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Worshipping Lali

Menstrual wound, cosmic openings

Underneath today’s blackened skies, we are bleeding, but this bleeding isn’t the kind of wound that desires to be cured, bandaged or sanitized away into oblivion. This bleeding is a sign of gushing fertility. It is a ‘menstrual wound’ – without a ‘solution’; and it is a message to slow down, to enter into the dreamy, quiet, slow, orgasmic, ecstatic and visionary embrace of different ways of knowing and seeing. Continuing with the old assumptions about the absoluteness of human agency and the deadness of the world, or the simple Newtonian linearity between ‘cause’ and ‘effect’, or the immediacy of rationality might prove counterproductive to our attempts to address our deepest crises. That’s why perhaps today’s most profound question is ‘how do we find each other?’ How do we reclaim our alliances with the unthinkable and the unsayable? What lies ‘outside’ this pale fragment of modern existence? How do we re-entangle ourselves with the sacredness of life? And there is no final answer to that or fixed resolution. All we have is a working out of ‘the’ question, a realization that entire universes are born in the momentariness of an embrace. Maybe that’s enough. The ‘gift’ we seek isn’t some abstraction floating in a vacuum, awaiting the right expertise. We are the gift – us, in all our mattering, in grief, in joy, in confusion, in awe. Nothing could be more revolutionary, more fertile, than finding the expansiveness that is us, and holding each other in wordless rituals and spontaneous hugs of rapid joy. It may not look like much, but it’s how cosmoses are born. I celebrate your horniness.

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Falling might very well be flying – without the tyranny of coordinates.