and then i go on this date. breakfast in newtown. with the man i wish had a different name to my ex. but what can you do? and i felt something, but i'm not sure what. and i'm not sure why it worries me. and i guess it relates to that last post, to hocquenghem, to the fear of being dragged under. maybe i'm like D and am just one of those people who fall quickly and often. he's sharp, lovely, pretty, sincere. what's not to fall for?
and just now, after teaching, being tired and somewhat fragile, i message him. his response is slow, but arrives. where there might be anticipation for the response, there is fear. i read rejection before it happens. i preempt. i cut myself off to prevent later damage. but it's damage nonetheless. only it's a damage that i control. it's fucking ridiculous and i'd like to just shut my eyes and fall forward.
i'm trying to shake the feeling that i should stop putting myself in these situations. that i should train myself away from desire. but that's difficult when i only find solace in the desiring text. i turn to barthes, woolf, hocquenghem, nin, genet, and others. they push me back into the flames. but i seem to like it like that.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
desiring desire
if my desire had a name, perhaps it would be guy hocquenghem. or rather, if my desire to desire and to be desired had a name...
in melbourne i stumbled upon the screwball asses. amazing. i'm in awe. it's the most lovely, crazy, throbbing rant i've read in a long time. i'm now charged by thoughts of queer revolutions.
the following passage was written for me to read now. and to keep reading, for now.
"I would like to be a gigolo offering myself to all. But when I meet a gigolo who dazzles me, who seduces with even more insolence than myself and with more of that desire to be desired, am I not just as scared of a trap as everyone else, just as scared as he is? Scared of the trap of being less desired than I myself desire, the trap that is called being in love.
"This is where we should scramble the flows, de-desire, en-desire, switch the current, disrupt the machine. But instead, we turn off the power because we are scared of suffering or of being swindled. No discipline is more sentimental than the one that represses sentiments. (p38)
and there's so much more. throughout he addresses the tendency for queer male politics to sever desire from thought. political brothers do not fuck, they only speak of fucking. because desire belongs outside of politics. but not according to hocquenghem, who addresses this paper "to those individuals with whom I cannot make love".
we speak so much of desire, always and often. we analyse it and seek to know it, as though to extract it. but why can't we speak of non-desire? why, he asks, can't we be critical of our non-desire? who in the room do we not wish to fuck and why might that be? and there's so much more. he asks:
"When shall we be able to shatter the power of words by the movement of skins?"(p84)
this statement relates to my ongoing musings (here and elsewhere) about desire. it lies beneath my own attempts to express something (here and elsewhere) beyond words. because words can't do what bodies can. words don't make me come here.
today I startled myself in the change rooms, when i caught sight of (in my reflection) a bruise above my left nipple. 'what the fuck?' then i remembered him, biting me, several days ago. a nice memory of a playful moment. a bed, a suck, a sensation. and now we're left with stains on the surface of our skin.
we exchanged words too, but these are forgotten.
in melbourne i stumbled upon the screwball asses. amazing. i'm in awe. it's the most lovely, crazy, throbbing rant i've read in a long time. i'm now charged by thoughts of queer revolutions.
the following passage was written for me to read now. and to keep reading, for now.
"I would like to be a gigolo offering myself to all. But when I meet a gigolo who dazzles me, who seduces with even more insolence than myself and with more of that desire to be desired, am I not just as scared of a trap as everyone else, just as scared as he is? Scared of the trap of being less desired than I myself desire, the trap that is called being in love.
"This is where we should scramble the flows, de-desire, en-desire, switch the current, disrupt the machine. But instead, we turn off the power because we are scared of suffering or of being swindled. No discipline is more sentimental than the one that represses sentiments. (p38)
and there's so much more. throughout he addresses the tendency for queer male politics to sever desire from thought. political brothers do not fuck, they only speak of fucking. because desire belongs outside of politics. but not according to hocquenghem, who addresses this paper "to those individuals with whom I cannot make love".
we speak so much of desire, always and often. we analyse it and seek to know it, as though to extract it. but why can't we speak of non-desire? why, he asks, can't we be critical of our non-desire? who in the room do we not wish to fuck and why might that be? and there's so much more. he asks:
"When shall we be able to shatter the power of words by the movement of skins?"(p84)
this statement relates to my ongoing musings (here and elsewhere) about desire. it lies beneath my own attempts to express something (here and elsewhere) beyond words. because words can't do what bodies can. words don't make me come here.
today I startled myself in the change rooms, when i caught sight of (in my reflection) a bruise above my left nipple. 'what the fuck?' then i remembered him, biting me, several days ago. a nice memory of a playful moment. a bed, a suck, a sensation. and now we're left with stains on the surface of our skin.
