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To reach something good, it is very useful to have gone astray, and thus acquire experience.

St. Teresa (of Ávila)

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Angel Virus: The Biology of Ecstasy

For the SLY project. In honour of all bodies. All knowledges. Between trauma and ecstasy countering the narrative of feminized pathologies.

Fine tendons, mobile ribbons. Their body, invisible body - her body (of all textures, sizes, all shapes and functions and genitals or totally agender, asexual, alien). Always multiple, permeating mycelial structures, filling airy inter-molecular spaces in a  rockbed with aliveness, weight, air, water, matter. Life and decay. Filling the solidity of meaning from within, creating gaps, creating spaces, imbued, fertile, secret spaces. Biohacking. Wires, electic signals.

‘‘ There is a virgin forest in each; a snowfield where even the print of bird’s feet is unknown. ‘‘ (V.Woolf)

Lightening. Nitrogen-fixing rhizo-mycelial strings. Laces of a dress, swaying, spiraling, rocking motions. My legs, had I had any, would have been tied into a poem. My body walks dematerialized, it is walked from the outside, I overlook the process. When I visit briefly I experience a thick First Night, an ancient darkness. Death and rebirth of consciousness. A blackout. Helix. Consciousness. 40-80% is estimated as having had arrived from an ancient invasion of abiotic viral structures. Primordial oceans. Bacterial heat. Our brains have been hacked. Even before our birth. How much of our epigenetic structure is coming from non-human sources? What is the thing that separates us, that deemed us human, so upright, with a centralized nervous system? Two rainbow snakes fucking inside of my body, undulating, I feel naussea. ‘If no human is good enough for you, you’d have to fuck God/dess.’ sarcastic voice puts me in a place. I laugh from my guts. This is how it probably feels like - being fucked by the universe. Vine. Hedera helix. Infinite lovership. Jolly, nauseating, cosmic, hard, cynical, character-building humour. The panromantic gene. Pansexual panpsychism. Non-bodily. Then suddenly deeply somatic. The Arc Gene. The other within. I hear animal sounds that are beyond audible, even in the city. ''I know things older than Freud, older than gender. (...)I interpret this as 'the one who is at one with the beasts'.'' (G.Anzaldúa)

It is a full moon, I am walking through the park of the Train Station, my sinuses are being filled with strong lunar glow, an end of winter air curls into my cranial cavities, then suddenly I no longer have a skull. A frisky crowd of rats opens up in a full moon in front of my each step. Rodents’ rendezvous interrupted by my presence, diverging choreographies with me as a nucleus, a negative space. Paws tapping into the still frosty earth, provoking a subtle rustling of the dry grass. I am following her. She is full and raising in a slit between two solid blocks of houses. A crowd of rough sleepers cheered up from the period of warmer nights look at me, look at her. We smile. Sometimes toothlessly. We pray the same prayer. They look at my glass bottle hoping for booze. I pour a puddle of clear water on the pavement staring into the moon. Cervix bleeding. Cervix ovulating. Full moon nearly falling out of my cunt with the weight of dewey humidity, the full moon filling my mouth.

‘‘Both the performer of the epic scenes and their audiences are felt to be ‘beside’, ‘outside’ (exó) themselves and possessed by god (en-theos, whence enthousiasmo),(...)The pleasurably ‘mind-bending’ (psuchagogía) of allowing god to enter ‘inside’ oneself (enthousiasmos, i.e. being en-theos) (...)and thus moving ‘ouitside’ (exó) one’s normal consciousness...‘‘ (M.Griffith)

The divine is a virus. The notion of devotional, a notion of another within us, the guardian angel, the arc gene angel virus, the external consciousness, the one within and without, non-dualistic. Our RNA hacked, self which is both internalized and othered. Self-transcended. Crystalic divergent metalic sounding structures, consciousness’ cosmetics. On a deeply biological level we are numerous. We ride or we are ridden. Without mutual exclussivity. The notion of devotion is build within us as a survival reflex. If you do not honour others within you you will be devoured, overpowered.

The occult knowledge of spatial matrices. Plateaus. Climaxes and little deaths. Trauma. Non-human intimacies. Challenging toxicities. Hormonal fluctuations. Critical theory applied as a practice of magick. Only poetic overlapping inter-dicoursive meanings can really be uttered as magickal formulae, shape-shifting, space-bending, echoing, echolocating. Echo-locating. I write so the nervous system  does not burn itself, so the knowledge does not consume me. A fire sword appearing in the Garden of Eden. Neural synapses like wide open psychic channels. Chemical receptors running tears down my face without a grimace, comely unlike me, estranged, intimate, exotic. Tears like a condensation on a galactic rock. Luke warm gushing waters despite this body sometimes being so metalic dry. Crone-like, ancient, inhuman, amorphic. Electric. Hypervigilant awake multi-presences. La Virgen. Both eclectic and Saturnian. I sing in the main church ship. Spaceship. The echo sings me back, massages my fine skin membranes. Magicians’ box, endless numerous bottoms. Endless negative spaces with positive presences. The sound waves build something I can trust, I can move on. I sing love songs in the vernacular. My secular tongue knows the best how to lick my human wounds. I spit my own blood below the dress. There are vegetal motifs in dark rich pigments and gold on the walls. This church was built in a place of a pagan worship. The rocks towering above the river click their teeth in a dusk, but they hold. I know the thickness of the air as I breathe, the density of materials as the walls sing it back at my emptied body. There is no separation between music and dance or matter and the spirit.

