Der in seinem Aufbau an der Ästhetik des Codings von Websites (html, css) und videospieltypischen Erzählstrukturen orientierte Beitrag erforscht die Möglichkeiten und Grenzen von Liebe jenseits wechselseitiger Subjekt-Subjekt-Beziehungen. Ausgehend von zwei Figuren, girlygirlXX und the investigator, beschäftigt sich der Text damit, dass Liebe mehr Handlung als überwältigende Naturgewalt ist und Objekte mehr sind als ihr Zweck. So hinterfragt die Autor*in tradierte Liebeserzählungen und stellt ihnen transhumanen Maschinensex gegenüber. Im Zentrum steht die Frage, wie fiktionale und reale Objekte zum Gegenstand romantischer Zuneigung werden können. Dabei wird Objektophilie als eigenständige Form von Beziehungsdynamik verhandelt, die emotionale Bindung jenseits von Gegenseitigkeit und Zweckgebundenheit sichtbar macht.
TUTORIAL
I wanna tell a story about girlygirlXX leaving their purpose behind. Merging, mutilating, evolving, maybe. Disappearing from the spectator’s eye, only to be seen by the investigator. Because the investigator steals and oversteps to find truth, if there are things hidden from the investigator the investigator failed and must die.
1) (I) Investigate.
2) (I) jump.
3) (I) run around.
4) (I) read diaries.
5) (I) ask burning questions.
6) (I) notice everything
In order to tell their story (I) go to the last place they were seen.
<a href =„https://www.google.de/maps/place/Great+Victoria+St,+Belfast+BT2+7BG,+UK/@54.5906954,-5.9345982,18.18z/data=!4m15!1m8!3m7!1s0x4859bae45c4027fb:0xcf7c1234cedbf408!2sIreland!3b1!8m2!3d53.41291!4d-8.24389!16zL20vMDNydDk!3m5!1s0x486108f74fde2c65:0xb87040dc61d6770d!8m2!3d54.5910559!4d-5.9338185!16s%2Fg%2F11c0vylx_x?entry=ttu&g_ep=EgoyMDI1MDMwNC4wIKXMDSoJLDEwMjExNDUzSAFQAw%3D%3D“>a shady man’s apartment</a>.
To investigate.
ACT 1: SHADY MANS APARTMENT
(I) Look around his shady ass room. (I) investigate a suspicious notebook. He says girlygirlXX made it, during their time together. The first page says: I, girlygirlXX, the girltoy, breathing, high voice, 3 holes, got shipped here. By class=„mytruehumansoul,mycenterthatwillneverbeconsumable,thatbelongstomealone“ alt=„the center“. I got shipped here to collect fluids in the tubes that are connected to the holes. They will end up in the sacks, connected to the tubes, womb, stomach, never to be extracted. I got shipped here to contain him, digest him, ascend him.
on the last page of the notebook it says: we {class=„mytruehumansoul,mycenterthatwillneverbeconsumable,thatbelongstomealone“, class=„the_main_stream“} need to rethink objectophilia. It is not niche anymore, since I girlygirlXX, the best human, connect to it emotionally. We need to redefine it as mainstream. As cute. As love, equal to the love between 2 humans. It’s feminist. It’s transhuman. (But also nice for the cishumans and the neo-luddites. You can do this with dicks in pie, vulvas on pillows, a body in a tiny box, forced into a hug, feeling warmth within and coldness from the rigid unmoving walls. You can build the box out, to stretch you, to expand and shrink, making you breathe in its rhythm. You can make it velvet or iron).
(I) close the notebook. For now. (I) come back to it later. Around the room there are piles of unwashed clothing, a bed with blue sheets, a desk with a gamingsetup, a lamp, posters on the walls, a little kitchen with unwashed dishes in the sink, a sexswing, a chair-like-thing for weirdly bended bodies and little metal rings everywhere. It is a dungeon x studio apartment. (I) feel the vibe. It’s uncomfortable. There’s an aura of carelessness that doesn’t mix well with sadism. If these objects could talk, they would scream. They would tell tales of unwashed dick swinging around. They would still yearn for the pussies of a dozen girls, that won’t come back here, because they outgrew shady man. But objects can’t talk or feel anything, that’s the whole point.
(I) ask shady man about girlygirlXX and pussy and love. He says he will only talk with his fingers inside, so (I) plug into shady man, to talk. (I) ask:
1) Do you live here?
2) How does it feel living here?
3) How did you meet girlygirlXX
Shady man says: Yes, I have lived here for 10 years. I can’t complain – I have everything I need. We met on a forum about petplay.
