This is a future of failures, bankruptcies, disruptions, fragments, bits and loans. It is also a future where the idea and the reality of illness and death will enter the perfect spaces of Monstera leafs and Muji pens. Unemployed in summertime – what remains are our carrier bags, our medicine bundles. Whatever you choose it to be, if you are free to choose. At a threshold, the place of expectation, is it gonna be an opening into radical hospitality or the refusal of such. Guest and host, friend and foe coincide. Seems we are all one and the same suddenly, simultaneously.
I am the carrier of the virus, you are the carrier of the virus. We carry it in our carrier bag of skin, soap cannot erase it. Brains are folds of skin: carrier bags for thoughts. Our skin-ego lays the foundation for thought. Who are we if we can’t touch?
I just read about a boy waiting for his Corona-diagnosis in quarantine, whose Grindr chat brought him food to his door step, a perfect portion of salmon and asparagus and a peach. If this isn’t loveliness, then I don’t know what is.
We know this much: the stick belongs to the The Department of Defense. The carrier bag belongs to the Department of Love.