Rear-view mirror incidents of travel



Reading "The Ancestry of Objects" I suddenly realize this mirroring of him and him. Mirroring as completely different but nonetheless the same. It's fractal maybe. Or ok, let's say it's a diffraction. I'll try to put it that way. Because it's not only about two beings mirroring one another. It's diffractive because awfully unstable, in constant mutation and therefore ungraspable. One can only see it and look at it. Observe it. Describe it. That's maybe why it all arose from "The Ancestry of Objects".

It's diffractive neurodivergence. Which is fascinating to me. All glimmery and shimmery and... very suffery. Suffery for me and for them, and for anyone who comes a bit too close. It's exhausting. Relating is just exhausting. I wonder why and how I survived that. And I wonder why I keep being attracted to that. I mean, I know. Yes, I do know. It makes me write. It makes me write quick and easy, while at the same time relating to those beings keep draining me from the inside. I just lie there, exhausted. Emptied. Hurt. My bones and muscles and nerves are so stiff while my libido keeps overwhelming me. It is so fcking draining, how can I survive that. Worst thing is that I seem to be constantly asking for more.

Ok. Let's come back to those two beings, so different but all the same. Let's try to describe what I see when I enter their place. Because you always enter their place. They hardly ever enter your place. Or they stay at the seuil. Ah yes, that's threshold in English. Such a beautiful word. Derrida speaks about the threshold in Hostipitality. Oh yes, this is so hostipitable. Hostis as host and as enemy, writes Derrida. That's exactly it. You are invited but you are not welcome. I mean, you are welcome but you should stay away. You can come in but please keep your distance. Welcome, do enter, but don't you even think about entering. Because this space is foreclosed. Fils barbelés – barbed wire - all around. You have to literally crawl on the muddy floor to access the doorstep.

While this space is just an empty cage that craves for being filled up, at the same time you are requested to "gicler". "Tu gicles". When you leave you don't leave. You "gicles". "Gicler" is like when you shake a bottle of Coca-Cola and then suddenly you open it. "Tu gicles". "Tu ne pars pas, tu gicles". But you never know when this will happen. It will happen without warning. You are most welcome and then "tu putain gicles". Because you've really been too much. You've been all over the place and nobody wants you in here. Not anymore. "Tu putain gicles". You squirt. With a bit of luck you will have squirted for real a few times before. But then this time you are just fcking spewed out of the house.

Ok. Anyway, for the time being you still haven't entered the place, not as a friend and nor as an enemy. As a lover nor as a rival. As intensely beloved nor awfully hated. You are so gorgeous, so exceptional, so beautiful, that you can only be loathed. And you have to know (now I know) that you will end up utterly condemned. You will be found guilty even if you didn't do anything. At least awfully guilty for having dared to enter this world. For having dared to go through, to pass that threshold. Which is, in the end, a border transgression.

Ok. So you are here, standing outside the door on the street. You look for the name on the bell, you ring the bell. 25% probability may be – on a good day – that they're not here while they invited you to come over. Sometimes you will ring the bell, and they will text you they're not at home while you know there's just nowhere else they can fcking be. Alright. They're here but they're not amongst us. They're just wandering in some other places you just have no access to. You experienced that with the first one during a few months. You are now experiencing that with another one. Same, but otherwise. Which nevertheless allows you to actually visualize what's happening there. What those events look like. Because it's only a series of events. It's just happening. It's contingent phenomena. Junctures one can only describe afterwards. No understanding possible. It just occurs. Most of the time in a violent manner. It's bursting. It's a flash of light on your face. It burns your skin and you can't even see anything at that moment.

Anyway. For the time being, everything is calm and silent. You just wonder whether they will open that fcking door given that they invited you to come over. In case of an event, such as their birthday, Valentines' day, Christmas, your own birthday – whatever kind of special day: be sure they will never ever be present that day. They will disappear. Underground. Inside their cave. They will be present but still, hidden. With a bit of luck they will apologize for not having been here afterwards. But it's not a given. If they do, they will then immediately and seriously consider suicide and of course let you know about it. "I am thinking about committing suicide because I was not even there that day. See that razor blade. I am fucked up I need to think of ways to make this all end up." Anyways.