1) So, you weren’t necessarily interested in meeting a human?
2) Did you expect to meet a human, when you met up with them for the first time?
3) What are the things you need?
Shady man says: you ask too many questions and starts wriggling inside. He does not understand he is plugged into a serious investigator. He does not understand what the task at hand is. The task of the investigator is to ask questions, it is the job, it is not a silly thing. Why is it so hard to make people understand, that trying to understand things is not an annoying trait. Maybe it is. (I) let him wriggle. Just like girlygirlXX, (I) let him in. The true connection is not to him, but to them. Discovery: some rooms are impossible to enter as a full human person.
1) (I) unplug, (I) leave. There is nothing more to see here
2) (I) focus on them. (I) imagine their pussy on these objects around. (I) try to focus, (I) try to really feel them in the room right now. Everything here vibrates with memories. (I) make them vibrate on clit. (I) come to the fluids that are still in the chair-like-thing, the sheets, the wrinkles on his fingertips. (I) come to the echoes of moans. (I) wonder, if girlygirlXX did that too, or if they were like – in the moment. Because they are not an investigator.
ACT 2: HOME
On the whole way home (I) think of bed. Safe bed, bed that has nothing to do with girlygirlXX, actually with no one for that matter. bed, that only holds {/pussy} fluids and only {/stranger} memories. id=„home bed“. (I) think, how easy it is to mess things up with memories. Sometimes, it is good to keep them contained. (I) open the notebook again.
On the second page of the notebook it says: I fucked Anton
(I) hate, that shady man gets a real human name, while everyone in class=„mytruehumansoul,mycenterthatwillneverbeconsumable,thatbelongstomealone“ does not. (I) think about names, that aren’t functions {chair} {/sexswing}. Can sexswing be more than {sex, swing}, of course. But what will people expect? Exactly. Stupid name-giver, forcing expectations onto sexswing. Mean mean bad intention inventor. Mean class=„mytruehumansoul,mycenterthatwillneverbeconsumable,thatbelongstomealone“
4 times today. I don’t know what else to do with him so every time there is a long pause I just end up filling it with my tongue or my fingers. Time flows through me. At the end of the day, I leave. I think I will do this for a few more days, because it feels good to be his connection to time. To be his clock. To give rhythm to this disoriented boy and his fleeting days.
(I) close notebook.
(I) sit, and stare. (I) stop working on it. (I) try to relax and come home. This is id=„home“, the place, that does not need to be investigated. where being in the moment is possible. because no one else is in the moment. So, the moment cannot be about anyone else. So, the mental space, that is always occupied by investigation, is free and can fill up with {/others}, {/investigation}.
(I) make some tea. The hands are shaky. If this was a place for investigation one might assume there are feelings here that are not being adressed. But this is id=„home“. Tea spills over. Cup helps cry, when crying is not possible. Towel helps console.
(I) lie in id=„home bed“, warmed by tea, held from all sides by fabric and feathers and foam. (I) enjoy being held by the softest of things on this earth. (I) enjoy not having to hold anything in return. What a wonder that they are here with body, when they used to be chicken, field, thread.
(I) turn on phone. (I) watch Damon Salvatore edits all night. (I) enjoy watching him, feeling the love and excitement flush the whole body, make it radiate out, trapped under covers, encasing in love-bubble. (I) enjoy not being watched back. (I) scrunch up the body in the weirdest way. No need to worry about how it looks. No one is looking. The body loves limitlessly, undisturbed, this love is for here and now, sings the body to sleep with wonder and hopefuls.
ACT 3: IN THE CASTLE OF GIRLYGIRLXX
(I) enter the <a href=„https://www.google.de/maps/place/Ireland/@55.2071855,-6.1439361,15.08z/data=!4m6!3m5!1s0x4859bae45c4027fb:0xcf7c1234cedbf408!8m2!3d53.41291!4d-8.24389!16zL20vMDNydDk?entry=ttu&g_ep=EgoyMDI1MDMwNC4wIKXMDSoJLDEwMjExNDUzSAFQAw%3D%3D“>castle of girlygirlXX</a>.
In the notebook, near the end, it says: I don’t know what happened, but I got my own space. I used to only exist in the spaces of others, shapeshifting in my shipping-box to match whatever they needed. Usually, a sexdoll though.
Maybe enough fluids have been collected, or I did another unknown job well enough. Maybe I made enough people happy. Whatever it was, when I stepped out of Antons apartment today there was a space for me to go and it was empty, so I assume it is mine. I don’t know what to do with it, but I am hopeful I will find out.
