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terminal gate [09 Dec 2020|07:14pm]


“...today the flags will all fly green at the embassies. You’re here next to me, except you’re not.”

here’s the skinny: in Pang (2019) there is but urbanity. beginning literally parted from love by iron bars (or worse–gate 12 at international departures?), then involving a choreography of plane rides and waiting halls, eventually left with no option but cutting the trip short by jumping out the cabin over a mall-highway-landscape. it’s marble walls, flattened granite plazas, metal and metal-imitation structures that's surely gone pang. the cranes that splays it all out, stacks it all on, must go pang at the end of the day, too. pop(!), that were to be our body/affect mixologist, operates here now, in a debate where synapses and bridges have burned and blackly flayed in the wind, where the architecture of the body usurped as weapon for city planning terror agencies has been advertised the bodily experienced renewed. lovers turn caressing toward sensors, eyes turn contact toward scanners, intercourse is the international course of civil security–the intimate frisk at the screening, the even more intimate occasional slipped through knife for good measure. a pang, inside your head, yet as if unreachably distant, as takeoff challenges pressure. about this, pop, you must now sing, when what you sing about is love or the loss of it.
how the ultimate affection right now is enduring terminal whiteness, corridors as connecting chambers under a pyramid, doors to doors to doors. this is what i’ve gone through for you. as long as we are separated, i will text you about what i’d do to your body, but i remain unfaithful with these buildings. and when we are shaping our bodies together once more–trying to–, it will be written so clearly under the skin how love, ours too, is long outsourced. it is london instead. it is los angeles, maybe L.A. ... it’s professionals catching cars. it is writing albums that use once and destroy, and caroline polachek seeing the sun sink into the clouds below, not yet quite aware she’ll already be sterile when he buzzes her in tonight.
they’ll fuck anyways

[*Window seat 10–22 F, 2016, Yngve Holen]

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