Meet Me Where I Am

I slip into ssens ☄️

How I played:

I feel drawn. Not empty, reflected, or received. How streets must after rain, honoring the contract stone and water, heat and touch, made to stay with and pass through. Upon this game after reading a blog, I come, titled “no one,” a post concerning itself with fizzle of the capital order. Where the post’s words parch soil. Your see thoughts swell like skin. ˚ Check on your color.

Where it ends, the blog post, with: “I dont want what these ghouls have dreamt up for us,” is in plea. I take this plea into character. I am whatever a “ghoul” is not. Dirt, frolicking, me, grass-frolicked-dirt. My pronouns are whatever earth tone you are stepping on. Check on your color. And I am very interested to begin play.

I ensure my desires for housing and a habitable planet, the preservation of social mores are excluded, as the ghouls have requested those be off limits. The game would like me to answer what grass-frolicked-dirt and the ghoul’s relationship is: what else? It is property. And I am very interested to begin play.

When the ghouls and I - what is houseless and rendered as hospitable as another world - sit, we face away from one another. They do not touch grass-frolicked-dirt any more than I am included in what they touch. We are separate things. And we are hungry for one another. Check on your color. I start play in the middle of the day, and feel the sun pull me in like earth pulls in moss. Sixth of a quarter of dawn.

I keep in mind I am negociating a sex scene. I will consider including as many of my sense as I can on descriptions of the acts grass-frolicking-dirt or the ghouls want to perform with each other. I will not respond to the ghouls unless I need to use a safe word until it is my turn. I will not offer any judgement. I will movr into Silent Communication when the timer goes off.

Describe what you would do if you could touch your partner(s) right now. Where would you put your hands? Your mouth?

If I could touch the ghouls right now, I would from all deported tearducts pour water down their throat. What is your color?

I am wearing woven cords of every news clipping, every id with the wrong name on it, every name forced like brand onto the birth of what was to be a celebration and fell captured and as stone. Names offer not flight, not reality. What is your color?

Something I have always wanted to try but was too afraid was ask myself what kind of attention I need right now. The ‘I’ feels like it points to the same I, the same slit through the world, the same beat, the same exact strike over and over, a drum that is somehow also beating itself, like the sound of walking away is more of a drum than it’ll ever be. Like a heart takes tw-What is your color?

I want the ghouls to touch me where my oats are wild, touch me where I shine, where I sparkle, where “shine” and “sparkle” is something we define by having differences, by having conversations late into the night. Like the ends of Earth are just the lips we press into the spaces we have never seen ourselves. Like a drum is never in the same place twice. Like that is beautiful. Like that is skin. Skin that isn’t the sound of a ghoul, but the sound a ghoul makes when it goes splat. Check on you color.

I would respond to the ghouls touch like dancer to music, like rhythm to pitch. I would respond like the sea eats their words and cities for breakfast and asks for seconds. I would respond like a faggot brought to flame - I would glow, I would welcome home, I would hold buckets as they melt into whatever color of earth shame becomes when it’s exposed to light. Check on you color.

I would tell them their hearts dissolve so beautifully exposed to radiation, their eyes rhinestones lost long ago to touch see me through their grey matter. And I will play. I spin and every opening is tilled earth. I plot and every function is splay. I twist and every groan is blossom. I cannot love deeper. I am love - attention, trained. Check on your color.

I tell them I would be happy to help, the conditional as blue as the sky, as rich as twilight, as gathered as night her colors. I tell them, whatever it is, I am theirs, I am used, for pleasure. I twll the ghouls I’ll never stop until they give the color. The halting is not problem, but contract, couples - fused. Check on your color. I escalate their request, they moan. The ghouls thrash below me, asking their own for more, more. Of me. And I see myself the perfect property. As gossimer as silk in branch. Ready to be everything I am asked and more.

I tell them where their ask is lacking, I tell them as perfectly as stone tells water the boundaries reality has left. I tell them what they really want, hear nods, and nods, and nods. I tell them every twist they’re after’s half as true as day. I tell them how to match perfection, as water breaks into day. Check on your color.

I tell them I don’t want to help them stop their want machine. Momentum, friction, I aim to be, stop reality if they can, I welcome, as they thow their bodies under me and I play, and play, and play, the rhythm of their bodies turning back to clay. Gorgeous ghouls, fascinating. Delightful. I am no rolling pin, but I tell them the end of entropy is property enough and I continue to flay. Check on you color.

I close my eyes. And in that moment, I find myself, for my eyelids had not closed the entire time the ghouls fell from taste to fear, leaving me all fear is not. I could split off here, let time be birthed from me, retire, so to speak, find my identity elsewhere. If I names the emotions then, would I be naming the world? Would I be naming you? Would I not ask consent? I am feeling where mercy and meaning ambulate across the depths and the surface of a quiet becoming. I recognize what is drawn in this amulation is my breath, becoming the word Check on your color.

Attention is always this moment - active. Pressing me to speed up, to help more. More. To ask questions you know the one you ask will feel imposed on them, and left to feel like property. And ghouls have the gall to call themselves human. Perhaps, what boundary I would draw, is human is that which does not impose. Perhaps, what is human is, today, more data than mere gene, and where that data goes, so too must go humanity. Check on your color.

What would make me feel safer? Can you walk away from meaning? For me? Let it be the space within the curl of the hand you hold you prothetic as you read these words. Perhaps you are infected, or meaning. No way to be is imposition. Start with noticing that one word. Meaning today has become an imposition. Understanding is compromised. Asking for consent is forfeit. Every negotiation is how now lies. Reconize me. And I ask you your color.

I face you. A mirror sixth of a quarter dawn passes in total silence. I listen to your breathing. How you swallow, all the things I do without my body asking me my color. I find the boundaires within myself. I piss. I wash my hands. I return to silence, and you. Every advance you invite, I welcome. I am grass-frolicking-dirt, you are not. It’s perfect. It is exactly more than I could ask for. You touch me and I bend. You taste me and I grace. You digest me and I ask your color, moving through cell to cell, through orifice and request. Knowing you would do the same, or nothing would exist.

You ask how am I feeling? Like fog, gentle mist, particles in sunlight, a gathering of wisps. Like I could rest, like dim lights bring me there and, in rest or wake, and all at once to not be you, I’m blessed. Blessed to know you. Anything I need from the ghouls? Just think about these two sixths of a quarter of dawn I spent here? Don’t purge this comment from your memory with a link to another high, another moment of connection. Let this breath complete, inhale, exhale - be wheat.

From time to time.

What did I enjoy? Waters colors. The neighborhood cat that cut into my time asking for attention. What didn’t I like? Reach - I wish the reach would extend. That more people would see this aspect of where we are, an occasional voice memo of where we’re headed and what that means to us, really, here, this word and the relationship it has with the world resulting in you in this comment section. Did anything surprise me? How fun ghoul-bashing is‽ I had no idea I could contextualize it in a way that would be fun for me. And It was, I felt liberated. Is there anything I might like to explore further….

Maybe what walking away means, now. In the world I live, every square meter is owned by something, so walking away from ownership brings the impossible literally into the equation alonside me. Improve your relationship with curiosity, maybe? With “impossibility”, whatever the word is. Do that - so transcribe birdsong, do it badly, if you have a social media, change it to a local tree this month and post as that tree - complain about the birds in your branches. Make a shrine, see what happens.

I will aviod passing judgment on the ghouls for anything they communicate (I might be too busy looking through them).