Man is divided between two transcendencies: his mother's and his God's-whatever kind of God that may be. These two transcendencies are doubtless not unrelated but this is something which he has forgotten.

His mother is transcendent to him because she is of a different genre and she gives him birth. He is born of an other who is always Other-inappropriable. For centuries, at least in the so-called Western tradi­tion, that transcendency has seldom been recognised as such. The mother is seen as the earth substance which must be cultivated and inseminated so that it may bear fruit. The father is the one who gives form to the child, who uses earth to create him. The father is in the image of God the creator. The mother is occasionally deified because she is capable of bringing a divine son into the world. She is revered as the mother of a son of God but she does not have, or no longer has, any divinity deriving from her sex, apart from her maternal status. This means that there is no longer any woman God, any God the mother of the daughter; there is no longer any spirit of divinity circulating between mother and daughter, between woman and woman, etc.

I have never been
younger
but I have been
sadder
but only once,
just once.

i cried.

i don't know if I'm living or just too stubborn to stop.

edward said on frantz fanon

another sunday special.

https://cosmonautmag.com/2026/04/the-capitalist-in-the-21st-century/

You are my ecstasy, and I am a moth without a bed.
I am the dog unstuck from sand, washing out to sea.
Oh, she is cruel, as cruel as an au pair, her legs spread.

You licked the bar of kitchen soap, knowing where she bled.
Nightstand nightcaps with swollen hands and a drop of blood.
You are my ecstasy, and I am a moth without a bed.

Your name catches in my throat like shortbread.
Passing a church, I cross my heart but get all bawdy.
Oh, she is cruel, as cruel as an au pair, her legs spread.

She paints her cheeks rosy, her need for attention underfed.
We spot them in the wild; sometimes, they’re beastly.
You are my ecstasy, and I am a moth without a bed.

A strand of her hair lines your underwear, slicing the head.
She grabbed the knife, lunging at you with glee.
Oh, she is cruel, as cruel as an au pair, her legs spread.

Reading through our texts, I howl into my cornbread.
They eat cellulite for breakfast, obsessed with beauty.
You are my ecstasy, and I am a moth without a bed.
Oh, she is cruel, as cruel as an au pair, her legs spread.

tom hurndall

moday. running errands for my father under the blazing sun. wearing a worn out converse all-star, it's rubber sole plastering into the asphalt with each step. listening to dusko gojkovic's slavic mood album. runny nose, tho i won't admit i caught a cold. i love mondays.