On whiteness
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VI. Whiteness distorts reality. It batterizes the perceptual into the warp. It places a white woman into the phenomenological enterprise of truth and does something beautiful with the doorways. Panel one into panel one, where the dimensional volume of the door slams in my face over and over again. This fidelity to a questioned radical practice made abound from the cardinal admission rests heavy: what if they had just finished me off that day. Even here, every idea is at perpetual risk of collapsing back into itself, like a hallway that leads you back to you, the viewer as the murderer. I am my own vision of the murderer. The homicidal religiosity of this occasion and the centripetal energy of the heuristic, is where the constant training in my undoing begins. At that place where I sense the shifting in the floor, we find a chance to call it the chamber or the amusement park. Personal despair is evidence of my desire for more.
V. Whiteness is a PHATIC SPEECH ACT.
i am better than you
better than you i am
you am better i than
y oi re m ab et tu na t th
II. Whiteness is a civilizational force three times over. The oblique close of war, like a blossomed scepter and a gasp of death, black black black. In the middle is the figure of my desires, bubbling in blood. Hector kiss me, and kiss me gone. This thing we are a part of, notice its trouble or else we risk losing our connection to the absolute. The hero is all that is left, he stands on the left. Three times over. War, Desire, Left.
IV. Whiteness is a psychosis in the room. I enter the space, tripped through the fissure of duplicity, bound by the stone age made body, enunciated by no lineaments and said to be modernist in my Mexican breasts. Boys laugh. They don’t get it.
III. Whiteness is not a straight line. It lacks an axis of harmony. It lacks the fold. Give me a metaphor and I will say damn my body doesn’t exist either. Absurdity as antidote as the scream. Punch a building and say neither of us exist. I can be the pain. Notice its conical velocity, it’s what binds me to you, and us, the rupture. Jump. You are no better than me, a symbol of harvest ancient but organic and strung through the triptych: me, slave, m[on/a]ster.
