Knees all sorted just need to record the vocals…#beingbodies

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@beingbodies
Knees all sorted just need to record the vocals…#beingbodies
(Sarmism) Hopefully this will get your feet moving! Created live with modular synth.
find your feet
Head
The brain is wondrous. But honestly, it mostly full up with uncategorised, probably offensive and exceptionally graphic content. It’s a goddamn mess of a place and if you are liable to feeling guilty about things then good luck trying to hold yourself accountable for all the despicable material you’ve generated in your head. But I wouldn’t dwell on this fact because by now all the hot sex and weird animals and situational hero worship has now disappeared and has been replaced with some other horrifically strange set of impulses (which too will pass). Take comfort that the brain is both wondrous and fickle.
The famous and notorious - notorious for generating the most furiously guilt-ridden masturbation sessions in the history Christianity - Matthew 5:27 thought-crime passage declaring that coveting someone’s partner is equivalent to actually getting busy with them is ridiculous: thinking about cheating does not make you a cheater, but if you are looking at lots of strangers with lustful eyes it might be you are an asshole? These days I think it’s best to first determine some kind of situational/verbal consent from someone before you eye-fuck the shit out of them.
Anyway, it’s worthwhile exercise trying to hold your consciousness liable for all of this reprehensible and hilarious material despite the fact it’s a complete farce to do so (it would be like a Q&A with your own reflection in a mirror). One would expect that the power of mind which woke humans beings to their own existence should at least extend to controlling the magical Rubix Cube maple-syrup pancake zebra orgy happening in my head right now but no it’s running wild and unregulated up there by the very same device which created it. Still it’s a good farce and here we all are in life and awake asking ‘Who am I?’ Will Young sort of answered this with great if incomplete style and this is as much guidance as anyone should get on consciousness.
Ink, hair & nail polish
Being hosed down after my performance SPF 500
Shed from my bearded dragon’s armpit, painted in nail polish
#feet #beingbodies #larasalmon
A vagina piercing, embroidered with my hair
Found image
**headshot** Portrait of Genevieve White by Seyhan Musa
Blue face, 1993, with apologies for the slight reflection
Being a Body - redux
I dreamed recently I was kissing a friend I have no business kissing, and woke up with a guilty excitement, like the morning after blurting secrets over beers. - - - I’m a part of an art project about bodies, about being bodies. Each month there is a new body part to explore. This month is head. It’s nearly over, I think, and I’ve only submitted a measly three lines about my belly. I wanted to do it because the year before my body was strange to me: sick, and skinny, and never doing what it was told. But this year, the last six or seven months, it’s like i don’t even have a body. Each month nothing revealed itself to me but disconnection. I can’t relate to what is below my ears. I don’t know how. What I see and feel spooks me, suggests the presence of new and unknown little ghosts. The ghosts of desire, of hunger, of shapes I used to make. For the first time in my life, I have real and serious pain in my joints, I’ve gained weight that I don’t know how to lose, and the sun no longer browns me like a berry, but burns. I have not been touched by anyone in any meaningful way since January. I barely want to touch myself. My body is foreign, it speaks to me in languages I don’t understand anymore. - - - It’s not the first time I’ve dreamed about this friend. In fact, he’s become the man of my dreams; once or twice a week, for the past few months, he shows up in my subconcious mind. Once, we were in a forest and nothing happened. We were just in a forest. Quiet. Dark. Another time, there was a war and we were huddled together in my grandmother’s attic while bombs dropped outside. Dreams are only interesting to those who had them, I know, but here’s one more: I was fixing his air con unit, but it was set up like an elaborate puzzle. I didn’t solve it in the dream, but I texted him the next morning to ask, hey, how are you? How’s your air con? It was fine. Each dream draws him closer to me, imagined or not. We share a connection in my head, the intimacy we have in my sleeping life is played out when awake: I see him at birthday dinners or bump into him on our bikes, and I’m friendlier, more touchy, more smiley. I know you, my smile says. We’ve been through something, my hands say. - - - A recent month’s body part was pelvis. Mine is fucked, to put it nicely, and causes chronic pain in my left side and a limp in my left leg. It shoves down into my sacrum, where there is a little ghost: an extra vertebrae. A thin, sloped little tai. I walk around on two legs, but one is a bum leg. There is so much scar tissue around my hip that my movement is considerably restricted. Lately, more than ever. I have trouble sitting for longer than twenty minutes without pain. Bending down to tie my shoes causes electric shocks to shoot up and down the length of my spine. Sitting on the toilet is painful. I am thirty years old. This has been happening since I was sixteen. It comes and goes, and is always different in little ways. Scars and tears and little ghosts in the muscles. I can withstand a certain amount of pain. I have a fairly high threshold, in fact. That’s the thing with chronic pain - you just get used to being hurt. - - - As a yoga teacher, I help other people be in their bodies. I help them get to know themselves below their ears, and eventually, the self that is between their ears. This last year I have felt like a fraud. My body is a mess. I am a mess. Many nights this last year I came home from class and got into bed with a beer. I am in pain and I have pain, and I am a body, and my body hurts. I lie to them each time I smile from upward facing dog or demonstrate a handstand, just like I am lying now. I am lying, because this is not just about my body, but also a boy. It’s about a boy, and about getting my heart broken so badly it split me into pieces. A heart wreck. A kind of violence occurred, and the trauma was a part of every thing for so long - I felt it in my heart, in my lungs, in my legs. Every itch, every exhale, every twitch in my eyelid. I was a wound. Open and bleeding. I got sick, I got skinny, my body stopped doing what it was told. Do not desire, I instructed it. I desired. Do not be weak. I was weak. I swallowed pain like a pill and my lungs became infected, not once but twice. I used an inhaler, I had an IV in my arm for a week. It’s not sustainable, though; to be a wound. At a certain point the muscles become stronger in the way they are repetitively used, they learn to hold new shapes. - - - I saw the man of my dreams recently, over late night drinks with other friends. No kissing, no touching. That’s all in my head. The days are hotter than ever lately, but evenings arrive earlier, and cycling home tonight I noticed leaves scattered in the street, and all three things remind me nothing lasts. The heat, the light, the leaves. Everything will change. The shift in temperature brings a little awareness back to my body. The way my eyebrows catch my sweat. The softness in my cheeks. I feel my skin react to the cool air of the fan. Sitting on the floor next to him, legs pushed to the side. The body language changes, doesn’t it? With time. The shape of heart break relaxing, the relief of chronic pain. Muscles have many ghosts, and long memories, the body doesn’t keep secrets for long.
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Going well with Gravity’s Rainbow.
Good to hear it!
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