What is so beautiful is this flash of light, this lightening that kills you while providing you with the most intense body and mind experience – orgasms are nothing in comparison. I mean, even a real good orgasm is nothing compared to that. But for the time being, everything is just o so quiet. It's o so still. You just kind of start praying mentally that they will open that door. Open that fcking door! I put my make-up on, I put some perfume on, I shaved, I cleaned my sex and ass so well - even right after I peed just before I left the house, I put some deodorant, I put some beautiful clean underwear on, some socks I put on just a few minutes before I left my place. See how clean I am. You cannot reject me I am so clean! No one on earth has ever been as clean as I am now! Do open that door for me my sweet love! I beg you please! But not only do you have to be clean - "montrer patte blanche". You are also calm. You have to be calm. You've never been so calm as you are today.

They end up opening the door. You have no idea whether you can or cannot kiss. At least now, like that, right away, on the spot. You say hi, and you wait for them to take a few steps back to let you in. Vous entrez à vos risques et périls. You feel like you are infringing a border. Which is actually the case. You are craving to jump on them, take their clothes off and rape them on the kitchen floor. But you just say hi, relieved they let you in. You spent so much time preparing that moment. Marcher sur des oeufs. You have the duty to remain silent.

Ok now you passed the threshold with no damage. You survived that intense moment, and obviously they seem to be surviving that too. Don't approach them yet. Stay in the entrance lobby for a while. Take off your coat. Take off your shoes because it's all clean and tidy here. Always clean and tidy, except during tornados. Because the place is also quite prone to hurricanes. But for the time being it doesn't show at all. Ok. Seems it's safe for the moment. Don't kiss yet. Never forget that : don't kiss yet. Don't you even think about kissing. They will decide when – if - it's time for that.

Every time you violate that border by entering the space, you never know how it's going to end up. You never know who you are. I mean. You don't know if you are a friend, an enemy, a lover, a whatever. Each time is a surprise. How stimulating. How puzzling. Makes you write. Anyways. For the time being you just hope that they will decide that – for today – you are their lover. And that, as a consequence, they will make (hopefully: good) love to you. But for the time being you have no idea what's gonna happen then. Always the same place, never the same event. How intense.

You are invited to enter the living room. Please do have a seat. The candles are lit. All this will be blown away in case of a hurricane. But for the time being, everything is still. Have a seat. Seems it's safe. You express yourself slowly. You say you are doing good – even when you feel like shit, for fear of being rejected. If you feel like shit they won't give a fck anyway. So you actually do feel like shit – exhausted you survived the trauma of accessing that place – but you look good: relaxed, laid-back, calm, beautiful. You smell fcking good and you put your beautiful favorite sexy clothes on. You feel like a teenager on a first date. While you also feel like a crappy granny. Anyways. A few drinks later, they will tell you how beautiful, sexy and clever you are. If it happens to be a good day. That day.

What would you like to drink? Usually, you are invited to drink alcohol. Because they are a bit kind of let's say... alcohol-addict. Or addict to something, somewhere, for sure. Sometimes. I mean, for long periods, except when they have suddenly decided they would stop drinking completely (forever: for a few days: a few hours: a few minutes). Ok so you say you prefer red wine. They serve you red wine. Usually it's good and organic. Not the kind of cheap things with which you end up with an awful headache. The food will most probably be organic too. If you have the chance to stay for dinner. Anyway.

The glass is clean and beautiful. It's all so beautifully curated. The place is clean and tidy. It smells good and they also smell good. Seems they also had a long shower just before you arrive. You know their cork is all clean you can do whatever you like with it. If it happens. Their perfume is on the one hand: tobacco, leather, a bit of incense, and Eau Sauvage; on the other: Yves Saint Laurent I couldn't really describe it's so special but I got used to it and now I like it. But for the time being, as you stay at safe distance from each other, it's not clear whether they put some perfume or not. Not yet. With time, you will understand that they usually do have some perfume on when you meet.

So you start discussing. Like, I don't know, polite stuff. How are you? How are the kids doing? What have you been reading lately? What are you writing about? Which exhibitions have you seen? Each time will be the same. Slow start. Very slow start. Always beginning again each time. Nothing for granted. Rien jamais acquis d'avance. You are most of the time sitting. You watch their body move from the kitchen to the table. You watch, you gaze, you grope. Your eyes all over the place but super discrètement they can't even notice. You are fcking groping. It's hot in some ways. Sometimes it's so hot you can't even stand it. They have no idea.

