ENG Transcription When I live on my own, I watch the rotation (or lack of it) of the kitchen utensils. In the end, one always uses the same glass, the same fork and knife, with due rotation whenever there’s slicing, sawing or spreading to be done, of course.
And so the cycle goes: pan, pot, bowl and plate that, along with their henchmen, rotate from table to sink to drying rack, only to begin again. Swapping one bowl for another, adding look-alikes to the cycle, is almost—and purely—a creative act, if you like: the decision to know oneself as more than the eternal repetition of a loop (unless it’s laziness, of course). To multiply oneself. To introduce more versions of oneself. Because, let’s be honest, my many versions hold many gender energies, and genderless ones as well.
So I, who I believe I am today and who I turn out to be in the end, leave the bedroom after reading in bed, sipping mate or coffee, to make the quasi-existentialist decision: preparing an omelette in the pan I left drying on the rack last night, or, call up Lole, this Sunday noon’s alter ego, take another pan from the cupboard, and see if my brand-new self can nail the pancake flip yet. Or not.
And of course, always with the licence to swap pancake for omelette, just so this literartura1 works.
- References author Julio Cortazar ↩︎
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