November 13th, 2013 § § permalink
It’s my birthday on November 16.
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.
Fatal error: Allowed memory size of 103809024 bytes exhausted (tried to allocate 261900 bytes) in /nfs/c02/h08/mnt/20797/domains/raisecain.net/html/ndxzstudio/common.php on line 304
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)
Save for Web “0″ quality, 15 times.
JPG | 10.73K | 3 sec @56.6Kbps
January 10th, 2013 § § permalink
“The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle.
Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.”
― Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem
December 6th, 2012 § § permalink
“I lay there silently,
hoarding my small dignity.
I did not ask about the gate or the closet.
I did not question the bedtime ritual
where, on the cold bathroom tiles,
I was spread out daily
and examined for flaws.
I did not know
that my bones,
those solids, those pieces of sculpture
would not splinter.” – Anne Sexton
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 31st, 2012 § § permalink
There’s so many words between me and the computer, between me and my notebooks, between me and my professors, and so there are no more words that can be expelled here (except of course the ones I am writing, but can we not get metaphysical please, one moment… one moment is all I ask!)
Ok, maybe I have a few totally jumbled up things to say about stuff, like how Rosi Braidotti’s chapter “The Ethics of Becoming Imperceptible” in Deleuze and Philosophy, is one of the most lucid and intrepid articles about becoming I have read in a long time. As a way to better understand the work I came up with some alternate titles: “The Ethics of Wanting to Die”; “The Ethics of Wanting to have control over your death”; “The Ethics of Wanting to Die but not Dying”; maybe “The Ethics of wanting to always be Happy”; “The ethics of assertion of the joyfulness and positivity of life through Suicide” or simply “The Ethics of Being”, since the chapter tries to ontologically reframe how we think about our selves, and as Beings. Simply, our consciousness constitutes of being born, being alive, then being dead. That’s the nature of our Being – our ontology. (By the by, I’m allowed to be crude, I’m an obnoxious doctoral student.)
How can process philosophers and thinkers of relations and translation manage the telos of death while their philosophy is about becoming? on a continuum? a series of interconnected relations processually moving in and out of everything in the world in spacetime? She argues death isn’t an end, or another part of our infinite existence (like some religions demarcate). First, Braidotti points out that to die is in our nature, so of course we are curious about it and have a propensity to propel ourselves towards it. Often we propel ourselves to push the boundaries of being alive (often through drugs, etc), to attempt to be privy to that feeling of spacetime contracting and expanding, to perceive it and not be affected by it. Critiquing the ideological model that defines self-destruction (which includes drug use, body mutilation, etc.) as a pathological activity, she argues that society characterizes self-destruction as a singularly bodily practice, even if it may have subsidiary psychological effects (also pathologized). Yet, it is morality that circumscribes the body, even though morality is an abstraction of the mind (14). She suggests, instead, that these “self-destructive” activities, such as addiction, risk-taking, suicide, and so on, are experiments with the limits of our own sustainability. She goes as far to suggest that even suicide is an activity that is based out of our desire for life. Self-destructive activities are modes of communication. They communicate the intensity of existence (although I wish she would expand on this rather contentious point). Braidotti mentions that it is through the body that forces move through and into —is the body then the medium? The body is an affective force (3). Affect happens upon the body. “Sensations … are not images perceived by us outside our body, but rather affections localized within the body” (Bergson 1920, 51). Perception is an external action, external in that it measures our possible actions upon things, and thus, the possible actions of things upon us. Bergson differentiates that this is pure perception, and in its pure state is a part of all things (68). However, he notes pure perception cannot exist because we are encumbered by memory. Memory serves as a preservation instinct, and Braidotti argues that even at our times of boundary pushing, we know not to take that last drink, pill, shot, because we have to endure. Endurance is “an affirmation of the creativity of the subject” (2). Ethics, then, is a faithfulness to the desire to become —to the generative potential of existence.
Yet, she frames death so elegantly, that this paper would have been perfect to train kamikaze pilots with. Morbid, I know, but hey Thousand Plateaus was used in a pretty horrendous way so…
There is much more to contextualize on the issue, but I had to get it out now. It has somehow calmed my fears about dying, even for a few minutes on this Friday night while I drink vinegary white wine I found in the back of my fridge someone must have left behind. Ok, in short, she’s basically riffing off Sylvia Plath: “Dying is an art, like everything else, I do it exceptionally well.”
also: a year ago today (Sept 1, 2011) I moved to Montreal to start my PhD. It’s our anniversary.
August 13th, 2012 § § permalink
Earlier this summer, my supervisor Kim Sawchuk, Owen Chapman, Alison Loader, Ben Spencer and I, created a special issue of wi: journal of mobile media, called open wi, as a response to the student strike movement in Quebec. I also contributed some writing and photography. It’s a good time to let the rest of the world know that the day before the fall semester starts (attempts to start?), elections are happening in Quebec on September 4. Don’t let politics take advantage of you.