zines· ·3 min read
Dispatches from Delirium
Your companion, that dear provocateur, the Other. What do they think of you? What do you think of them? How titillating, the space between you, the space that constitutes the World. All three, constantly in relationship.
There is the Self, the Other, and the World.
The Self is the home, the center, the spot from which everything else is regarded and from which all actions are taken.
The Other is without; set apart. Foreign, elusive, mysterious — sinister and alluring by turns. An adversary with whom you long to dance.
The World is the game board, the arena, the stage. It is a forest, a tangle, an open horizon. A roaring wave. The coarse wet sand into which our footsteps grind. And a mystery in its own right.
The Self: both refuge and cage. Brain and body, mind within matter, heart over mind. A duality inextricable from oneness, the voice that circles back into the small head bones, the ones lodged in your ears. Inversion, contradiction, to regard and be regarded in one instance, one rhythmic confluence of blood. Your cries reverberating in your lungs. Through your lungs. Through your throat. Out of your mouth.
And who hears it? Your companion, that dear provocateur, the Other. What do they think of you? What do you think of them? How titillating, the space between you, the space that constitutes the World. All three, constantly in relationship.
The World is the substrate, that which receives, that which is acted upon. And yet it also subsumes; it contains you.
The Other, a mirror of your own examining gaze.
