself is becoming increasingly sticky-explicit. I am with my younger brother in the city, he seems to be following me. Then in me I have to run. I begin running from him. He is perplexed and irritated. I run from him with the same contracting necessity of a gag reflex. I hate that we are not alone. The third is here. Run.
Because when my brother speaks It is now the third speaking also, that is spilling into his words. All language is permeated by the third. And I hate the third for doing this.
Last time I was faced with the third I named him butterfly man and performed a series of counter-gestures in attempts to perforate him. In such attempts my tongue gets heavy as I speak. My attention recoils from the meaning into the phonetics and the vibration returns to my mouth. Attention to the heaviness of my tongue is a moments respite and a meditation on myself as creator; it is just me, or just is just. But I come back out again like vomit and it tastes of the impulse to press against the limits of territorial law. Ending in the exhausting back and forth of a petty criminal which is the entropy of a spinning toy. Eventually it stops and I am just me. It relies on me to set it spinning, again.
But round two spinning, instigated by a Marxist talk I attend; here I am as is he. He is speaking through my friends now. I am simultaneously receiving the two sides of language. Very distracting. The exact same words but in one I hear him and in the other my friend. So I am responding not just to my friend but also to this third. And I want to violently evade this third. Because I feel he robs me of the essential joy of being just tongue. Tongue tongue fleur. Or being just with another. Maybe in the same way the collective can rob the individual of their specificity when it makes of them a means to an ends for sake of its cause, which I perceive as this third; butterfly man owns the means of production and he plays with propaganda? That was my version of events, that was yesterday.
After some violence on my part I eventually settle despite this heavy presence. I’ve been here before. It is potentially dangerous. I’ve sent mermaids into his ENIAC. Alien kelp is something other. It is a push and pull. And I am about to go out again. He is just a moment and this morning I laugh in the face of the immanently dangerous. The clouds could fold, I could fall at any moment yet I wouldn’t even. And if the world forces me to hold your hand, I will dig my nails in deep.
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