strings

Next to my bed there is a string communicating with yours. It is inside the walls, it passes over the roofs, it crosses the ocean to arrive to the other side of the world.
Next to my bed there is a spider sleeping. It has woven home at the corner, and I think I wish she ate all the mosquitos, because the room I sleep in is also inhabited by a lot of mosquitos. While I read about Speculative Ethics in More Than Human Worlds, I kill three of them. Then I vacuum the spider nest. Now they all live inside the vacuum machine bag, and we don’t see each other anymore.
The house I live in is also inhabited by a community of pigeons. They fight, fuck, lay eggs and shit everywhere. They are in the building in front of my room, and I see them from my window. We usually ignore each other, except for some comments as "what will happen to the pigeons if we decide to clean up and use the space?". I think I’m starting to get attached to them.
The other day one of them came into the kitchen while F. was there. When I arrived I only saw some feathers on the floor, clearly evidence of a moment of chaos and disorientation from both species. I felt like in the movie of The Others, when two realities of two different families that are not supposed to meet suddenly collide and everything is a bit creepy. I think: why we are not supposed to meet? Are the pigeons also feeling like this when we enter to the building where they live?
My house is my body. The body I live in is also inhabited by a community of bacteria; I normally ignore them. Sometimes I try to tune with them. I don’t think they know about my existence.

Donna Haraway says we must learn how to live and die well.
Donna Haraway says we must make strong stories weaker and weak stories stronger, and I say let’s stop looking forward and let’s start digging in.
Let me dig in you, make a hole and stay here for a bit. Let me dig in the soil to live between roots. Let me discover the structures that are holding you to realize that they are the same as the ones that are holding me. They are quite ugly, I don’t care.
Let me dig in a story. The stories that matter are happening where we must not go, where we are not supposed to be. They happen while we must be taking care of other obligations. The stories that matter grow inside contradictions. They live in the condensed little drips of a glass, they live in a lick. If you get distracted, they will form a little lake.
The stories that matter are weaving a bag, are happening here and now, between the lines of text, inside the little empty spaces of the vowels. They are happening in the spaces we try to hide, in the corners of difficult access, inside the pipes.
Since some time ago the ventilation ducts have been whispering, the pipes have been complaining because they want to come out from under the ground and claim their space, the wifi has been claiming its materiality. Let me dig in to leave it all uncovered, to leave it all half-done.

Next to my bed there is a string communicating with yours. It is in between the walls, it passes over the roofs, it crosses the ocean to arrive to the other side of the world. Sometimes it makes itself visible by appearing in unexpected places. You said it reminded you of a glitch in the system, as when things that are supposed to be hidden come out to the surface.
Next to my bed there is a string communicating with yours. Is a trace only visible backlighting. It is an ambient soundtrack we are just aware of when it stops. It is a string between thousands, a net conquering space underneath your feet.
The stories that matter are tentacular and intertwisted, complex beautiful chaos. And I imagine all the pipes around that are connecting us as a gigantic spiderweb which we have decided to vacuum, to swipe under the carpet in order to not to see them anymore. In order to not to see us anymore. In order to not to know and understand each other.
It has been a while since we haven’t seen each other and we can almost no longer recognize us, but I’m pretty sure you still know it. You know it as when you have a déjà vu. Since some time ago the hidden strings are whispering, and a murmur is coming from the ground: