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Language is a Skin

April 8th, 2014 § 4 comments § permalink


2014-04-08 19.37.00-1


Language is a Skin, 2014

with Roland Barthes



October 16th, 2013 § 0 comments § permalink

2013-10-07 12.05.44



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

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.

Shostakovich’s Piano Concerto No. 2, Andante

June 25th, 2011 § 1 comment § permalink

John Maus’ “Streetlight” is only managing the high ends through my shitty iPhone speaker. It’s late and congested. Probably over 30 degrees. The sticky mountains of white cotton suffocate me. My sheets are crumpled up, and the cover for the duvet is only half on. I forgot to masturbate today, so I make an effort to do it even though I am tired, but not the tired that makes it feel all woozy and better, but the exhausted anxiousness you feel when you have to sleep even though there’s a never-ending list of tasks you haven’t done. The ceiling fan is growling, it’s tired too. I never let it stop. It’s so loud and the high ends make me uncomfortable. I start but nothing is happening. So much to think about, so many people to negotiate, school, project, moving, money, vacuuming, hospital bills, sick best friend, missing lovers. I change it to, Shostakovich’s “Piano Concerto No. 2, Andante,” because it reminds me of Chopin and the strings work to subdue the fan. I can hardly breathe and my legs chafe against the bare mattress. Going back and forth between fantasies and memories, I manage and finally fall asleep.


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.


March 3rd, 2009 § 0 comments § permalink

It fucking kills me when I start bawling while jerking off. I remember the first time it happened in 2005. I was mourning. Seems like yen really loves to shove its way up to my conscious mind when I’m at the peak of my elation.

Thanks a lot buddy!


February 26th, 2009 § 1 comment § permalink

in Llanca, Spain May 2008

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!

Where is the ecstasy?

February 25th, 2009 § 3 comments § permalink

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.

Enjoy, Enjoy

December 15th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink

I’ve been doing a lot of masturbating lately. Any time school stresses come about, I am ferociously needy with orgasms. Some of the best sex I’ve given has been in the midst of final exams. So when Tiffany sends me a link to this masterpiece, it kind of makes me want to be rich. Part of the write-up says, “A perfect accessory for that dressy but boring party, YVA is small, rechargeable and exceedingly quiet.” That would totally make me the party girl again. It could be my excuse to go mingle – to get off. J would love it too I’m sure. He loves anything to do with exhibiting me. However, my titillation would come in not getting caught.

I remember my first vibrator. An ex bought it for me. It was a regular vibrator, purple, 5 inches; he didn’t want it to topple his size. He bought it at Seduction. There’s a four to five minute walk from the subway station to his house, so he took it out of the package and put it in his pants while he walked. I don’t remember if he actually came before he got to his house. He handed it to me with that story. I wish I remembered what happened after. Why don’t I keep more journals? I did the same thing when I bought my other vibrator. That other vibrator, although with replaced parts is still with me. Nothing has compared. Just money wasted on other peripherals. J came over on the weekend. “Owww, my head feels weird,” he complains as he pulls out the vibrator from underneath the pillow.
“I keep it there because then I don’t have to get up to come and I have to hide the cords from the cats.”

Masturbating in Rome

August 26th, 2008 § 5 comments § permalink

Taking a piss in the Bloor Cinema washroom tonight after seeing 400 Blows, I was reminded of the first time I ever came while standing up. I sat on the toilet and the window to my left was ajar enough to see the street alive below. There was traffic, noise, cyclists swerving, people trying to get laid, lights shining in all directions and there I was looking at it all. It was exactly how it was in my hostel WC in Rome six years ago. I remember not having masturbated in a while, and my finances never left me with a room of my own, often even without a locked shower stall, making jerking off difficult. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but I must have taken my vibrator into the bathroom with me, and started touching myself with it. There was a tiny makeshift window that was a hole in the wall and I could see inside the top windows of Stazione Termini, tilting my head I could also make out the people on the street. I remember slowly focussing on the sensations I was used to, but I had to ground myself in my feet to let the awareness take over. It took a while, but I wasn’t going to give up, I was going to break new ground. I remember focussing on a person inside the terminal window, imaging it to be some sexy Italian man who could discern what I was doing, even if it my window was too small for anyone to see into. He would look at me, then scan my body – my swollen tits, wet from the shower that was on as to not rouse suspicion in my room mates, to my belly, circling the piercing, to the hair just growing in surrounding my pussy, around my pelvis and hips, down to my legs and painted toes. I’d close my eyes and let him see me come, let him watch my face turn and my lips spread open while I gave way to muffled groans. He’d touch himself too, he’d have to, he’d see the water running down my thighs and imagine his own cum in its place. I came three times.

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