This birthday—nothing makes sense, smashed to bits, devastated, whatever — but there will be a party! There’s always a #dancecats party with me around.
Maybe I don’t deserve an uncomplicated life listening to J Dilla with a husband collaborator academic artist, children, cats & matching bicycles. Or maybe it’s because those who want me I’ve outlived? That’s probably why I haven’t written anything interesting in this blog other than academic updates in so long. But am I doing a clever job covering up the pain? does it seem like I’m getting shit done? Because I don’t feel it at all. But maybe you read my memory project and read things like this:
Longing for our fumbling fingers the first time our hands met each other.
Mexico, te extraño mucho de menos. Muestra señales de vida, querida.
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I watch him sleep between the layers of white bed sheets and trace the world on his exposed shoulders down to his left arm up to mine. It is all I can do as goodbye.
He walks in with a careful step. His hug envelopes me completely. First it’s the ribs, then the arms, then the face. “My M—, oh, you need some energy.” His girlfriend nods in agreement. I can feel his fingers over my emaciated flesh as they push between my ribs. “You look sickly, I am worried.” I think I should be but I’m not. I stand proud with bags holding up my eyes.
I stood still in the rain waiting for him. A wounded brightness among his doubt.
Affections turned into experiences.
But, for real, are you out there G-d? Can I just have some peace? A little bit? Like even for a year or two? Just slow & steady happiness? I was putting in so much effort. Why did no one warn me that it was in all the wrong ways? I’m learning, I’m learning, I scream, but I’m reminded I’ve outlived the efforts.
I’m the most productive when in love and having sex all the time. Everything comes easy. I don’t need much sleep. I wake up happy & ready. My mind is sharp & my eyes are clear.
Since I can’t have what I really want, bring me poems. I just want poetry, poems, poems, never ending poetry for my birthday. I want Erica Jong, Anne Sexton, Warsan Shire, Wislawa Szymborska, George Eliot Clark, Mary Oliver, Czesław Miłosz, Rumi, Hafiz, Adrienne Rich, Anne Boyer, Margaret Atwood, Sara Teasdale, Keats, Saul Williams, Allen Ginsberg, Sylvia Plath, Sanyu Kisaka, Sharon Olds, bell hooks, new poets, new poems, your poems, your words … give me the words of all the pain and desire in the world and let me live.
PS. This is my work lately…
(Why) do we care about sharpness and quality? (2013)
I’ve been in San Cristobal de las Casas as part of NYU’s Hemispheric Institute and staying here till the end of the month. I’m keeping a blog about it with personal reflection (oh there is a lot of that) and my photographs. I am updating it retroactively. I’d love any & all comments.
When patience toward you is handed to you like this, it’s difficult to do anything but fall in love.
“There is always something traumatic, extremely violent, in love. Love is a permanent emergency state. You fall in love. It is crucial that we use this expression. To fall in love. You lose control. I claim that love, the experience of passionate love, is the most elementary metaphysical experience, a Platonic experience, in the sense of: You lead your routine daily life, you meet friends, you go to parties, everything is normal, etc.—and then, you passionately fall in love. Everything is ruined. The entire balance of your life is lost. Everything is subordinated to this one object. I almost cannot imagine in normal daily life (outside of war and so on) a more violent experience than that of love.”
— Slavoj Žižek
6 April 2013 » 17h-20h
Concordia University, 1515 St. Catherine W.
EV Building, 11th FL.
The central tenant of post-industrial capitalism is a futurity based on data. Bits travel through the trivial deliberative agency of the individual on their way to a manifestation of a prognosticated situation. Many events are then odd repetitions of something that existed in the first place as an information-rich model of a future state of affairs. From the scale of financial capitalism’s systemization of material flows down to the dailyness of the creative worker, information preceded the existence of its object. The grant, design brief, and various other forms of “pitch” act as precursors that gather together hints of the yet to come, condensing potentials for creation through the assemblage of information.
This performance enacts the creation of a text, presents the existence of an object that it suggests into being, and uses collective digitizations of linguistic thought as a means of gathering together the potentials that inform creation. The performers collaborate in the creation of a document from a remote location using Google Drive, and the real-time writing process is projected into the gallery space. Their cursors dance on the screen and the text is written and revised while the producers communicate information about the quality of the text in formation and commune over the felt experience of the act of creation as it is situated and gains significance in process.
