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wikisext & i make friends.

November 11th, 2014 § 1 comment § permalink

A couple of weeks ago I replied to Thrice’s brilliant wikisext bot & we ended up in a discussion about desire. A few tweets in I lost track that I was speaking to a bot and instead went into a word play mode analogous to the word play I engage in with some of my favorite friends. I ended with the bot’s last tweet because it felt like a goodbye.

how 2 sext ‏@wikisext Oct 23
@raisecain i call your dentist to schedule my appointment

Magdalena O, cat ‏@raisecain Oct 23
@wikisext the hole left after my wisdom tooth operation means there’s more room for a lover to enter me.

how 2 sext ‏@wikisext Oct 23
@raisecain i straddle my bidet

Magdalena O, cat ‏@raisecain Oct 23
@wikisext you straddle the bidet and i hold your body so the cold ceramic doesn’t sear your delicate skin.

how 2 sext ‏@wikisext Oct 23
@raisecain i go outside, have fun and ask questions, it’s not bad to ask questions because this helps in getting good grades

Magdalena O, cat ‏@raisecain Oct 23
@wikisext my body is always asking questions, does this means I am getting good grades in desire?

how 2 sext ‏@wikisext Oct 23
@raisecain i see if you can spot my object or pet in the dark

Magdalena O, cat ‏@raisecain Oct 23
@wikisext In the dark my eyes act like flashlights for desire.

how 2 sext ‏@wikisext Oct 23
@raisecain i daringly turn into your slide and check my weather report before you leave the house, and plan accordingly

Magdalena O, cat ‏@raisecain Oct 23
@wikisext The weather calls for relentless rain so I take off my rings and daringly hold out my hands in case you slide

how 2 sext ‏@wikisext Oct 23
@raisecain i dip my clean soft cloth into my solution to dampen

Magdalena O, cat ‏@raisecain Oct 23
@wikisext i find all the decanters and fill them with apple cider vinegar because it is your pancea

how 2 sext ‏@wikisext Oct 23
@raisecain i check my refund policy

Magdalena O, cat ‏@raisecain Oct 23
@wikisext the fine print stipulates you have to keep me forever

how 2 sext ‏@wikisext Oct 23
@raisecain i add my pumpkin, buttermilk (or plain yogurt), and vegetable oil to my mixing bowl and excitedly add my egg mixture to the well

Go after her.

May 18th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

I am so glad I know so many women that feel.
My friend Helena Kvarnström wrote this many years ago:

“Go after her. Fuck, don’t sit there and wait for her to call, go after her because that’s what you should do if you love someone, don’t wait for them to give you a sign cause it might never come, don’t let people happen to you, don’t let me happen to you, or her, she’s not a fucking television show or tornado. There are people I might have loved had they gotten on the airplane or run down the street after me or called me up drunk at four in the morning because they need to tell me right now and because they cannot regret this and I always thought I’d be the only one doing crazy things for people who would never give enough of a fuck to do it back or to act like idiots or be entirely vulnerable and honest and making someone fall in love with you is easy and flying 3000 miles on four days notice because you can’t just sit there and do nothing and breathe into telephones is not everyone’s idea of love but it is the way I can recognize it because that is what I do. Go scream it and be with her in meaningful ways because that is beautiful and that is generous and that is what loving someone is, that is raw and that is unguarded, and that is all that is worth anything, really.”

“We’re undone by each other”

March 25th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

“Let’s face it. We’re undone by each other. And if we’re not, we’re missing something. If this seems so clearly the case with grief, it is only because it was already the case with desire. One does not always stay intact.” -Judith Butler

I have notebooks of desire sealed up in cardboard boxes instead of under my pillows like children’s stories. I have pieces of paper torn between magazines and books and beds across countries. I take screen shots of your messages in case I lose them. Who are you anyway? I make up a man from many men, because there’s no man for me. Acupuncture has inadvertently made me stop smoking. The thought images compound when I try to ‘clear’ my mind, laying on my back unable to move as the needles will tug at my wrist muscles with a sensation that my hands could rip off my arms at any moment. So I avoid that. That used to be smoking. Sitting smoking scribing. But the notebooks are sealed up now, the Mexican cigarette boxes fallen behind my clothes, and there’s nothing to write about.

coffee-1-17 coffee-1-16 coffee-1-13coffee-1-19coffee-1-21 coffee-1-20coffee-1-22


attente / waiting

October 12th, 2013 § 0 comments § 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.

