IMAGE BEING MASTER

Welcome to a restaging of my first encounter with language.

In each attempt to practice consent, I experience its impossibility; BDSM not only as radical excess and overwhelm but as the distance presenced within impact, as a contact that cuts but doesn’t find an object.

The object of my research slips, not because I don’t flog it forcefully, not because I don’t seek permission, or relentlessly pursue, ask for renegotiation, endlessly wait and happily plead. I am in the archive, and I am on my knees.

It slips because blood is slick. Blood makes wet. And because the wound is not generic. It is specific with information.

Words do not come back when called. They live independently, outside my body.

In an attempt to read what is abstract in form, like painting, but literal in material, like a blood stain, catachresis is made necessary, maybe even correct.

What cannot be read, but demands to be enacted, witnessed, and examined: a cut opens a body, but a wound bleeds at the limit of relationship.

This residue appears as material excess, sometimes accompanied by pain, not as psychic remainder, not endless generation through failure, but more plastic than the brain; blood is a fluid from a signatory that dries.

Enter.