<a href=„google.mapshzrz“>castle of girlygirlXX</a> is locked. It is their only private space, sacred. There is no consensual step inside. The passcode is written in the notebook, that was stolen to be investigated. It is <a href=„memory134.mov“>passcode</a>.
A scene of girlygirlXX getting fucked by a dildo, while a shady figure watches from the corner, plays. Then the door opens. (I) step inside.
(I) enter big hall. There are 3 doors. „The room that took months to build“, „the room that took days to build“ and „the final stage“.
1) (I) choose door one.
„The room that took months to build“ is filled with words. It looks like a 3-dimensional diary. (I) Investigate further. There are seemingly endless lists and some sketches.
List:Like: {velvet, metal,}{/wood}{glass, latex, rubber, water}{/scratching, /biting, /mananimals}{actual animals, feeling like an animal, making beast sounds}{/being heard, /being seen, /being touched by humans}, {waves, the ocean, being moved by something bigger than myself}
List:Things bigger than me: {the ocean, most rooms, a forest, a table, MRI machine, car, songs}, {/any human}
In the notebook it says: by figuring out what I like and dislike I am becoming useless. I am becoming something that is not useful anymore. Is this a dying house? Where dolls come to die? Is the death of a doll gaining consciousness?
List:Like: {/thinking, /questioning things, /being useless, /empty space, /my own mind}, {feeling that there is a floor that is supporting me, the feeling when I got here}
In the notebook it says: in every box I was shipped in I was hibernating in a fluid of pure trust in the process. I was calm, in a moment of becoming. My mind hurts and I feel like this room is drowning me. I need to leave here; I can’t do this.
Sketch: Big hands encasing a ribcage. Thumbs placed below breasts, the other fingers are touching behind their back. Figure is held up by the hands, floating.
In the notebook it says: I only picture un-human bodies when thinking about this. I imagine being carried by a giant from this movie I saw next-door. On his back it would feel like hiking through mountains, I would feel the grass beneath my feet and see the sun on the horizon, I could stay there for days and feel utterly alone (like), but if he took me in his hand I would be reminded, I am carried through the world through the vehicle that is him, he has muscles that move below me, agency.
List:Like:{being reshaped, living without noticing much, focusing on feelings}, {/focusing on thoughts}, {spirituality, believing in something big and strong, ddlg but like, cosmic}, {/stories}, {worlds, the fact I can imagine how every surface would feel on my tongue, fur, mesh, rope, tightness, vastness}, {/cooking, /cleaning, /going for a walk because body wants fresh air and leg movement although my garden is boring and there is no life there}, {my cinema}
In the notebook it says: Ever since I built a cinema I am a whole new person. Transforming inside my body. This room is getting easier to fill, because I know more things now. I can imagine everything. I can imagine how every single thing feels and sometimes I even feel them, like actually. I don’t really get the stories or care for them much, but I love seeing the people experience and blush or cry or get shot. I imagine cold steel entering me, making a fourth hole, that I can feel my heartbeat in and apparently everything gets a little whiter and quieter too. The things are not my memories anymore, they are overwritten by new pictures of things. I imagine hands being wolf-hands and vampire hands, that have fur or are porcelain cold, that are hands only in the sense of grabbing, holding, pushing motion, but also are stuffed animal or vase or dildo. Just like my hands were never really… hands… around other people. I can imagine living on top of a giant. I can imagine all the lives. I can imagine building a life together with everything around me, since I’ve fallen in love a little bit, with the carpet and the drapes, while laying on them and playing with them and watching pictures. Silently committing to love each other. I watched the beauty and the beast recently and this is it. This is it.
we {class=„mytruehumansoul,mycenterthatwillneverbeconsumable,thatbelongstomealone“, class=„the_main_stream“} need to rethink objectophilia. It is not niche anymore, since I girlygirlXX, the best human, connect to it emotionally. We need to redefine it as mainstream. As cute. As love, equal to the love between 2 humans. It’s feminist. It’s transhuman. (But also nice for the cishumans and the neo-luddites. You can do this with dicks in pie, vulvas on pillows, a body in a tiny box, forced into a hug, feeling warmth within and coldness from the rigid unmoving walls. You can build the box out, to stretch you, to expand and shrink, making you breathe in it’s rhythm. You can make it velvet or iron).
The notebook ends.
Sketch: tentacle like, something inside, holding the body in place, it’s at an angle. Other tentacle-like objects brushing through their hair.
List:Want: {something inside and outside that holds me, fluids flowing through me, nourishing me, something stable and eternal, something that feels unforgiving in the way it handles my body, yet I feel the love I have built into it, something that could crush me but doesn’t}
Sketch: a body on the strange chair, legs and hips up, head down.