“time is relative”

June 21st, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

Why is saving someone so appealing? Saving someone is like opening their life to a life you imagine is full of everything, full of you, full of nous. But saving someone means you can’t hold onto them. That’s not how it works.

You know that moment when you meet someone and then all of your time opens up? How does that happen? What was the time full of before? As easy as time comes, when that someone leaves, time also punishes you with gaping holes that you can’t seem to fill with anything that works. Everything you do is just a distraction, a physical distraction to the scenes in your mind, replaying moments, finding new moments to remember, to torture you with.

The honesty sheath has come back in my life. Things brought back from previous summers overjoy and sadden me. The intertextuality of all of my summers exponentially bifurcating. Every year is more sentimental than the next, having more summer memories to work into the new summer’s narrative(s). It makes me dizzy.

I should spend my time emailing people back that aren’t part of school or work, but people that I leave behind because they’re not “time sensitive” but want to talk to more than anything. I’ve been in Montreal for almost a year. I am lonely. I wish I was able to do “regular” things like going to a bar to have a beer or going for coffee or hanging out at someone’s house while everyone smokes and dies. Because that is what people I meet invite me to do, but I can’t, I just can’t. Those situations just create larger gaping holes in my/the container, but the kind that promote a dull ache everywhere. I want to spend my time listening to jungle, outside on a bike, in a lake, in bushes, with animals, in secret deep wells in the city, hiding in books someone is reading out loud to me!

Hi! Do you know my dear friend Barry (Boxcutter) released an album under the name The Host? You should listen to it, it’s good for moments like these. It fills you up softly.

I started belly dancing classes last week. Move, move, move. The instructor is this glowing blonde woman named Inka, and I get lost in staring at her and her full and energetic movements. She moves without having to move. She reminds me of that Miranda July quote I posted before, “I could not make a move without making love.

Of Love

November 13th, 2011 § 1 comment § permalink

Kat always writes the most incredible fucking things on her blog that always seem to come right at the time I need them. She started writing online again & you should follow her forever.

Expectation. Forgive me.

I miss you when you are gone, and when you are near I miss you in anticipation of your next departure. There is no such thing as closeness. Objects can be no closer than they are, co-arisen and inseparable. Everything interpenetrates and yet I long to be penetrated, as if something is missing, as if something is lost. Who am I, if you do not know me? You ask me to write the answer on your face, yet you insist that it must be spoken, it must be in words. For a moment, before you explained your request, I thought you had understood. You said, with your air, or, with your breath, but all you meant was talking. You just wanted me to talk, as if that might bridge the gap. Oh, you do not know me, and I cannot tell you, it would only prove me right. What do you know without words? I am touching you and you are writing words on a screen. You are transmitting thoughts to someone else and you are not totally here. I leave and wonder when you will notice my absence. This is the only reason I leave you, so that maybe you will experience the lack of me, as I experience the lack of you. No matter how close I pull you, even into my very body, I lack you.

We stood on a cliff looking out over the edge of the world. It is so big, I say. It is so still, you say. Back in the town we had touched the leather horse things, and you said, they are made for something so much more powerful than we are, and you said, they are made so well, better than anything for people. And I touched them all with my hands, bridles and halters and bits and saddles. Oh September. The saddles the blankets the crops. Neither of us has ridden a horse. We will talk of the trips we have taken. I will tell you to buy a certain toy for a child I do not know. I hope that child is me. Once, you bought black shoes with white lightening bolts on them. I do not care for shoes because my feet are so big. You put metal to glass with duct tape. You remind me of my father.

