As a child, I stood with my mother in a pile of black seaweed. We dug our cold toes into the slick dark warmth as shallow waves foamed and withdrew, noting how the seaweed moved in the oncoming tide. The feeling was intimate and alien, like putting our fingers into someone’s mouth. Watching the seaweed slither, we slowly realized that what we took for seaweed was actually a nest of silky black worms. And along with this slow and uncanny knowing, came a powerful awareness of our initial sensual reach into something not yet categorized by language and cognition. In this ambiguous state, outside of what is known, sensations and perceptions spill into each other. Pleasure spills into disgust, sexuality into death, thrill into dread.