tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75540095584258845782024-03-05T16:28:19.432+11:00love truth and honestywas a zine is now a blogpablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.comBlogger252125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-81396280672307569402017-01-13T15:16:00.001+11:002017-01-13T15:39:45.210+11:00I had a love<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/u6mLJLQ9j3M" width="459"></iframe><br />
<br />
I had a love. It happened seven years ago, in January. It was intense and only lasted about a week. It re-emerged here and there, but its recurring theme was heartbreak. We hadn't communicated in about 2-3 years. Now he's dead.<br />
<br />
I was meant to go to the beach today, but I couldn't. Seven years ago, he and I went to the beach. We talked, touched, and kissed until I caught the ferry home.<br />
<br />
Seven is so many years, but time twists and pulls in strange ways. Bowie often sang about that, and he died one year ago, also in January. I didn't cry for Bowie, but I cry for Nick. And each time I'm surprised.<br />
<br />
Today is very hot and very strange and the tears keep surfacing. I never know how to do grief or whether I'm even entitled to be grieving, especially for people outside my daily life. But I'm told there are no rules. I haven't seen him in seven years, but there were occasional chats. There was a promise of 'one day'. But mostly I'd put a lot of effort into forgetting him. He was no good for me.<br />
<br />
But here he is again, making me cry again.<br />
<br />
Ours was a broken love, fractured by fear and collective heartache. He treated me poorly but I loved him anyway. I don't know how he died. I don't know that we would've ever talked again. But I know that I want him to be alive.<br />
<br />
He inspired my first Sad Boy Songs zine. He's found in the sequel too. He also lives in my conversations and memories of heartbreak. His touch has never worn off.<br />
<br />
Maybe these are the same tears that I stifled the last time he hurt me. Maybe they're a slippery substitute for all the words I never got to say to him.<br />
<br />
Maybe I should be grateful for this love, but I hate him for dying. <br />
<br />
I've been writing to him today, expressing my sadness and anger, and trying to make something of these messy blurry emotions. I'm not sure that it helps, but it's all I got.pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-29665101593966484332016-01-12T13:21:00.001+11:002016-01-12T13:37:14.269+11:00Feelings about feelings about BowieWhat’s with public grief? I get it, but I don’t. I get that people are sad about Bowie’s death and I suppose I am too. Or shocked. That was my feeling and maybe I haven’t progressed further. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I can’t because I feel strange about everything I’ve seen and read since that references this person but tells a different story to mine. Have I imagined an entirely different man to the rest of the world? Through my shock I realised I couldn’t grieve because Bowie doesn’t die. But (from what I’ve read) that’s an unusual reading of the situation. So I write this to get a better sense of my feelings about these feelings.<br />
<br />
All the declarations of crying, feeling loss and anguish, of being inconsolable and distraught, do not sit well with me. Why? Partly I think it’s people vowing to say/share the right things at the right time, to be heard, to be there. “I bear witness so hear my story. I’m going through this.” Partly (and this I’m ashamed to admit), my Bowie fandom feels affronted by the hordes of ‘Bowie fans’ who probably aren’t all that acquainted. Or maybe they’re as acquainted as I am with The Beatles. I know their stuff (I can’t escape it), but I don’t choose to listen to it. Now we all choose to listen to Bowie because he’s dead. Except he really isn’t. (I suppose everyone out there must have some connection to a song/film/image/something, so I suppose I’m too harsh. I suppose I can’t know the depth of the feelings of others).<br />
<br />
But I know that Bowie’s not dead. This isn’t denial, it’s me recognising that my Bowie years are not over, that he’ll always have a place in my soundscape which he’s dominated for a good decade or so. I wasn’t born when most of his great stuff was made. Mostly it’s 1971-1973 that are my Bowie years. Then there’s <i>Low </i>in 1977. And all these years will always exist. We have the music and the feelings it brings. And those feelings will continue to exist and change and reshape us. <br />
<br />
But should the feelings change because you know he’s dead? Or are you just mourning your own lack of knowledge/enjoyment of this music? Are you sad because you’re discovering someone who’s now dead and realising the extent of their brilliance? Could you not have known that earlier? Am I gloating? (The arrogance of fandom knows no bounds)<br />
<br />
I liked his second last album but didn’t love it. I couldn’t love it because it’s overshadowed by his perfect albums. And there have been many. And they say something that can’t be said now. 1970s Bowie did something that can’t be done now. Because it was a time and a place and we’ve moved to new places. And these places can still be good. And there are still living bands and artists who shatter us today. I suppose we don’t have the time to recognise them all, however, because we’re too busy seeking the best things. Endlessly overturning stones, despite the treasures we’ve already amassed. But you can’t be there for everything. Or do we think we can? Do we feel the need? And is this why we cry and mourn and publicly declare our love for the dead man (who’s not even dead)?<br />
<br />
The man is Bowie who’s not even a man but an apparition. He’s a series of stories that we project feelings upon and make dreams through. He’s a creation. He’s fictional. And like all great fiction he feels pretty real, but surely we understand this as fiction. The stories were written, the tales told and passed on, and they still circulate today and forever. James Baldwin is dead. Marguerite Duras is dead. Albert Camus is dead. Nina Simone is dead. Many brilliant ones are dead. And they gave us so much that maybe we don’t have a right to be sad about their deaths. Maybe we can be sad about their lives, yet Bowie didn’t have a tough life. At least from what we know. And we don’t know much. From some of the songs it seems there could’ve been struggles. But maybe fiction is fiction and we have to leave it at that. Had he wanted to write a memoir he’d have done so. He didn’t.<br />
<br />
So why the tears? At 69 his life wasn’t cut too short. He wasn’t Albert Camus in a car crash with an unfinished manuscript. He wasn’t Michel Foucault dying an AIDS-related death before medicine caught up with that. (Or Hervé Guibert or David Wojnarowicz or any of the many others.) This was not an early and tragic death, though granted, it was unexpected. But it’s highly likely that the best of his stories have been written. His legacy is firmly in place and this was the case well before January 11th, 2016. There’ll be some fine obituaries and there’ll be many awful ones. Thousands of awful declarations of love for the dead man. <br />
<br />
The dead man is not Lady Di. He gave us 27 albums. At least 6 of these are great. They were made in the 1970s. He was still making good music near his death, but that was different. I know that it’s <i>my story</i> that Bowie is a 1970s man. I understand that many will have loved his new album, released on what we now picture as his death bed. And I guess if I’d listened to and liked it I might feel differently today. But I haven’t. And I’m not going to play it now to conjure the tears to feel the moment to express something real about my sadness. <br />
<br />
Some of us feel sad that all of the good people are dead. They’re not. The dead people are just the ones who’ve completed life. They’ve given us everything and we think it necessary and respectful to write their obituary/biography. We narrate a success story or a tragedy or maybe something else. We script their completion. (“2016… 69 years... 27 albums... The greatest...”) We move away from the text to map its general arc. We pick our favourite song, album, era, persona, outfit. We sift through the remains of the celebrity. We’re not good with death.<br />
