Monotheism: In Adoration of the Thong

   <There is nothing left of sense, there is a chasm where meaning should be.>


And yet (yes), I am south- facing again, melting into my sheets, reading impassioned arguments from physicists about Ontic Structural Realism.
I am an idiot reading, stringing my way through their ontologies of relations, and absorbing a great red sun's worth
Of the idea that existence is defined by them.

The Thong has nothing to do with Thisness. 
Minimal coverage suggests that hole where meaning should be; a parting and simultaneously connecting string is the Thong. Alluring, it draws out its many hands and map-lines, inviting a stare, an establishment or foundation of the existence of its (precious) precarious contents. 

I have to tell myself that looking is multidirectional, that the lines of connection can be traversed back and forth between subjects. Otherwise, I'll feel like a cadaver again.


   “It is no longer enough, just to see it in my mind's eye.”


I was trawling endlessly in the rodent sea of pornographic visual cultures, planning an escape from its throes, until
The place where I thought I may find an insight -or academic intrigue- was empty, just a callback to that aforementioned chasm.

Whirling aetherchasm consisting of nothing but sensation.

Addendum: A Conversation

L/H: “(Ah, so that's what he meant by the difference between our parts. Like in a production, such limits on paths, flows and imaginaries. Such blood, sweat and slop.)”

R/H: “(will it track?. /Becoming (directionless) like it /deep down?./ crawling like it /(will it be able?) /(I like it) /will the hole be exposed? Will the ink track? How much can be filled or spread open?”

My Faceless lures (come)
(come on!)
Faceless +
Faceless lures
Process of live lure facialisation
Many meanings!
Faces, lines, faciality!