bodily evacuations

I gave this paper at the Open Fields conference in April. I just put in on a blog and thought of a bunch of people I could send the link to. But I won't, because I no longer like it.

I think at the time, for me, it was a certain point of reflection that was necessary. A crystallisation. A realisation of the undercurrents of my personal writing and where this intercepts with my research. A statement that needed to be made in order to move on.

With distance I'm critical of it as a text, which reads like it's trying to say something profound, but does not. There's no crescendo. As a pastiche of musings plucked from a year of writing, and with no linear narrative, it cannot. That wasn't the intention. But when I approach it as a detached reader, I look for this, and I'm disappointed.

As a reader, I prefer this blog with its more recent, less tempered, words.

Some anecdotes:

Friday: i find myself in bed with D. we're both surprised. he touches the bruise: "what's that?" "a love bite". we continue to fuck. it's too quick, there's not enough kissing. he apologises for cumming. i apologise for bleeding. i lend him a book and send him on his way. E comes over; my room smells of sex; i dress for the party.

Tuesday: i'm offered food and wine before the lecture. red wine, veg curry pies, guacamole and corn chips. he speaks about the sensorial turn in cultural studies. i'd not heard this phrase before but it rings true. everyone's talking about touch and hearing and the non-visual experiencing of things. but i wonder... why is this so unsatisfying? why do we find it compelling to address these things in our speech and our writing (always and only through language)? in academic papers and in blogs? what's missing? i guess it's the body. the further we extend the field of inquiry into the body, its organs, its senses, the more we can say about it, as though it were not really us. the more we lose sight of blood, skin, gristle, flesh, shit. maybe i'd like to stop talking about my feelings in ways that might limit them, or guide them, as though i can know them and how to use them. the pursuit of knowledge is a blinding sport of detachment (whether the subject is bodies or not).

wednesday: the second class is wrapping up and i really need to piss. i cross my legs. one leg inches higher up the other, i lean forward, crushing myself and the need to piss. but it doesn't subside. i keep talking. (shut up, leave the room, go piss.) class ends and there's a flood of students asking questions. they're telling me which weeks they'd like to present, asking about the tutorial paper. they're confused. i'm confused. they become more confused. i need to go. speaking faster, pointing more and more at the reader - it's all in the there! flipping pages. clear? is that clear? okay, great, next. finally the last student leaves. she wanted week 10 but everyone jumped in before her. whatever. it's yours. done. bye. i shove everything in my bag, and i leave. doors and steps later, the piss flows. it's a moment of absolute pleasure.