Ublimé, the 48-Holed Tapada, and her Epic Yawn / by Matthew-Robin Nye


Textural excerpt from the Ublimé Project, 2014

Sum up your body.

Breathe deeply in, and deeply out. Yawn. Yawn. Yaaaaawn

Note that your yawn is autonomous from your body.



(pause)(have you done it yet?)




       Yawn. If you extend your yawn’s perimeter beyond the extents of your body, your yawn has increased your body’s autonomy from its typical resting state.


Okay, we’re ready.

This is a story about Ublimé[1], the 48-holed Tapada[2], and her Yawn[3]. Ublimé’s name was first uttered in the most unexpected of circumstances: when Shakira sang the Colombian national anthem, in front of a whole bunch of Presidents and Prime Ministers, Diplomats and dignitaries. Of course, everyone thought she got the words wrong, but Shakira, whose ‘hips don’t lie’, was talking about Ublimé! It was on the world stage that we first heard of Ublimé[4].


The act of Naming happens as frequently by accident as it happens with intention. The mythologizing of a subject – place, person, or thing – occurs with intention as frequently as it happens by accident. The instance of Ublimé’s naming, whether by chance or calculation, is quickly subsumed by the consequences of the act of naming: a pop star shunned over a slip of the tongue. A national identity destabilized. An opportunity opens up, creating a yawning sense of magic.[5]


Shakira found a hole. The hole that Shakira found came in the shape of an opportunity, which itself was shaped like an Ublimé: a little space in the lyrics of a boring old national anthem - a hymn to the nation-state and the powers that uphold it - to thank the person that made every such hole, every such opportunity possible: Ublimé! These days, everyone’s thanking Ublimé, every time they find a hole. Other holes we’ve always been thankful for but haven’t known who to thank:


“Look, there’s room for one more at this table!”[6]

“Thank god, I have an extra five minutes to get ready!”

“We can reach him – he’s alive! Quick, pull those rocks away!”


This is not an origin story, because our capacity yawn has always been there.[7] This is not a manifesto, because our futures exist in the present. This is an attunement, the fairytale a register against which to align the affective compass.


Every unexpected opportunity to move in is a hole. Ublimé doesn’t actually have 48 holes[8]. She has one… or a thousand, sometimes more. It depends, really: Ublimé’s holes are there when you feel for them – or smell for them, or listen for them, or move into them – and they’re gone when you’re stubborn. Not, ‘I’m not going to do this dishes stubborn’; more ‘It’s my-way-or-the-high-way’ stubborn; ‘This is the way it is and it isn’t going to change’ stubborn. ‘Adult’ stubborn.


We like to think of our moral compasses as aligned, more or less, with each other, with a given community. Big Oil is bad. Capitalism is bad. Silos of Identity are good. In this analogy, it is implied that our moral compass is aligned forward, to ‘true North’. We orient Forward and Up. Perhaps the orientation of the world should take a turn, and be oriented towards everything, everyone at once. The compass facing North is broken. The compass that is spinning wildly works just fine.  


But this is very important: Ublimé’s holes, more often than not, have to be approached sideways. I know this can sound annoying, but: The holes that you walk into directly are the holes for that ‘my-way-or-the-high-way’ guy – they’re too easy for Ublimé! Those holes come in the form of really loud silence when everyone holds their breath around him because they’re scared of him; in the way that the door to his office is a hole; and in the spaces between his perfectly spaced trees on his big manicured lawns. Those are holes that are forced, they’re bore-holes. Those holes are so the ‘my-way-or-the-high-way’ guy can get what he wants. Ublimé doesn’t play like that. You’ll never find Ublimé there, making a hole for that guy.


