Geetha Thurairajah, Boons Of Another

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Geetha Thurairajah, Boons Of Another
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Geetha Thurairajah, Boons Of Another says
geetha thurairajah, Boons of Another
October 7-22, 2016
opening: October 7, 6-8pmish

"Which is to say: this is how we loved: a knife on the tongue turning
into a tongue."
- Ocean Vuong

Cream on the mirror this morning when you wake up. Smell of Nescafe two minutes overburnt (did you leave a lover in the house who’s fucked up the breakfast?). A black streak of soot, burn mark, lies across your face as you move to touch your cheek. Today will be a day in which the grammar of the ordinary is all jammed up.

The threads of your history have warped and wedged themselves between your teeth. How can we hold thick to these histories we listen to without living them, or live through only in the face of their coy, beleaguered silence? Or history turns the table and suddenly you’re in its maw, gums bleeding as it tries to dig you out: yesterday’s dinner.

What’s in your mouth is left for that ancient kiss to decide: you have no way of calling that thing halfway between knife and tongue, tongue and mask, mask and knife. Like the daybreak, with its palette somewhere between the primeval cradle and the computer screen cracked open. Or your heart, which pumps its blood across the Atlantic Ocean into both land masses, like a double-channel video knocked out of sync. When you lift your head to see your reflection, you catch the taste of salt and rust at the back of the throat.

You always fell in love with those who promised you another world, those obsessives in their feedback loops of passion, blind to the touch of an outside. They acted as the vessels for your dispersed spirit in its painful, loping tendency for rumination. Even if ‘world’ was sometimes a synonym for the memory of kindness. Even if they sprawled you flat across the ground with their conviction of who you were. You learn not to forget that the obsessive lover inhabits a madcap playground of his own signifying circuitry; the image in his mind will never be your own.

Glitching river, medium-sized sundown
Bloodlet me beside the inchoate oak
Ration the swamp with easing desert
Make me of me a scission named hope

words by Fan Wu
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By: AC Repair Co.

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