"You didn't come!"

But don't throw away the pillow!

Don't! The pillow

        Is Innocent.

The adult trauma centre. The donkey caravan. Unwanted's here. I am your nurse. I am your open ears. I channel your I underestimated vision. I live your under-recognised fleet. I moan for you and mourn my own  'pure identity'. I chop my golden hair and try to talk like you. I sing as if I couldn't talk atall. Unembellished I listen knowing that when I speak people don't hear. My eyes feel with water as they try to convince me that my conscience is clear. I love you, and I want to be you. My dance is bland in comparison to your loopy love for feet. I'll meet you deer. Even if the forest is open to people 'like me'... (Right of passage people!!) But not everyone else knows how to be the ground. On this day, on everyday, my ghost, my fantom other... Try not to fear. I am on my way to you.

Can you hear me
Can you hear me

each moment is manageable only by the instants you look at me. each little death is the risk i take to make you better, and one more step i take to delete myself and become at one with your longing, i'm not sure about anything else. except. i know what it is to be incapacitated by love. and tough arrogance or lack of brings me closer to the pit of you of me. that place where we are no different. because we both dont know anything about the future s and our pasts mix so that... who becomes who? if i didnt recognise the longing i feel to recuperate your agonies i wouldnt come along looking for you thinking i am somethingyouve never seen nor met before. i know i know you dont know how to trust in what i am saying, so dont. trust your decisions towards me.

Well you burst on the scene
Already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You strayed into my arms
And there you stayed
Temporarily lost at sea
The Madonna was yours for free
Yes the girl on the half-shell
Would keep you unharmed

you blow the life around her
and let her dance in it

I do not think that the other is, I speak to him. He is my partner in the heart of the relation which to say, I have neglected the universal being that he incarnates in order to hold on to the particular being that he is.

who's he?

he describes insomnia in terms of experience of the horror of the Il y a, of the space not empty but filled with darkness, in which consciousness is given over to the night, submerged, depersonalised. In the night the things of the day are reduced to indeterminacy, they 'sweat being'

The sense of the human is not to be measured by presence, not even by self-presence. The meaning of proximity exceeds the limits of ontology, of the human essence, and of the world. It signifies by way of transcendence and the relationship-to-God-in-me (l'a-Dieu-en-moi) which is the putting of myself into question. The face signifies in the fact of summoning, of summoning me. in its nudity or its destitution, in everything that is precarious in questioning, in all the hazards of mortality - to the unresolved alternative between Being and Nothingness, a questioning which, ipso facto, summons me .The Infinite in its absolute difference witholds itself from presence in me; the Infinite does not come to meet me in a contemporaneousness like that in which noesis and noema meet simultaneously together, nor in the way in which the interlocutors responding to one another may meet. The Infinite is not indifferent to me. It is in calling me to other men that transcendence concerns me. In this unique intrigue of transcendence, the non-absence of the Infinite is neither presence, nor re-presentation. Instead, the idea of the Infinite is to be found in my responsibility for the Other.s

'Beyond Intentionality' Levinas

To love her is, in the Spirit of self-control, to allow her a free space of becoming. To love her is to remember that God gives her life and a task in the Spirit. To love her is to cultivate a free space of silence between us so that we might live and work together according to the Spirit's intention. To love her is to acknowledge the freedom of the one who lives and breathes in the Spirit.

says the philosopher, says the psychoanalyst, says the artist, says 'where's the all the music gone', says, has a bad time sleeping, says, feels at home in hospital, says caring nature, says adoptive tendancies - new children, says a new world is supposed to be opening, says there are people everywhere trying to guide me, what to do, says no sleep, no time, no time for un concentration, says its a figure of speech, I wanna dance, says I don't like the way you move your lips, we're done. says your a healer, your a unique personality, you'll drive him crazy, says you've wasted so much time, says time is the essence of squander.

old notes.

these wanderings take you towards the Other, towards others, be they your historical contemporaries, or, in the exploration of the 'I', those others others of the I itself. And within that journey lies another that tells the story of the quest of someone making her way in the dark, with her eyes closed, towards the light, in her joys, her suffering, her condition, her crimes too.