<br />
But is this about celebrity? Or is it about art or something else? And does celebrity have to be the only focal point here? Bowie is not Diana, nor is he Amy Winehouse or Whitney Houston. All of these people gave us important things, mostly they gave us tools to work through our feelings. Yet each of them was killed by celebrity. Bowie wasn’t. Nobody knew he was even sick or dying, probably because nobody knew him except his people. <br />
<br />
One day my mother will die and that day will be sad. That day will be filled with tears and anguish and all the other objects and feelings that people have been spilling on the internet since yesterday, since #RIPBowie. But nobody (at least in my friendship circle) had regular reciprocated contact with Bowie. Nobody was taking his calls, nor screening his calls, nor going there for Xmas, nor remembering the time they were held by him. We were touched by his music perhaps, but not him. We don’t ever know the artist. I suspect that most artists don’t want us to know them, only their work. And he was good at that. He had many decades to carve a space for himself in which to live and breathe and create and gather with his people. And those people can weep and wail as much as they can because they fucking need to. What just happened is their loss, not ours.<br />
<br />
Our version of the man is not dead but still very much breathing. Our access continues. He’s everywhere you want to look, whether that’s YouTube, your record collection, in films, or in the general culture we breathe. Tributes and homage and references are everywhere already because this man owned the 1970s and a whole lot more. <br />
<br />
Bowie’s great, but he’s no saviour/hero. If we listen closely, his characters are the prophets telling us things we should probably hear. Stories of rebellion and isolation and pain and the queerness of everyday life. From the spectacular metaphor of space to the streets down below, where we strut, sift, and meander through life. To be lost is to be alive, to have lungs and feet. To be waiting and feeling and exploring the fantasy of otherness. Being everything yet nothing. Being all you ever can be. Forever.<br />
pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-51211096834155569312015-05-10T13:54:00.001+10:002015-05-10T13:54:30.047+10:00StellaI'm not good with dying people, and I'm not good with death. I'm one of the lucky few who hasn't lost many people. <br />
<br />
I just found out about the death of a woman I lived with a couple of years ago. Her stay was brief, but memorable. Her energy offered much joy to that house. <br />
<br />
She was new to the country, and I enjoyed hearing her perspective on the streets and places and things around us. She reminded me that there is much to be fascinated by. This is part of her legacy, I guess, for which I'm grateful. We shared many wines and meals. I knew that she knew a lot, and that this was the case because she was open and interested in all things she encountered. She never tried to understand the members of that house, in ways that others might. She saw us as good people, and that was a nice reflection to wake up to. She liked meeting our friends and lovers.<br />
<br />
I didn't keep in touch with her. There were some dinners at her new place, or at our ex-housemate's place, and there were Facebook words and likes. Her partner was more active there, so I got to interact with him more after she moved from that house. We've all since moved out of that house. These memories of her, like so much else, seem so contained by that space. <br />
<br />
I knew she was dying. I didn't know what to say so I didn't say anything. I liked photos of her on Facebook. I liked to watch her adventures. I admired her exuberance, as always. Part of me wanted to hug her and say sorry. But she was mostly away, and besides, I wouldn't feel comfortable doing that. I presume that a dying person doesn't want constant reminders that they're dying. But I don't know actually, because I've never really engaged with a dying person. There were grandparents, of course. They all died, but I was young and I never talked to them about dying or the death of their spouses, or even what it feels like to be old. And still, I have no language around dying. I don't know what to say or how anything can and should be said. Maybe part of it is guilt for being the one who's not dying. <br />
<br />
I feel waves of sorrow when I think of her partner. I can't imagine his loss. I don't know what to say to him either. 'I'm sorry' sounds trivial and heartless. Nothing I can say would be useful to his situation, I don't think. And I don't know him that well anyway. But I wonder what he wants to hear or see from the people who are coming to terms with her death. It's not as though I can ask him what words he needs right now. <br />
<br />
I'm looking at tributes and photos on Facebook (our usual meeting place), and again, I'm without words to carry my feelings from me to him, or to anyone. And maybe I just don't know how I feel, other than sad. And maybe each sadness needs a whole new language that isn't yet available. So I sit quietly, alone, and I mourn.<br />
pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-87598216635274866292014-06-22T15:12:00.003+10:002014-06-22T15:12:50.948+10:00cavingi'll be moving out of my little cave in less than two months. my time and task here will be up by then. i will then move into the world in other ways, with new projects and thoughts to occupy my time. by then, winter will be nearing it's end (not that this Sydney winter is so wintery, but there's enough cold in my cave to pretend it is). walking through these dark rooms i realise i've taken few photos that capture this space/time. my dislike of endless digital capture has perhaps prevented me from capturing this space in any visual way that will contribute to my memory of this year and its moments. most of my photos are captured and displayed via Snapchat, so are collected and shared in a matter of seconds, disappearing, making space for representations of other, newer, moments. i like the temporal nature of this dialogue. it's not unlike phone conversations. so much of the content of phone conversations falls away, yet the intimacies of calling, speaking, and sharing are not lost. and perhaps Snapchat offers the same: a space of intimacy, sharing, and collective production of these moments, only to be forgotten (but the friendship is not).<br />
<br />
i suppose my approaching departure from the cave saddens me because i know these walls to be important, shaping, and definitive of this past year. i feel sad that after august i will not have these walls, this key, this place in which to hide and write and think and obsess over current pursuits. this is my room, the one Virginia Woolf says we all need. of course there'll be other rooms, but this one, right now, offers protection and assurance. the thought of forever leaving the cave is frightening. i don't want to forget the cave. and i guess i should have written about it more, as this is typically how i remember. but this year my mind is crowded with other things. this year is about finishing this year and so there's little desire to stop and take photos, until now, when i start to feel myself sliding out of this chapter and its defining space.pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-12490030384243712142013-12-15T12:29:00.001+11:002013-12-15T12:29:05.980+11:00Beyoncé's BeyoncéI'm currently having an intense fan experience. <br />
<br />
Listening to Beyoncé's surprise album, and watching the videos, I'm abuzz. It's a 'visual album' that was not hyped in the lead up to it's release, but in it's post-release (these last few days), with the feeling of "how the fuck did that just happen?" How is there now 14 songs and 17 videos to digest, in one huge pill? And they're intense and fierce and at this moment I know that this is the best work Beyoncé has ever created. <br />
<br />
And I'm tempted to write thousands of words on why and how this moment is, but I won't. Instead I'll let this wash over me for the weekend and the years to follow. <br />
<br />
One thing I want to say is that I love the feminism of this moment. There's a lot of symbols, gestures and overt claims to feminism and gender difference here, and it's as though this is a cultural/media/sexualities text whose complexity could probably never be captured by any scholar, but is best experienced through fandom; in one's responses, delights and engagements with this text. Because this is a feeling, pulsating, and beautiful moment that is contradictory, angry, desiring, seductive and fucked up. This is happening right now, and any historical or cultural overview is going to attempt to suffocate that. <br />
<br />
This might be the most subversive feminist text I've read in a while.pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-77789423818082967172013-11-15T16:48:00.000+11:002013-11-15T16:48:18.854+11:00machines must be destroyedI hate iPads. I hate iAnnotate. I hate Apple TM and its ubiquitous, controlling, techno-fascism. <br />
Today was spent trying to download an app on a work-provided iPad that I can no longer stand to look at (unless I'm kicking it to pieces). <br />
Welcome to the modern academic work life of the under/over employed postgrad student. <br />
I signed a contract for 8 hours of marking. So many contracts. So much paperwork that has to be completed, signed, scanned, delivered, and processed so that I can do a job that takes about the same amount of time as all the combined labour in doing the initial paperwork. <br />
But I'm cheap labour because I work from home.<br />
I ring the IT Centre and they say they don't really deal with the iPads. "Can you bring it in?" he says, "what campus are you on?"<br />
My campus is my home that is currently being poisoned by my anger at this working life i find myself in.<br />
Half of those 8 hours have been spent already and I've marked no essays. So I'll probably work 14 hours I suppose. And I'll probably not complain because there's nobody to whom I could fairly direct this anger. I can shake my fist at the institution of course, but we're all doing that anyway. So what?<br />
I've offered to mark the essays on paper, the old-fashioned way. I'm awaiting a response. But I'm not touching them today because today is ruined and I need to walk away from these screens now and go pick up some scissors and paper to cut things out and make something pretty. I need to play some records. <br />
They say you can choose the life you want to live, but I can't choose the analogue life that I want. At least not without major life restructuring and a future of poverty and loneliness. <br />
Meanwhile I'm about to start teaching online at another institution who likes to outsource work to the restless homes of PhD students. There's 6 different people that have graced my inbox in relation to this job, and I'm expected to know who they are, what roles they play, and how we're all supposed to relate to each other. Most of these people I've never met or spoken to. I send a question today, pointing out that I don't have access to 'the system'. Someone's response points to the responsibilities of 3 of the other people - one is away, one is sick, the other (it is suggested) hasn't done his job. It's very easy to hate people without faces and blame them for my discomfort. I just want a fucking password and the induction training that was promised. But now I get an online induction tool. More unpaid time to figure out systems that have no relevance to my life/occupation other than me needing to voluntarily learn them so I can briefly use them to make my way to another small sum of money. And all this while I'm poisoning my home with anger directed at screens. My workplace/loungeroom is spared of colleagues, resources, and adequate IT. I guess there's a password for me, but it just hasn't been communicated to me. Communication being that thing we do between screens, in solitary numbness, without having to look at the angry disappointment on each others' faces. <br />
Time to find a real job. pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-19464633923418215132013-11-10T23:15:00.001+11:002013-11-10T23:15:58.876+11:00and i forgot..."And I forgot the element of chance introduced by circumstances, calm or haste, sun or cold, dawn or dusk, the taste of strawberries or abandonment, the half-understood message, the front page of newspapers, the voice on the telephone, the most anodyne conversation, the most anonymous man or woman, everything that speaks, makes noise, passes by, touches us lightly, meets us head on."<br />
<br />
<i>La Démarche poétique</i> - Jacques Sojcher, 1976pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-59400023150076494972013-10-18T11:50:00.001+11:002013-10-18T11:51:23.608+11:00work-related injury<a href="http://www.polity.co.uk/book.asp?ref=9780745650289">Work's Intimacy</a>, a book by Mel Gregg, has been sitting on my shelf at work for many months. I haven't had time to read it. I'm writing about intimacy, but the intimacy of young people's sex and friendships, so while the title initially piqued my interest, I put it aside because the content was not relevant to my current need. But I was keen to read it, so added it to the 'for later' pile. I have been rationalising my reading habits for the good part of a decade now (i.e. forever). When I picked it up this morning and read the introduction, it was a confronting read. This is my life.<br />
<br />
Before I went there:<br />
I've been having gut issues again, so last night at R's house I didn't drink, I didn't have chocolate, I sipped mineral water as we watched a film. I felt my stomach grow tense. I'm thinking that my fear of being sick is generative of sickness, because there's no other explainable reason. Other than stress. My to-do list is not shrinking, but growing, and I'm juggling too many roles which I've never been good at. I'm struggling to retain a hold of 'responsible-me'. I'm lying in bed this morning, being held and caressed in ways that should have comforted me, but instead I feel ashamed, embarrassed, pathetic; "I've got to go home." I walk up the hill and my reflection in windows tells me I should have fixed my bed-hair. Everyone is walking to work and nobody is happy. I feel weak and hideous. I make it home and I breathe easier. I run a bath. I make a cup of tea. I say "fuck work" (for now), and take this book to the bath. <br />
<br />
It unsettles me more, of course. What I'm reading here is my story and the story of many like me: the 24/7 worker. I'm paid to work 21 hours a week, and often take on other roles/jobs to supplement this. The rest of my week I work on my thesis. Lately, I don't really partition these roles from each other. My to-do list is a mish-mash of all things that I "do", including non work things, like sending birthday cards, or phoning a friend I promised to call weeks ago. <br />
<br />
I use social media at work and feel bad for doing so, for communicating 'off topic' with friends. Yet all the list making and emailing I do for work while I'm at home is just par for the course and I don't count those minutes. I can't count those minutes. Minutes thinking about work and what I need to do tomorrow or next week are countless. I would need some brain meter to calculate this, because my mind just goes there, and then it seems necessary to make a note of something or send that email, because otherwise I'd forget, again. So I do what I feel like I have to before going back to the things I'm doing, and it doesn't make sense to calculate time spent thinking, acting, noting, what I should confine to my work life. Besides, who's got time to count minutes. Doing so would mean attempting to divide my practices into many separate strands. But this is not how work is done. If I'm 'working' I'll often find some material useful for studies. If I'm talking about my thesis I'll invariably end up talking about work. If I'm tackling my inbox, then I'm reading and responding to all things, in no distinctive order. My mind wonders between my roles in no logical fashion, but in response to the stimulus I'm getting from colleagues, friends, peers, emails, readings, etc. <br />
<br />
