October 16th, 2013 § § permalink
mid-15c., “communication to and fro,” from Old French entrecours ”exchange, commerce,” from Late Latin intercursus ”a running between, intervention,” from intercursus, past participle ofintercurrere ”to run between,” from Latin inter- ”between” (see inter-) + currere ”to run” (see current (adj.)). Meaning “sexual relations” first recorded 1798, from earlier sense “social contact and relations” (1540s).
1. connection or dealings between persons or groups
2. exchange especially of thoughts or feelings : communion
3. physical sexual contact between individuals that involves the genitalia of at least one person
October 12th, 2013 § § permalink
I feel like this blog has just become an update receptacle and even then I don’t keep up, like the news of Part I of my interactive documentary, microfemininewarfare: exploring women’s space in electronic music being screened at ElectroFringe Fest in Australia last week. Last week, however, I was in New York being too much while chasing memories, tattoos, love & blue eyes. But also being a serious productive cat with meetings and potentials.
I’m having thematically recurring dreams in which a medley of my (ex)lovers come in and out of various situations. Every night is a different mix with different expectations. I’m also having dreams about Chiapas almost every night, still. Everything sticks to me like that. Is there a way to just have sex all the time? Like with breathing—you do other stuff but you have to keep breathing but then sometimes you take time to focus on breathing and find your body’s orientation. Could not the same be of intercourse? You just do it all the time while living life and then some of the time you focus on each other’s bodies completely?
2013 has been all about waiting. Is waiting synonymous with patience? I don’t know. I didn’t even realize that my snail tattoo is also part of that theme. Of course it is, yes, all of it. Sanyu told me something I’ll never forget: “When he is ready, if you wait, he will come back.”
Here is something better from Roland Barthes’s A Lover’s Discourse:
The lover’s discourse is of an extreme solitude
attente / waiting— Tumult of anxiety provoked by waiting for the loved being, subject to trivial delays (rendezvous, letters, calls, returns)
Am I in love? –yes, since I am waiting. The other one never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn’t wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game. Whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover’s fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.
Waiting is an enchantment: I have received orders not to move. Waiting is woven out of tiny unavowable interdictions to infinity.
July 12th, 2013 § § permalink
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
November 1st, 2012 § § permalink
« next to never / sometimes you make yourself forget / to make yourself forget / to forget you / how to forget you / to forget / how to forget / to forget it »
October 14th, 2012 § § permalink
— the world is full of words – write to me —
write me romantic words of superflous proportions —steal poet’s words, steal all the words in the world to make me believe I am in one of those books I carry with me every time I move across the world. You know which ones, the heavy ones, the ones of female desire, the ones of beating heads on hardwood floors. Take all those words, move them around, and see why I love those words so much. Eat the words and shit them out to see how they look like in all the ways. Write to me, on paper, on the computer, on napkins, on the metro, on the road, on receipts, on magazines, on books, on newspaper clippings, on you, on me, on them, on the trees. Write to me with fingers full of blood expanding to show me the love you say you have. Keep writing, write like it’s a Grecian marathon, keep writing in the most detailed ways possible. Use examples. Use verbs. Use the clarity of Joan Didion. Or write me a few words, simple words, big words, complicated words. Write me however, whenever, but write me often and write to me, not to them, not for the world to see. Just me, just write it to me, because your love is not for them, but for me, and a love song is not a love letter.
I promise I won’t make that mistake again.
August 3rd, 2012 § § permalink
Apice means apex in Portugese. I want to learn Portugese and experience it. I want to become a Lusophone. My love affair with Portugal is new, with so much room to grow and discover.
(noun) the top or highest part of something, esp. one forming a point
(verb) reach a high point or climax
Last week I was reading texts for my doctoral exam that are a foreign language to me, even though they are all in English. Then, unexpectedly, a few days later I was on a plane on my way to Warsaw to finish some familial business that started many years ago. I stayed with my uncle in his large IKEA-laden two story apartment in Kabaty, one of the new neighbourhoods of Warsaw. His three children were away at camp, so it was just him, his wife and I. I watched them move through the house. I watched them moving together but never in the same direction, always holding onto their own space. She wasn’t there often, as she was always in a haste going to “work”, and only stopping by for moments at a time. They are trapped, creating jails for each other while always laying the blame on the other. I talked to them both separately. I wanted to talk to them for years.
