Butterfly Chasers. Pollinators. Sun Gazers.
The air is hot. A fever. A rush of light. Heat intensifies color. Figures are threaded together into a landscape inundated with pattern— Razzle Dazzle—skin, comfort, camouflage.
I think of liminal and intersexual spaces— spaces where light intensifies in a fever of color— fearless and fierce; subversive and seductive; daring in full spectrum; a Queering of Space. And of Swamplandia—wandering around the mangroves and cypress trees; identifying flower friends; believing in a space other than our own; the trauma, the world warping, an inability to identify the familiar— A dizzy spell.
Isolated figures reach out in search of touch and comfort—a task of transformation—a symbol of bravery. They find themselves with growing noses—maybe they sang too many stories; chased one too many butterflies; or maybe they’re so accustomed to drinking sweet nectar that their bodies are adjusting.
Romping around—digging deeper into the flowers. They love. They drink. They chase and dance and make whoopie. They loose themselves and find themselves. Digging deeper and deeper—wells—what’s at the bottom? I think about being at the bottom of the well and waiting for that instant of flickering light as the sun moves past. The Wind-Up Bird unwound.
The Wasteland, a world is stitched together by fragmented stories. And the moment in IQ84— looking up at the sky and spotting two moons; wondering if they’ve always been there; wondering if anyone else can see them too; watching the news and searching for hints of this new phenomenon; the moment of realization that this new moon is there, really there, but alone, distant, and unknown by most; holding this new moon, and digging deeper into a world of our own.
Digging. Searching. Staring at the Sun.