I just want to get by. I want to enjoy my work and I want to enjoy time with friends. I do all of this, but I guess at this particular moment, this morning, I'm looking for sanctuary. But instead, I take downtime to look into an uncomfortable mirror. I see myself clearly as that person who struggles to be efficient, competent, and hardworking so that I might forge a position for myself in which I can pay my rent and enjoy my friends, work, family, travels, etc. I'm doing exactly what I never wanted to. I'm working for a living, but I've failed, because I feel more insecure and unsure than when I began this journey. <br />
<br />
And I guess this is a blip of a minor existential crisis and it will pass. And I want it to. I feel safer knowing that I will not see these things tomorrow. I feel angry about this system, and enlightened by this book, but hopeful that I can continue to feel connected to the world through my work, which is how it often is. It saddens me that my vision of self-worth looks to my work/study-related outputs, but it does. And so I need to keep going and publishing and progressing so that I can feel good about myself in years to come. And to ensure that my rent is covered. I defer thinking up an escape plan until next year. Because I don't have time for planning right now. My to-do list is already too long.pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-73630182415405786042013-08-11T16:49:00.003+10:002013-08-11T16:54:06.429+10:00lists, photos, paris, packingand so it happens again. i'm packing up another home for this year. my six week stay here is soon over. once again i make piles of my stuff and grimace at the volume. this will not do. why can't i be lighter than this?<br />
<br />
and there's all those files and papers that i was meant to go through and discard, but i've barely made a dent.<br />
<br />
and i'm a bit sad to leave another home, but happy for the experience of being here. with each new home, a few more changes, and a different me moves out and on to the next place. <br />
<br />
in this place i cook a lot, i try to be more healthy, i ride to and from work, i drive a car, i watch <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2372162/?ref_=sr_1">Orange is the New Black</a>, i listen to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Random_Access_Memories">Daft Punk</a>, i remember what it's like to live alone and choose to keep doing this.<br />
<br />
as always, i've made endless lists on scraps of paper which litter the kitchen table and haunt me as i pass. as always, i aim for 'being organised'.<br />
<br />
soon i'll have a postcode i've never had before, but one shared by several loved ones, which is always important in sydney. i have this here too, and back there. but this time i'll have a lease, a small apartment, and a new arrangement of my stuff (if it fits). it feels a bit like when i was 18 and moving out for the first time. no longer reliant on my 'family' to put a roof over my head.<br />
<br />
the sun is out; another sign of promise. it's not unlike summer in paris, where my thoughts are. today (yesterday) two of my favourite people meet in paris for the first time, in my favourite apartment; my other home. in photos, their arms wrap around each other. worlds colliding, or folding, or shrinking. i can't help feeling proud. i did that. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8HrZCNCqIS3CPTiIERr5dRbzTeBQ1VN3OUZn-BbK8TqIKNc1YRk3sHRuQ4RxN68MYTWnWjUSim0ypxFBkFovewMsrLSg-5NYKH-bbSBqN_vRAk0omScU-OBzMdtcoao6EcKDz4tOnq2NV/s1600/paris+hug.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8HrZCNCqIS3CPTiIERr5dRbzTeBQ1VN3OUZn-BbK8TqIKNc1YRk3sHRuQ4RxN68MYTWnWjUSim0ypxFBkFovewMsrLSg-5NYKH-bbSBqN_vRAk0omScU-OBzMdtcoao6EcKDz4tOnq2NV/s400/paris+hug.jpeg" /></a></div>pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-59381049672093245732013-08-01T17:31:00.002+10:002013-08-01T17:31:42.166+10:00i remember touch1) househunting is no fun. <br />
2) nor is your lover being on the other side of the world. <br />
3) nor is self-discipline. <br />
<br />
but all of these things give shape to my life at present. <br />
<br />
i focus on the last of these which has its rewards. i change my diet (wholefoods, low sugar) so that i no longer feel my body twisting and groaning and causing fatigue. i recommence swimming and remember what it's like to return to the computer with a clear head and the ability to digest words. i re-draft two chapters for my supervisor. combined, these things make me feel better, and give me less grief in thinking about points 1 and 2.<br />
<br />
sydney is <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/jul/24/australia-housing-shortage-debt">too expensive</a>. but i'm now forging a repetoire of home-cooked cheap meals, so i'm almost ready to suck it up and pay half my salary as rent, in the hope that this will be temporary. <br />
<br />
i'm listening to this song a lot.<br />
<br />
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/XfH3erWacsQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<br />
yes, i remember touch. it's coming up two weeks (the halfway point) and it's an itch of a memory that i can't shed. i look to see what <a href="http://grindr.com">substitutes</a> may be around, but nothing appeals. besides, i'm no longer in the age bracket of appeal in this world, so do little but awkwardly witness a series of banal self-representations. it's as nourishing as commercial tv.<br />
<br />
this song, however, is exquisite. it's like phantom of the opera meets sci-fi memories of times when affection was had. the remembrance of touch. and it doesn't fail to cite disco: a hopeful mode of nostalgia if there ever was one. yes, of course i will survive. and my emotional state is clearly the driving force behind this song. the beat is terribly inconsistent but it makes more sense that way. it feels more real, and also not.<br />
pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-69494015891563778212013-07-21T18:34:00.001+10:002013-07-21T18:41:29.724+10:00angry sundaytoday i'm angry about <a href="http://www.theage.com.au/national/welcome-to-australia-but-the-new-policy-says-go-20130720-2qbdy.html" target="_blank">this</a> country. i'm reading and posting and commenting on the Rudd government's new refugee <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2013/jul/19/kevin-rudd-statement-asylum-seekers" target="_blank">policy</a>. from now on, any refugee arriving in Australia by boat will be sent to Papua New Guinea. so Australia sheds itself from any responsibility in helping many refugees, instead deporting them so that their treatment, conditions, and rights need not be considered by the Australian government. it's being framed as a deterrent against <a href="http://www.menzieshouse.com.au/2011/09/asylum-seekers-and-people-smugglers.html" target="_blank">'people smugglers'</a>, of course, yet regardless of caricaturing them as criminal evil-doers (hang on, aren't they also enablers, and people who save people?), this policy impacts upon 'the victims' that Rudd is pretending to fight for: asylum seekers. Rudd is saying '<a href="http://www.smh.com.au/national/baby-boy-found-dead-search-for-survivors-after-asylum-seeker-boat-capsizes-20130713-2pwf8.html" target="_blank">lives</a> are at stake', and so deterrence measures are required. yes, the value of lives is being used to justify a policy that is actually very negligent of lives. hello <a href="http://users.manchester.edu/FacStaff/MPLahman/Homepage/BerkebileMyWebsite/doublespeak.pdf" target="_blank">doublespeak</a>.<br />
<br />
maybe i don't know enough about the issue - we keep being told that it's a "complex issue" after all. and maybe i'm being too emotional in my response, but maybe that's valid. because the coldness of the Rudd 'solution' is something we should be disgusted, angered, and hurt by. this is not what politics should be. and this seems to be the difficulty <a href="http://matlynn.blogspot.com.au/2013/07/australias-day-of-shame.html?spref=tw" target="_blank">many of us</a> are facing.<br />
<br />
and of course it's all about winning votes in marginal seats. there's a clear and obvious history of Australian electioneering that uses the lives of others (or irrational fears of otherness) to do so:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/VaneoaU9Xi4" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
