x-ray garden

I visit the library. I head straight to the sex section to look at the pictures. Today i select two books and sit down with them. The first, a book of ancient greek and roman erotica i am not so impressed by. It is sometimes funny but mostly just boring, i think, apart from the penises with eyes popping out of pots:

The second book, however, i like alot. It is Japanese shunga. I like the spaces with all those little aspect-moments. I can move through the image aerially, like my body is the whole space, and my attention is a lover touching me in specific places… for example… a warm cup of tea sits in my corner and i feel that right now, and the shredded tealeaves are like stubble brushing against…what would that feel like? Or a spoon stirring? As lunar pull I perform on myself x-rays. X-raying, I want to take a pen to my stomach and start drawing a spiral, circling on the skin, because the underneath moves like that; that is how my receptivity feels. The walls in the floating world are not walls but the taught surfaces of drums that can be beat to rhythms or tapping turning tickling. I am an entire space that receives vibrations and the found things along the way.
Certain moments i stole and took with me. Something is stolen if it affects me and pockets itself into my body like the phrase “fluster-inducing-things”, she said. Yes. it is a seed opening over the course of its following days. Slow drawn out arousal.
And the other day the scorpion stinging itself became auto-erotica.
I imagine now in one corner of a shunga i have yet to paint, a pile of scorpions engaging in such fixed self-pleasure, pinning themselves. Copula is the sting. I want to read cards this way.

Now my shunga yet to be painted takes me to the greenhouse in my garden which i made a picture of last week:

a moment is a blackbird
(and the scorpions stinger is a mythic g-spot)

I later find a drawing from my niece:

X-ray is like...
and goes like...

My very first collages were composed of animals blue tacked onto window panes. Over layered. Their movement came from the suns position in the sky which would turn translucent their papery surfaces, at times revealing whatever was printed on the back of them. At certain points in the day the animal itself would fade leaving the opaque black dots which held them into place, not unlike a static position of stars. Being held tightly is pure duration. What Lacan calls a symptom i now call a sexy. Sexy sticky dot!
My fascination with surface and reflection strikes me often in museums with their glass display cases, and then those objects, object-instances-caught. Like they have been fashioned purely from a formula of light is attention… knotting themselves into presence. I think now of a potters wheel turning, the clay being fashioned in rotation. A dizzy, tatty, little organ that touches me here or there, the X, as i touch it in what is complete reciprocity. Though what is this touch that is not just ‘to look’?
This touch i conceive of in the complementary formula of ‘tension is attention’ a-tension. In this i feel myself distributed as the collecting surface, glass, that holds the light and houses the objects; hospitality. Absorbing walls. Or a vessel collecting water. I think of a spoon. And i am in these objects a receptive space.
I am both inside and outside. I pay special attention
to my hands going in and out and arranging the stars.

an organ I observed on a recent x-raying of my body as derive: