Sunday, January 4, 2015

"of what extraction: of liquid" excerpt from SUBPRIME

Hallucinating with fatigue… the negative spaces jumping out at me, the parts between the in-between, not the object, like a weakened sense of gravity and a depth of dimensions. So much has changed and so little, no new behaviours, no new men… simply witness to the abuses of power: where I’m assertive called: “upset” as though my awareness of “their” dehumanising tone were evidence of dysfunction. (Disfunction is for them, dysfunction for me). I used to find it funny where they would turn up where I would be, turn up on my doorstep, but I’ve been disabused of the intended flattery of these acts of aggression meant to keep me waiting, guessing, wanting more… unsophisticated tacticians, criticising anything that might stand out about me as a means of control, denial as a means of control. I was always held to ransom, sought as an accompaniment to the vanity of beautiful and flawed man so myopically narcissistic that they saw my sincerity as a tribute to themselves and them-self only, each of them variously the same, enough perhaps that I wasn’t completely indiscriminate, never indiscriminate in my proclivities, never experienced that capitalist form of alienated sexuality, my discrimination was an extreme of alienation that meant I would exclude anything of aesthetic incongruity with my political project. Another bourgeois confessional: edited and censored by control mechanisms that seem mostly just to be silly, it never really being made clear to me why exactly it is that all of women’s behaviour is so obsessively documented as proof of their being the more emotional, as though that would somehow preclude reason. In terms of intelligence, humans were not a higher species, just better at aping than the rest of the great apes, the term “aping” being somewhat misguided, where “humaning” would be more appropriate. And what are emotions but infantile reactions to acts of imitation, frustrated or fulfilled…? In order for equality to be achieved we were now supposed to be human men, which seemed an unfortunate way forward, as much as with the balance of power in the balance, the vast majority of men were now the more likely to "human" women, looking for ways to appeal to the dominant, following all their myriad arbitrary and ludicrous specifications… it didn’t seem that this were really the way socialisation and culture were really supposed to progress… in "humaning" one another we had come only to fascism (again). And why was it that we had so much trouble simply "humaning" our humanity? Might we engage in frenzy, reject the discontinuous understanding of history adapted from the white overlords and make it our place to understand our place, to imitate it with the strictest irreverence, rejecting the ways that don’t work, that pit us against one another, that place one above another, imitate grace and generosity, tolerance and love. I was almost painfully sincere because sincerity was painful, they would give you grief for it, and you would grieve for them that they did, while you knew that it never had to be that way. It would be a downward spiral but that the tragedy was more beautiful than you could imagine if you had never experienced it fully, the relentless futility, at its best, its most human, that they would never relent, never comprehend how powerless they had become in seeking power over others. Lobbying a few more of my contemporaries for a few minutes like they never had to give, the gifts go to them that believe they’re owed them. Indebtedness is a thing of the past for the megawealthy. Won’t you appropriate my love as if you mean it? Why does the rejection I suffer take the form of a degenerative plagiarism? Why now, of all times would I speak of rejection as though it were to suffer? I could be barely recovered from pneumonia and expected to perform to my best abilities and to be conscious of myself physically, my physical beauty which I have never much interested myself in. I was trained to manipulate the air and light around me from the youngest age, groomed to be the most aspirational for the sake of the eventual man that will own me and protect me in public space.

The difference was that it was intentional, presuming things got at by chance or without the attachment of a corresponding ego, that those things were representative of the unintentional, the unrepresentative. One hour, one hour left to my own devices… this is my device. An elite level of suspiciousness, a paranoiac arrogance of the healthiest and most functional degree. It was to this degree that it boiled down to, a reduction, something very thick and intense where one would assume that nothing of the flavour was lost being so extracted from its liquid state, sort of like the alienation of art from artist. Quite a jam. Not another cooking show… Something that was either about love or consumption, I could never really tell the difference anyway. Extracted from its liquid state, like a firmament, the art of the glass ceiling. No separation. Perhaps a logical conclusion: molecular structure, if there was to be any at all… Beautiful nonsense, writing like a paleonymy, a construction of ruin, witnessing the end of everything and so making possible the future. It all begins here and ends here, this heightened sense of the present and its adjuncts like the burden of youth, which left yesterday: left yesterday urgent. Seeking refuge from the city and from company, company, companies everywhere, nothing singular, owned by someone trading ownership of their own future, securities traded at such a loss, the neurosis. Real securities built on suspicion and dominance… Plenty strong enough, a reduction: extraction, of what extraction: of liquid.



First performed as part of Performance Month #4, Artspace Sydney, December 2014.