materials that offer <a href="http://refugeefacts.cpd.org.au/" target="_blank">facts</a> and <a href="http://theconversation.com/factcheck-are-asylum-seekers-really-economic-migrants-15601" target="_blank">evidence</a> about asylum seeker and refugee issues in Australia are surfacing, and this is great to see, but i wonder if they're read by anyone not already left-aligned. and i guess, i too have a fear of otherness, but my phobia is of those who appear impervious to compassion, and of a political landscape in which this not challenged, but accepted, and worked into national policy.<br />
<br />
lastly, and mostly, i just need to say "fuck you Kevin Rudd".pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-58652649958072737702013-04-22T12:11:00.002+10:002013-04-22T12:11:54.975+10:00rats, as far as you know, do not play pinballGeorges Perec, A Man Asleep, excerpt:<br />
<br />
"But rats, as far as you know, do not play pinball. You hug the machines for hours on end, for nights on end, feverishly, angrily. You cling, grunting, to the machines, accompanying the erratic rebounds of the steel ball with exaggerated thrusts of your hips. You wage relentless warfare on the springs, the lights, the figures, the channels.<br />
<br />
Painted ladies who give an electronic wink, who lower their fans. You can't fight against a tilt. You can play or not play. You can't start up a conversation, you can't make it say what it will never be able to say to you. It is no use snuggling up close to it, panting over it, the tilt remains insensitive to the friendship you feel, to the love which you seek, to the desire which torments you. Six thousand points, when four thousand four hundred are enough for a replay, will only add to your bruises, will only beat you down a little further."pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-65171167517206615092012-11-06T00:07:00.000+11:002012-11-06T00:09:37.003+11:00peppermint tea, Suede, a phone call<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjaK5bX6-SqYtSDRqyT5v5BmpB4MJB5LKs_r4Fu8I_OL3rnuCt0Cw4qTaWs9SkPW-2oCUaW6wwNr49rDLGM0B8OeOCBSIAA05DUPfs6Jelrm0hb9SQRwajVY55NXfUb-DzZyILrcGYd9J/s1600/suede.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="215" width="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjaK5bX6-SqYtSDRqyT5v5BmpB4MJB5LKs_r4Fu8I_OL3rnuCt0Cw4qTaWs9SkPW-2oCUaW6wwNr49rDLGM0B8OeOCBSIAA05DUPfs6Jelrm0hb9SQRwajVY55NXfUb-DzZyILrcGYd9J/s320/suede.jpg" /></a></div><br />
today was the first day of my new work-to-death schedule. over-commitment, once again, in a final burst of money making (in preparation for a year of poverty and thesis making). <br />
<br />
i'm surrounded by taureans: people like me. people a little bit grounded, a little bit distant, rather independent, and somewhat predictable. i can point to 6 whom i've had recent dealings with and i feel like they're keeping me a little bit focused and a little bit upright. i need that. <br />
<br />
and tonight was the phone call to suggest a week off for some space and some time. because i need some thinking time. and so does he. i didn't enjoy the conversation but i enjoyed the feeling afterwards. my week has freed itself up for more work, more time with friends, and finding some of that taurean ground that seems to be missing.<br />
<br />
and i'm trying not to think too much about one of those taureans. i'm trying not to fuck up friendships. i'm aiming for chastity. so it's a fine time to put my head down and work.pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-55896897054702839192012-10-21T17:22:00.002+11:002012-10-21T21:09:02.816+11:00weekend dramaall relationships are hard work. relationships that define themselves as 'not-relationships' are particularly hard. the experiment exists beyond a model, so when things go askew there's no fallback position. there's no default setting. there's just me and him having awkward conversations in the dark. there's misunderstandings. there's the surfacing of words said that i'd forgotten. words that resonated for him. words heard differently. and so we twist them around and pass them back and forth, endlessly. <br />
<br />
after dinner, when we're alone, the temperature drops. he's making the bed. he's showering. he's busying himself. i'm laying on the bed, unable to find words to disrupt this awkward drama. <br />
<br />
lights are out. his voice is unsteady. there's anger there. there's a slow undressing of all our insecurities, hesitations, dilemmas. i fall asleep and wake in an empty flat. disorientation. it's impossible not to feel alone when you're alone in this flat. he's never not here. his phone is there, his wallet too, but no him. <br />
<br />
a few hours later (or minutes), there's me and him and more words. there's me staring at those curtains - cream with brown lines - moving in the breeze. and i think this is the last time i'll look at these curtains from this bed. this is my last time here; with that thought, i drink it in. mostly i stare at the curtains that dance freely in the breeze. the only movement, as we lay still amongst our words.<br />
<br />
hours (or minutes) pass until we're holding each other again. i lay on top of him and kiss his lips. he says 'it's about time'. we take to each other like starving animals. few words now, just other sounds as we travel in and out of each other. the curtains probably still dance, but who cares. i'm no longer planning my exit. i'm somewhere else and it's not a place i can describe easily. except to say it's nice. and i stay there for the rest of this day, even now, at home, alone (but so not alone). <br />
<br />
before we leave his flat i try to push him into the hallway in his underwear. he says i'm mean. i say 'if you love me you'll walk into the hallway naked'. he says 'but i don't love you.' exactly. and this is what it feels like to not be alone.pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-45104741980078976482012-10-06T12:40:00.001+10:002012-10-08T00:27:13.402+11:00for all we know<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/XK4tmKtpw54" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<br />
This song occupies that lovely space before kissing, or maybe after kissing, but either way, the space of departing from the one you love and not knowing if you’ll see them again. “A kiss that is never tasted, forever and ever is wasted”. Indeed. But this space is cause for shyness, and often I don’t lean in for that kiss when I probably should, and this leads to many open-ended dates, conversations, and looks of uncertainty. Once I like you, I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to risk the chance of never seeing you again. So I make plans that include you. I schedule a friendship that is nice, lovely even, but it precludes us from tasting kisses. And I’m not as positive as Billie Holiday. I rarely have her casual attitude to love. She knows that there’ll be other loves and a future of many kisses. I need to take a page from her book. I need to step back and imagine tomorrow’s kisses; those tasted and wasted, real or fantastic. And of course there'll be more lingering on the streets, on train platforms, and after final words drop. “We won’t say goodnight until the last minute”. Indeed. There we are in the Métro, talking quietly and letting trains pass. Like clockwork they slide on by. I say I’ll take the next one, the next one... okay, the last one. And of course, I want your lips on mine, but they brush each side of my face. It almost feels right. And I slip away from you wondering if that was the last kiss. It’s always the last kiss. But for now I wake up in the wrong continent. “For all we know, this may be a dream”.<br />
<br />
pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-5167980449544362792012-10-02T18:14:00.001+10:002012-10-02T18:14:26.979+10:00meeting motheri'm meeting his mother tonight. not sure why i thought this would be a good idea. i guess i want to impress him. i guess i want to see how it feels. i guess i wonder what she's like, and what she might think of me. though i don't suppose she knows much about me. and her partner will be there too. and we're going to that place where we often eat. (but things will feel different, because it's me, him, his mother, her partner). <br />
