Magdalena O!

in Llanca, Spain May 2008

When I meant that seduction has seemed to disappear from everywhere, I didn’t mean seduction as a synonym for conquest.

Conquests can be fun, until you realize they don’t give much in way of a memorable experience upon the senses. Conquests aren’t about seducing, they use seduction for a dishonest means. Seducing and being seduced means letting go to vulnerability. Being seduced is like ripping open a ripe plum with your teeth and devouring it before your hands get too sticky, even though it’s always too late, and the mess is already all over you. Open! Open! Open!

I was talking to a friend about poetry a few days ago. Moreover, they were just listening while I went on and on. I don’t have many poetry-lovin friends.

9:22:33 PM Number 6 (Magdalena): Poetry is difficult to love. I love it. But I can understand why people don’t. It’s often looked down upon as a lesser art even though sometimes it is through poetry that the most intense truths can be articulated. That’s why most people are drawn to artists, cos they are drawn to people who can express themselves, imo, and articulate desires because everyone has desires, but often do not have the vocabulary to express or even understand them.

Then today, I started Erica Jong’s Seducing the Demon (I specifically linked this review because it’s only fitting to Jong to be both, lauded and laid into always) and she talks a lot about poetry, and considers herself a poet first. I think about poetry as the most potent fantasy you can have – the most amorous hands can seek you out in poems. I give myself to poetry, writing and reading it. I’ve grown to be more weary about losing control in all parts of my life. I took pride in relentlessly giving into my passions and my politics, and standing my ground loudly. I’ve become louder in some ways, and have turned meek on others. Jong talks of Lawrence, no doubt, one cannot talk of sexual pleasures and books without Lawrence.

“Sex is everywhere in the media, but ecstasy is absent. Many literary novelists shy away from sex because it’s become a pornographic cliché. But it doesn’t need to be. Lawrence was a master of ecstasy (Jong, 78).”

“Sex has the unparalled power to make us absurd to ourselves, It also has the power to make us understand transcendence. When it it ecstatic nothing is more powerful than sex. And nothing is more difficult to capture into words than transdence. It’s not only because sex is embarrasing to many people, but also because ectsasy implies loss of control. This is difficult to acknowledge. Nobody seems to talk about ecstasy these days. Sex is always talked about in terms of control (Jong, 76).”

“Ecstasy cannot exist without a complete loss of control (Jong, 77).”

That complete loss of control is what we’re constantly after, isn’t it? Yet, we shy away, unable to completely surrender. Surrender always ends up in hurt. How much risk is enough? too much? That ecstasy is missing from everything it seems. It’s all just sex. Being seduced and seducing simultaneously should be on sex’s pedestal. Sometimes I worry I sound so superfluous or teenage when I go on about my lust of love. Why is trying to unravel your demons characterized of youth, moreover of immaturity? I once threw myself on a street after a rainstorm, rolling around in dirt until I was completely covered to show my devotion, to give the person a tangible sign of what they meant to me when their doubts rose high because their own love for me was more than they were ready for. Was my act immature? or is it the articulation of it in words seem lame? Part of me never sees any act of love as lame, because I have the hopes that everything that comes out love is as true as it could get. If anything, the doubter would be lame, because they never doubted my love, but doubted their own capacity in handling their love, not mine.

I still have doubts though and reservations about poetry and the lust of love. I wonder if I am a lesser being because I am easily caught up in all of it, that it takes me along and I lose sight of other things. I’m not sure what these other things are though, or why they are more important than living out fantasies. Is it all get filed under ‘self-absorbed, self-involved narccisism’? I’ve never been good at being organized anyway.

Me on the cover of the GTA section in the Toronto Star, Feb 14, 2009

That’s me in the paper. Here is the entire article. It’s a bit sloppy and doesn’t give a clear idea what NIMBY or YIMBY is, but I appreciate the sentiment. Personally, I think the polemic of YIMBY/NIMBY needs to stop being so dichotomized and looked at with a more critical eye on a continuum that oftern overlaps in meaning. I wrote out a long commentary on the website, but I have to wait until it’s approved. I will post it up later.

I never knew how much people actually peruse the newspaper still. Maybe because it was Saturday’s edition. Nevertheless, I’m feeling pretty fucking proud, considering I thought it would be a sidebar story and the photo would be cut out. The writer called me on Friday afternoon after speaking to me the day before saying a photographer would be there in an hour. Luckily, I spent the night before partying it up with my crew and tweeting with Rory all night; the party girl always sneaks into the serious politics moments.

I haven’t been posting much because I’ve been ‘doing‘ rather than ‘thinking‘ or ‘writing about wanting to do‘ this year more than ever before.

A photo I took at my work last month. Yea. Totally.

Some days I resign to believing I will never be a ‘squirter.’ My g-spot is always on the run.

I talked to a friend on Skype today. Skype is like friendship blueballs. You see them and hear them, but you are both not there so instead you are just talking to your laptop. Maybe that’s why typing is better, because it is what it is. I love communicating through text. I can’t get used to talking at my computer even though I have been doing it for years.

Oh & this is a self-portrait not resembling me in any way drawn in one continuous line just a mere moment ago.