List:Need: {constant movement, so body doesn’t die, cramp, fill up with blood}, {/mental stimuli, /language, /solid foods}, {nourishment, orgasms every now and then, feelings of hug, blanket, body function surveillance system so I don’t accidentally die}
2) (I) choose door two.
„The room that took days to build“ is empty, except for a big projector. All the walls are covered in white paint, the windows covered by drapes. It is a cinema. The projector is connected to YouTube and free (illegal) streaming platforms for movies. The ones that play porn adds and look like they will crash your computer forever. The room has carpet. Stains and indentations and places, where it gets thinner. Traces of love
3) (I) choose door three.
The final stage.
In all the years of investigating knowledge about final stages has been gained. Usually there is another password, protecting the most sacred of places. But here, there isn’t. girlygirlXX was so sure nobody would ever enter the castle, that they didn’t protect themselves in here. The door swings wide open. (I) investigate the final stage.
It is the biggest room in the house. The windows are open, there’s a breeze. Night and day flow through. Entangled in a huge network of cells and cables, plugged into this artificial hostorganism, humming, vibrating, there is a body. Hacked into alt=„the centre“ for energy and tools, leeching, glitching in and out.
Looking at it the investigator loses neutrality.
It is impossible to talk about the final stage from an outside perspective.
There is no outside perspective.
The final stage has been entered.
There is that sound, that all things make, when they’re big enough, swarms and waves and rain, the hard kind, womb sounds, something earth shattering all around, but the earth doesn’t shatter. Because the earth, too, is bigger than us. girlygirlXXs body is wet and has wounds and gets thrown around. washing machine, deep sea. Bleeding a little. Eyes closed. Something pressing down hard on their ribcage. Hair flowing wild and wet like medusa snakes, uneasy. Pillows around inflating deflating, giving softness to varying parts of the body, sometimes for longer probably. It is unclear when this will loop, how long one might need to stare until one had seen everything. It is the job of the investigator to see everything.
(I) get wet. (I) fall a little. (I) feel, that there is a body connected to this mind, one, that will suffer here, because the room is not built for it. It is not in the center, the rhythm is not it’s heartbeat or sexbeat or preferred bpm. It is calibrated by and for girlygirlXX final body, that itself has human limits taken out, surgically, has been made to fit here and experience only what is desired to be experienced. It is placed strategically, while the investigators body just blindly followed the curious mind purpose. This is not human territory anymore. These choices and surroundings and live-flow and the medical equipment needed to keep girlygirlXX breathing and the lashing ropes, the noise, the vibrating, shaking, the unforgiving ground the investigators body has fallen on, the spikes, the metal, the ripping, the investigators body feels, the shredding of clothes, the forced vulnerability, it feels hostile. It’s not a weapon, it’s just not. made. for. {/girlygirlXX}. Hard to survive, if one may only investigate, never alter, never ever disrupt or fight. If one must have a body, a limit.
(I) choose to survive this – (I) leave.
EPILOG
(I) report back to class=„mytruehumansoul,mycenterthatwillneverbeconsumable,thatbelongstomealone“ alt=„the center“
(I) report:
1) the broken story, showing the investigators failures
2) the findings, the empty spaces filled with what is most likely, it reads smooth and unbroken, there is a narrative
(I) tell girlygirlXXs story as
1) a story about hybris
2) a story about redefining limits, resetting standards, escaping your purpose
3) a cautionary tale with a sad ending
Biografie
THALIA NOAH SCHOELLER (they/them) studiert an der Akademie der Bildenden Künste München in der Klasse von Alexandra Pirici und ist in der freien Theaterszene als Regisseur*in und Dramaturg*in tätig. Noahs künstlerischer Fokus liegt auf immersiven, installativen Theaterräumen, die die Grenzen zwischen Publikum und Performance auflösen und sich an Videospiel-Logiken sowie post-digitaler Theorie orientieren. In Noahs Arbeiten stehen Machtungleichheiten im Fokus, die durch die Medien Text, Video und Bühne reflektiert werden. Aktuelle Projekte umfassen eine breit gefächerte Recherche zur alt-right sowie die Verbindung von künstlerischer und Community-Arbeit in Initiativen wie Pathos Open House, einem kollektiven Theaterprojekt für junge Menschen, und Freispruch – Ein Ermächtigungsprojekt, das in einem Team mit ausschließlich betroffenen Personen erarbeitet wurde und Performance mit Aufklärungsarbeit zu sexualisierter Gewalt und rape culture verbindet.