We become the repetition despite our best efforts. Their repetition is tedious, the look and sound of them tedious. It is glaciered in assigned objects, it is petrified in repetitive cliched gestures. It clings to the face of television sets and movie screens. Desire clings to widgets, chairs, fridges, cars, perfumes, shoes, jackets, golf clubs, basketballs, telephones, water, soap powder, houses, neighbourhoods. We live in a world filled with commodified images of desire. It is sometimes impossible to tell what is real from what is manufactured. The word seems to me to fall apart under the pull and drag of its commodified shapes, under the weight of our artifice and our conceit. I experience something which, sometimes, if I pull it apart, I cannot make reason of. “I want to say something else about desire.
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