There is no ‘way forward’ – for we haven’t found our way. Instead, there is a way out of the centre, away from the rotten core. A destabilizing, hula-hooping, movement-laughing tumble away from the centre: The spinning compass![9]


The time Ublimé tricked the Big Builder Guys into Dancing with Each Other


One time, these Big Builder guys caught wind of Ublimé’s holes and said, “Hey Ublimé! We’ll give you lots of money if you build some of your holes for us! Market Analysis says that we’ve inundated our clients with Doors that open and close when we want them to, but people are getting tired of our Doors! They call it saturation! How about you show us how to make your special Ublimé holes that all these strange kids have been talking about – we’ll be rich!!”[10]


We are at peak saturation, there is no more money to be made. It is all lost in circulation, stacked in neat piles in offshore banks, shaped like empty real estate, portioned into nearly invisible slivers of pie we like to call (equally miniscule) ‘standards of living’. The moneymakers are coming for you, young moneyman, they have you in their sights – sights, the greediest of all the senses.


When those guys asked her to build them holes, Ublimé laughed. She laughed and laughed, so much that the wind picked up a little and the trees laughed along with her. Ublimé’s laugh sounds a little bit like the tinkling of bells that you can find on clown costumes. So the Big Builder guys heard the trees rustling and some strange tinkling in the wind and shuddered and said “Oh, that was spooky!” to themselves, but so quietly that no one except Ublimé could hear, because Big Builder guys aren’t supposed to get spooked. Big Builder guys gathered up their courage and said “Come’on, Ublimé! Tell us how to make holes!!” Ublimé laughed a little bit more and replied, “Okay guys, I’ll show you how to make one of my holes!”


We are the jester, gifted with ‘madness’, we have the ability to cast a critical gaze upon the landscape (field) and laugh along with its lunacy.

There is a way out:


Ublimé yawned. Ublimé stepped sideways.


We move out of the centre. We move away from ‘forward’. We move out of ‘now’. The further one spins in this gyroscopic movement outwards, the more unstable the world that rests on the pinprick of normativity becomes.[11]


The Big Builder Guys looked confused. “Where’s the hole, Ublimé? You just stepped sideways and yawned!” Ublimé smiled under her Tapada and replied “But gentlemen, I just made you an Ublimé-sized hole! I moved sideways and it’s right there, where I was standing!!” The Big Builder Guys looked stern. The Big Builder guys looked angry. “We need 1000 Ublimé holes by tomorrow or else we’re going to go Bankrupt!!!” they hissed. The Big Builder Guys looked scared. Ublimé smiled, and shrugged. “Well, I suppose you should start stepping sideways now, if you want 1000 holes by morning!!”


We tighten the social contract; we leave production to the Big Builder Guys, and let them try to dance forward. They don’t know that the only way to dance forward is to dance sideways, up and down at the same time.


Ublimé left the Big Builder Guys stepping in confused circles in to each other, making exactly zero holes.


No one has asked those guys to dance for a long, long time. They’re so stuck in the now, most of them can only walk forward.


This is all back in the days when those Big Builder Guys could see Ublimé, and even then they were lucky, because Ublimé is a tricky one: Most of the time, you’ve just missed her, or she arrives just as you look away. Most of Ublimé’s holes happen in the present moment, but the person who makes the hole, Ublimé, is always just in front or behind it, but never with it, in the moment when it’s most obvious. But in order to have a hole, you have to have something that makes the hole. That’s Ublimé, and her Yawn.


A Yawn is an opportunity to reset an alertness. A Yawn is a call to attention.


The time Ublimé went to Jail for Making Too Many Holes

It’s hard to tell where Ublimé ends and the yawn begins. You know what a yawn feels like: first you feel it coming. You can feel your whole body summoning it, pulling it together, and it starts to rush up through you and out of you at the same time. Your body opens up and makes a yawn-shape. At the very moment you think you’ve gained control of it, when it has reached its crescendo, the yawn is already in the midst of passing through you, because you can’t really hold the yawn. You can feel and watch the yawn leaving your body, like a train pulling out of a station, slowly accelerating away. Ublimé does time like a yawn: you can feel her coming like a yawn, so she is definitely in front of time; sometimes, when you stop and think about it, you can feel her around you, like when your body is at its most yawniness, that very peak of the yawn; but more often than not, she’s moving away, out of site and mind before you even fully realize that she was there, pushing the air through you, pulling it out.[12] 


We are a movement, moving outwards, expanding our perimeter and diluting the centre. Our movement(s) are not marked by where we end, by their maximum reach; they are marked by the spaces in between our steps; the pauses between the notes we strike; the ambiguities we leave in our trace.


