My body ethno-bbu

Notes 02.09.20
Amorphous body politics and recalibration of the stranger.

The exploration of identity as expressed through the movement of one’s body

The exploration of bodily suffusion

Bodily gendering of identity as related to organic matter and one’s spirit.

Where is my body.

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First, the body as a tool, humans swimming in self-awareness to a certain extent that cannot be known.

Then the new history of the body, whether we like it or not, dominated, in Europe, by its separation from the mind.

A century plus of trying to overturn the Cartesian dualism with a series of thought experiments.

Some of them dirty and sickly because of those who thought them up.

Some of them ill defined and loosed upon those who mostly don’t do more with their bodies than their minds.

A sneaking, horrifying suspicion that bodies are obviously.

That they carry.

Then melt.

Your body is behind your eyes.

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This body as tool as implement as object. The object sits and is moved
it moves.

Fingers move fingers move on this narratological dissecting table before the melting, six times faster now than it was, then.

obsessions of dualism. Oneiric European men haunt me.

If my body is behind my eyes where is yours

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[JaM](boiled fruit, the body of a living thing becomes a liquid.

This body as tool as implement to object. The object is moved and just takes it, because it’s too much trouble for it to just be still, sit still, in a room (Pascal)

Human jam, blue jam. Six times faster now than it was, then? How is this measured? Ah, no, for specificity, for relativity, for the real question of this project… why was it measured?

Obsessions of singularity. The haunted will find someone to be the ghost.

My body is eyeless, horrific and capable of endless suplexes

Where, in our body, is our ancestor species?

Janet’s jam recipe, an ill guarded secret of village proportions, exchanged for street gossip, not that the jars were up to much, but neither was the gossip, blackberries always burnt, raspberries pithy gooseberries tart.
Janet had lived at number 64 for 64 years of her life, her mother in the same house prior to that. Ancestraly the house started as a plumbers yard, boys pissing up the rear facing brick wall. It’s deluxe mews housing now.

Objectively this aside has little to do with speed of polar ice caps melting, six times faster than it was, then, except I think of this road, then.