You take great risks along the way, entering territory where you don't know what you'll find.

listens to itself being written and retraces its own steps, that re-inscribes

We are feeding off ancient discourses

cultivated like a piece of land

throws out words like bait

What

As long as a woman is possessed and allows herself to be held, body + texts, the the interior of the old, paternal & capitalist structure that reduces and prostitutes her, and as long as a woman subjects herself to the law which recognises her only as a merchants object, she is forbidden to think, to progress, to produce the extraordinary, the original and the life.

the capacity that one has of being more intelligent than oneself

The unconcious strivings of ordinary life often hinder a person at a time when he ought to show improvement

How do you know action when you are not a man of action? We know action only by action. We can understand science only by science, form by form, meaning by meaning. There is no traveller on this road of action: if we act how can people perceive it and see us on the road? Indeed this action is not fasting and prayer. These are forms of action. Action is inward and deals with meaning.

the other is the main character

You talked about Dura's work as being something that you could hardly recall; a kind of writing full of power that was instantly draining away. And Focault replied, 'yes your right; it's a kind of memory without recollection.' I think then you spoke about loss in writing, that for Duras the loss is never ending, there is always more to lose.

it's about you and your relation to looking at something

To dance is to live. What I want is a school of life. 

Isadora Duncan.

dance a different dance

you almost killed me honey

So live your life my queen, and don't be afraid

you are beautiful and you are alone

I'm going in

de·sert¹/dəˈzərt/

verb abandon (a person, cause, or organization) in a way considered disloyal or treacherous.

des·ert²/ˈdezərt/

noun a dry, barren area of land, especially one covered with sand, that is characteristically desolate, waterless, and without vegetation.

adjective like a desert.

de·sert³/dəˈzərt/

noun a person's worthiness or entitlement to reward or punishment.

Thus the gods fashioned her, delicate and ethereal as the mists of a summer's night and yet plump like a ripened fruit, light as a bird in spite of the fact that she carried a world of craving, light because of the play of forces is unified at the invisible center of a negative relationship in which she related to herself...

Regina and Felice - In repetition of Her

More than me

if i were with you
i would stay here
forever
i would need go nowhere
no mountain
would impress me
no culture
could interest me
more than yours

no touch could taunt me
more than yours
no look could make me at home
more than yours.

and i
i would make a promise
to be, every single mouth in the world

i would learn, every dance that ever existed
so that nothing, nowhere
no corner of the earth
would you find more exotic.

and nothing,

could seduce you to leave



/More than me

every little

If the mountain had gone up her skirt
he had come back down to create a storm -
her body could manage,
and keep the pain within her
for a little longer

live with her and through her
til the physical sensation had passed
and she were light again

she had felt his violence
like a cowhorn riche,
from the beginning

from the way he
spoke

from his every response

Don't let anyone see me here please.

Back to the dog, the fridge, the apron.
Back to bike. Back to the boring manner in which you speak to me
about, my future
Back to boomtown, caravan, back to
every last
inch
of my endeavour
back to lessons, back to skinny
back to paper records
of a trip long passed
.................................

you said, its all smoke
come with me
.................................

but back to the big smoke
the very big smoke
of my endeavour

back to coffee morning
gallery entrance
running
by the canal
of my accident
.........................

back to -
'by the side of your lip'
I cowered
on your big shiny balcony
I cowered

Vineyard Philosophies
I will see you soon.

There's a museum in her heart.
And she's trying to break the glass

What if, her stream of consciousness, was not anything that resembled a stream. And her tears could not be analysed by the temporariness of her disillusion. What if her feet sank into the ground like she'd never known her own weight, and that she bounced back up, without even the slightest change in temperament. What if the weapon they put up her had tangled her insides so that she could no longer be identified as a properly distinguishable person. What if, there was no person of her at all now, just a vase, a carrier of the tanks that taught her what she is, before she forgot everything and got washed out. Again. What if she were born and then killed so that she'd had to start over, learn how it is to be. And what if they wanted to then tell her that she had learned her behaviours from the rats she knew well, and she should say, did you know its possible that I am alive more, because, she had been born again truer. What if the trauma you had rubbed on her had arranged her mechanisms so that they were no longer recognisable by any of the books. What if her story were simple, and it were hers? And you knew nothing of it, no nothing of it, no, never never. What if, you tried to sum her up but fell for her instead. The love that you feel when you can't contain the thing you see so you cower, give up, and she tells you thats the last thing she ever wanted... to bear, to bear the weight of your heavy heavy head.

But what if her words fell through the gaps of what is dispel-able and stay sitting there, waiting for your happy hand, to get it all wrong. And what if she'd been through enough wars to tell you she's a warrior but she couldn't say so, she needn't say so because she can't remember, and she doesn't care. What if she nodded at you madly like a dog, and she pawed at you and she made you feel you should want to tear her world apart?

wearing your clothes

laying in your bed

she needn't have a history.

Because you'd punched it all out f her til she'd become collapsable, carrier, torn and wide open.

But she glowed, she glowed of it

and you thought it was all for you.

And so you stripped her and buried her in your tenderness, and blood. And when the morning took over her, she rose up, rose up and you realised... she might just be, something, like God.