we exchanged words too, but these are forgotten.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
dental work melodrama
she handed me a piece of paper and pointed to the figure at the bottom. $690. this doesn't include today's $190. teeth are really fucking expensive. no longer having pain is expensive. root canals are boring. and i'll probably fork out more for a crown, down the track, when my gutted tooth turns grey. i hear voices saying now's a good time to get 'dental cover'. but no. insurance is evil.
so now i'm just filling in time until i can eat. i'm swollen, yet hungry. i've not eaten today. it was a late night, a difficult sleep, an early morning, an indecisive wardrobe, a prolonged bus ride to uni, a lecture to attend with course readers to hand out, a coffee to group ourselves, a timesheet to fax, a dentist to visit. and then i'm here.
flirting with the idea of taking a sick day. flashbacks to being a kid, taking an afternoon out of school to visit the dentist. hating it, but feeling some compensation by being out-of-school, and the sometimes glimpse of daytime TV. then there was the drama of having a numb face - "can i have ice-cream?" - which doesn't really work in adult interactions. so i just perform this alone, through these words, and fantasies about being in bed with a DVD. because i'm so terribly uncomfortable. and so very brave.
fuck it. i'm going home.
so now i'm just filling in time until i can eat. i'm swollen, yet hungry. i've not eaten today. it was a late night, a difficult sleep, an early morning, an indecisive wardrobe, a prolonged bus ride to uni, a lecture to attend with course readers to hand out, a coffee to group ourselves, a timesheet to fax, a dentist to visit. and then i'm here.
flirting with the idea of taking a sick day. flashbacks to being a kid, taking an afternoon out of school to visit the dentist. hating it, but feeling some compensation by being out-of-school, and the sometimes glimpse of daytime TV. then there was the drama of having a numb face - "can i have ice-cream?" - which doesn't really work in adult interactions. so i just perform this alone, through these words, and fantasies about being in bed with a DVD. because i'm so terribly uncomfortable. and so very brave.
fuck it. i'm going home.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
i-Produce
anais nin writes: "we gave ourselves to the press".
she refers here to the printing press that she, henry and gonzalo used (and struggled with) to produce books. sometimes a day's work produced one page. it was tiresome. but it was an escape, a ritual, an achievement. it was productive.
pablo writes: "i give myself to this thesis".
he knows that this is a potentially harmful and somewhat stupid way to approach things in life, but feels it necessary to repeat this mantra, for now. he was just reading about the self-governance of neo-liberal subjects (such as he, and you) who are forever occupied with the struggle to control their life, health, sanity, practices, memories, experiences... (ie. self). he's aware that self-governance is cyclic, that it just leads to further seeking of order, control, clarity. because self-control (perhaps any control) is evasive. it cannot be had. but we still push for it, and in doing so, we produce things. we produce selves. and our selves make up the machine that works towards a more productive human existence. some of us blame the system for pushing us too hard and grinding us down. but we are the system. perhaps we're too busy (producing) to notice such things.
i want to finish my phd, i want to write excellent things, and i want to create a self (through my work) that completes me.
pablo gives himself to his thesis.
she refers here to the printing press that she, henry and gonzalo used (and struggled with) to produce books. sometimes a day's work produced one page. it was tiresome. but it was an escape, a ritual, an achievement. it was productive.
pablo writes: "i give myself to this thesis".
he knows that this is a potentially harmful and somewhat stupid way to approach things in life, but feels it necessary to repeat this mantra, for now. he was just reading about the self-governance of neo-liberal subjects (such as he, and you) who are forever occupied with the struggle to control their life, health, sanity, practices, memories, experiences... (ie. self). he's aware that self-governance is cyclic, that it just leads to further seeking of order, control, clarity. because self-control (perhaps any control) is evasive. it cannot be had. but we still push for it, and in doing so, we produce things. we produce selves. and our selves make up the machine that works towards a more productive human existence. some of us blame the system for pushing us too hard and grinding us down. but we are the system. perhaps we're too busy (producing) to notice such things.
i want to finish my phd, i want to write excellent things, and i want to create a self (through my work) that completes me.
pablo gives himself to his thesis.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
new friend
My new young friend is just a friend. Two visits from him today, and tonight I was his mother. I made him lemon and ginger tea, felt his glands, made him comfortable. I gave him my company. We make good company, despite the stretch of years between us.
My new young friend is beautiful, but he is just a friend. Tonight I mentioned my confusion. "I would have jumped you by now" he said, if anything sexual was going to happen. I try not to take this as rejection, because it's not. To do so would be to put a higher value on my sex than my friendship, which is stupid. But is easy to do when one feels uncertain about the former.