‘’Squirt, shoot, bite, write, cum, scratch, dance, kill... do anything, but do it with ME!’’ there were words at some beginnings and those words were hasty spells. Tempestuous postcards in my mailbox. Copious saliva in my mouth. A diamond projectile.

Blue fire. Hanging upside down, my hard mocking laugh disturbs. Escaping body, watching it from the outside, laughing. Hanging upside down. Gestating past life images. Pendulum, an oracle. Hanging in timelesness, spatial vacuum. I enter a room full of old karmic bonds, broken oaths, people are on heat, trying to fuck them out, fuck themselves out of their current shape, of their conditioning, to alchemize these bonds, broken oaths, some have forgotten. I sit quietly by a fire. Someone asks: ‘‘Are you okay?’’, obliges me to try to explain what I know, what I sense. No body knows anything. No single body knows everything. She claimed she’d teach me. She’s nervous now. Noone is safe, there is no safe role here. I run out just as the thunder gloriously roams above the storming sea in the dark night. I am the thunder. My back convulsing, my limbs wide open on the wet green grass. Angry orgasms. Autonomous. Thundering. The semen of yours held in my body, the semen I never wanted inside of me, turns into tiny stars in the Milky Way. My own generosity. Overflow. Throat opens. The energy cannot be held. The consciousness being birthed into the cosmic darkness, inter-planetary interplay, inter-stelar galactic spaces, my body opens all its holes and convulsions birth me into states of in-betweenness. Years of being not a ‘part of’. Being in between. Stranding. I psychically communicate with my lost twin. Big raindrops falling on my body that walks along the coast on an autopilot, while simultaneously jumping layers and fluently moving across ancestral planes. I am learning how to walk myself back. Coming, screaming, speaking primeaval tongues, then sitting silently, home-coming. Soul retrievals. I never begged to be spiritual. I bet the part of brain that deals with trauma also triggers responses in the worshipful cells. You literally go beyond yourself to survive in this human body, to survive this human body. Again. And again. Laughter.   

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Besides the underlayers of Hausa clothing are sometimes inscribed with Quranic verses, there is a hypothesis that abstract embroideries placed often on the chest and the upper back of garments are charms. The placement of the designs on a chest, heart being Sufi ‘seat of wisdom’ , protects not only this place of a reunion with the divine, but also some of the most precious and vulnerable organs of lungs and foremost a heart, while simultaneously framing a head and a face, the marks of an individuality, optically broadening shoulders, creating a royal silhouette.  The spiral motif seen on many agbada attires , Kriger believes is of Sufi origin.

Tereza Silon describing some elements of west African Islamic clothing and the use of abstract charms and Quranic verses, 2013

Textile poetry in a solidarity with my old neighbours from the atm. polarized London (especially the Muslim community from all places across the globe, not just carriers of Hausa culture, who live in Finsbury Park)

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le offerte, southern Italy

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‘What kinds of times are these?’

Dedicated to the poet Adrienne Rich quoting Bertolt Brecht.

Shot on my phone. Summer Solstice 2017.

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(...) and once the word 'diversity' entered the frame it kind of colonized everything else. And all we talk about now is  'diversity'. And sometimes it means to integrate different looking people into the process that remains the same. Sometimes it means difference that is not allowed to do its work. (...)This is why diversity so quickly was taken up as a corporate strenght. (...)I am not saying that we cannot make 'diversity' do an important work. But we have to recognize it is not just about diversity. It's about justice. (...)the notion of difference as creative, as generative.

Angela Davis in a lecture on Audre Lorde,  "Audre Lorde: A Burst of Light Symposium" 22.3.2014

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I am looking for the body, my body, which exists outside of its patriarchal definitions. Of course that is not possible. But who is any longer interested in the possible?

Kathy Acker

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(via Femenine (excerpt))

Femenine by Julius Eastman, 1974

‘Contemporary music has hardly been without significant black and queer artists. But the story of Minimalism, in particular, has been dominated by straight white men.’ ny times

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Maybe, if you have not experienced for yoursel-f/-ves the pains and pleasures of polarity outside of a relationship to another human being you have not been enough out of y/our society, social group, out of humanity, violently out of and back to your body, out of your mind or out of and back to this World. It is not to deny the material realities of our bodies and desires in a collaboration with cis hetero-centric society and the prevalent binary reading of gender. It is to say if everyone who is not the central group knew no alternative places of communing and of vitalizing/depleting tensions (physical & psychic) , they'd die of an exhaustion and a burn out.

T.S. 28.10.2016

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Tereza Silon, Portugal, 2015

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a hand-painted deer skull i found in a forest while living there, a photo from a photobooth self-portait series (2014)

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For a soul sister: Thank you for unpinning a pussy drag from my patriarch, one of the drags he wears, even if just for a moment. The spaces have been healing. This is how we share joy and pain and learn some solid decent ways of self-care and drawing healthy boundaries to get us of this psychic entanglement. In an astral negligé. As we engage with these spaces in us more often, stretch them into longer strips of time, even when in a daytime 'normies' uniform, cosmic dances, rites of passage, walks in a park, midnight glitch, cooking meals for each other, seeing through to bits that we missed the other times. Illuminating our monsters, cuddling them. In some ways this cannot be captured, reproduced and manufactured. It is 'magic' in time and space, a liminal constelation. It feels good. It feels a bit sad too. This makes us grow. And outgrow constraints of a nuclear parenting. And we give thanks and dance all the bodies we have had throughout ages. Revive the muscle memory along souls' blueprints. Ongoing initiations.

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