One day, a bunch of men in uniforms came and grabbed Ublimé when she was minding her own business making holes and opening things up to keep life fun and interesting. They put her in the back of their paddywaggon and dragged her down to the police station. “Why’d you bring me here!?” she asked. “Ublimé, you have to be put away for your own good and the good of everyone else!! You’re disturbing order and the normal functioning of society” (whatever THAT means!). The men in uniforms threw her in a cell with no holes and threw away the key.


We dance in shopping malls, copulate in alleys, express our politics at the dinner table, resonate whenever possible. We are bang bang rattle-our- drums-all-day loud.[13]


Ublimé looked around her dark cell. She made a little hole and pulled out an electric torch because she was having trouble seeing. Her cell was pretty lonely, so she made a little hole and pulled in a few of her friends to chat. She made another couple of holes to bring in some music and get things cozy… and before you know it, Ublimé was having a party!


The Men in Uniforms heard a commotion from Ublimé’s cell. They marched down the hall with all of the cells for people that weren’t helping with the normal functioning of society, right up to Ublimé’s. The men in uniforms took out their keys, and opened Ublimé’s door, and their eyes widened. Their jaws dropped. The men in uniforms looked very, very angry. “UBLIMÉ!” - they shouted – “stop this party THIS INSTANT! You are being PUNISHED for making holes where you were NOT AUTHORIZED! You are disturbing the normal functioning of society and parties in jail cells are NOT ALLOWED!”


Ublimé looked at the men in uniform, and she looked at her friends having a Very Good Time. Ublimé yawned. The men in uniform suddenly found themselves looking at a very empty, dark jail cell, with the faint ringing of bells in their ears the only evidence that Ublimé was ever there.[14]


Ublimé and how she became known as a Yawn


I know I talked a little bit before about how Ublimé is really hard to see; it hasn’t always been like that. Back when the Big Builder Guys and the Men in Uniforms knew Ublimé, before they decided to pretend that she doesn’t exist and she decided to pretend that they didn’t exist, (it was mutual), Ublimé used to run around in her beautiful one-eyed costumes, opening holes, closing holes, moving sideways, dancing and laughing her tinkly laugh, and everyone could see her, which could sometimes be a problem. You see, like a yawn, Ublimé is contagious. Not a contagious like you’ll catch a cold; more contagious like you’ll catch ideas.


Play in the notes


Ublimé had all kinds of funny ideas… so many, in fact, that you could say some of the best funny ideas came from her! One time, Ublimé was walking around minding her own business, and she starting singing a well-known song to herself. It went ‘dum-de-dum-da-da’. She sang ‘dum-de-dum-da-da’ to herself a few times, and she thought it was a pretty good song and she was a pretty good singer. She started thinking about what it would be like to be a famous singer like Shakira and her mind started to wander over to what time of shoes she was going to wear and wouldn’t you know it! Her tune started to slip as well. So did the words a bit. So Ublimé started to sing ‘dum-de-dum-da-deeee-dum’ and then ‘dum-da-da-dee-dum-dum’ and before you know it, she was singing her own song, that no one had ever heard before. Ublimé had just slipped into an Ublimé-shaped hole and was rummaging around and finding all SORTS of notes and sounds that hadn’t been picked! She-








Ublimé was rudely interrupted. “Yes?”, she asked the irritated-looking townsperson, “Can I help you? I just discovered this NEW THING called… hmm… hmmm… Hhumming!!” and I think I was about to get to a good part!