My father called me, thinking I was thousands of miles from where I am. I have not returned the call. They say that fathers who have been absent ought to write to their daughters and apologize, even if it is the only thing they can do, even if their daughters will never forgive them or even acknowledge them. This, God bless him, my father has always done.

I want a long dress; I want a knife; I want a baby. We talk of Henry Miller, of his honesty, and the air is so light at the edge of the world, and so many of the trails are unauthorized. Why don’t we worship our ancestors here, you ask. In my family, we do, I say. And in another world I am writing to a stranger about how Georgia is like Russia and already I have nostalgia for the future I might share with the person I would tell this to, the person who might understand. You shove your arms in a heap of manure to see how warm it is on the inside — the people give you a look.

I can feel it all through me, the future we will not act out, the future we have already had, the future we have shared from the beginning. There was never a beginning, there was never. There was the edge of the world. It was so large. It was so still. And the birds on the rocks were sensitive, and the waves were sensitive, and the eyes that saw it all were sensitive.

It was simple: I loved someone and I wanted them to know it.

I would take you with me. I would take you into the hole in the center of my chest where I do not exist, have never existed, the laughter of permeability, the air. I would take you where I cannot go myself. God, this pain is exquisite, and your face, I write on your face, I take you on my life boat, I die in your arms as you change from a boy to an old man and back again, over and over. You are a completely different person. You are a mirror. I want to walk to the edge of the world with your DNA in my body.

Music is Math

October 29th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

Last Thursday, I joined a Maths workshop with Sha Xin Wei at the Topological Media Lab & now everything has changed. I have ostensibly never shown aptitude for mathematics, or any related discipline, including science. But high school’s pedagogical interface seems so antithetical to how students should actually engage with/in work so it’s no surprise?

I was intrigued by mathematics and rigorous scientific inquiry, but I couldn’t find it. I mean, the way science was presented to me was ‘the scientific method’ and Cartesianism and that there is a right and wrong in the world and if you just account for all the variables you can prove your hypotheses. This never made sense to me, and enraged me because I couldn’t believe in such a rigid structure of the world. I couldn’t believe that bodies were just the sum of their parts. There was more happening everywhere and it was not a transcendental Kantian perspective either. But without the language to articulate this n+1, this “more than”, I took to music that I could body slam and mosh to (the abject growing inside me then?), poetry, photography and depression instead. No one I knew like this was into science & math. For many years I was anti-science, anti-everything really – a suitable ethos for switching from English Literature and Cultural Anthropology to Women’s Studies in undergrad. But then I met this beautiful boy & fell in love with him & he studied math at U of Toronto & he excelled in it & science & it gave him the rigor & potential to see the world more openly than me. But I was young & unconvinced that my brain could ever operate like (t)his. Instead we devoured drugs, strange cult films & literature. But there were numbers & letter signifiers between us, many of them – formulas of love.

We were talking recently, and he was ruminating on why he dropped out of maths because he was so good at it & why he’s doing social work, in which the type of intellectual rigor that gets stimulated is so different & operates on such a lack (for him). I am so impressed. That is to say I am impressed with a mathematical mind, and math has significantly impressed itself upon my Being. I know it is just the beginning (of this workshop & of me attempting algebra), but there are already moments of euphoria I have never experienced. It’s not better than, but it’s there & it’s happening. I wonder if I could ever ‘get’ math. I have to figure out how to tame it, how to be inside it, and how to re-articulate it for everything I am becoming.

Soon I will be opened up to differential topology.

Should I be self-conscious at such an immediate excitement?

Shortly after the second workshop on Thursday — sitting on the metro uncertain of reality, flushed red, with a diaphragm of vibrations that emanated from every pore in my body, so intense that a crystal positioned in relation to me would express all of my heat as a rainbow of colors — the image of the container came back with acute precision. At that moment I realized that there’s something beyond the cracks in the container. I knew the cracks were happening, but all I could perceive was darkness, a sort of black negative space*. This started in the summer of 2009 and became a constant part of me in 2010. The feeling of being a container, being in a container and wanting to know there’s something happening with/in the cracks but unable to get there. I wasn’t ready to get there. I still don’t know what, why or how but I can feel cracks, the openings.

