The last night that she lived, it was a common night, except the dying;
this to us made nature different.
Above your bed a poster that reads, broken fountain, sunken ships.

We share, the way Monica's Gallery and I's souls sit sweetly, is an acute distrust of the way things appear. Demonstrative demon child of mine, here is how we are related in post-human desire: the performed hissy fit, aestheticisation of grief and self-censorship manifesting in passive-aggression. We prefer to complicate, challenge, to know and not do, or to do and not know.

Here's the thing Dave, it's fine,

but also


do you ever
feel like a sludge
undifferentiated and disordered how being is proportionate to how organised or more specifically proportionate to how we order 'stuff' around our 'selfs'
like the 'self' is the relief of the order

on more days
than i would like to admit you and i do not
exist at all
barely here
nor there


think about how memory constitutes the resource that we draw on constantly to inform how we think about ourselves
to each other
our selfs as that capacity to remember our pasts
to retain some resemblance of form you have to perform this hissy fit to have the well to draw from


there is the repetition of we
we, we placed the hair,

what bareness is, to be stripped, or its impossibility
maybe you have an awful, leisurely access to this

we placed the hair
how this is both immediate, and ambiguous
grieving is never a singular activity, in fact it would seem to be an eternal reminder that living this life this world
can never be singular
and importantly that this is a practice, not a fact nor ideal
this is an open process, and open headache

a sharing caring fuck up virus
where the therapy is in the cause of the problem —

but also this we, is of course the dead person as well, the pronoun, the she

her, me, us — him
'togethers' at the end of their fingertips,
or the movement of an arm,
this might be a bit of solace
a conceptual Panadol
because another thing, this is a bare process


And we, we placed the hair,
And drew the head erect;
And then an awful leisure was,
Our faith to regulate.

so no matter how far you dig you’re always witnessing another kind of surface
We have given up on a bottom, of anything
Kind of like the snake eating itself, and we are kind of transfixed on the power of the mouth, the body just flows.

From images of a hissy melt down, to the bratty-ness of taking 10 weeks of bereavement leave, to that feeling of being aware of your own body dancing in the club (images of the bad girl dancing, you're throwing a tantrum).

Of a body resuscitated by a camera community wired to her pixel flesh.

This seems to be the image of loss, yet also its opposite, whatever that is, whatever form that might take ‘empowerment’, ‘confidence’, ‘excess’ (Monica's excess) or the mirrored feeling you get because we all know we’ve felt like that girl, home alone, in a stranger’s lounge room, or absolutely fucking going ape shit at a family member in the motherfucking kitchen, or at the club, ‘dancing’.

The verb to dance is a convenient cover for so many indescribably yet real motives and desires. It is a wilful practice of blindness, making the camera so sore and obvious, as the I Love NY t- shirts flapping in the windy streets of NYC, and the fact so much of video will be filmed for memory, from of course, a kind of memory.