‘Death is the becoming-imperceptible of the posthuman subject and as such it is part of the cycles of becoming, yet another form of interconnectedness, a vital relationship that links one with another, multiple forces’ Rosi Braidotti, The Posthuman
Blossom is too fleeting and I mourn it, annually. In the early months of lockdown last year, I traced the journey of a tree from blossom to leaf from my bedroom window, petals fall, snowlike – too soon to lose those gentle colours, the scent. Time fast in gust of wind outside, time slow as mud inside. Blossom makes a pall on soil, briefly, before returning to the tree, becoming leaf, imperceptible.
It’s insulting for blossom to land on concrete, delaying its decay, browning petals stark against the pavement, barred from the roots beneath. To be blown across the streets, nomadic, and huddle in corners, in puddles, by drains. Petals, here, amongst a mocking simulacra of plaster flakes.
But the corners and between are rich with weeds and moss, which hold the blossom still, make a resting place, and grow from it.
‘Quite the contrary, it is the intelligence of the radically immanent flesh that states with every single breath that the life in you is not marked by any master signifier and it most certainly does not bear your name.’ Rosi Braidotti
A plastic tear mourns brick and cement.