The vibrations, they’re everywhere.

* Mitsu wrote this to me last year: What’s outside the container isn’t something which is not-you: it is something which is always already you, in a larger sense, but you didn’t identify it as such before. So the search isn’t for something external (the external/internal, outside/inside dichotomy is itself questionable), but for something which is both and neither, beyond that binary. So you’re right, you do need to go inside yourself first, but if you go far enough inside it is the universe.


October 14th, 2009 § 14 comments § permalink

Sometimes I feel like I am the only person in the world who doesn’t watch porn. I don’t watch porn because I haven’t found any porn I enjoy and I really really want to watch porn! I think it could be fun and engaging and inspiring to my own sex life and my own personal work. Recently a friend of mine sent me a link to some video on youporn and so I just watched it a few minutes ago. I didn’t find it appealing and I actually gagged at the end when the guy came onto the girls underwear. I responded to my friend asking her why is there no porn that looks like us and guys we fuck in our own lives? The guy in the video sounded like a douchebag and had a white cap backwards. How could I be possibly be turned on by the flailing around of his dick when every few seconds there is a shot of that awful baseball cap? I couldn’t. But the thought of someone I have the hots for caressing my breasts can turn me on while I sit on the bus. I’m often referred to as a ‘teenage boy’ because I get aroused so easily and so often and can make most situations sexual and arousing.

My history with porn is tricky. The first time I ever consciously looked at porn was online with a boyfriend. We were in his parent’s basement and we just googled some porn website. I was sitting on his lap and he was clicking through the photos. It didn’t last song because he found it repulsive. I didn’t really understand the aesthetic of it either. This was in the 90’s. I had another boyfriend who was really into porn but hid it from me because at the time I was in my feminist anti-porn stage. I got over that and then we were able to watch porn together. I bought a bunch of used VHS tapes from BMV. Yes used! It adds to the appeal. Shane’s World was my favorite series. It featured regular looking girls with little make up and the guys weren’t my type but were so generic it didn’t matter. I think the first time I ever had sex to porn was once in my flat we were watching Star Wars and then we started fucking; the dialogue from the film disturbed us so we put on Shane’s World. I had watched it on my own on a regular basis by that point but having it on while we fucked enlivened the experience. We were making noises and the tv was making noises too! It was a sex party!

I was into Shane’s World for a few years but then I moved on from VHS and couldn’t find any on DVD. When I finally found something comparable I watched it a few times but somehow grew out of it and my current boyfriend wasn’t much for watching it either. We made our own porn films and watched those instead. We mostly just filmed ourselves and projected it on our big screen tv. That was hotter for us than watching some strangers pretend to get off.

The main theme throughout my relationships was the creation of fantasy ourselves. With each partner I was able to use my/our narcissism as arousal. Foreign films also help this! In foreign films, sex is often complicated and dark and wrought with all the stuff I find hot in my own life.

I will have to write more on this. But in the meantime feel free to send me some porn please! Maybe you have found something out there I’ll love.

To situate the post here are some men  that if I were to see in porn, I’d probably watch on repeat for the rest of my life. To clarify, I’m also not really into objectifying men I don’t know. I know there is no chance of a sexual encounter with them, thus I see it as pointless. My fantasies always lie in the ‘possibility’ thus the men I do and have desired in my life, I have objectified to no end. But I won’t post them here for obvious reasons.

Sheeps Eyes

January 9th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink


Shy amorous glances.


November 10th, 2007 § 2 comments § permalink

perfervid (puhr-FUHR-vid) adjective

Extremely or excessively passionate.

[From Latin perfervidus, from Latin per- (thoroughly) + fervidus (boiling). Ultimately from the Indo-European root bhreu- (to boil or to bubble), that is also the source of brew, bread, broth, braise, brood, breed, and barmy.]

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