the inward curve of the shoulders, though beautifully accentuating of the clavicles, is a sure sign of poor breath support. Or: watching La Divina in decline, 1962.

humans--an estuarial

public restrooms are where all life and art happen.  street art, trash art, the poignant art of hard lives worn on deeply grooved faces--these mean nothing to me. these are not the point of anything.

oh microbial cocktail, you are a meeting of outside and inside, private and public, and I love your acoustics all the more for it.

something always happens in the water closet.
Example: you are always surrounded by mirrors and their arrangement can turn humans and their many symbiots into a fractal arrangement of macro/microcosms. 

Example: doors are in a perpetual state of opening and closing;
example: switches are gatekeepers and somewhere inside the wall is the great sphinx they call intersection.

the food always comes.

Example: the quick reveal and renegotiation of the elaborate soft machinery under dresses.

when there is simply too much outside to fit inside, there are lines of dialogue and strands of hair and children on leash lines, lip lines and eye lines demarcating the inside from the outside.

humans, estuarial.
stranger density.
layering and unlayering performances, strands and substances, skin cells and modes of intentionality.

a stable outside holding a center in transition

A Closed Signal Loop

My dearest robotic arm,

I write you this fine afternoon in order to deliver some troubling news:  you are imperfect.  I first noticed it while touching myself about a week ago.  The dexterity of your fingers left much to be desired, and your stiff wrist reminded me of a hunk of useless wood.  This was not what I was looking for.

my cat nibbled at your edges.  I must admit that it tickled slightly, but when I saw the level of damage from poufy's jaws...I knew you were made of something less than reliable.  additionally, this suggests that your tactile sensors are not working at peak efficiency.

You buzz when I sleep.  They say there are types of robotic heart parts--valves and pacemakers--that lightly whir or click deep within the human chest.  Most can't hear these sounds.  But then most are oblivious to the clock pieces they carry.  I can hear all your servos and more.

Flawed cybernetics: this is my destiny.  I want to rip the scar tissue that demarcates our union.  I want to tie off and tag all the vessels, inspect the furthest edges where my machine self pressed up against my flesh self, night after day after night.  I want to smooth out the hesitant motion of my wrist, so smooth it is no longer necessary.

MFEO, my dear pet

i think maybe i'm suppose to want to be one or the other?  i really don't know anymore...