Meets Land

the lacking middle term

Nevertheless his injunction 'that a lady ought to keep the knowledge she might have most secret than the Calvinist his creed in Catholic countries' will dominate the battle to come between her piety and her activity, linking as it does the secret suppression of a woman's access to knowledge, which is otherwise public and shared, part of the social world, with her access to God, to the invisible and supernatural, which is at first erotic and friendly but subsequently converted to a deeper pathos of sin, suffering and salvation. The 'confession' concerns the lacking middle term - the various actual existences' tempted, tried and turned away; so that the confessor matures - she is a 'beautiful soul' - but her body falls away 'as an outward object' Such resolution is not aesthetic or ethical but, as it were, religiousness 'A', resignation with a border on despair, which would 'pine away in consumption' were it not granted the future in the form of four children, left by a dead sister, but shortly removed from the 'dangerous' education of their aunt.

Gillian Rose, The Broken Middle

'We are beginning to wonder whether a servant girl hasn’t the best of it after all. She knows how the salad tastes without the dressing, and she knows how life’s lived before it gets to the parlor door.'  Djuna Barnes

An artist who is anti-art, an activist who is also an aesthete.

I want to write because I have the urge to excel in one medium of translation and expression of life. I can’t be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living.

Manifesto

Creator: Yvonne Rainer (1965)
Purpose: To revolutionise dance and reduce it to its essential elements.

No to spectacle.
No to virtuosity.
No to transformations and magic and make-believe.
No to the glamour and transcendency of the star image.
No to the heroic.
No to the anti-heroic.
No to trash imagery.
No to involvement of performer or spectator.
No to style.
No to camp.
No to seduction of spectator by the wiles of the performer.
No to eccentricity.
No to moving or being moved.

The whole act of suffering lies in this impossibility of retreat. It is the fact of being backed up against life & being. In this sense suffering is the impossibility of nothingness.    

*The very femininity of woman is in this initial 'after the event'.

some Simone Weil

There can be a true grandeur in any degree of submissiveness, because it springs from loyalty to the laws and to an oath, and not from baseness of soul.


We must prefer real hell to an imaginary paradise.
We must prefer real hell to an imaginary paradise.


Attachment is the great fabricator of illusions; reality can be attained only by someone who is detached.

Those who are unhappy have no need for anything in this world but people capable of giving them their attention.

An atheist may be simply one whose faith and love are concentrated on the impersonal aspects of God.

The only way into truth is through one's own annihilation; through dwelling a long time in a state of extreme and total humiliation.

All sins are attempts to fill voids.

The contemporary form of true greatness lies in a civilization founded on the spirituality of work.

Real genius is nothing else but the supernatural virtue of humility in the domain of thought.

To get power over is to defile. To possess is to defile.

Nothing can have as its destination anything other than its origin. The contrary idea, the idea of progress, is poison.

We are like horses who hurt themselves as soon as they pull on their bits - and we bow our heads. We even lose consciousness of the situation, we just submit. Any re-awakening of thought is then painful.

The destruction of the past is perhaps the greatest of all crimes.

Most works of art, like most wines, ought to be consumed in the district of their fabrication.

Human beings are so made that the ones who do the crushing feel nothing; it is the person crushed who feels what is happening.

I am not a Catholic; but I consider the Christian idea, which has its roots in Greek thought and in the course of the centuries has nourished all of our European civilization, as something that one cannot renounce without becoming degraded.


Charity. To love human beings in so far as they are nothing. 

one day I will give my heart to philosophy.
for now I will keep my heart in my mouth.

We are all very anxious

arte povera

Advancing in incomprehension

Long Distance, Laila Halaby

I folded myself and sent me to you

in place of the usual crinkled letters, 

or so I imagined. What would you do

if it was me in your postbox, not pictures?

Would you read me over one hundred times

the way I do with each smile you send

long distance? Would you break the pantomimes

the oceans made me think would never end?

I know what you'd do: iron the folds out,

pin me to the wall in your living room

where I could hear your voice of exile shout

in person, and let me study your gloom,

from which you seek refuge in caress 

of a young girl who can't pronounce your name.

You sing ghazals to her with bold finesse

but she dances on your grave just the same.

Some would say your exile is not so bad

and that you are living well in freedom, 

but all I see inside your eyes is sad

stories of a king without his kingdom

repeat

'I had warned him, that I'm no longer subject to his will, that I've changed, from now on I'll treat everyone the way I'm treating him, with immediate retaliation for every breach of contract'

the madness of sincerity

everything I am suffers because you are not you
everyone suffers because we are not where we should be
The world suffers because we cannot answer to eachother
we cannot answer to eachother yet

"I proposed to you an enigma / I came not to you". 

“Do not allow yourself to be imprisoned by any affection. Keep your solitude. The day, if it ever comes, when you are given true affection, there will be no opposition between interior solitude and friendship, quite the reverse. It is even by this infallible sigh that you will recognize it.” 

