We act as if she were an object – sterile, dead or convenient. As if she were a bloodless cadaver in a whitewashed mortuary. But she is thankfully never as listless as our advances towards her are. Like a potential seductress smiling at the far end of a wine parlour, reality doesn’t stand still and immobile waiting for us to probe her, bombard her, or figure her out. No.
No items found.
With the indeterminacy of a whirlwind she, garbed in sequined mysteries, eases herself to the sweaty dance-floor, nods her head in your direction and – with one quizzically rude flick of her eyebrow – disrupts your safety and your tethering to the familiar or the fundamental by asking: “You! Wanna dance?”
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