march-april 2026

dear every and one,

It's great to live by the spirit, to testify day by day... for eternity, only what's spiritual in people's minds. But sometimes I'm fed up with my spiritual existence. Instead of forever hovering above... I'd like to feel a weight grow in me... to end the infinity and to tie me to earth. I'd like, at each step, each gust of wind, to be able to say "now." "Now and now"... and no longer "forever" and "for eternity." (…) to be excited not only by the mind... but, at last, by a meal... by the line of a neck... by an ear. To lie! Through one's teeth. As you're walking, to feel your bones moving along. At last to guess, instead of always knowing. To be able to say "ah" and "oh" and "hey"... instead of "yea" and "amen." (…) To be a savage. Or at last to feel how it is... to take off shoes under a table... to wriggle your toes barefoot, like that.

and his friend (or colleague?) replied, almost as my instinct:

Stay alone! Let things happen! Keep serious! We can only be savages in as much as we keep serious. Do no more than look! Assemble, testify, preserve! Remain spirit! Keep your distance. Keep your word.

Wim Wenders, Wings of Desire, 1987

i grow increasingly overwhelmed about time.

'everyday is really a new day. It is like a poop you make and flush away, the next day is another poop flushed. I must find a way to remember I defecate everyday’

and i do do it everyday. i have a good relationship with my intestines. it was once horrid, i went to the doctor and saw my intestine stuffed with old stubborn faeces.

when i was little i had a special relationship with them. i had a bathroom inspired by the shinning, the one flooded with blood. i guess my father imagined the after effect of not cleaning this blood off the walls. the light would turn on when someone walked in. it was the source of many nightmarish scenarios living in my head at the time. i would ask to be accompanied often. everytime i was to use the toilet i had to fill my lungs with courage. i will tell you two stories;

two monsters lived inside my head. one was kinder than the other, but a monster nonetheless; the moment i sat down, after passing through the first entryway and being met with sourceless light and a wall sized mirror, and then a door leading to the claustrophobic space designed to fit one toilet, i would attempt to do my business as fast as possible, before they came. always together. fear is a physical sensation - sensations are real. fear emancipates itself like this. they would always come, whispering in my ear talking with each other, planning when to attack. they never did, convincingly because the good monster would tell the other “not yet, it is not fair to do it while she is pooping”. i was prepared for the occasion,

i now see my gifts were not just for sewer animals. this is one story afterall.

after defecating i’d clean myself and put the paper in the bin; i would lay out some sheets of paper on top of the toilet, where the flush controls were; i would fetch my poop from the toilet bowl and lay it on the paper; i would wrap the poop within the toilet paper; i would place it in the bowl again, and flush; an offering i practiced often.

there is no particular reason why i tell you this story, it will be elucidated eventually - perhaps it is to explain the beginnings of my difficult relationship with the body, my insistence on apolagizing for having one, bargaining so achieve some sense of safety in it, feeling as though its possession is not enough reason to feel i am righteous.

through the work i ask permission to be, but am not sure to whom.


ah yes, i speak of time.

‘I am swallowed with time and reduced to a dot then erased and drawn again, and inflated with my breath. I am big bang as when in a meltdown, my dermis touches my spirit as when I float in the water and feel myself as a drawing. My movement is restricted with this body I treat often precariously, I punish myself for owning it and look for some forgiveness. I am a flagellant. I am more religious than I let on, something to come to terms with. I re-appropriate these concepts as mine. As christian values are just re-appropriated human values. How to appropriate my body as mine, when I know it does not belong to me, as I must walk with it and go to the supermarket to sustain it, and pay the water bill, and sleep under a roof.’

time is as gravity, as pressure, something that ties us down if we let it - it is transmutable, physically depictable after its passing. the during of it remains trapped in healing, moving from a to b, sentences, changes of opinion, buildings being built, progress and the backwardness of our times.


but it fools us, i do not believe in time. it has given me enough proof of its elasticity to consider it a fact.

and because of this i attempt to trap it, i think now of my insistance on capturing my shape without ever considering i am trapping this form in time. i am today what i am not tomorrow, and in twenty years i’ll hold a different one in my hand and be able to look back at the maps i draw of my body and remember my thoughts and irregular stances as a young woman from the past.
Except I am this woman from my future right now, and i can feel myself opening and closing my hands so to situate myself in a busy street.
perhaps i see too much of dr.who these times, my algorythm makes me feel too special, or the sensibility of my grandfather (he would make things move with his mind) did pass down to me.

I write on my phone with fear of writing on paper, as I've drifted away from myself again and time doesn't allow me to return. I have two feet in the future and one in the present. I think of all that has happened and see a beige wall. I feel this wall, it is my forehead. During overwhelming times it solidifies, it is the opaque and unforgiving pantone color of the year. Not one to lean on as it leans on me. Pressure again. the inner conversation I had laying in bed yesterday. My self portrait (how rude it is to portray oneself) is of a box lined with fabric because of the tension I felt while stretching it; the conclusion reached when I spoke out loud about it being as gravity is. Equally unforgiving. Is there any stronger testament to gravity than a wall?

While writing this, the initiating prompt in the back of my head is 'i am no one'. It contrasts with my usual 'one, two, three' . So absolute I convince myself. But I speak of this non absolute. Being no one lies between liberation and captivity, in control of neither I keep breathing. I'd go into space forever if given the option, it's always been the case. This is as well an absolute condition. Either one or the other. I've been realizing this to be my own condition. And I am so aware the only way to find a grey tone is to be no one. Or convince myself this.

When I walk too much without remembering of my legs I loose my agency, but air has no legs but time.

‘Having? A having without limits, without restriction; but without any “deposit”, a having that doesn’t withhold or possess, a having-love that sustains itself with loving, in the blood-rapport. In this way, give yourself what you would want God-if-he-existed to give you.
Who can define what “having” means; where living happens; where pleasure is assured?
It’s all there: where separation doesn’t separate; where absense is animated, taken back from silence and stillness. In the assault of love on nothingness. My voice repeals death; my death; your death; my voice is my other. I write and you are not dead. The other is safe if I write”’

‘This was in fact what most obscurely worried me and pained me: being no one. (…) “To be?” What self-confidence! I thought to myself: “I could have not been.” And: “I will be.” But to say “I am? I who? (…) “I am”: who would dare to speak like God?”’

Heléne Cixous, Coming to Writing, 1991