― Simone Weil

the wounded healer

The Pit & the Pyramid.

‘Pervaded by a sense of intolerable oppression, lit by sudden shafts of delight in the natural world, their concise artistry proclaims how consumately she knew and rode her devils.’

your love is like an egg,
that you threw at me.

"I don’t want to."

"It was the inconsequence of the act that shocked … Love, devotion, effort, could only pour into her, a jug without a bottom, and then pour out, leaving no trace. She deserved nothing, was owed nothing, could not really be loved and therefore could not be missed. So she had gone."— Doris Lessing, The Memoirs of a Survivor

"What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?
The world would split open.”

— “Käthe Kollwitz” by Muriel Rukeyser

"To me, the camera is like a gun"

"Because you say "I" for me."

"When are you going to get over him?"

“She has kept her head lowered…to give him a chance to come closer. But he could not, for lack of courage. She turns, and walks away.”

“I’d rather go blind, than to see you walk away from me.”
 

"I’m not like you. I don’t feel like you."

"I didn’t want any flowers"

"Make me change my life"

"He gave me a present. He wants to kill me."

"I Love You"

"I’m always bumping into other people’s unconscious"

We met. For Breakfast. At 5am. O my...

misplaced affection

i've eaten far too much of the wrong things.

is it possible for two to exist without overthrowing eachother  ?

Was our love the total eclipse?

I must begin by accepting myself and not feeling the punitive horror of every time I fall, for when I fall the human race inside me falls too.

lament

ləˈmɛnt/

Theres you and theres me, and theres everything in between
I told you I was an atheist, you said, I've never met a woman closer to God than you.

“I made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me. ”
― Anaïs Nin

field notes 3

Words have ability to create or demolish her sense of self.

how to deal with betrayal and failed communication. and the despair that results.

To Cairo/
In my village, each house would be empty and silent but the barn would be full. Full of honest people who had no church making a church out of themselves. Their flesh and blood. The patient cattle sheep.

she alluded me the way the tarts alluded me

What does a faithful life look like, a life informed by stories of faith such as those told about Abraham? Rose describes the life of faith as one in which an individual is continually “willing to stake oneself again” (1992, 148). By this she means that a person with faith will whole-heartedly participate in the practice of positing concepts (norms) and testing them against reality (practice), always willing to revise the concepts they posit. A faithful person will not exempt themselves from this process; he will remain sensitive to the evidence of experience, never dogmatically holding to concepts that are not supported by evidence, to norms not supported by practice. It is thus only faith “that prevents one from becoming an arbitrary perpetrator or an arbitrary victim; that prevents one, actively or passively, from acting with arbitrary violence” (1992, 148).
694 Journal of Religious Ethics
To hold dogmatically to a view of the world, as discussed above, is to act with arbitrary violence because it is to offer reprimands that are not supported by the evidence of experience and are only based on personal whims held as dogmatic truths. A faithful person does not imagine that she can act without violence; rather, she realizes that all actions are continually implicated in violence and yet she perseveres in acting, in positing concepts and testing them against realities. In this struggle, “‘violence’ is inseparable from staking oneself, from experi- ence as such—the initial yet yielding recalcitrance of action and passion” (1992, 151).
This is why Rose opposes much contemporary religious thought, both Jewish and Christian. She takes the project of religious thinkers, from Buber to Fackenheim to Metz to Milbank, to be one of “mending the world,” which has the effect of “betraying” the hard work of living (1992, 293). In short, they lack faith. They lack the commitment to persist in the “revel of ideas and risk” that is living and instead opt for an easy out, for the fantasy of an ethics purified of law (1995, 135). The “New Jerusalems” that they posit foreclose the possibility of critical analysis of social norms, of the worldly power and worldly institutions from which they recoil. “Against the tradition from St. Paul to Kant which opposes law to grace and knowledge to faith . . . the modern congrega- tion of the disciplines—from philosophy to architecture—loses faith when it renounces concept, learning, and law” (1992, 307).
If Kierkegaard identifies and describes the problem of anxiety, the solution he offers is a lifestyle of faith, on Rose’s reading. Anxiety is experienced any time one truly grapples with the law. To live life without anxiety would be to shut oneself off from a central feature of the world; it would be to live in delusion. Living life without anxiety is like living life without freedom—possible, perhaps, but only when one understands social norms to be absolutely rigid and static.
Rose notes Kierkegaard’s two-stage move, which demonstrates the relationship between law, anxiety, and faith (1992, 89–90). First, there is a movement “from law to anxiety.” A person who is living an ordinary life in the world experiences anxiety for some reason—perhaps because of a moment of crisis when social norms are suspended. Faith allows the individual to return back from the moment of anxiety to the law. Instead of despairing indefinitely because of anxiety, if the individual has faith, he is able to go back to ordinary life. However, the ordinary life of the individual before the experience of anxiety coupled with faith is different from that ordinary life afterwards. What was before simply a life lived with “ambivalence” becomes a life lived with full-blown existential angst, with deep “equivocation” (1992, 90).
Rose explicitly links freedom to anxiety—and hence to faith. “The art of power is ‘freedom’: how to be always all-ready for anxiety” (1992,
Secular Faith of Gillian Rose 695
87).

