scooters, vacation, fall

I feel incredibly guilty and sad today. And disappointed in myself, I guess. For not having any Marxist pep this morning and doodling horrific looking bodies instead of watching Santiago Alvarez films in my Brechtian cinema class. For being someone I would be afraid to be with. For having little motivation to write about Deleuze and modified bodies, and little confidence. I wish I wasn't so scattered and sad all the time.
Of course, I write here pretty much only when I get into these moods, so I am in no way trying to say that my life is bad or that I have any reason to mope. Everyone has certain thresholds that they come up against. When I get here there is nothing left to do but scale down my self-created wall of shame and pool up at the bottom until the feelings pass. Wait it out wait it out wait it out.
I've been meaning to write this quote here for a while. Blake Butler told me to read Zeroville so I did, and it is amazing. And each section functions like a vignette, usually unrelated and readable in its own right.

'In America you have this idea that anything about sex is acceptable only if it absolutely is not, under any circumstances, sexy. The Americans are too romantic to make such a film. They are in love with shame.'
'The French are romantic.'
Maria dismisses this with the flick of her fingers.
'Quelle mythe! No one ever said in a French film, 'We'll always have Paris.' Can you imagine Bogart fucking Bergman with a cube of butter on the Champs-Elysees as the Nazis march in? The pornographer? He is concerned with what the characters do, while the artist, the artist is concerned with what the characters are. The man does not pay me for the sex, he pays me to leave afterward. For the lack of consequences.'
'He pays you to leave?'
'This is what Brando thinks will save him in Dernier Tango...sex without consequences.'
'You are paid to leave?'
'This is what destroys him, because there is no sex without consequence.'
'Perhaps last Tango in Paris isn't just about sex.'
'Cheri,' she laughs, 'sex is never just about sex.'

Images:
3. Georges Rousse
2. Marlene Dietrich in Blonde Venus
1. Room O (I think) by Yves G. Noir

I FEEL LIKE SHIT.

in other news, an excellent scene from Godard/Gorin's tout va bien:



When Man Enters A Woman by Anne Sexton

When man,
enters woman,
like the surf biting the shore,
again and again,
and the woman opens her mouth with pleasure
and her teeth gleam
like the alphabet,
Logos appears milking a star,
and the man
inside of woman
ties a knot
so that they will
never again be separate
and the woman
climbs into a flower
and swallows its stem
and Logos appears
and unleashes their rivers.

This man,
this woman
with their double hunger,
have tried to reach through
the curtain of God
and briefly they have,
though God
in His perversity
unties the knot.

My Weekend

(ego) / “I”

the web of tragedy invites you into
a web of appropriate signifiers.
the real is adequately corralled off
and your body doesn’t ache any more
when you think of your lack; it has been adequately incorporated.
and maybe you have one more symptom, one more twitch on rainy days -
I always thought “but not you -” and then this novelty, also, wears off, and with it my
familiar self.

Every Thing I touch is new and grotesque, like dead skin against new sheets
the cold of my feet touching a pool of rain water
the sun barely touching my shins on the porch. Everything is so close to being present, here with me. Ultimately I can’t pull anything near enough.
I am drenched in you and your lack, you have been rehabilitated here by virtue of this absence between us.
and I could tell you, “you owe me this, my attempt at preservation” -
but you don’t speak that language.

(And soon, neither will I.)

1. stills for le gai savoir (godard 1973) 3. le sinthome, lacan and art 4. got ariana reines' book 'save the world' in the mail, been crying over it a little

Classic Rant on Gender Relations! Excitement!

Aw, "boys will be boys." This is an issue I frequently get fierce about. And - I have no idea how I cam across it in my google reader, magic fluke, apparently - Amy King (who is a super awesome poet) wrote this fierce blog post on the topic, probably much more eloquently than I:

Ye Olde "Boys Will Be Boys" Plea

Since starting my MA I've been observing the gender dynamics that exist in the program. And by "observe" I also acknowledge my own complicity in the parade of displays, no one is exempt, sure. Despite this it is frustrating to talk to genuinely intelligent men (boys?) who, despite theoretically recognizing the constructedness of gender, despite being at least to some degree self-reflexive and aware of how silly most gender-related performativity is, still partake in it and reproduce certain rituals.
I was talking to someone [male] about the "trade-off" required when they enter into a monogamous relationship; the male "sacrifices" a particular social position in relation to other men. I.e. they sacrifice the freedom/ability to display their potential power to possess multiple women when they want. But the "difficulty" of this sacrifice is not so much the "giving up" of indiscriminate sex per se but rather, the influence this restraint has on their relation to other men, and the power dynamics between them. Basically, restrain from being promiscuous as (what I consider) a sign of respect. Win the girl but give up the ability to constantly reiterate your alpha-male prowess to your fellow men. The irony of the conversation was that he was trying to be "positive" by saying that "winning" the right girl is a good enough "trade-off" to make the loss of status (in the exchange economy of the boys club) worth it.
Predictably, I have a few things to say about this. On one hand, this kind of male behaviour is usually acknowledged (by men) as stupid and juvenile, and yet I can't count the number of times men have tossed off "boys will be boys" (or an equivalent statement) as justification for their behaviour, as though this counts as a real argument to disqualify residual negative or objectifying effects of their behaviour. It is taken as a given that women should just accept the way that the male social economy works, which, inevitably, also implicitly suggests that women should just accept the position that they are given within that economy. Women can't accept the statement "boys will be boys" as self-contained, pertaining only to men's issues; it inevitably involves women taking on a certain object position/self-perception. When men say "boys will be boys" they not only essentialize "masculinity," but simultaneously place women in a position of virtual powerlessness (it is not a rational statement, so there is no rational response, it is a statement taken as unqualifiable justified/true, hence the manner in which gender difference is conceptualized becomes deterministic, etc.). Unfortunately the male social economy is structured around a barred petit object a /woman (not exclusively, obviously, but in this context, yes), which means that no discourse on men in society can ever be separated from how women are positioned in that relationship.
Implicit in the statement "boys will be boys" as an "excuse" is the demand or statement: "all men do certain things, we work in certain ways, and you not only have to accept this but also understand that you can't understand us." It is also simultaneously an attempt to neutralize the discourse: i.e. essentialize it. In this way, women are alienated from that discourse because they are given no way out of it. Women are alien within the discourse of "boys will boys" as circulating objects of desire, and then they are (generally) expected to just stay silent and accept that this is the way men are. In both situations (i.e.: 1. "winning" the right girl and 2. playing catch-release, catch-catch with multiples to prove your "manhood") woman is relegated to an object used in the service of the male libidinal/social economy. Woman is barely even taken as a sexual object herself! Only an object of display to aid in the circulation of desire between men.
And heaven forbid I take issue with this or voice criticism. Unfortunately the taboo against speaking out against these so-called "neutral" statements about masculinity keeps women (and men) silent. Usually my rants of this nature get called out as "uber-bitch-feministy" man-hating tirades, when in fact I am equally concerned with how these ways of being/speaking influence and oppress both men and women. "Boys will be boys" is not neutral. That's my main point. And neither "women" nor "men" can be reduced to categorical grab bags of bad habits and stupidities. I'd like to think we're more responsible than that.