If we had sex then things would turn bad, he said. And I knew this. I know this. I've said this to other people. But that didn't seem to remove its potential and my fantasising about it. Now I wish I was more adamant, more certain, more able to read and manage the situation.
But the signals were confusing. As Rod pointed out, his friends don't read Jane Eyre to him while he lies on their bed. How could that not feel romantic? So maybe I can't be too hard on myself.
My new young friend said he'll call tomorrow afternoon. We hug goodbye, once again, at the top of the stairs.
And I'm left humming this song:
My new young friend is beautiful, but he is just a friend. Tonight I mentioned my confusion. "I would have jumped you by now" he said, if anything sexual was going to happen. I try not to take this as rejection, because it's not. To do so would be to put a higher value on my sex than my friendship, which is stupid. But is easy to do when one feels uncertain about the former.
If we had sex then things would turn bad, he said. And I knew this. I know this. I've said this to other people. But that didn't seem to remove its potential and my fantasising about it. Now I wish I was more adamant, more certain, more able to read and manage the situation.
But the signals were confusing. As Rod pointed out, his friends don't read Jane Eyre to him while he lies on their bed. How could that not feel romantic? So maybe I can't be too hard on myself.
My new young friend said he'll call tomorrow afternoon. We hug goodbye, once again, at the top of the stairs.
And I'm left humming this song:
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
reflections
We meet at the bus stop and he says he's cold. He doesn't want the jacket that I'm not using; that's in my hand. The bus soon comes. He speaks a bit too loudly, but I'm not too fussed. He's intense, but again I'm not fussed. I'm used to it now.
I make us coffee and we sit on the couch. He reads aloud from the Sun-Herald. Trash. He asks if he can tear a page out. "Take the whole thing if you want". He wants to borrow Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulation. He starts reading this aloud too, and we try to make sense of it. He wants us to read it together again soon. He touches me, shows me how cold he is. I forgot. I forget that other people feel the cold more than I. I remember the heater in his room and how thick the air was. But he stayed for a couple of hours, so he must like me. I like him, but not his age. Way too young. I start thinking aloud about when I'm next free but he cuts me off, reminds me that we're neighbours and we'll just be in touch. There's no need for planning. I like this.
He's too young so I just want us to be friends. But he fascinates me too much. And the flick of eyelashes leaves me a-gush. As does his voice, his politeness, his face. And I adore his angst. Mine was never so beautiful, so direct, so contemplated.
I read in the bath, but the words are slipping away and I can't care for that book tonight. I put it down and reach for Anais Nin. She takes me where I need to be. There's passion and emotional struggle and wanting to make things with words and kindness. I wonder how much I've carved her into my own being, over the years, through reading these diaries. I sometimes catch myself, as her, surrounded by sad men, listening and caring. Wanting them, and sometimes having them. But often finding disappointment because they can't give in the way we (believe that we) give. Maybe we feel tortured by them, but we're really torturing ourselves. Yet the struggle seems necessary to feel alive, and to exist in an otherwise flat ocean between our wanting and its objects. Our struggles create waves, yet we think they come from elsewhere; beyond our doing.
I read:
In the case of withdrawal from a friendship it is difficult to tell whether it is the withdrawal of feeling which kills the warmth, or whether the warmth was a reflection. As soon as I withdrew, Robert revealed his coldness, or was it always there? To what extent do people have an independent life or reflect each other's warmth? To what extent do we call into being what we believe, see, wish in others?
(Nin, January 1942)
I make us coffee and we sit on the couch. He reads aloud from the Sun-Herald. Trash. He asks if he can tear a page out. "Take the whole thing if you want". He wants to borrow Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulation. He starts reading this aloud too, and we try to make sense of it. He wants us to read it together again soon. He touches me, shows me how cold he is. I forgot. I forget that other people feel the cold more than I. I remember the heater in his room and how thick the air was. But he stayed for a couple of hours, so he must like me. I like him, but not his age. Way too young. I start thinking aloud about when I'm next free but he cuts me off, reminds me that we're neighbours and we'll just be in touch. There's no need for planning. I like this.
He's too young so I just want us to be friends. But he fascinates me too much. And the flick of eyelashes leaves me a-gush. As does his voice, his politeness, his face. And I adore his angst. Mine was never so beautiful, so direct, so contemplated.