grey skin

Grey skinned girl, walking the streets of fire, turning herself into ashes.
Post to post, the vibrance of a wooden lemon, the zest of her own divine hope.
Dust might cover her, for she would rather be unseen,
flowers may, or may not -
The winter shall not be as grey as her, and the men should not ever own,
her light feet.
Gather the world, into heartbreak, ponder around like a mute.
Grey skin girl, where will you go now?
Home is long passed so now you must flee.

who made you this way?
who made you this way?

T/E/N/D/E/R

palanquin

Dear Creature, why is it so different, why is it the same, why do you exist too much?
You are too serious.
Dear Creature, its blissful and its painful and I dont know how to help you.
I didnt come to save you.
Hey Creature, little creature, what lovely eyes you have
Why are you crying? Stop crying! Do I look like christ?

"In Ivan I have lived, in Malina I will be dying"

field notes 2

'I'm just afraid "today" is too much for me, too gripping, too boundless, and that this pathological agitation will be part of my "today" until its final hour'

I had warned him, that I'm no longer subject to his will, that I've changed, from now on I'll treat everyone the way I'm treating him, with immediate retaliation for every breach of contract

Is spirit a form of matter?          Adopt me, embrace me.          the necessity of loss          The faith, the pain, the sorrow of an absent God          'the always already'          Does it end at the logic of essence?         

Are you a lawyer of the empire?

she suffered an invasion of christianity by her judaism

The Vegetative Soul

Ruin

'The ruin is not in front of us; it is neither a spectacle nor a love object. It is experience itself: neither the abandoned yet still monumental fragment of totality, nor, as Benjamin thought, simply a theme of baroque culture. It is precisely not a theme, for it ruins the theme, the position, the presentation or representation of anything and everything.'

Derrida.

Angela: Am I pure?

Author: Purity would be as violent as the colour white. Angela is the colour of hazelnut.
I have a great need to live from much poverty of spirit and not have any luxury of soul. Angela is luxury and upsets me. I will move away from her and enter a monastery, which is to say, become poor. I chose today to wear some very old trousers and a torn shirt. I feel good dressed in rags, I am nostalgic for poverty. I ate only fruit and eggs, I refused the rich blood of meat, I wanted to eat only what's born without agony, just blossoming naked like an egg, like the grape.

A Breath of Life, Lispector

She's at it again, fainted
into a whipped up sunned out mass.
Whats she gonna do now, that all her previous advices have gone to pot?

Lightly gathering memories of saw-dust, the smell of it
Poured like cooked sugars, into tiny pyramids.
Peek inside, to find curled up, gathered up bodies
Protecting themselves from the wind and the grain.
She wants to hear it again, the whistle of a wooden instrument
Blown all the way through holes 
that make notes. How she longs to bare her sweet throat
Into the outdoors. Out of her pointed roof.

the monkey on the back, or was it a monkey wrench thrown somehow, or an elephant in the experimental writer's room?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSCQPSrlNbk

you are me

you are my action, my root
and the the only way to go forward.
In being without you, I am doing without being.
You are my pinpoint,
my depth beneath the surface,
my everlasting covenant.
You are my wine, my foot in the ground,
my hunger and my worth.
Without emblem, without symbol
you are me,
without quotation nor abbreviation
you are me,
without sensuality nor distraction
you are me.

أنت أنا أنت فِعلِي, أنت جَذرِي أنت الطريق الوحيد الذي من خلالِهِ أستطيعُ المُضيَّ. في كينونتي مِن دونك أنا أفعلُ من غيرِ أنْ أكونَ. أنت رأسُ إبرَتِي أنت عُمقي تحتَ السّطح وعهديَ الأبديّ. أنت نَبِيذِي وقَدَمِي على الأرْض وجوعي وقيمتي. من دون شعارٍ, من دون رمزٍ أنت أنا, من دون اقتباسٍ ولا اختصارٍ أنت أنا, من دونِ شهوانيّةٍ ولا ولهٍ

You are I You're real, you're a radical You are the only way through which I can go.

What if I loose and love you?

