Fantasy
It’s all a fantasy and that’s the point.
I was reading Michel Foucault in college at the same time I was reading Kojin Karatani, and I don’t want to explain what that means except to say that it took reading Karatani talking about Japanese literature to actually process what Foucault was saying about Catholicism. Foucault was supposedly writing the rosetta stone of interiority and Karatani was its interpreter on behalf of post-war Japanese letters.
My point, is that Foucault’s theory on interiority is noodles and Karatani is pasta.
I know what a noodle is, functionally, but pasta is how I know what noodles can do to me. I wouldn’t eat a noodle and wonder about its potential harm, but pasta is a carb and half my life I’ve been told carbs are a bad thing. Fuck half my life. I’m ready for all of the pasta.
Pasta is fantasy. I can think anything I want and until they are actionable words or physical actions, they are safe for consumption. If you had any idea what my ideas of us look like in my interior self, I would be jailed. Fate may punish me with a gluten allergy in a next life if I don’t keep this contained to my interiority.
But interiority is pasta. So delicious but avoidable but so readily available and perfect so I will eat you and not give a flying fuck about whether we are noodles and carbs and you will have perfect mouthfeel and my teeth will sink through you at the exact right rate and you will enjoy being in my mouth.
A fantasy is a safe space for my interiority and it is all a fantasy. That is the point.