How long do you hold onto something for the sake of it? How long can you keep going? When do couples become immobile? You both produce the space you traverse with every move (which is one of the most impressive components of being in love and being with someone but also a harbinger of much pain). There’s no going back, there’s only going over. Once you’ve made those decisions, you can’t take them back, they have been actualized and are part of the narrative. Is that how you become immobile? You don’t want to walk over the same trajectory that holds all those experiences you regret, you wish never happened, you resent yourself or the other for bringing into the relationship? Do you become immobile because you cannot make a move without pain? And then, what? You gain mobility of the organs through affairs? How many lips must come across yours to ostensibly make you forget about the intensity of the love that used to be between both of you – the apex. There’s no denying the life changing, mountain moving desire you both had for each other – the gaze penetrating every body part at every moment. But what happens when the mountains were moved and you found a way to move that was not the same as theirs, and simultaneously, they didn’t notice you didn’t follow them on the path they took either. Then you both turn around and see each other so small in the distance, unable to make out the details.
Except by now you’ve learned to lie to each other so well that each of you believe the lies and keep on moving while immobilized, creating vast friction. By now, you probably don’t even realize that the movements of your lips are lies, and you just take them as the way things are.
MUSIC: Ive Mendes ; Apice MP3 & Ive Mendes ; Be With Me Tonight MP3
May 28th, 2012 § § permalink
28 juliet 11:16
I live too much in metaphors, in parables and allegories. I cannot see the literal or direct in anything. This weakens me because I cannot grasp simplicity. To me everything is full of layers. This I my inertia. I cannot touch the core of anything because the core does not exist without its cover and the covers are so symbolic it is impossible to weed through them to find the core.
I am in a frenzy. J’ouvrir.
29 juliet 17:16
I feel so stifled unable to speak and undertand French fully. I want to read it and have the words come out of me.
30 juliet 18:10
The beach is full of people. There are more children than adults. I wonder if these children know how lucky they are to experience belle ile.
I submerged my hair in the water and the salty smell washed over me.
1 Aout 00:43
I am tipsy on one bottle of leffe. They offered me a bottle of beer! I felt like I’m starting to belong. Not that i really care to waste my time hanging out anyway There is a belgian woman here that i connect with. She speaks English at least so I have someone. She asked if i want to go to the beach with her tomorrow i said im not sure when I am going. I like my alone time with the beach. Plus, to be nude in front of her. I Could just not give a shit. Strangers. Yet I get so affected. Tonight we made bread again. It is much better here without the cold Austrian girls. I can manage the detachment of the older people if I have people my own age to get along with. Slim, the son and bread chef is 27. His girlfriend is 26 and polish. She is from the village yet tries to out-class me with her knowledge of french. I laugh inside. I dont mind it here like I used to. I’ve come to know the adults are French snobs. I am desperate to wash my hair but I can’t use non-organic shampoo. I have to write my story in Avignon. I still have no plan. Maybe i feel better because I was able to write and digest my life. When there is nothing to explore I panic. Orstance, said I had an enlightened experience when I told her that when I first looked over the cliff in Plage de herlin I looked away because I couldn’t bare its beauty was real. That has never happened to me before. I felt shy with the ocean. Its beauty overwhelmed me and I felt like it was too personal to look at. I felt like I didn’t have the right to take part in its luminance. How silly of me to feel timid at beauty. Me who dives for it constantly. My need for aesthetics thwarts me.
Today I lived for the day and not in waiting for the future.
That is the core of my happiness. Living out the day for what it is and taking every moment to be important and neccessary. That is joy. Yes.
1 aout 17:17
Orstance. She is born on November 11. She is Belgian. She looks so strange. She doesn’t stop telling stories. She is so alive. She’s studying psychology at the masters level. She loves to observe and write about people she meets. We talked candidly about the disconnect here. “but my two friends I came to see love it here.” we are the only two that sense the lack of coherence. It is a lack of understanding and love, She says. If a person is open with themselves they will be open to people. She believes their wwoofing is a matter of habit not of sharing organic farming expression. She continues, It is not even a farm magda! Nothing grows here and there are no animals. The only animals are cats and dogs. And several of them are sick and dying. It is a overpriced organic boutique shop on large property. She says everything I have been feeling. She sees like me. She is religious. She hitchhiked into la palais to go to mass. At lunch the adults talk about her. The slang and rapidity of their words is lost on me. all I hear is her name and laughter. They are amused by her. She is carefree. They are chained to their image of Self and Life. She is stronger and richer than them. She does not ridicule or judge. She lives in a commune in the woods in Belgium. Mostly she hitchhikes alone through the world. I want to bring her to Canada but I don’t know what would impress such travelled eyes. I imagine I am similar to her and peoples perceptions of our untamed character. It splits at my beauty. She is sensual but looks like a man. Even though I feel people still are secretly afraid And jeleous of her like they would be of me. Her looks are safe. Mine are dangerous to me. I tried to hitchhike in high school. It ended badly even though it is a source of my fantasies often. I wasn’t so naive to let anything detrimental happen. We are alone in this place. We are only two. “when people have bad and dwindling energy, be careful, the whole place they live in manifests that. It could tangle and affect your energy. Be aware and you can not let them do that.” she tells me.