The rather stern looking lady looked stern-er. “That is not how the ‘dum-de-dum-da-da’ song goes!” She tapped her foot. Ublimé chuckled. “How do you know that!?” Ublimé asked – “we haven’t even gone there yet!!” The stern lady looked even stern-er. The stern lady tapped her foot furiously. The stern lady yelled “BECAUSE” – (she was really yelling!) – “THAT IS NOT HOW THE SONG WENT, AND THEREFORE THAT IS NOT HOW IT GOES!”


Ublimé sighed, yawned, and went and hid in one of those holes that you twist your angle in because it wasn’t there the last time you looked, you’re pretty sure! She was in a pretty stormy mood – but humming stuck around!


You know, Ublimé wouldn’t want us to dwell on the mean things that people have done to her, even though she’s out teaching people to dance, making parties, humming hums, makin’ holes – so I’ll tell you what she did instead.


The Yawn is the final frontier of the tangible, quantifiable or commodifiable. The Yawn is the border of infinitude and singularity, before these opportunities choose an orientation and thrust into calcification, the presentationally immediate, laid before you for inspection.


Ublimé yawned. The first time Ublimé yawned, the Big Builder Guys stopped being able to see her.


The second time Ublimé yawned, the people who wanted to keep her in prison because she was making too much fuss lost hold of her for good.


The third time Ublimé yawned, the people that told her that she could only sing, dance, or laugh a certain way stopped being able to hear her.


The fourth yawn started off with a little stretch, in Ublimé’s toes. The stretch got a little bit bigger, and her hips pushed out of their sockets a bit. Her yawn got even deeper, her shoulders widened, and she started to inhale – and inhale, and inhale. She pushed her arms as far out to the sides as she could, stretching, stretching, until her fingertips grabbed each side of the farthest stretches of the universe. Ublimé kept inhaling, and slowly, the world started to shake. Ublimé inhaled and inhaled, and she started to expand with all of the air and planets and trees and mice that she was inhaling, her chest growing outwards so much that she started to look like a balloon. Her chest stretched and it stretched, and finally there was nothing left to suck in.


Ublimé paused, her mouth wide open, jaw hanging in mid-air. She looked around. A little bit of worry crossed her brow for a second…




Ublimé disappeared, and everything fell back into its place with a THUD. Well everything was in its place, that is, except Ublimé! Now, Ublimé wasn’t just dancing from place to place, yawning, opening little holes of opportunity and closing them, two, seventeen, three thousand and eight at a time, humming to herself and making parties; no, Ublimé had turned the whole world into a place where a little yawn is waiting to happen here, a little yawn is waiting to happen over there. Now, Ublimé and her yawns are everywhere, opening up holes where you least expect it. Ublimé turned herself into a Yawn, or a countless number of them: Those yawns are tricky, never here, always coming up or just passed – but if you dance sideways, look quickly out of the farthest corner or your eye, squeeze between a strangers as you’re moving down a crowded sidewalk, you might just catch a glimpse of Ublimé starting to yawn.[15]



NOTES (An essay in addendum)

[1] Ublimé first came to public consciousness at the 2012 Summit of the Americas in Colombia; singing the national anthem, superstar Shakira broke rank by altering the lyrics ‘Cesó la horrible noche; La libertad sublime’ to ‘Cesó la terrible noche; La libertad de Ublime’ calling to mass attention the plight of Ublimé, and the need to free movement – the ability to sum up and freely transfer force at will from the tyrannical grasp of late Capitalism and heteronormativity. (The second half of this note may be conjecture).


