v u l v a l i c i o u s
Something about how she moves doesn't carry, and I think as I watch her that this is not right
I like it when we talk for an hour about everything and nothing, and all the movement I saw tonight, and where it comes from and where it's going. I love it when we talk.
I want to tell her how amazing she is, tell her a thousand times over that she floors me regularly, that, if I could, (if she would let me) I would do anything for her, all things for her, nothing for her.
I have nothing particularly grand to offer but myself; I am a beautiful piece of work, broad brush strokes of ink wash filling in body, mind, heart, spirit. She's the details, the little things. Eyes, fingers, toes, mouth. Smaller things still than I can imagine, too, follicles, cells, mitochondria.
I want to talk to her until I am too tired to move. I want to sit on her floor and feel at home (it is so her space that I am an intruder at times). I want to be a part of the places that she thinks of as hers.
But she is an autonomous being in all senses of the word. Each mistake, each careful detail, each hair-bed-thought-record is hers and hers alone, hand-selected or hand-grown, cultivated by her years of one person-ness. There's not room inside one for several, I've found, and so I sit on the edge of her door and the hallway, thinking myself a ledge walker of sorts, precarious and home safe all at once.
But her movement was a piece of her, even if it wasn't her body moving. I wrote elsewhere of the heady, hearty, flesh-like quality of her work, how hungry eyes and hungry bodies consumed it, becoming simultaneously consumer and consumed, taking and taken in. That's her way, pulling you in with the pieces she doesn't acknowledge putting out, unknowing herself that she has consumed you, that you consume her on a daily basis.
And she talks about knowledge like it's water sometimes, that anyone can get it if it's there, that it should be free and clean, and that its muddiness should be recognized and examined. Knowledge. She speaks so clearly and yet, I think, does not see that so many want to know her, want to understand the insides of her knowledge and be-ing like nothing else.
This is her life, then. Movement: Examined, acknowledged, muddy and imperfect. One: Solitary, right, acknowledged, perfect.
My Cunt is now loaded with one thousand over simplifications, some of which you've just witnessed. This is how we work.