Many tubes. The bloody one is draining my skull, there’s also a catheter I filled with two litres thanks to all the water and smoothies I drunk. Missing is the drug line into my hand, and out of shot is the water-cooled face mask, like a really crappy superhero.
I was pulling on compression hose right about here.
More than Deleuze (with or without Guattari), more than Foucault, somewhat more than Derrida, so different to Butler, but like her someone I returned to again and again, for the quiet care and poetry, for the love of movement, one of that first group of philosophers I got introduced to by the same person at a moment in my life where they resonated, and — like only Butler from those names — continue to, 25 years on. I knew it was coming, likely sooner, but still, I lost my breath for an instant, I stopped.
The more I dance, the more I am naked, absent, a calculation and a number. Dance is to the body proper what exercise of thought is to the subject known as I. The more I dance, the less I am me. If I dance something, I am that something or I signity it. When I dance, I am only the blank body of the sign.
To dance is only to step aside and make room, to think is only to step aside and make room, give up one’s place.
To leave at last the page blank.
Laughter is that little noise, uttered in blank ecstasy.
Wandering either to my taxi pickup for pre-op consultation, mid-afternoon on July 12th, or same place, previous day, post ridiculously early flight from Berlin and probably looking for food.
Where I stayed for eleven nights (minus one in hospital) on a very expensive not-holiday.
If this was the view from my balcony for a two-week holiday, I’d be well stoked, so I’ll pretend the recovery time here is that. It’s been a long time to get this far. Allegedly, there’s paella for dinner.
Omar Sakr in Berlin! Total score! In my long-standing fave (as in only) bookshop in Berlz, Saint George’s. And shoutout to Paul (the owner) who fed me a mini-donut when I rolled up in the midst of a sugar crash. Friends don’t let friends skip post-training feeds (unless it’s Ramadan, and then we’re all super-powered anyway).
And yeah, I’m reading poetry. Sci-fi has been a bit of a disappointment for a while, so I’m branching out along my infirmly followed guideline of, “Be the audience for people you care about,” wherever that takes me. If the people I care about are writing poetry, I am dead serious here for reading poetry. Omar’s Twit is heaps full of bangers, I’ve got half a dozen on order directly from his repping other writers, legit sorted for post-facial peel (cheers to Onyx for that delightful literal appellation of my near future) recovery reading.
Landwehrkanal looking well vibrant and geometric on another Neukölln wander with Vass.
A month ago on a Sunday evening I was walking along Sonnenallee with a friend when we were met by a pavement-wide smiling and laughing throng of girls and women in their finest hijabs, one of whom held up a tray full of sweets to me, and me in my ever-so-not-slow-at-all-ness — I could see my brain ticking over into a thought even — went, “O!” and managed a “Ramadan mubarek” while taking one (I’ve told this before). And feeling a little seen by the universe, ’cos that evening I wasn’t really planning on the coming month. And here we are, at the other end.
I rode home yesterday evening after hanging out with Isabelle and got caught in that impressive, drenching storm pushing the cool change across Berlin, like swimming, so much water, like wudu; it kinda felt fitting for the end of the month, even though I still expected another day. And around midnight, I read the new moon had been sighted and played the game of “Are we all doing it on the same day, then?” (no, we’re not, but Germany and Turkey are). So, Eid Mubarek and Ramazan Bayramınız mübarek olsun and schönes Zuckerfest especially to my trans and non-binary and queer and bi sisters and siblings. And to my babaanne, who I never knew but I know we’re connected. And to that girl who gave me that sweet.