[2] The tapada (‘covered,’ 'covered one' [fem.]), also known as the saya y manto, was an article of clothing worn by women (and adopted by an unknown and possibly unlimited number of transvestites) in Lima, Peru over a period of 300 years (from the late sixteenth to nineteenth centuries) that looked similar to a niqab or burka, but only showed one eye and lacked religious connotation. In ‘Veiled Geneology for a Trans Future’, the late artist Giueseppe Campuzano identified the tapada as a potential conduit to the future, and article of resistance, to ‘disguise as a transnational subversion… where past and future may be imagined, posit(ing) another present.’ Campuzano points to the tapada as an article of concealment and resistance not only to gender hierarchies, but to all restrictive identity politics and hegemonic structures, including those of nation states, returning the owners’ identity to themselves.


[3] Ublimé’s Yawn is the imperceptible moment, the microsecond before all movement transitions from the unanticipated to the commenced; from the virtual to the physiological; from the prehensible to the presentationally immediate. Our story will focus on Ublimé’s Yawn. The Yawn is the final frontier of the semblance of the fold that is not tangible, not quantifiable of commodifiable. The Yawn is the border of infinite and intangible opportunity, before these opportunities choose a singular orientation and thrust into calcification, the presentationally immediate.


[4] The application of Queer Theory to the production of space is one solution to the cooption of our built environment: a queer orientation towards a subject – in this case a physical or conceived space - is inherently a dis-orientation, a spatial gambit: A re-orienting of Architecture through the lens of queerness shifts it away from the production of hegemonic structures (such as late capitalism), to structures that we can consider to be ‘architectures’ but perform the function of carrying the architectural objective of supporting communal activities, towards a landscape born of resistance to the norm.

Through performance, philosophy and the arts we demonstrate queerings of our inhabited spaces by worldbuilding of a ‘bent’ nature, upending traditional notions of the performative functions of architecture and the hegemonies these spaces represent.


[5] If a yawn is autonomous from the body – it is often generated from without, moves through you and outwards again - it can be stated that the yawn is not of the body; it is the temporary embodiment of virtual forces that propel movement, those forces articulating themselves in a monadic thrust towards an event through the body.. A yawn is that last frontier of the tendency-to-form before the event is tied up in the Whiteheadian superject. (Manning)


[6] Queer space is a landscape comprised of a communal, matrixial identity structure, which we access through a shared psychic plane. Citing Jean-Luc Nancy’s ‘co-originality’, the denial of dependent relations in order to individuate, Lisa Blackman states that ‘our very sense of interiority emerges through our relations with others; human and non-human and in that sense we are always more than one and less than many’ (184). But, most of us have lost our way, having become lone, singular individuals, and through our lack of touching, exacerbated by digitization, commodification and pre-packaged identity, we are also the un-individuated ‘many’. We have forgotten what interconnectivity and interdependency feels like – or we have forgotten how to recognize interconnectivity - and because of this, we are same-same islands of ourselves.  There is a way, however, to jumpstart the process of connectivity, and access the positive interconnectedness of queer space: if, as Blackman argues, co-originality is the ‘single-plural processes characterized by the strange paradox of being both ‘one-yet-many’ (184), borrowing Bracha Ettinger’s ‘border-linking’, we can reach and vault past Nancy’s co-originality to co-experience and queer space by border-linking: the psychic tuning of interiority on an affective plane. It is unquantifiable; yet it is an event that we have a shared experience of; a yawn is an irresistible group activity - the original instance of co-experience, an affective attunement (Manning).

[7] A yawn – the physical, cross-species, age-old act of yawning – is unique in that it has no material outcome, no outward physical difference from before the event. While it has been variously hypothesized that the yawn may cool the brain or aid in digestion, most interestingly it has been posited that the yawn may be a social call to alertness within a tribe. The act of extending a yawn’s perimeter outside of the body, psychically touching those nearby, can be considered a border-linking of shared affect of awareness.


[8] (The number 48 was settled upon during a late night party in a jungle in Colombia, and is the subject of a different story.)


