“Yes, I thought you were a mystery girl…”

“We are going to where scientists are and we are going to wantonly kiss them!”

So said in anger. Someone take me there, please. The title is of course from Cheap Trick. My apologies.

Hmm, perhaps one of my problems is that I find angry sexy, and especially sexy angry very sexy. Is this why on a social level I am attracted to the bourgies who are relatively safe on the one hand but are unhinged enough to be waging a war against the crack enveloping their existence and the world in which they inherited? Maybe.

The flash of a furrowed brow expresses at an immediate personal level the grace of determination and a resonance of hope for a different future. The brow frames the solo dance of sharp eyes, which, at first, are soft like the surface of the ocean, but then are whipped up with increasing intensity into a fury as a gale helps the waters reach for the stars. Furious eyes and a furrowed brow. This is not a question of potentiality, but of repotentiality. On the one hand I find this terrifying, a disjoint in the unfolding through the offer of an enfolding or purposeful engagement. Yet, on the other hand, without it, is the slow death of dull eyes living up to the expectations in a world that expects this of them and profits from it. Actually maybe ‘anger’ is the wrong word here. Because I have come across people who are apparently in a constant state of angry; they have resigned themselves to the search for antagonism to fuel their erotics of ressentiment. This is certainly not attractive or sexy.

There is something else at play here. The furrow is more like a surface upon which is traced an accidental implication in the conspiracy of eccentricity. As well as the furrow of determination is the furrow of constenation, of a determined openess to an unknown future. Perhaps this is a projection or at least resonant of my own sense of self or failure, where intimacy is less about fucking and mortgages and more about appreciating the singular beauty of flaws. Again this is not about a person or a self but in the unfolding of the world and self. More than the robust capacity to incorporate contingency I am talking about a joyous disposition that seeks it out.

The quizzical furrow meets the furrow of determination in an infinite enveloping of delight like lovers holding hands for the first time. There is a movement as the novelty of the furrow captures and asymmetrically reflects the novelty of the world. I freeze, swept up in the cosmos as it revolves around this movement…