-

Because there is no Isolde in Islam, because there is only sexual ecstasy in the instant, in the ephemeral present, because Muslim death, no matter what they say, is masculine. Because to die, like my grandmother and like so many other women who know instinctively through their struggles and torments, what is a man, one "whose back one never sees," is to die like a man. In Islam all these women, the only ones who are alive right up to the moment they die - in a monotonous transmutation that I am beginning to regret grievously - the dead women become men!
     In this sense death, in Islam, is masculine. In this sense, love, because it is only celebrated in sensual delights, disappears as soon as the first steps of heralded death are danced. The first approach to the sakina, that is to full and pure serenity, is feminine moreover. But after this introduction, which is light as a woman's breath, death seizes the living, living men and women, to plunge them as equals- and suddenly all of them masculine- into abysses inhabited by souls "obedient to God."

Assia Djebar 
So Vast the Prison

I know it was an event because I was unprotected

Survival Pack
Fanny Pack
Nursing Pack
Healing Pack

C.L.

'What is called a beautiful landscape causes me nothing but fatigue. What I like are landscapes of dry and baked earth, with contorted trees and mountains made of rock and with whitish and suspended light. There, yes, a hidden beauty lies. I know that you don't like art either. I was born hard, heroic, alone, and standing. And found my counterpoint in a landscape without picturesqueness and without beauty. Ugliness is my banner of war.'

Clarice 

I don't hear you, so I'll give up

(The arts will save you)

"WE COULD BE SENSATIONAL"

seed

The centre of a silent planet.
A stool perched right in the centre of my house
I sit, and the windows, all around me
Shine the light, so that there is no shying away
now. I am all here! I am all here!
I am a hardrock. I am still.
The troubles I have caused transcend me.
The troubles of irresolution transcend me.
And my heart burns with a love for the core.
Lonely, am I lonely? I cradle myself
like a babe swathed in the purest, most delicate skin
My eyes around, unrecognisable
from the deep cots I used to gaze
through, all the way through
Still, asking no-one but my little fruit, pip, seed heart
resting in my chest, my strawberry organ
at the centre of the universe...

I could drink a case of you

“We must kill the false woman who is preventing the live one from breathing.” 

“The more I anoint the more my mind adheres physically to the mysterious fabric of love.
I am decutie. Worn thin. You know that word?”
― Hélène Cixoux

“An old cardboard box: you think it but you don't say it.
Leftovers, that are swept up and glued together.
I am your alipte, I say, I am your personal trainer and masseuse. I oil you.
But there's no ointment against the bad thoughts and phantasms.”
― Hélène Cixous

“It is essential to exchange the invisible ring for all that we call survival, survive, survivor.”
― Hélène Cixous

Yesterdays field notes

On writing

Obsessive innerness-

thing-that-writes is in a sense the thing-that-is-being-written

the method is often associatorial as with psychoanalysis. The meanings dormant in etymologies, sounds, permutations of letters, slips of the tongue are given creative importance.
SELF, LANGUAGE, MEANINGS, RELATIONS

It is because of this woven structure that Neutre has been referred to as a "chaosmos" The 'uni'verse that it encompasses has two earth and seas of many colours and textures. It is seemingly disorganized clutter of real and non-real beings in complete anachronism.

Neuter derived from the Latin ne-uter, means 'neither one nor the other' but must be understood to mean 'one is not without the other'
This translation rejects the idea of a neuter which would rise above sexual difference towards an undifferentiated totality towards a conception of sexual difference as a clear cut difference.

Reading as a participatory act
decode

soil-growing

If you skip anything, be it a step or a barrier, you're repressing

Skin is more precious than paper

Reading list
Kafka
Stendhal - the characterisation of Parma
Balzac - the girl with the golden eyes
Nathalie Saurraute
Maguerite Duras
Conrad - the heart of darkness


Kafka---- writing should win & so I lose my life

the value of life and the value of writing

throws out words like bait

cultivated like a piece of land

do I have the right to deprive the world of my embrace and to burden it with my writing or scraps???

Advancing in incomprehension

The book of revelations

Everything takes place as if a man had to achieve a precise goal and said to himself "Here is how I must arrange my weapons, my reserves, my supply, considering the resource at my disposal"

You touched me as if I wasn't there. You looked through me. You didn't answer me. You stayed staring.

Which is the greater gift?

Philosophical blind alleys

anxiety is the dizziness of freedom
infinite possibility despite the sinfulness of the world

oh the malaise of being the world!

In our relationship I built you and you built me.

anxiety stems from the subjects constant need to recreate himself, his responsibility to post a future self in the contingency and disorder of his freedom.

trace of the phantoms that might have been precarious

a school of thought which inspires irrelevance

Derrida in Exile

In or out (Cixous)

Lytords Algeria

Displacing Barthes

Estrangete (Kristeva)

Spivaks echo

La chambre Claire

The Motherland

pre-condition without home

YOUR DEATH is going to happen TO ME

Magic House

I want the world of pulses before destiny

realisation

You turn the dust into diamonds
I turn the diamonds into dust...