<br />
i'm there as a friend, i think. but who knows what their conversation will hold on the way to the restaurant. i guess she'll connect some dots at dinner. and i'm confused by what it will feel like and how i'm to behave. (do i kiss him on the lips?). <br />
<br />
meeting mum is so counter to our relationship, which might best be called an anti-relationship. perhaps meeting mum doesn't have to be weird, in that case, because it needn't mean what we expect it to mean. (relax; there'll be wine).<br />
<br />
i imagine i'll be asked 'what do you do?' which could be interesting, because in this time of 'hanging out' we've not really gone there. we know the basics, but these aspects are irrelevant. work is that place we go to after we crawl out of each other's beds. so many mornings of moving around each other as we shower, dress, and leave for work. and we don't need to know what we 'do' after we part on the corner, in the park, or at the top of the stairs. (i don't want to not kiss him on the lips)pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-89171600400995221982012-09-21T15:51:00.000+10:002012-09-21T15:51:23.910+10:00technologies of the selvesso i started a new facebook account. <br />
<br />
firstly, it was part of a cyclic purging that i observe myself doing; it's about realising that i spend too much time administrating my friendships, social connections, and related participation in semi-public dialogues. the purge is fueled by my phobia of time (there's not enough hours in the day, apparently), and thus if i limit my social/friendship/procrastination potential, i can take back some time to do things more necessary (as though things and people can be wedged apart). secondly, it was a reaction to the FB 'timeline' format which presented the last 5 years back to me as if to say 'here, we wrote your autobiography'. no! my autobiography is not linear, technologically determined, or the sum of my online performance. so the point was to self-delete and start afresh with pseudonym (one familiar to you if you read this) and clear slate. no photos, just words, and an agenda to script a new autobiography. <br />
<br />
but then i found i couldn't self-delete. i found that i've built a web of connections with people, information, and news sources, and a culture of play that actually eases my concerns about time/production. and i've been able to bond with people, or stay looped in with faraway people, which maybe wouldn't happen otherwise. so i remain undeleted. <br />
<br />
surveillance is a concern, of course. but this week i noted a 'come join the police force' ad in my margin, and that gave me hope. the spambots and data filters are taking my words and generating misfired messages. surely i've said 'fuck the police' in the course of my recent techno-performative networked history, and it seems the words are returned to me by mechanisms that misread. so perhaps the machine (for now) cannot know/shape/profile me at all. <br />
<br />
plus, the machine doesn't read sarcasm, irony, or subtle and local cultures of performativity. the machine doesn't realise that what informs my words are the conversations that it is not privy to. much of my daily life evades it.<br />
<br />
i was speaking to a friend this week who said she intentionally floods the web with her name so as to be less accountable for having a true online presence, and to exist as fragmentary, evasive, and promiscuously performative. these are my words, not hers, but this is what i take from the conversation. i have a new lover who has no concern for privacy and floods his FB page with endless raging words and drunken photos. i like his carelessness. because being careful is tedious. and maintaining privacy is something that takes much time, effort, and paranoia (all for no reward, because privacy, in any context, can never be guaranteed).<br />
<br />
so now i have two accounts/selves, and in many ways my pseudonym is more me than me. there, like here, i am less conscious of who's watching, because maybe they don't even know who they're watching. i'm just a string of words that can be overwritten/re-written/de-written next week.pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-56194599768120714372012-07-28T07:19:00.001+10:002012-07-28T07:19:25.074+10:00harissai was going to meet P tonight, for sex, but a sore throat told me not to. i suggest sunday instead. his messages are full of txt speak, so i struggle to comprehend. during the week it seemed as though he said he stabbed his boss, but he didn't. <br />
<br />
it's friday night and i thought about going to see a film. but i lay on the couch and realise i don't need to, that i can go to bed early. that i can finish watching Les Parapluies de Cherbourg. <br />
<br />
i made a morrocan tajine with plenty of garlic and harissa. now i'm sitting at the kitchen bench sweating through every pore. the room feels like a sauna, which is great. i flood myself with lemon water and know that this'll make me better tomorrow. i listen to this:<br />
<br />
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/oboQPthybIE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<br />
R sent me this link and i can't stop playing it. it makes 'heart of glass' into a whole new text; melancholic and dreamy. and i guess being here, being pleasantly alone, makes the song all the more poignant. there is nothing to disrupt the attention i give to this song and the feelings it evokes.<br />
<br />
four more days, four more nights. before i know it i'm back, working, studying, falling into the same old stresses. as always, i think i've transcended my demons. i think that being away gives me a new outlook on what i'm doing in sydney. but life will get in the way, of course.<br />
<br />
D stays tomorrow night, so i hope to be fit and slept and energetic in case we go out for dinner and drinks, which is likely. he'll speak to me in french and i'll not understand. i'll try to play the game only to get frustrated and give up. it's easier to bumble my way through french with strangers than people like D, because what we have to say requires a broader vocabulary. one day, with him and all the others, i hope to express things bilingually. and with two languages, more can be said.<br />pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-221596447841965292012-07-17T10:35:00.000+10:002012-07-17T10:35:30.460+10:00textoa sad parisian writes a text message.<br />
<br />
"You seem to be what we call in french quelqu'un de bien. I wish you a very sweet night."<br />
<br />
a sad non-parisian finds comfort in the words of a stranger. yet again.<br />
<br />pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-22405257134943428082012-07-04T18:16:00.002+10:002012-07-04T18:16:58.163+10:00the last three paragraphs[...]<br />
<br />
Last night we’re jumping between French and English. It seems we now have rules. If one says something in French, the other will respond in French, and this will continue until we hit a wall and have to explain something in English. You’re a brilliant teacher, patient and proud. This is another reason you’ll be missed. <br />
<br />
I’ll learn French for you. One day we can talk differently and I’ll not have to say ‘quoi?’<br />
<br />
You told me what to say when I go to the phone shop, and how to ask for credit. I have little recollection of these words, but I must go there this morning. You offered to come with me, but I know you’re busy, and I know it’s best for me to do these things alone. But my head is still throbbing, so I think I’ll wait a little longer. I just can’t text M back, I suppose, but that’s okay. I don’t even know if I want to see him. I don’t know much about anything, right now. I know I’m hungry and in need of coffee. I know I’d like croissants, but that would require me leaving the apartment. I know that this won’t happen. Stale brioche will have to suffice. <br />