Love you men, love you women, love anyone in between or on the borders.
xo

Do you recall waking up on a dirty couch in the grey fog

I actually posted this a few years ago but my love for Bukowski has been rekindled recently and I found this vid of Tom Waits reading it - oh my, too much man goodness in one space, all that's missing is Zizek reclining on a couch in the background or something.


your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

its insane to be surrounded by people and pressed into so many spaces but none of those people and none of those places care about you that much. and the ones who do are gone by your own making or fears or instabilities or addiction to change and pain. addiction to repetition and a kierkegaardian laying down or release that keeps me cracked and separate. so that the only currency is cunt and the ability to smile and be places people want me to be, so that no one notices my eyes filling up or my proclivity to crumble and drift off to where no one demands anything and I am deaf dumb and blind.

Its insane insane insane to be so visible and yet not seen.

sore

Disordered affinities
or the awkward
letting in and out

transparent anecdotes
flung into the
center, webs of skin
and the familiar touch of
fingers electric and
eager.

i can only give so much
before I fade into the
golden background,
always eventually the too-absent
object a.

memories hit the light
at right angles;
illuminated silhouettes
accumulate at the cracked
base of your beer glass.

---
Feeling very weepy and alone today, possibly a little bit manic, unable to sit still. I've been dancing around for a while. I feel "dripping wet and limp" but I refuse to listen to Mount Eerie for the sake of my own mental wellness and instead dwell on Joanna Newsom and Brecht. This is probably my favourite song of the year so far. Basically the transition at 3.25 makes my heart hurt a lot. So fucking beautiful.



"And there is hesitation
And it always remains
Concerning you, me,
And the rest of the gang

And in our quiet hour
I feel I see everything
And am in love with the hook
Upon which everyone hangs

And I know you meant to show the extent
To which you gave a goddang
You ranged real hot and real cold,
But I'm sold.
I am home on the range

And I do hate to fold
Right here at the top of my game
When I've been trying with my whole heart and soul
To stay right here in the right lane

But it can make you feel over and old
Lord, you know it's a shame
When I only want for you to pull over
and hold me 'til I can't remember my own name"

(mis)information overload. my head doesn't hurt but I feel my brain fuzzy underneath all those layers of bone crushed together. i hate reading books on a screen and it provokes a kind of mania that I want to escape from and promote at the same time: enter google reader like the information overload it is and wade through images and fragments (unread items: 1081) that I only slightly care about as a source of distraction. things on my mind: a desire to sew, a desire to make grilled cheese, a desire to lie in bed with a naked man, a desire to read deleuze like it was a robert duncan poem instead of a mind-fuck, a desire to be submerged in water so hot my extremities feel shocked-cold when they touch the surface. knowledge that I could do 1 2 3 or 4 and feel a lot better but the intertia holds me back. the click of the hot plate on the coffee machine. the sounds of cyclists murmuring to each other. my anger at lukacs after reading "Realism in the Balance" - how could someone so smart so completely misintrepret the pulse of their time? Upon writing that I immediately feel stupid considering my historical position - now, not then. "periods" and/or periodization only makes sense/occurs in retrospect any ways. anyways, I love Brecht. Sure. I'm eating half a tomato covered in salt.

hate you, internet. love you, people reading this.

Last night my cat jumped on my face from above me on the window ledge while I was sleeping. Now I have a group of little cuts on my eyelid and cheek that are sore when I blink. I miss my boyfriend a lot when I am not around him.
Today I met with the professor I will be TAing for. Because of my external funding I am only allowed to teach 1/2 full semester, so I am splitting the job with another girl. I like her and I like the professor. I'm excited and scared to teach. My first class will be Sophocles' Oedipus. I really like my new University. It is a lovely campus. I'm feeling overwhelmed and yet very vibrant. Unsure of whether or not I am capable of anything I've committed to (but still excited to try). Everything is new and scary. Shawn and I have been watching Carnivale - I love love love that show. This weekend is the final weekend before the craziness starts so I'm going to explore this new city and hopefully relax a little bit.
Boring post, I know - just wanted to share. Project myself out into the abyss.