Battle

Battle, Roses and Lesbian SexXK

#fiction, #roses, #lesbianism, #sex

She gazes at the wall, breathing, she tries to breathe calmly as if she was sleeping. Her eyes follow the pattern of the wallpaper, she’s not moving her neck.

She’s in bed, with her lover next to her.

And the stripes of sun, through the blinds in the window, slowly set over the wall whilst the sun rises. Like a knife of light, decapitating the roses from their rococo-like haulms.

She thinks; Rosa Palustris, Rosa Kordesii, Rosa Glauca, Rosa Arvensis, and Rosa Setigera...

The hand on her shoulder, the hand of her lover, starts petting her.

‘You’re not sleeping… I know you too well. I hear from your breath you’re awake, I see on the rhythm of your ribs that you’re awake… you can’t fool me.’

The lover whispers, the lover’s nail polish is worn-out, and she knows that last night’s lipstick of the lover is smeared out on both of their faces. She closes her eyes when the lover raises her head to look at her face.

‘You’re pretending.. and you don’t know it, but I see it, you have an awful poker face’

The lover’s laugh is a gurgling stream, or like magpies up the pine tree, that’s the laugh she fell for, down into the love. The lover’s loud laugh.

… sacramento rose, virgin rose, winged rose, the burr, and eglantine’s rose

‘I can’t sleep…’, she murmurs. The lover’s head in her neck says: ‘Do you wanna talk about it?’ ‘Why can’t I sleep; either it’s a tornado or a black hole in here…’ banging her index finger at her forehead. ‘Either it is running thoughts that scare the sleep away, or a pitch dark emptiness that engulfs the sleep long before I had the time to sip on it... And it’s all, everything, this – this whole thing, is just so brutal, so strong, and sometimes just slightly too much.’

The lover’s tongue on the bone of her neck; ‘What thing? Do you mean this thing?’

‘Reality is so fucking real, that is becomes surreal’, she grasps and continues, ‘life is no more than a constant now, it happens at this very moment, with no repetition, and it’s so substanssstia…’ she stumbles on the word substantial, she smiles to herself and then she tries one more time, ‘it’s so substantially physical, that it sometimes, when I think about it, turns into a car crash of experiential insights, and then I don’t know what to do with myself.’

The lover spits in her belly button and licks the spit with her lips.

‘I would say most people struggle with the opposite – feeling like faceless zombies. But I hear you, there are rarely any true grey tones in life, most of the time it’s either pitch dark or these vibrant glitter rainbows. I mean, you’re either having a faceless life or you’re having a face-off with life.’

‘And then it starts to feel like a greyish milky paste, paralyzing however. And if it finally feels like you have come somewhere in the thinking or in the so-called inner peace, the center moves, like magnetic poles, it moves. It repels. This problem, this angst or this meaning of life; the one thing amongst many things you try to understand about yourself and the world; it moves parallel

with the self-perspective and the insight. But they never intersect. We only get close, we never reach. We only sow, we never reap… Like rats touching that goddamn electric bar, never understanding. We keep on drawing a circle, round and round we’re encircling, but never really touching upon the real thing, the true thing, the one thing worth touching upon. We can’t even tell what we’re trying to do. It all feels a bit ironic... and then you start thinking all this, and then it becomes so clear, that this, as much as everything, is just a desperate question – a stumbling in the dark. Why and how is this thought, or any thought I might have, possible within me? Where from, and through what? Is it from somewhere else or is it from within – am I a vessel or the mixer – anyhow, both seem somewhat reducible to the substantially physical immenseness of being alive as me. The more alive I feel and the more physical life presents itself, fettering my body and my soul, the more other my thoughts seem to be’ makes the thinker a thinker. Along with this, we also have to admit that this statement alone is more or less useless. Diplomacy is the plague of the ordinary; the refinement of all the axioms of power. By stopping with saying it’s somewhere or something in between is this very same diplomacy, this capitalistic and oh so straight diplomatic content, but creeps into our own thinking. We can’t allow ourselves to afflict that upon ourselves. It’s untrue, and untruths are useless. But it seems as if we, no matter what we do, will be afflicted by it, more or less, because there are no utopias, and simply because we don’t know what to do nor what to say. We don’t have the answers, and that’s painful for us’

‘So, we are constantly, with other words, being dicked down by Descartes and all these other men… and it’s not that I would say no, necessarily to him or all of them, I would just like to consent, even if I’m desperately attracted’

The lover licks the salt from her suprasternal notch. The lover is slobbering all over.

‘Maybe we’re the field, or the air over the field, where armies meet, in order to kill each other. Hence the pain, hence the bloodbath thinking sometimes is. And the cruelty a thought can have over another thought as well as the chivalry, the wonders, the surprising goodness. This air is in all armies at the same time, in each soldier’s lungs. How many soldiers does it take to build an army, how many oxygen and carbon molecules does it take to build what we call air? They’re not built up by their individual traits, as uncountable individuals, but instead the air is uncountable as separate singularities of what air is consisting of, and this singularity is what makes their collectiveness breathable for us. I don’t really know what I’m saying right now, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say right now, except that it is complex, and that we can be tempted by the simplicity in believing that the thinker is thinking the thoughts, or in that the thoughts are what The lovers’ fingers, the left hand of the lover, combs her pubic hair. Pulling it gently, then roughly.

