If they only were slightly less real, I would have already been annihilated. I guess I’ll have to wait for another time. They cannot be everywhere at the same time as long that they are made of flesh and its contrary (at least of the flesh we know). And that means that I cannot be dissipated into their undetectability.
I can only be infiltrated, my identity can be turned into a karstic and ritualistic recycling. Anatomy cannot be spared at the expense of junk.
“What is certain is that the stains are part of a conversation, a comment section that transgresses time, place and dimension” as the main character of Jenny Hval’s latest novel affirms. In fact there is a way to transgress time while still having (not owning) a body. It is what the Greek word “sparagmòs” conveys: to be dismembered, to be painted against the wall, the floor or an altar. To be stained by others.
What is left of a conversation that can only happen in the future? What can be done with it in the present, which forms of resistance can be summoned through it RIGHT NOW? A minority is no material for any initiation rite: among those minorities, the future builds a waiting room where the appeal still undresses what it calls even thought anonymity started a long time ago.