Please. Speak./ I will die if you don't speak.

At the height of which
Those vowels entangle me
Caressing, cradling, long letters
Warps and wefts, black threads
A minimalist embroiders dream.
And the soothing oval of his opening
closing mouth
Remedies my holes with speech
those worthy of only kindliness,
that fill me with a ringing ease

your own capacity to home me

peering back
the lethargic letter rests,
lay your head!
on the inside of a hip
an elegant line -
the crisp of the middletone
whom makes the soft heart notes
go sensuously through,
the cutting dark consonants,
thick ink fishtail
the curves and kinks

and, as he blinks, subtly,
its like his lashes were feathers,
of twilight chicks half asleep
and he utters casual letters,
of a God sung script.

Oh how I wake in me wakeful sleep
I need the letters to breath, I need the letters to swim!
Are you still with me?
I can't live without your twigs,
your grammar nest and your breath blanket
branching out into little nerve endings,
a b-boat, a c-cot, a d-dorm, and an egg.

These syllables, these sounds

They are protecting me from the never ending loss of the centre.

Oh man who plays, the men who sing! Words, losses

Full of ease, at pleasure, at yours - open door, 
bleeding speech, bending over... keep going
my little hut... your a boat and a parasol, 

and I collapse, sitting lowly, underneath 
the caverns of your speech.

I will die if you don't speak.

“I’M THE VESTAL PRIESTESS of a secret I’ve forgotten”  
Clarice Lispector

I know a woman

'I know a woman who is at second glance an ensemble of five little boys and one little girl. As for the following glances...'

Cixous

One day, when I am a woman and you are a man
or, when you are woman and I am a man
we will make babies.
And, If we be the planets; 
rounded edged cores of impenetrable substance
spun on layers of other worldy fibres
they will be our little solar systems,
shes and hes and hes and shes, 
and she-hes like us. 
extra terrestrial, superhuman, 
sexless, definitive beings.
Roaming - we'll make a 'roaming'
and we'll circle our centres in legendary love.

grey days, forever days

Greyness covers every page
Of a heart
Splattered with black and white ink
A dedication
to black and white
now
to the script of my mourning
and you, I hope,
my eventual destiny.
Now its for making the thing liveable
do-able
under a grey sky
far-far away from home
Untangle the body and live in simplicity
or, some sort
for
the diving day will come
and you will be
truly prepared

you should hope my dear
that the thing you love
should stay alive
or else, you would regret this patience.
Living now on a land run by system
working
stand up and ride the tube land
arrive at destination safely land,
know where your going
and what time your coming home
land
Well
I only have one home now
so
my desexualised body will walk this strange place
and stop, and ponder
the things around
its environmens
its paths

Deep down in its depth though
it will long,
and her real existence will be laying on daggers.
On the surface, dull days and bright days will make grey years
And I shall wait and wait and wait and wait
I should tell you, I'll be waiting in a coma til you come to get me
And then my real life shall begin again
And I shall roam my love, with you, forever.

That's where I belong

"I am only interested in my eyes when they're looking at you."

Parturition, Mina Loy

I am the centre
Of a circle of pain
Exceeding its boundaries in every direction

The business of the bland sun
Has no affair with me
In my congested cosmos of agony
On infinitely prolonged nerve-vibrations
Or in contradiction
To the pin-point nucleus being

Locate an irritation               without
It is                                       within
                                             Within
It is without
The sensitized area
Is identical               with the extensity
Of intension

I am the false quantity
In the harmony of physiological potentiality
To which
Gaining self-control
I should be consonant
In time

Pain is no stronger than the resisting force
Pain calls up in me
The struggle is equal

Isadora Duncan and Sergei Esenin both possess a "superhuman" quality. They rapidly became legendary characters in their own right, defied by some and reviled by others. Their lives may appear enviably heroic or painfully absurd; their complex personal relationship seems to combine elements of epic and tragic.

D O you think I'll dO Okay BABY.
D O you think I'll dO OKAY?

The Socialist

You give your 'love yous' out 
and pour them like potpourri
over the likes of every thorn you ever met
nestle heads and wishes and dreams of exotic days ahead
amoungst the swept up dried up, cuttled, salted heads
and take your florist apron around the town 
and fill it up with bitty pieces and crumpled ends
and by the part of day you may or may not be, 
delighted by your new friends
and harass the dogs and bleach the sacks
be about, you one and only fly
and make a map, of your truce
with whoever it was that put you here
and starved you with your own concoctions
and bled you from your own devotion
to the fleet of bodies all mixed up together
lost in an orgy of 'never coming to get mes'
the muted version of a tale long lost
and a meal long wasted
on a man who won't discriminate
but who too can't distinguish the flavours

BIG LOA CANNOT RIDE little horses

We wear sweaters, together, we wear sweaters. 
We are casual, manifestations of black rimmed plainness, and we love it. We love eachothers faces. Forces, to reckon with. 
And boyish and golden, lets set up base.
A home, a house, without any furniture.
Holding hands, without a care, light as the air.
And sweaters, black sweaters, to move around the town.

