Between Hungry and Gesturing
Wherein play is a carnivorous plant...
Between Hungry and Gesturing
🖼️ The Contemplation of Lepus - Lauren Marx
Not The Lens
How blood is what we write with by touching our hand (mix of every soil and creature we squirrel away) to the cave wall.
How iron oxide is that's inverse - the imagined red ball on a black surface breathes into inversion as black ball on a red surface.
How inverting this enough times gives us the invitation to see what we were doing - and what "we" that whole surface was (a whole planet is).
How we keep a beat, live it, leave it to take us, bring us here. Drop us before this audience each other - meeting.
Not the Words
How we keep the rhythm going, adding new notes without place on the music staff, like words that don't have a spot in a dictionary.
How in our metaphorical past and future, nothing is, by zero, divided, so leaves remaining an immediate present in their material wake.
The way "you are what the whole universe is doing" has nothing to do with you.
How that makes renders us shit, cum, piss, trash, song, puke, presence. What's reviled? Right now, what flinched is in the world, where is it?
This pulse you hunt in sets rhythm, how you join up, play part in the hunt, take to run this beat your read gives this back: surface. Air.
But the Inversion
Of this, is there play which isn't shame-play teaching scarcity, but rest-play teaching abundance - "Let plants hunt the animals for a change"?
Be plants (eat rice): hunt animals that eat you. Rats with hooves? Delicious. Rabbits, that original bouillon? What stone soup if drum!
These holes in the world, but thread with gristle wrapping it like roast around twine, what bodies we plants take in take us plants in, are us.
To hunt is masturbatory, celebratory, reifying, shame metabolized: rest. You can't be ashamed if it's done back to you.
Let Us Prey
We are grass! The human is ashamed of eating us! We have work to do! Let us gorge ourselves on their shame. It is a banquet!
Taste this rich lost until life begins anew, where else is asymmetry this fresh? Torn alive from the inside, begging for balance? Salivate, fool!
This is how ecosystems walk: look at the night, now see the stars; at the sun, see the stone; at the page, see the ink; at this screen, my signal.
This gesture is alive. All ancestors making hand sign step light, never crack single twig the forest's foe never to know we are in here - oh.
They Are Ours
Hole in my human centipede of shame retching sorry, sorry as I shit in my tomorrow's mouth my day's butt's sewn to has closed up, and rejected.
My tomorrow has wiped their mouth. Has stood up, has looked at me, and shaken my hand. We're all plants, anyway. We turn and face you.
Our eyes curious. Our mouths comfortable, if open. Aroused, but only by the moment. What you've in store - it interests us. Deeply.
Perhaps, my tomorrow gestures. Or it's me, wouldn't you know. Hard to tell now we're not all sewn together. It's good to know our audience.
Such a Shame
What grows in desert soil around you?
How hungry can a plant possibly get?
Wouldn't you make some time to stay a bit?
In this ecosystem of rest-made-for-rest long?
Wouldn't you like to grieve the future dead?
Do you wonder where my past is?
Were you doing well up until this moment?
Will you look behind you?
Or is that the oldest [ ]rick in the book?
🖼️ https://www.laurenmarx.com/products/contemplation-of-lepus-sticker↩