You can feel they are emotionally on the edge of a blade. Sur le fil du rasoir. It just perspires from them. They move slowly, they seem to be focused while at the same time it seems they are striving to prevent their brains from scattering all over the place. From crumbling into pieces all over the place. So they just behave. They play like they behave. They voice is low. They speak slowly. Their gestures are slow – which is sexy. You watch how they move. How they navigate the kitchen. How they navigate the drinks and maybe later, the food. They are kitchennauts. Kitchennauts as kitchen artists. And it has to be healthy. You talk slowly too. You move slowly too. Low voice tone. Beware. You also try to behave although you are feeling more and more hot.

Are you hungry? Would you like to eat something? They are obsessive about food. Yes, they are. I don't know. Maybe it provides them with some sort of focus. They are orthorexiques in many ways. They are extremely aware of their body appearance. They are in control of that. They control their body appearance. They are esthètes of the house, esthètes of the kitchen, esthètes of the body – which is the house of the mind, and which needs to be fed and cleaned too. Their clothes are usually well curated, as well as their house, kitchen and body. You know that their beds usually smell good. They often make their beds and change their sheets. Especially before you arrive. It has to be clean otherwise it's a mess in their brains. I mean. It IS a mess in their brains, that is precisely why the environment has to be clean and tidy.

Except in case of a hurricane. In case of a hurricane, you will feel like Judy Garland after she sings Over the rainbow in The Wizard of Oz. But for the time being, everything is safe and calm. Dead calm. You are just consuming from desire within – and so do they – but nothing shows. You are just feeling like you are singing Over the rainbow. Just note: if you start singing, they will stress out. That's too much for them, emotionnally. So please don't sing, they won't stand it. It's too much for them to handle. Once you started singing Lana del Rey they said you sang very well and then they suddenly interrupted the song and you too therefore. They just couldn't stand it. It was toooo much. So please. Sing from the inside. Sing within. In silence.

Before making food, they propose to play some music. Yes, candles are lit and soft music is put on. It's oh so still. Music is also well curated. Now you start to understand why you like it all. That's the curating of life. You also try to curate your own, but you don't succeed so well because sometimes you just let go. They never let go. Except a little later when they just freak out completely. But anyway.

So for the time being, their playlist is on. Don't play your own music, they won't like it. Do let them play their own. Otherwise they may start freaking out a bit. You know that. And that's precisely because you are aware of that: the threshold, the tidyness, the perfume, the curating... that they allowed you in. You are amongst the chosen ones. You feel you are exceptional. They make you feel so. You are exceptional and you are soooo lucky to be allowed inside their wonderfully curated world, that needs to be curated otherwise they will crumble into pieces. You are beautiful, you know. And you are so clever I like it. They say. And you are sexy too. Makes you feel interesting somehow.

So at a certain point they propose to have dinner. An over-curated dinner, which most of the time they have mentally elaborated soooo precisely even before considering inviting you. With one of them, it is each time more or less the same; with the other it is always different. Always the same, never the same. The same but not the same. Forever. They both spend ages watching chefs talking about recipies online. They want to be a chef. Now, they just feel like the chef of the restaurant. You are the only client. You are the privileged witness of the situation. Their privileged customer. Their prey. The kitchennauts.

You have no explanation for that but whichever object you forget in that place is doomed to disappear forever. Don't touch the objects there or move them too much. You know that. That's also why you are - temporarily – allowed in.

The evening scenario is always more or less the same. It's a constant reenactment of something. Every time, the same, but not exactly the same. Every time, the same, but something else. Or the same, but then suddenly something makes them freak out and there is a violent turnover of the situation. Which is always en ta défaveur. Historic reversal of matter, says the dictionary. For the time being - I mean, at the beginning of the story, you have the feeling that every moment is always forever the same. Trapped inside that meticulously overcurated moment. Constant reactivation. No possibility for alternatives: you are clearly aware of that, although it's not conscious. You know about TINA. A force, you've become an expert in TINA somehow. There is no alternative. Don't you even think about proposing another scenario or taking another step. You actually don't even think about it. Because you know it's just not something that could happen. What exists is this constant endless replay of that moment. In THEIR place and nowhere else. In THEIR curated grotto. THEIR scenario.