I read in the bath, but the words are slipping away and I can't care for that book tonight. I put it down and reach for Anais Nin. She takes me where I need to be. There's passion and emotional struggle and wanting to make things with words and kindness. I wonder how much I've carved her into my own being, over the years, through reading these diaries. I sometimes catch myself, as her, surrounded by sad men, listening and caring. Wanting them, and sometimes having them. But often finding disappointment because they can't give in the way we (believe that we) give. Maybe we feel tortured by them, but we're really torturing ourselves. Yet the struggle seems necessary to feel alive, and to exist in an otherwise flat ocean between our wanting and its objects. Our struggles create waves, yet we think they come from elsewhere; beyond our doing.
I read:
In the case of withdrawal from a friendship it is difficult to tell whether it is the withdrawal of feeling which kills the warmth, or whether the warmth was a reflection. As soon as I withdrew, Robert revealed his coldness, or was it always there? To what extent do people have an independent life or reflect each other's warmth? To what extent do we call into being what we believe, see, wish in others?
(Nin, January 1942)
Saturday, July 3, 2010
knowing about knowing and when to sleep in
i lie in bed with no intention of getting up. this is my day of nothing. a day i've been craving.
last night, around 8pm, i sent my chapter to supervisors. it's the first complete chapter draft. all paragraphs (no notes) and all structured. i'm a bit satisfied, though was wondering if it would send me over the edge. weeks of whole days working on a single argument is not good for my sanity. at times i felt that everything i ever knew fell away, had to be pushed out of me, so that my attention could be specific, and this beast could be conquered. i spent all those hours with all those words. even when i moved away it was there, like a virus. the shower was a site of realisations of things missing and connections to make, and i would have to make mental notes, constructing numbered lists to write down once i could. all-consuming and not very fun. music was my only vice, though this changed too, and i started hearing lyrics of metaphors of madness. i discovered Of Montreal. brilliant stuff. but then (having learnt to doubt my every thought), i wondered, 'were they?' so i listened to them repeatedly to make sure. perhaps mirroring other repetitious habits. the song below will always be linked to 'the production of knowledges around young people's sexual health'.
i need to not think about it for a week, yet here i am, thinking about it. i need to ease myself off this.
though it's good now and as said, i'm a bit satisfied. i ended up (as usual) writing something different to what i set out to say. i found myself saying that the production of knowledge is an always collaborative affair, therefore, health work that seeks to improve young people's knowledge levels of sexual health is questionable. because how much do they need to know? their health is not entirely theirs, and nor is knowledge. as per Lyotard, knowledge is more about competence, less about learning and reciting facts. knowledge is not exterior to practice, and intensifies around events such as STI diagnoses, which require multiple agents and relations of trust. as a collaboration, sexual health involves the individual, yet far exceeds her and her knowledge. but knowledge is never static, as much health work seems to suggest. its movement can be seen in the shifting statements that science and health have made over the years. 'what sex does' is always shifting ground. all knowledge, like any good infection, constantly mutates.
anyway, the soundtrack:
last night, around 8pm, i sent my chapter to supervisors. it's the first complete chapter draft. all paragraphs (no notes) and all structured. i'm a bit satisfied, though was wondering if it would send me over the edge. weeks of whole days working on a single argument is not good for my sanity. at times i felt that everything i ever knew fell away, had to be pushed out of me, so that my attention could be specific, and this beast could be conquered. i spent all those hours with all those words. even when i moved away it was there, like a virus. the shower was a site of realisations of things missing and connections to make, and i would have to make mental notes, constructing numbered lists to write down once i could. all-consuming and not very fun. music was my only vice, though this changed too, and i started hearing lyrics of metaphors of madness. i discovered Of Montreal. brilliant stuff. but then (having learnt to doubt my every thought), i wondered, 'were they?' so i listened to them repeatedly to make sure. perhaps mirroring other repetitious habits. the song below will always be linked to 'the production of knowledges around young people's sexual health'.
i need to not think about it for a week, yet here i am, thinking about it. i need to ease myself off this.
though it's good now and as said, i'm a bit satisfied. i ended up (as usual) writing something different to what i set out to say. i found myself saying that the production of knowledge is an always collaborative affair, therefore, health work that seeks to improve young people's knowledge levels of sexual health is questionable. because how much do they need to know? their health is not entirely theirs, and nor is knowledge. as per Lyotard, knowledge is more about competence, less about learning and reciting facts. knowledge is not exterior to practice, and intensifies around events such as STI diagnoses, which require multiple agents and relations of trust. as a collaboration, sexual health involves the individual, yet far exceeds her and her knowledge. but knowledge is never static, as much health work seems to suggest. its movement can be seen in the shifting statements that science and health have made over the years. 'what sex does' is always shifting ground. all knowledge, like any good infection, constantly mutates.
anyway, the soundtrack:
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