Between Kink and Proof
Wherein words negotiate fluids...
Between Kink and Proof
More water-meat scum, or solar-breath iron? Which am I? Solar-breath iron is more accessible. Accessiblity has some say on identity. I am left to identify as iron (to be accessible to myself).
Calling a pool of blood whispering animacy for one geological pulse me feels arbitrary, not 'me'. In my personal mythology, exposing a cloud of iron to solar winds won't always form a planet. This conversation might happen on a planet here now, but this conversation doesn't know that boundary. Conversation is no planet at all. These words fine as iron dust.
As conversation, imagination between motes of iron is no less vital in blood than out of it. Cut the fascism, the violent belief we are one planet a moment. That assumption planetizing me here is a very privitizing mindset. Asteriod belt, Earth and Moon, anthroposatellites all say otherwise. No diagnosis changes that - each a whimper's much. Conversation aligned with what is happening serves what is happening across scales: mouth, orbit, eye, cunt.
Of those who take to a sheet of drawing paper, those taking the white crayon, drawing a field of snow, and me in there - free, closed in - are my loved ones. Me and the surroundings: no distinction; perfect suspension, entirely myself, I dance. My orbit, my "I", this cunt.
Inside my cunt, I imagine the first flooded chamber inviting vibration to paint themself in crystal. In my cunt, I imagine the first crystal gem inviting vibration to paint themself in spin. In my cunt, I imagine the first spindrift inviting vibration to paint themself in waves. I imagine, in my cunt, the first cresting wave inviting vibration to paint themself in clarity. Inside my cunt, I imagine the first clear sense inviting vibration to paint themself in pre-sense.
My cunt, what do you see when I come? I see surprise when I come. Say you consent, autonomy made conversation. How consent might look to transformation.
This blood I am, all over the place, telling street aid to keep away, it passes out soon. Aid moves in, stabilizes me (consent implied). Process consents to stabilizing it as rabbit consents to be meat for people.
I, blood in rabbit, come to, the blood in people. People, who fail to reintegrate into the world, end up bleeding out on the street. You, this world, wait for people to fall unconscious. People pass out. You stabilize them.
People come to. Another world (also decidedly not people, so you) asks some questions, assess the people's state. The people - I - say I don't consent to giving away personally identifying information to you.
It's just how many fingers you have up, I hear back. I say you will sell that information to extraction agents; You'll never get any number out of me, nasty bit of privatized existence, you. You, planet, say my answering helps me. I return that being my own advocate is exhausting; I didn't consent to being stabilized, or the further questions your doing that allows. I owe you nothing.
You tell me you didn't stabilize me to ask me how many fingers you are holding up to sell that information to the highest cosmos. Informed consent dawned, and you acted. Dawn never asks for consent; the universe does not require the planet's permission to transform. How many fingers?
I tell you to take tour informed consent's fluids and shove it up dawn's collective becoming. The blood, me, the people, the rabbit, the iron in rabbit's blood, in orbit, in conversation with plasma, every star, rest in ecology, my chemical resistance to your abysmal physics.
My protest a wonder, your disgust. My radical participation your iron; I am every relationship. I am consent. I am dawn. Oh shit what have I done to myself?