Fluidity is the core of our spectacularly multiple experiences and existences. If life is a one-dimensional spectrum, its only extremes are life and death; everything else is up for grabs. Which begs the question: who is grabbing? Not the other. And yet because the other is us as we are the other, there ceases to exist an other.
Other is given to those with hands not long enough to stretch—not because they don’t possess long, beautiful hands with monumental grabbing effect, but because the category is “sections,” and these people cannot be sectioned. And so we cut off their hands. And so we call them the other.
June is Pride month, rife with summer days and vegan milkshakes made from soya milk, cookies baked thick with chocolate chips and flour that swells in the heat.
“You live around?” asks the man behind the counter as he pulls the milkshaker down and the cream rises above the edge of the cup.
“Yes. You work here?” Bibi asks, chuckling along with him as he answers — “No, you know, I just come around here sometimes and get behind that counter and start making milkshakes.”
At Kinkerstraat 312.3 stands a house called Kinky Penthouse 4.0. On summer mornings, the citrus tree casts its reflection against the windows on the second floor made uneven by burgundy bricks with leaves rustled by the thrill of subtle wind that comes from the east of the city.
Bibi meditates from across the window as the sunlight rests against the tempo of their breath. When the…