Marina and Ulay: To one who strikes you on the cheek.

Back to those days, _______ used to slap my face with his cock and ask me to spit on it. We even slapped each other’s faces until we cum. This afternoon, I went to Abramović’s show in Lisson Gallery. I was completely struck by the video of her and her former lover Ulay were kneeling, facing to each other. When Marina hit Ulay’s left cheek, Ulay hit Marina’s right cheek, back and forth until one of them stopped. I stood there watching them smacking each other, then heavily beat their hands onto their laps, as if it was a ritual constituted of immense passion and hatred, the rhythm improvised an exacerbating drum folk. I picture the time they were dragged into an amorous swamp, that the more they struggled to save themselves, the more they stepped further towards the death. They loved each other as if a pair fatal lover and enemies. I felt uneasy, my face started to swing from left to right, right to left, as if _______ was hitting me while he was fucking me; each strike seemed to whack straight onto my face, penetrate my heart. By the time they were slapping each other even quicker. I was forced to cry out by this intolerable tension, “Fuck!” then collapsed onto Gwyneth’s red shoulder. A guy in the same room looked at me, then I realised my emotion was completely out of control, burst into tears.

“To one who strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also.” In my point of view, the strength of my love is the strength I hit him, and the strength submerges into the void. The essence of love is deceleration, we thought we could defeat our bodily limitation in order to embrace its continuity. From the pause to another, we have forgotten the fatigue within love. We will be tired as much as we are tired of each other soon. At that time, we will unravel the cocoon of love, the oblivion of death.