<br />pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-20934317818033202112012-05-10T10:27:00.002+10:002012-05-10T10:27:25.619+10:00university makes me wildyesterday was restless and resentful. after reading about the sad state of universities, i once again wondered why i still want to be part of the machine. once again, i look around for something that suits me better, but i see nothing that will pay me a wage. and so maybe i have to be in the machine, and stay satisfied through a commitment to its disruption. <br />
<br />
this morning i wonder about the possibilities of being 'wild' in a system that expects compliance and productivity. Certeau says:<br />
<br />
"the name 'wild' both creates and defines what the scriptural economy situates outside of itself. It is moreover immediately given its essential predicate; the wild is transitory; it marks itself (by smudges, lapses, etc.) but it does not write itself. It alters a place (it disturbs), but it does not establish a place" (Practice of Everyday Life, p155).<br />
<br />
by 'the scriptural economy' certeau refers to a world that likes to order and classify (through science, history-making, research, etc.) by a process of transcription. all knowledge must be scriptural (despite the fact that transcription alters voices, bodies, and lived practices). transcription both tames what is considered wild, but also names things 'wild' so as to distance these from the person/organisation who holds the pen. but... at the same time, that which is wild continues to obfuscate, disrupt, and challenge such systems. 'wildness' cannot be extracted from society, because it does not inhabit a proper place. by never establishing a place (a system of its own), 'wildness' continues to flourish and disrupt, to mark and smudge the institutions that seek to diminish it, or the language that seeks to contain it (by pinning it down and writing it away). but it can never do this, because 'wildness' operates beyond a scriptural economy. thus, there's a continual opening for untamed, wild practices, and a continued ability to fuck with systems. <br />
<br />
i've been listening to shakespears sister lately, and suddenly it makes more sense. just like this video. <br />
<br />
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/v5coA8mPaQs" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<br />
i guess, when faced with challenges in the world of academia, i just need to ask myself 'what would catwoman do?'pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-71224343497263691372012-05-06T18:54:00.000+10:002012-05-06T18:55:45.182+10:00returning againi'm adjusting to the time and space of what i call home. the best thing ever is my bed. (i'm laying on it now). it's here that i slept for about 13 hours last night. the best sleep ever. a sleeping pill assisted, but still... best sleep ever.<br />
<br />
strange to have all this familar space around me. rooms of furniture and crockery and shelves holding all this stuff which is often my stuff. stuff that i guess i don't need, because i spent time away from it and forgot that it existed. there's always too much stuff. and it always returns with a quick intensity. and in days from now i'll forget that this refamiliarising ever took place. i'll be distracted by less material things, like plans for a future and questions of 'what next?'. but today (and yesterday) is about the present moment. i don't feel guilty for doing nothing, which is also a great space to be. sadly, it won't last. <br />
<br />
today D and i went to the market for a walk, a coffee, and a long talk under a big tree. we sit under a good climbing tree and before long kids are circling us, cutting between us, and climbing us to get into the tree. one kid asks for some help in getting up and i say it's a big tree and he might fall. he says he's 5 so it's okay. i say i think you have to be 7 to climb this one. he ignores me, of course, and climbs it without my help. <br />
<br />
i speak to D about 'time in Morocco' and how things aren't so scheduled or planned there. risk is of less importance. lives aren't so intensely focused on futures, and these are the things i envied and wanted. i want to live life on the streets, i want my self (my goals, my career, my image, my etc.) to be less important than the communities i'm part of. i want less restrictions caused by a very western notion of time. but of course, i don't want the poverty (and thus, the limited mobility) that goes with this. which makes me that annoying tourist who is fascinated by 'others', and by my inability to ever appropriate their ways. though i guess this is better than being repulsed by others. <br />
<br />
at casablanca airport a woman with an australian passport is in the queue in front of me, heading into departures. an arabic couple re-join the queue next to her, and with the approval of others (they were there earlier, but had to go fill out departure cards), they go ahead of her. she protests loudly, and says it's not fair. she looks at me and says "typical. they're always pushing in, any chance they get. maybe if we vomit on them they'll know..." and i'm quite dumbfounded and cannot respond. i stare blankly. let's pretend i'm french and can't understand this woman. and i <i>can't</i> understand her. i can't understand what prompted these words. why vomit? and why is she here then, in an arabic country, if her hatred is this strong? i hide my passport. i don't want to share any similarity with her. i want the group of women behind me to take me into their world and protect me from her kind. i wanted them to adopt me before the crazy woman anyway, because the whole time i queued i felt the trickling of their soft laughter. i couldn't understand their words either, but their laughter offered comfort and assurance. when i'm alone in foreign countries, smiles and laughter make everything okay. <br />
<br />
the second time i hate an 'australian' person is on my flight to sydney, when another middle-aged white woman complains to everyone around her about some noisy twins who are probably two and half years old. they sing/whine in a language that she or i can't understand. the repetition gets tedious at times, but they're cute, so this makes it bearable (like with kittens). the woman says to me and the woman in front of me "is the mother doing anything!?" i shrug and look away. again, i don't speak your language. i'm not sure i can keep using this tactic outside airports and airplanes, but it's probably worth a try.<br />
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D states the obvious today when he says that the more 'educated' we become, the more questions we have. we're talking about the election he just voted in, the racial politics of right-wing parties scapegoating others, and why this continues to win votes. he says that politicians don't appeal to the logic of those who question everything. we're also talking about my envy of mediterranean lifestyles that are less hinged upon time, risk, and the pursuit of individuality. of course, these differences are only obvious to me through my 'educated' worldview, and it's this very worldview that places a rift between the life i have and the life i want. as always, my knowledge fractures my possibilities.pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-36031745477913537512012-04-23T02:07:00.002+10:002012-04-23T02:07:59.989+10:00resonancei said my goodbyes, walked through the rain, returned to this room. it's quiet. i miss it already, my favourite conference. the radio is turned on to lessen the quiet. radio 2 is playing bowie and i crunch on wasabi peas.<br />
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i have much to say: on sex, research, and sex research. too much, so i'll just see where this goes...<br />
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in last night's keynote, <a href="http://libidot.org/blog/">Katrien Jacobs</a> spoke about the importance of writing one's own pleasure into one's research on pleasure. indeed, the merging of artist and researcher affords a more complex discussion that doesn't have to dissolve the author's body. and the author's body was appearing all through this conference. whilst i took issue with a paper on arabic-themed gay porn, i loved when the presenter paused to admire and envy the power-bottom skills of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fran%C3%A7ois_Sagat">François Sagat</a>. in her talk today, <a href="http://www.hum.utu.fi/oppiaineet/mediatutkimus/ihmiset/susanna.html">Susanna Paasonen</a> spoke of 'somatic archives', and argued that studies of affect can only ever begin with your own experiences. she spoke about resonance and made me finally see the merit of studying affect.<br />