[9] The connection between familial activities congregated around the functions of the stomach logically aids in the evolutionary argument for the stomach as seat of emotional intelligence, reinforcing the social aspect of communal meals, which is central to the functions of both biological familial units and ‘chosen’ familial units alike. Could the seat of affective experience then not be accounted for in the stomach?  The queer ‘chosen family’ is where a character like Ublimé might feel most comfortable in her difference; identity forged through the experience of difference being the seat of the mythological strength of such a character - a tenant of ‘queerness’. ‘Queerness’ is itself a chosen identity, the landscape that Ublimé occupies - as a person or named phenomena – is one centred on difference from the norm, where the normative is the presentationally immediate world. It is from the normative world that difference radiates outward (like queerness). The further one spins in this gyroscopic movement outwards, the more unstable the world that rests on the pinprick of normativity becomes.


[10] Normative world-makers would have you believe that the event isn’t pregnant with the forces that lead to their becoming. They would have you think that markets drop due to diminishing resources, we leave the house to buy the paper, the man was punched because he sparked anger in the assailant - they would have you believe in simple cause and effect, A+B=C. We know that this it is only through the short-cutting of habit in accounting for the event, that we see the perceptually immediate as the event in its entirety. The habit in the virtual – the formative forces that lead up to and impregnate the event with the ‘force of existence’ (Massumi 55) are short-circuited to the point of total erasure of the infraceptive qualities of the in-act. The magic, which is really the virtual or its effects, can perhaps only be found in the semblance, those differential moments, the rhythms of the non-sensuous that round out the other side of Marleau-Ponty’s flesh. We are entrained to see the event as a singular occasion, because this is what can be commodified in language, hegemony and action. In a recent note to me, a friend referred to a ‘yawning sense of loss of magic’; it occurred to me that perhaps what he meant was a ‘yawning sense of magic’, that is, the fullness of the void which gives body to flesh, actual flesh, dissipating with the closure of activity.


[11] A queered phenomenological approach to the event is a privileged one. Through difference, and a deliberate turn from the normative progression of life, a queer is already unhinged from the entrainment to the perceptible world that is Edelman’s ‘reproductive futurity’, the promise of a deferred happiness in to take place away from the present moment. Sarah Ahmed likens this shift to a dispensation of directions, asserting that heteronormative societal directives are not only about “‘where,’ but they are also about ‘how’ and ‘what’: directions take us somewhere by the very requirement that we follow a line that is drawn in advance… Within the concept of direction is the concept of ‘straightness.’ To follow a line might be a way of becoming straight, by not deviating at any point.” (Ahmed16) A queering of the gaze allows us to start to break our entrainments, permitting us to widen our gaze to the peripheral. In entertaining a broader field of subjects our grasp on the perceptible world begins to loosen, permitting us to catch the edge of a yawn. 


[12] “Every monad … expresses the entire world, but obscurely and dimly because it is finite and the world is infinite” (Deleuze 86). An orienting away from the normatively directed is an opening up of this peripheral vision, an illumination of a new world, or at the very list, the glimpsing of a broader field in the world. The orientation away from the normative world is an act of queer worldbuilding, a turning-away from subtraction of the superfluous: ‘Disidentification is meant to be descriptive of the survival strategies the minority subject practices in order to negotiate a phobic majoritarian public sphere that continuously elides or punishes the existence of subjects who do not conform to the phantasm of normative citizenship’ (Munoz 4). A creation of a matrixial queerworld, a landscape of the informationally superfluous is the glimpsing of Utopia.


[13] We are entrained to see the world neurotypically, subtracting and subtracting those things with little or no material quantifiable value until we are left with something of established value: ‘red’ ‘car’ ‘Mercedes’ ‘2014’ (Manning and Massumi). We favour vision over all the senses because the thirst of our subtractive gaze is able to portion out far more that than we could gather under the caress of our hands, or with a deep inhalation, or the flick of a tongue. We skip quickly from qualitative to material value, because even greedier than our eyes is our ability to reason: to abstractly calculate that one red Mercedes takes 2,000 man-hours, creating a profitability (after factoring in material and ancillary costs) of +.25 red Mercedes per red Mercedes sold, and four Mercedes sold will give us a second, red, Mercedes.   


