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extending link to liquid loft:

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(für Stephanie Cumming)
And then I could wear a skirt of fingertips softly waving in the spring air and every
fringe of my fingertip skirt would feel the air just like a … a fingertip.
I had fingertips growing from the sides of my neck sensing my environment just like the
barbels of a delicate fish. Every inch of my surface would become pure sensitivity.
There are so many lonely poses waiting for a new home.
You could put them on. You could let them give you shape. These poses could end your
amorphous existence forever.
They will fir you like a glove. Squeeze yourself into this virtual mould and become
everybody’s fantasy.
This will be your first impression. The big foot of fascination landing on the soft
receptive flesh of the observer. Leaving a solid imprint. Leave a trace on the other.
Press on. Becoming the printing press of your self-impression.
The other is an empty sheet of paper, write on him, dig your pencil into this white flesh
of attention, make him raw with awe.
Everybody’s brain is like a closet stuffed with identity costumes. Empty shells of expectation. There is the slick businessman costume, the glamorous evening gown, the plump obedient secretary blouse, the bulky helpful mechanic’s overall, the slacks of the casual bohemian boyfriend …
Just make yourself soft and elastic enough to fill yourself into these costumes, to slip
into these molds of expectation. Don’t worry, the forms are already there. Don’t care
about the form, just become matter. Become the pure flesh to be stuffed into these
costumes. Fulfill these expectations. Become the liquid dough to be poured into the cake
tins of social conduct.

cit.: Katherina Zakravsky
    

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