‘I would like to refuse them all, that would turn me on’

‘Even if it’s undoubtedly so – that we at the same time are a place and a form for this internal antagonism, which our thinking is – I try to be skeptical of the indefinite article, at least the capital a, and I know this might be very rhizomatic, and thus Deleuzian of me. But I can’t tell, because when I think about the rhizome I think about the lily of the valley, it’s beauty as much as it’s poison. I believe, as I believe Deleuze does, that we don’t have a center from which our thinking arises, instead I try to see and sense myself as a whole of shattered selves, like a broken mirror fallen to the floor. We shape and are shaped at the same time. We can undoubtedly stop thinking a specific thought through forgetting, and we don’t feel less or reduced by our ability to forget, we can even sometimes feel relieved and grown

through it. So, rather than the common tree metaphor, I sense that we’re more like a patch of grass, so many individual straws in one singularity, in one subject’

‘But we’re not independent, and I know you don’t mean it that way, and with that I mean Deleuze or the rhizome. The start of the thought still has its beginning, as I interpret Deleuze, within the rhizome, within the plant, within us. But when it comes to our thoughts it can sometimes really feel like it starts outside us, not in us, but rather freed from us. Revelations are an extreme example of this, but also deja vus and dreams in some sense… and this makes me think about thinking rather as a mycorrhiza than a rhizome. As you know, I grew up close to the moorlands, where the heath grows; and the heath has this very intertwined mycorrhiza with a specific mushroom. The mycelium of this mushroom grows up through the whole stem of the heath, into the flower and infects the very seed of the heath. Well... infected might be a bad word, because they’re in this together, the mycelium of the mushroom secures and protects the seed, and helps it to live. They feed not on each other, but through each other. We can very well be a rhizome as well, but it feels like, already from the start, before our beginning, there is something else in us which helps us be, helping us become and to exist. It is not surprising then that sometimes I feel that the one hardest to identify with is myself. There is no one I’m so stunned by looking at in a photograph as I am when I see a photograph of myself. It’s not out of narcissism, but because I can’t believe that the person I see in the photograph is supposed to be me. It’s a surreal experience, ungraspable. I question if that one in the picture is all that I am and all that I was. The main feeling in this experience is doubt, it is somehow, however irrational and paradoxical it may sound, impossible for me to believe in myself as existing. And, at the same time, that is the only thing I can believe in. This makes me draw the conclusion that the ‘I’ and the time cannot co-exist; either I am or the time is. They can’t be at the same time. The ‘I’ is only now and the time is never present.’

The lover bites the perineum of her. Touches the skin with her fingers. Encircles the anus with her index and exhales on her pussy.

‘It’s so pitiful for me at least. Seeing yourself as you were, because you see that the thing which I was was only a human. It’s like empathy always comes too late, at least when it comes to the self. One might ask if we have any allies within us, against us, and one might ask, if it is impossible to win over oneself, who then wins? Thinking is an unwinnable fight, but I guess just because it’s unwinnable, it’s not meaningless. We shouldn’t grieve that we can’t give up; that each try to give up is one more strike, because thinking can be fun. It can be a pillow fight in sexy lingerie’

Rosa Pinetorum, Rosa Pisocarpa, Rosa Pouzinii, and Rosa Primula...

sulphur rose, golden rose, evergreen rose, and the threepenny-bit rose.

Haikus on Deleuze 1. thinking is the involuntary thoughts within yourself

2. what falls apart is the system; through only - intuition

3. you can never see your own monstrous children - what writing can be

4. escaping reason logic is far beyond rationality

5. psychoanalysis, popular opinion, nothing but chaos

6. levels, plateaus, just like layers, in all are battle fields resting 15. baby boy, moist unload your juice in me, baby boy, foist

16. dick me all down make me unbreath and forget mountain of man

7. the ordinary death of philosophy death of life 17. make me unbreath and forget, then dick ’em all down mountains of men

8. only perversions is strong enough to animate us 18. alone with your question necessary solipsism recreated allies

9. give birth to life logic and unreason all my, buttholes

10. cum in me, on me daddy daddy, draw lines with my spine

11. Antagonism I only hated myself dear one, my love

12. rhizome, symbios no centrality in thought a mycorrhiza

13. unthought, I say seed, sprout, beginning of thought not just, but of me

14. I see me in you an enemy rests within in life, in hate 19. aberrant is a coach of unthinkableness to thought’s border

20. thinking is fighting, is fucking, is living, dying the death of things

21. what was, is now Melville, Dostoyevsky then Chantal Mouffe