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i made new friends. <br />
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i imagined there'd be lovely queer men here and i was right. i found myself in many conversations with them. lovely yet awkward conversations. i noticed that we'd congregate often, the younger (myself on the cusp) queer male sect. we sniffed each other out like vampires. we'd share the same meal table. we'd talk about our research and it seemed flirtatious. or maybe i just don't know how to read this. but i catch and distribute glances. we're open to each other. we're open to each others' ideas. and that offers more erotic charge than a cute smile. yet there are cute smiles too. we bond over bad food and being stranded on a faraway campus in the middle of... somewhere. <br />
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tonight i'm having dinner with e, the only other remaining sect member. we didn't get to talk much, but he seems lovely. we were awkward. i might see e2 in london tomorrow, though he wasn't my favourite. but maybe it'll be nice to explore parts of the city with a follow stranger. in paris i'll see f and b. <br />
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i just met f last night. here there were electric currents. i liked the way he smiled this morning when we caught each other's eye. i like the way he speaks. he researches porn, and watches the favourite porn of his research participants, recording his reaction. he inserts himself into his research and into the pleasures of others. he invited me to his fan culture conference this week, but it's the day i leave paris. of course i want him. <br />
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but i'm good. and i'm thinking about the man back home. and i'm thinking about myself. and i'm thinking that a look can hold more power than an orgasm. because a look remains open. that smile stays with me.pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-48675227399200428912012-04-21T17:21:00.002+10:002012-04-21T17:28:44.831+10:00breakfast in bedpeople in england talk funny. it's funny being in a strange place and being able to understand the locals (for the most part). sometimes it feels like i'm in france, but this is probably just because that's my reference point for traveling. but this is england. and it's a strange place. not in a bad way. <br />
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yesterday i gave a paper and afterwards a man who spoke like ian curtis gave me his business card.<br />
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i think about Little Britain more than i wish too. i'm on the outskirts of london and i'm noticing class more than i would in sydney. maybe i need to visit the outskirts of sydney someday. <br />
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i'm still not sleeping. last night was 5 hours, the night before 4, and 5 before that. before that i was on planes so i got 0 hours. last night at dinner i heard myself babbling and i wondered if i was making sense. i needed to sleep. i also needed not to wake up at 4.30. and today is a full day of presentations to watch.<br />
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i'm eating chocolate for breakfast. with no sense of time, no ability to sleep, ongoing disorientation, and being upside down in the world, i figure that's okay.<br />
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<br />pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7554009558425884578.post-73502208302797373332012-03-09T02:58:00.000+11:002012-03-09T12:06:24.827+11:00Les Bien-amés<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIbVu1aRpL9S9h1bBXbKhuSHLfNjCYdQNbLhvgkcl-9K9qUIfFhT5oC3_HhxRyxjX5yqiXEMtUlV70NbpfaUTSFLxg0V37EGVrPSoYKUPK6Sq9dRHn6L1X-oiwfoXXL97cxAiRrmSomwKj/s1600/Les_bien-aimes_00194_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIbVu1aRpL9S9h1bBXbKhuSHLfNjCYdQNbLhvgkcl-9K9qUIfFhT5oC3_HhxRyxjX5yqiXEMtUlV70NbpfaUTSFLxg0V37EGVrPSoYKUPK6Sq9dRHn6L1X-oiwfoXXL97cxAiRrmSomwKj/s320/Les_bien-aimes_00194_01.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Tonight I saw <i>Les Bien-aimés (Beloved)</i>, the latest film by Christophe Honoré.<br />
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Once again, I think it's possible that I could be an Honoré character. These characters encircle each other, fall for each other, and relate to each other in disorderly ways. They take risks and get burned. Or they don’t take risks and get burned anyway. They seek connection with others, or seek to heighten connections already made. Often their closeness to others is overshadowed by attempts to get something more, or to find something new with someone who's not available to them. Tensions lie in the struggles between what's impossible and what's comfortable. Eruptions occur. These dramas come from small places; the simmering lava of internal crevices. And once again these characters and their dramas sneak up on me. They sing about love in the streets of Paris, which could generate the worst film ever. But no, because Honoré wields love songs in such a way that they entice and pierce. Every cliché is laced with a sour reality. Characters sing for clarity, lyrics repeat, a chorus returns again and again, and this is what we all experience. We sing ourselves into the scenarios we perform. We each have choruses to return to. We find ourselves in a song whose tensions rise and fall in familiar patterns. It's a comfortable tune, but not necessarily a happy one. I'm open to being enticed by this film because I'm terribly in love with these scenes, actors, characters, and songs. I love that it was two and half hours long. I could have sat for many more, choking back tears, holding my breath, feeling all-too-familiar sensations as I semi-consciously trawl through my own difficult relations, past and present. <br />
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In tonight’s film a father speaks to his adult daughter about courage. She says she’s never been cautious in love, and he says this is a good thing, that courage is important. He says it’s good to aim for the impossible. Doing so leads to a failure of sorts, but what's important is courageousness. This struck a chord with me. I've had some setbacks with my studies once again, and further fears of never completing. And maybe he's right. Maybe it's good to strive for things that might be impossible. Because courage matters more. Courage builds character and generates new experiences. Perhaps it also ensures that failing is never really about failure. <br />
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The friend I saw it with didn’t feel the same way about this film. He didn’t love the almost-melodrama, the tenderness, the central theme of finding and losing oneself through love. I was disappointed by this.<br />
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Earlier in the film one character sings to another that she doesn't need him to love her, but knows that she will love him forever. The song returns later and reminds me that this is what's going on here - the film is about how one's sense of self is generated through their relations to others, and this self is particularly intensified in relations of love. It's possible to have love without the other person loving you back, because while that person is there, you can still construct your self through this love. But when they're dead or gone forever, you lose your sense of self. It's pretty much what Barthes wrote about in <i>A Lover's Discourse</i>, about the image-repertoire as a projection that begins and ends not with the loved one, but the lover herself. Once the loved one is gone, the subject (the lover) becomes the absent one, and falls into crisis. Thus, we struggle to re-gain ourselves all the time, over and again, falling victim to a well-rehearsed chorus of loss.pablo sayshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776615933362290829noreply@blogger.com0