You actually studied reenactment in depth ten years ago. So tu en connais un rayon sur le sujet. It was actually about artists reenacting. Ah ah. Ah. Rings a bell. I mean, you can ring the bell but in silence. Quiet please. Keep that for yourself. You are brilliant, they know it, but they hate you for that too. So don't you even think about spreading your fcking knowledge all over the place. Anyways. Studying reenactment. Play it again Sam. For old time's sake. Play it Sam. You learnt that although the actors may not be the same – if it's not with you, then it will be with another girl: it's been before, it will be afterwards – like in Pierre Huyghe's A Third Memory, it's a sort of endless spiral of space and time. Which will end up as a vortex spinning quicker and quicker, until the final hurricane inside which the house is violently spinning – see Judy Garland, no rainbow anymore. All rainbows gone forever.

Veterans often like to reenact their own traumas. They are veterans actually. They've been through wars. Inside wars. Wars from within. Wars that keep going inside. Endless reactivation. Waves of endless coming backs of inside wars. Vortexes of wars. They are veterans of love. Veterans of life. Child abuse. Mental abuse. The whole dossier. You never get much information on those dossiers but for sure physical or psychological maltreatments of some sorts hang around here. Neglect for sure. High levels of neglect. Luckily they are still alive. They don't even understand why – I mean, how they survived all that. They are trapped in the vortex of repeating the suffering of not being loved, and therefore of not being capable to love. One has been through those battlefields in Egypt – he smells like sun, sand, tobacco – exactly how you could imagine Amon-Ra used to smell like. It's turning your head around. String and hot. Leather, meat and hot sun. Very poor family. He became a poet. But he is not writing anymore. And a professional liar. He is tall, thin and beautiful. Sunny and hot. The other one has been on the front lines elsewhere - in Belgium. Very wealthy family. But misery lies everywhere. His Armageddon happened in silk and marble (while listening to Kurt Kobain and travelling to New York. He smells like everything is sooo clean. Organic soap. A precious alliance of amber wood and vetiver essence, reflect the smell of warm skin under a flawless suit, says his bottle of perfume. He became an artist. But he is not creating anything anymore. Also a professional liar. You cannot prevent yourself from feeling empathetic. Which is the trap in which you keep falling. How fcking empathetic can you fcking be.
These are the fields of operations.

Reenactments are a lot about judging. About evaluating an event. Just like a trial. Trials are reenactments, you know. There's a lot of forensics in there. You've learnt about the technique. For now, forensics contribute to inform you that the terrain is miné here. The battlefield is mined. You are venturing into a dangerous ground, you are aware of that. It's all scattered with well-hidden (curated) mines. It's a minefield. You know it will also end up as a battlefield with the two of you involved. A battlefield in which their will be no survivor. Armageddon forever. But for the time being: “it's o so quiet it's o so still.” At a certain point, the trial will come for sure and you will be the one guilty. You will always be guilty. They will end up saying: “you make it difficult”. You make it so fcking difficult sometimes. A un moment d'inadvertance – a moment of heedlessness, you suddenly make it sooo difficult. And you're going to have to pay for that forever. FOREVER.

For the time being, it's not difficult because you are a good girl and you a priori know how to behave – though you'd still like to just rape them right away on the kitchen floor but you know it's a bad idea. Also because you don't give a fck about food. You didn't come for that, though you are of course capable to assess at its just value the quality of the curating of the food. It's curated lifestyle. Soft and quiet. Like in the pages of a well-curated glossy arty fashion food magazine. You're having your dinner sagement. Good girl. You say it's good. Thank you. They start drinking a bit too much. They start being drunk. But it doesn't show. Because they're used to it. You are also starting to be a bit drunk. Less than them obviously. Though for you it's hard not to show.

The conversation goes on. Slowly, nicely. They tell you many things about themselves that is the exact opposite of what they told you the time before. In the same sentence they also sometimes tell you one thing and its exact opposite. You are well-mannered, so you play as if you were not aware of the tricks. Sometimes it tires you to play as if... but you haven't done so much effort to arrive to that point to risk spoiling the situation. They are getting drunk. The one makes a spliff, and smokes it. And then another one, another one, another one... Keeps drinking. The other one only drinks – doesn't smoke - but sometimes you just wonder how much MDMA they took on the sly. It happens they obviously did take some chemical brains killer. Sometimes you think that's the drugs that led them to lose so much of their hair. They lost it all on the battlefields.

