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.