Dungarees dungarees,
Dungarees as you please
If you'll be wanting plaited sheath
I'll be wearing dungarees, dungarees

Oh Mina Loy, F word Manifesto

Mina Loy, Feminist Manifesto

Women if you want to realize yourselves-you are on the eve of a devastating psychological upheaval-all your pet illusions must be unmasked—the lies of centuries have got to go—are you prepared for the Wrench–? There is no half-measure—NO scratching on the surface of the rubbish heap of tradition, will bring about Reform, the only method is Absolute Demolition

Cease to place your confidence in economic legislation, vise-crusades & uniform education-you are glossing over Reality.

Professional & commercial careers are opening up for you—
Is that all you want?

And if you honestly desire to find your level without prejudice—be Brave & deny at the outset—that pathetic clap-trap war cry Woman is the equal of man-
For
She is NOT

The man who lives a life in which his activities conform to a social code which is protectorate of the feminine element—–is no longer masculine

The women who adapt themselves to a theoretical valuation of their sex as a relative impersonality, are not yet Feminine

Leave off looking to men to find out what you are not —–seek within yourselves to find out what you are

As conditions are at present constituted—you have the choice between Parasitism, & Prostitution —-or Negation

Men & women are enemies, with the enmity of the exploited for the parasite, the parasite for the exploited—at present they re at the mercy of the advantage that each can take the others sexual dependence—-. The only point at which the interests of the sexes merge—is the sexual embrace.

The first illusion it is to your interest to demolish of women into two classes the mistress, & the mother every well-balanced & developed woman knows that is not true. Nature has endowed the complete functions—-there are no restrictions on the woman who is so incompletely evolved as to be un-self-conscious in sex, will prove a restrictive influence on the temperamental expansion of the next generation; the woman who is a poor mistress will be an incompetent mother—an inferior mentality—& will enjoy an inadequate apprehension of Life.

To obtain results you must make sacrifices & the first and greatest sacrifice you have to make is of your ”virtue”

The fictitious value of a woman as identified with her physical purity—is too easy to stand-by—rendering her lethargic in the acquisition of intrinsic merits of character by which she could obtain a concrete value—-therefore, the fist self-enforced law for the female sex, as a protection of the man made bogey of virtue—which is the principal instrument of her subjection, would be the unconditional surgical destruction of virginity through-out the female population at puberty—-.

The value of man is assessed entirely according to his use or interest to the community, the value of woman depends entirely on chance, her success or in success in maneuvering a man into taking the life-long responsibility of her—

The advantages of marriage are too ridiculously ample—
Compared to all other trades—for under modern conditions a woman can accept preposterously luxurious support from a man (with-out the return of an sort—even offspring)—as a thank offering for her virginity.

The woman who has not succeeded in striking that advantageous bargin—-is prohibited from any but surreptitious re-action to Life-stimuli—-&entirely debarred maternity.
Every woman has a right to maternity—-

Every woman of superior intelligence should realize her race-responsibility, in producing children in adequate proportion to the unfit or degenerate members of her sex—-

Each child of a superior woman should be the result f a definite period of psychic development in her life—-& and not necessarily of a possible irksome & outworn continuance of an alliance—spontaneously adapted for vital creation n the beginning but not necessarily harmoniously balanced as evolution.

For the harmony of race, each individual should be the expression of an easy & ample interpenetration of th male & female temperaments—free of stress
Woman must become more responsible for the child than man—-
Woman must destroy in themselves, the desire to be loved—

The feeling that it is a personal insult when a man transfers his attention from her to another woman

The desire for comfortable protection instead of an intelligent curiosity & courage in meeting & resisting the pressure of life sex or so called love must be reduced to its initial element, honour, grief, sentimentality, pride and & consequently jealousy must be detached from it.
Woman for her happiness must retain her deceptive fragility of appearance, combined with indomitable will, irreducible courage, & abundant health the outcome of sound nerves—
Another great illusion is that woman must use all her introspective and clear-sightedness & unbiased bravery to destroy—for the sake of her self respect is the impurity of sex the realization in defiance of superstition that there is nothing impure in sex—except in the mental attitude to it—will constitute an incalculable & wider social regeneration than it is possible for our generation to imagine.