So yes, nice conversation. They start telling you that you are beautiful. And/or great. And/or clever. They propose to develop some artistic projects together. You play as if you were not opposed to the idea. But in essence you know you would never let this happen. I mean, at the beginning you may consider that option. But then you clearly understand it's a question of survival that this doesn't happen. Ever. Anyway for the time being, it's all quiet, still, and seductive. It's becoming hot. You are hot since the beginning - sometimes you even wonder why afterwards, but anyhow. They may start telling you they love you. One of them asks you for marriage on the first night. The other offers you a ring with a love quote carved on silver. Your brains may start to quiver. But for the time being you are just a bit drunk and horny. The situation is attractive. They look handsome. All clean. Well-mannered. Seductive. You want so much to be loved. At last. For once in your life. There is no desert served. It's already super late. At a certain point the one just fcks you all night in every room of the appartment. The other one – more politely – suggests to go to bed (for sex). You think you prefer the first option. Anyway you couldn't guess before it happens. Which scenario will be submitted to you.

The one has a very big and powerful sex that can last forever. It certainly makes you addict in some ways. He is the one who provides you with the most intense and numerous orgasms. Not easy to renounce that. Though you will end up giving up when the price to pay becomes too high. And the manipulation too massive. But the body is strong and beautiful. Feels like the sensations of Edith Piaf dans Mon Légionnaire. Or rather, think about Grégoire Colin in Claire Denis' film Beau Travail. See? He's definitely not a légionnaire but a warrior for sure. The other is quite... I mean, slower. You understand that too much alcohol means weak erection. That you have to hope for the morning to bring some better news. Anyway. He is less of a top model but surprisingly enough you are super keen on touching his hair torso, belly and sex as well. Balls a bit bigger. Soft skin for the two of them. Rather. One is rather soft pink, one is rather beige cendré ensoleillé.

The next day, (if you actually slept) you wake up totally exhausted. For a various number of reasons that need no enumeration here. Right from that morning, or a few hours later when you are already home, or a few days later, or a few weeks later: they tell you that something went wrong. Because of you. You made it all up. Look at the bruises I have on my arm. Look how you tried to bite me. You make it difficult. We may not be made for one another. We are too different. I have too much money my family will never want you because you're not wealthy. We are not from the same worlds. No, I don't think it's worth discussing. I mean, no I have no time for that. Maybe later. Smiley. No I don't want to come to your place. I don't know, there's a number of things I don't like there. You know. Let's stay friends. Amicalement. Now is time for the hurricane. You were already more than totally exhausted. Behaving is exhausting too. Now you feel like the Armageddon has definitely reached you.

At times they become totally obssessed with sex. They send you extremely provocative textos, to which they expect you to respond in the same spirit. This is usually very badly curated. Bad taste. But thinking about how many times you hoped to be allowed to rape them on the kitchen floor, you abide to that most of the time. And take that opportunity for the crude meat you're sometimes just craving for. Yes, you know that you can't help being a bit pushy physically. I mean, sucking for sure, but also biting, pressing, squeezing, screwing... They will always end up with a few bites or bruises or scratches. You also end up with a few bruises that you actually made to yourself: the movement of your knee bones inside you forearms. Your horoscope says that your love language is sex and that on a first date you may propose axe-throwing as an activity. What can you do against it? Anyhow. They complain a lot afterwards about how aggressive you are. How you hurt them. You are so aggressive, you should definitely calm down. You are crazy. You hurt me. I think we should stop having sex, you're too much for me. You should behave, girl. You make it so difficult.

As time goes by, it is always the same. Stuck in the present.

As Constance DeJong puts it:
"She feels like crap.
And it's not too difficult to understand why.
That's modern love.
Someone screams.
A door slams.
There's no important details.
It's always the same old story when it's over.
It's always late at night.
And someone's walking home alone."

No important details.
You are always the one walking home alone.





Feb 2021, if I remember well

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part 1

part 2