my obsession has turned me into a dusty little grey

2019

installation work including one audio piece

A Podcast link to the audio:

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/my-obsession-has-turned-me-into-a-dusty-little-grey/id1462015725?i=1000437021875

It’s hard to imagine my lips ever touching another person’s lips.

Something purring or something sighing, breathing, chewing

I want to hear people say that “she is great.” Thus becoming a great she in these people’s eyes. A she that is made presentable. A proper human being.

To collect the eyelash that I fell on your arm. I see the white rims at the end of each of your delicate nails. Little moons, little blades. Or perhaps, a small voice that was not heard. Not worthy of being spoken. Your eyes I kept seeking, the dark round pupils, can I drown?

How near? How far? When your lips curl is it me that’s making you feel amused?

Throwing sparkles at me.

What is on the surface of your skin? What is under it?
Do we feel lonely the same? Weep the same? Does the frequency of my breathing matches yours? Do we cancel each other out? You probably have no idea which version of you I am seeing in my head. How do you carry yourself?

A floor full of misplacements. And I can’t stop drawing swirls because that’s the only direction I know how to move forward. Inwardly until I hit the wall I built for myself. 

And your eyes, your eyes. 

When you were hearing it whose eyes were you seeing and were they looking at you too?

I can’t get over the idea of seeing your eyes seeing mine.

Like a spidery something crawling at the corner of your eyes looking for a chance to nest.

I know you are not them and they are not you yet I fell under the same shade of shadow every single time. A special kind of, attraction.

And collecting every single piece that you crumbled behind. 

But where do the eyelashes go?

Obsessive imagination.

A lovely yellow-beaked red chested bird pecks and pecks at the corner of my chest.

Kneeling down really is the only gesture I know how to perform in front of you.

Because a heart is only one whole solid thing. and I really cannot see you cut it apart.

Some stars at the bottom of the ocean. Waves and waves.

To make sense of how this world operates is to pretend that I am one whole solid human being as well. Standing under the tree where Eve’s apple grew, and nervously waiting for one to fall onto my head. 

Your lips.

Making contact is me a dusty grey little octopus reaching out a squishy arm and trying to poke you at the edge of your enormous entity of a being. And hoping that it is also soft. A merge between two viscous things.

Compatible. Empathized.

It kinda makes me sad that you would have done the same if I were anything else like a giant pumpkin or a middle aged man.

Two potatoes rubbing against each other would still be two potatoes rubbing against each other. With some shredded skin, some brown spots, some old dirt. Pale shit colored with some yellow bile stain.

Your lips.