Though each cursor relates to its companion and to the text that is created, the subject of their dialogic invention is the future existence of the very piece being shown in the gallery space. The work precedes itself, and these (pre)cursors lock themselves into the performance of a situation that never quite catches up with itself. The performance ensures its existence only by inventing the stage for its next iteration. Rather than defining performance as an ephemeral occurrence, or as an event that produces its own archive in the act of being performed, Ecstatics of a Google Drive (Pre)cursor places the performance in a present defined by its persistent encroachment upon potentiality. This enactive rethinking of performance positions the artist as a creative worker exploiting the future-oriented framework of a careerist art world in order to determine the stable set of information sources that can be used to define the contours of possible events yet to come. The present of performance remains but exists only as the (pre)cursor informing its horizons. The relationality of two Google Drive cursors is enacted as an ecstatic excitation of a future event that emerges through the movements of gathering, assembling, searching, inscription, and communication enacted by the two performers.
The performers will identify a future event that will be suitable for the next iteration of Ecstatics of a Google Drive (Pre)cursor. The performance for Challenges and Futures of Communication will consist in the creation—on Google Drive, and in collaboration between the two performers—of the proposal for this future event. The research and writing process that enters into the creation of the proposal for the future iteration of the performance will be broadcast over the internet and projected into the gallery space using a live video stream. The performance will also be recorded using real-time, moving image screen capture software. The recording of the performance will be installed for the duration of the show along side a computer monitor displaying the inbox of an email client that awaits the coming news of the performance’s self-manifesting reiteration. In the context of Challenges and Futures of Communication, Ecstatics of a Google Drive (Pre)cursor will act as a research-creation piece questioning the contemporary status of “the future” as a facet of communication’s temporal orientedness and investigating the role of human subjects in the use of digital technologies that shift the means by which pre- individual fields of potential are manifest through performance.
I went to a screening curated by the prolific Amelia Jones (who I’m lucky to take a class with this semester at McGill) of 60s and 70s performative works as part of her Material Traces exhibition & this Pipilotti Rist from the 80s finished it off. I cried a lot & now need to take some time to formulate a cogent language around the intense reaction I had to it.
(also presenting at too many conferences, too many shows, making too much commitments & generally not sleeping like I’m still in my 20s — keep moving moving moving moving stop missing missing much)
“Suis-je amoureux ?”- Oui puisque j’attends.” L’autre, lui n’attend jamais. Parfois, je veux jouer à celui qui n’attend pas; J’essaye de m’occuper ailleurs, d’arriver en retard; mais à ce jeu je perds toujours: quoique je fasse, je me retrouve désoeuvré, exact, voire en avance. L’identité fatale de l’amoureux n’est rien d’autre que: je suis celui qui attend.”
– Roland Barthes
Being in love is the best and most important feeling in the whole world. Nothing motivates unless I am in love. My friend D teases me about this a lot. Many times I will bring something or someone up to him and gush about how amazing and wonderful it or they are.
— “You think everything/everyone is amazing!”
— “No! I am so critical and judgmental! But I am also unabashedly in love with a lot, and want to express it as much as I can.”
Funny (sad?!) that most people think I am an ice queen, selfish, and unapproachable. Probably, because I’m sure I come off that way. Physical face-to-face interactions are weird. I never know how to be or what to say, so I usually just end up promoting myself as a spectacle. I am easily amused by myself, and so an adventure always follows me around.
I tan a lot. People have a lot of judgmental things to say about tanning. People have a lot of judgmental things to say about a lot of shit. HELP ME BE LESS JUDGMENTAL!
Oh, yes, back to being in love. Being in love is like this special sheath you get to wear and it gives you magical powers!
being able to see clearly and with the saturation on +10, having the ability to focus on all your work, having enough energy to do ANYTHING even if you haven’t slept because you’ve been making love for days, having beautiful skin because the blood is racing through your body constantly making everything glow, finding inspiration in everything, forming a world with your lover, seeing the world through their eyes…
I remember when I fell in love the summer of 2010 with my documentary project, before I even contacted anyone, before I even knew what it would become. I wanted to devote all of myself to it, and the love grew and grew and grew and I was so willing to give myself to it, willing to give all of my time, all of my energy to it, and it, in turn gave me so much of itself back.
Why did I not finish it? Why did I get carried away with my doctoral work as if that can be finished later? Why do I discard my work so quickly? FOLLOW THROUGH.
New loves again & again – disposable – New loves turning over make me full of unrequited love for the past, make me intensely sentimental and regretful for the past projects I was in love with and gave up because something else became more convenient. Now my shoulders slouch from the weight of the unresolved past, and my scoliosis keeps curving in. Moving on like this is never moving on, but stuck in all the places all at once, never being able to be in the ‘now.’ Like Erica Jong writes, “I look forward and see myself looking back.”
“Before her death recently at the age of 98, Louise Bourgeois had just finished work on a series of prints with Tracey Emin, which they had collaborated on during the last two years of the artist’s life. Bourgeois had composed a series of 16 profiled torsos in gouache and Emin had ‘responded’ by adding drawings over them with text and ink.”
Louise Bourgeois and Tracey Emin, 2010 / Portrait by Brigitte Cornand