As a child, I read the erotica under the bed. One story takes plave at a public hanging. A woman feels a hand against her in the mobbed square. The hand lifts her skirt apart. The unseen man pulls her underwear down. This purely unidentifiable person enters her. He always pauses before each development; waiting for her assent or dissent. She lets him; she likes this. Something that is her will but not her choice, She did not choose him but she wills this. Finally, the bosy is dropped and the neck breaks. This is when he comes and she comes. He disappears into the crowd. They have never looked one another in the eye.
These armored images – with their slits and the liquid flasj of an undiscernible eye conjure up this same vision of the desire for something outside of identity – a recignition of desire – of something beating in the center – and that alone.
