Lindsey Raymond,  Plasticity , 2016  Video Still

Lindsey Raymond, Plasticity, 2016

Video Still



Dissociation or 'if I drink enough Steri Stumpies, maybe my limbs will turn to milkshake and I'll just be gone'. Everything is foggy/muddy/wobbly and most of the time I feel like an adult brain in a drunk baby's body; fumbling around trying to open up doors.

Sugar makes me feel more 'here', so I sprinkle it on everything; "It kind of feels like pouring a fizzy drink underneath your skin." When I feel something, it's a quick tingle and then goodbye. I guess that's why my lovers call me a detached ice queen or emotionally reticent cold fish. They diagnose me as not lonely enough. I tell them that Baby does get cold at night, but being held sounds awful. The last time someone held me they called it containment. 

I ask myself, "How did I kiss and why did I like it?" I think I haven't known for a while now. My mouth moves or is moved, but my eyelids are less patient and they buzz above my brain. My tongue probes around, jabbing lips and getting locked between teeth or just stopping, to think. 'Please, this time be tender; be sweet.' But, nobody is listening and my lips keep getting bluer, when all I want is custard yellow. They refuse to melt with me, so I stiffen. Spit lost its meaning with excess and swirls just make me dizzy. And sleepy, so sleepy. Can we stop?

 Sometimes I feel so sad and I don't know why, but if I think about it too much it goes away. Other times it doesn't, and it feels like I'm watching a really long movie where the protagonist is pathetic (worthy of pathos/a fucking mess). This is depersonalisation/derealisation or 'stop using the Internet to pathologise your sadness'. I saw a meme, it said "my future wife is probably just taking a depression nap right now sweet dreams u sad bitch I love u" and repeated it to my future/present self. Avoidant attachment and an empathy dream.

If I'm asked to pick up something 'on the way home' without hours of notification I get so anxious and stressed that I want to vomit; I imagine this is how big hitters in the corporate arena feel, except I just need to buy 1 x toilet paper roll and 2 x chocolate bars. I even need to take nice things with a little bit of milk and rescue remedy.


Object pleasures

I want to welcome you.

I want to tell you that in this space nothing is expected of you.

There is no part of what is happening around you that you have to ‘get’. ‘Meaning’ hasn’t been fully realised or comprehended, and nothing is or is not. If I took the creation of meaning that seriously, I’d completely miss out on the chance to be irrelevant, and wouldn’t that be sad?

All the objects which exist in this space are rather in a process of becoming, unbecoming, losing, forgetting, unmaking, undoing, not knowing and failing to ‘be’.


I know this sounds confusing now, and I’m sorry, but perhaps the denial of existing as a seeing, rational, educated Subject (Capital ‘S’ like the two present in ‘testicles’ and the one not present in ‘white’) whose task is to conclude, resolve, make stagnant. Let’s expand ‘experience’ – through feeling – rather than just looking for ‘things’, allow yourself to feel with them

Feel everything, I invite you to. Nothing is unattainable, untouchable or two-dimensional. The most important task is to be present, but even if you fail at that, it’s probably less boring than succeeding.

Your body is a way of knowing the world, so touch more and think less; experience this 3D climax. Outside of heterosexual, two-bodied, genital, reproductive orgasmic intercourse. Think of object-pleasures. The tingling comfort or squeals evoked by a surface. Touch, intimacy, interactivity, contact and pleasure can be just as attainable by squeezing cream into your hands, sliming and sludging it between your fingers and then snapping closed the bottle cap. Equally as much pleasure can be experienced through description. Pleasure and sensation exist only in their proximity to alienation, but how can we be alone when there are objects and language all around us? Knead them into your skin.

But, you know, you aren’t the only one feeling in here.

On dating cis-het men:

My bio reads: "The men on Tinder are a mess." I've learnt guys like to be insulted, or they like the challenge which comes with seducing a feminist. I keep getting disappointed when a match includes "novels, philosophy, travels" in his list of interests. I'm not angry, I guess I just wish I had the opportunity of not being boring. Even my art is governed by my body/social politics.

When I go on dates with him, he asks me to define my queerness only to place himself within it. When I explain that it's indefinable he nods and says he totally accept lesbians ("But you're bi, though, right?"). Personally, he has never dabbled in homosexuality [Paraphrased] ("I guess you could call me straight") but love is love and we're no different. I wish one of them was brave enough to admit we are. At this point, he'salready congratulating himself for having cracked the nod and landed the date: he's clearly not one of 'those guys'.

My gender never comes up, it's just assumed. I guess I'm complicit in this; I dress femininely because I want to be desirable, fuck, I even let him open the door for me. I'm disappointed in myself for leaning on heteronormativity because it's easy enough for me to do. I feel like I'm failing all the queer people who have ever leaned on me. But I want to feel wanted and this beats having another lesbian treat me like shit for being femme. He doesn't flinch when the waiter asks if this is a first date because being perceived as straight is normal for him (Funny, it's never been pointed out on my dates with women). Tonight I'm just an edgy type, but pretty enough for it not to be questioned. He compliments me on my aesthetic but doesn't realise that's queer too. Tonight I'm not masculine, I'm just a queer in drag. I perform hyper cis-femininity perfectly.

Often the guys offer to pick me up and I have to stop myself from saying, "no, thanks, you could be a rapist" because that would be too honest. Instead, I politely decline. "So, who's your favourite writer? Oh, I don't know him... No, I'm not familiar with his novels... No, not his either... I guess I'm more into biographical essays and theory [Queer]."

"You're not like the other girls, are you? Well, we all have different interests. Not that we're different. I mean, you girls are doing some important work. I mean, you ladies. You lesbians. I mean. Fuck. I mean, my one friend is a queer too. Ugh, fuck it. You look really pretty tonight."