[14] We, the citizens of queer space, laugh. And we laugh and we laugh, and we anger the manufacturers of expensive cars and the proprietors of boutique hotels and bespoke bicycle seats, for while we have not given up joy in ‘things’, we have given up the joylessness of not having things. Like Ublimé, we visit the sensible world from time-to-time, but we have oriented ourselves away from the presentationally immediate, and found out home in queer time and space. We re-train our attention to dance, to flit from subject/object to subject/object, withholding value for as long as possible. Our movement, our attention, is engaged in active dialogue with the world, dancing with it and for it. ‘The separating out of the object backgrounds the intrinsic relationality of the field’s coming to expression, clearing the stage for an overshadowing human subject to cast his presence in its place, in order to take personal credit for the field’s environmentally emergent accounting for itself’. (Manning and Massumi 6)


[15] What is to account of Ublimé? We have established that she is not capable of adhering to the world run by normals, the rat-racers, the rule-followers, those so caught up in the moment of nowness that they miss the everything else. Ublimé the monad may long ago have staged a strategic retreat, but she now rests in a second undiscovered kingdom as a force, making mischief, inviting you to discover her other-queer-space. For Ublimé, a yawn is the call-to attention of an emergent hole, the best way she is able to articulate a hole without being present in it. Ublimé may not be in a hole, the now – but her yawn envelops it, enacts the very peripheral of the virtual spaces that knot together in a dance to attention (Manning)


A call for a yawn is as clear and simple a call for affective attunement as possible. It is a call to attune, to bring forth the psyche for physical alignment. 


Rough bibliograpy

·      Ahmed, Sara. (2011) ‘Happy Futures, Perhaps’ in Queer Times, Queer Becomings ed. McCallum, E.L., State University of New York Press

·      Ahmed, Sarah. (2006) Queer Phenomenology, Orientations, Objects, Others. Duke University Press, Durham and London.

·      Arakawa and Madeline Gins: Chapters 1-2 Architectural Body

·      Walter Benjamin: “Doctrine of the Similar” (Collected Works)

·      Walter Benjamin: “On Semblance” (Collected Works)

·      Blackman, Lisa. (2011) ‘Affect, Performance and Queer Subjectivities’, Culture Studies Vol. 25, No. 2 March 2011, pp.183-199.

·      Campuzano, Giuseppe. ‘Veiled Geneology for a Transfuture’ from The Future Lasts Forever eds Lagomarsino, Runo and Motta, Carlos (2011). Gävle Konstcentrum, Sweden.

·      Gilles Deleuze: “Perception in the Folds” (The Fold)

·      Edelman, L. (2004) No future: Queer theory and the death drive. Duke University Press, Durham, North Carolina.

·      William James: “The Feeling of Effort” (Collected Essays)

·      Lagomarsino, Runo and Motta, Carlos (eds). (2011) The Future Lasts Forever. Gävle Konstcentrum, Sweden.

·      Erin Manning: “Wondering the World Directly” (Body and Society, forthcoming)

·      Manning and Massumi: “Coming Alive in a Field of Texture: For Neurodiversity” (Thought in the Act, forthcoming)

·      Brian Massumi: “Arts of Experience, Politics of Expression: First Movement” (Semblance and Event)

·      Brian Massumi: “Envisioning the Virtual” (Handbook on Virtuality)

·      Maurice Merleau-Ponty: “Entrelacs” (The Visible and the Invisible)

·      Muñoz, José Esteban. (2009) Cruising utopia: the then and there of queer futurity. New York University Press, New York.

·      Muñoz, José Esteban. (1999) Disidentifications: Queers of Colour and the Performance of Politics

·      Alfred North Whitehead - Chapter 1 and 2, Symbolism

·      Alfred North Whitehead: “Objects and Subjects” “Past, Present and Future” (Adventures of Ideas)