| Delayed glitch loop of the interview dance, double presence. |
Hearing your voice again brings everything back. Not that that, everything, no longer exists. It is ovunque, everywhere. It is a memory-virus, living in its un-living way, buried inside of “we,” awaiting only the factors that will enable it to come again. Solo per godere. A zombie cowgirl riding cells, tickling cilia, in the fold.
Hearing your voice shakes me out of the depression. Reanimates the (collective) trauma that was the loss of our home. Seethes out from under the misapplied anti-biotic administered by an undead technocrat: Dr. Mayor. In my dream, he is dragged out onto the street in the morning darkness. The researcher looks back. The scientist isolates an organism in a laboratory. We are a laboratory too, but ours is not a space of isolation, we perform our operation without a mask. It is the un-masc-ing. We are not wrested from the conditions of worldly lives to be understood as models for genere. What happens outside of those walls, beyond our bodies, therein the aberration. We call to them. “We are the suspended solution. We in/form-d ourselves there. We are that self-organizing reality. We are the refusal of that brutality. We are the affirmation of what we know to be true without yet having (or ever needing, finding) the language of proof +”
And so, as ever, a slogan: Frocia chi ascolta.