Her spaces of feral artmaking evades conquest by the white wall-erectors, commodifiers, his-story makers, individual-life-reducers, coders and coopters of new creations, mummy peddlers.
I do not stand before the gatekeepers: mausoleum directors, artWord-master-barkers, wheeler-dealers.
I do not defend myself before these gatekeepers – embalmers, entombers, necrolaters all!,
Jouissance is the only space in-forming me
We are ourselves earth, rhizoids, dirt, tubers, wrigglers, soil, bulbs…Rhizomorphous, yes. For her joyous benefits she is Iris; gravityborn runner on the wing, a bow of rain.
Feeding easily above and under, in the dark and in the light, on the fat of the land, she shoots above, roots below thickening herself with water, dissolved minerals, food reserves to bloom waterlilies upward.
Subterranean burrower, self-excavator, absorber, aerator; diffused, she roots out bringing herself to light, to air. Anchor, food storage, support – hers is the depropriated unselfish body without end, with a thousand shoots with no known hierarchy, conduits of life enabling her/him/you to survive underground within her rhizosphere the meanest of seasons.
Now birthed to live in the iris of all-senses-all, she, her art can only keep going guided by the genius of every place she chooses to inhabit without ever containing, commodifying or reducing any exchange of breath, risking to make these rhizomatic flows with the other(s) as quick or as involved as the other wishes, journeys made in her, in them, in him whom she touches long enough to animate or be animated by, recognizing a part of her in him, her, them making possible awakenings in each other.
She alone risks and desires to know from her (the) interior, where she, the invisible has never ceased to embody the void of becoming. She lets the other body live the laughter, live the lives of 1,000 beings ever different, ever flowing everywhere unimpeded.
