AnthonySEaston (12:02:22 AM): my favourite lost classic is on at 1 .
ingreatcaves (12:02:36 AM): what is it?
AnthonySEaston (12:03:23 AM): Star 80, directed by Bob Fosse
ingreatcaves (12:04:13 AM): nice!
AnthonySEaston (12:04:39 AM): im reading this Joan Accocello peice on Fosse, let me find it
AnthonySEaston (12:08:29 AM): Though his motivation often seems naive, he was nonetheless interested in who we actually are. What is forbidden? What is true? Almost everything he did was unpleasant. His work was tacky, pushy, obsessive. He was a hophead. Yet he was a moralist, of a generation that had little hope of innocence.... With all artists, we have to deal with the business of personality versus art, neurosis versus imagination. With Fosse, the imagination is smaller, the neurosis bigger. Still, he was an artist.
AnthonySEaston (12:08:36 AM): she seems to miss the point
AnthonySEaston (12:08:54 AM): the genius of fosse was the refusal of good taste, the burlesque
AnthonySEaston (12:09:05 AM): being tacky, pushy, obsessive, was an amazing gift,
AnthonySEaston (12:09:39 AM): look at the liza special, where she falls apart and reconsitutes herself, does warhol, and judy and everything inb/w
AnthonySEaston (12:09:52 AM): or the sexy nasty fascism of cabaret
AnthonySEaston (12:10:03 AM): Fossee's bad taste saved broadway
AnthonySEaston (12:13:37 AM): opinons?
ingreatcaves (12:17:45 AM): I don't know.
ingreatcaves (12:17:58 AM): I think it's something of it's time, and came to define it
ingreatcaves (12:18:08 AM): and that I'm glad it suceeded.
AnthonySEaston (12:18:08 AM): tell me more
ingreatcaves (12:20:52 AM): I think it's funny that she points out he's a "hop head"
AnthonySEaston (12:21:10 AM): he wasnt really into uppers was he
AnthonySEaston (12:26:38 AM): it got easy to do after a while didnt it
AnthonySEaston (12:26:44 AM): clichey
ingreatcaves (12:27:07 AM): it may have, but maybe not, mayb eit was all one story to him
AnthonySEaston (12:27:45 AM): what was the story
ingreatcaves (12:29:02 AM): people have got something to prove, and they do.
ingreatcaves (12:29:07 AM): it's all about them.
ingreatcaves (12:29:14 AM): they know the world.
ingreatcaves (12:29:28 AM): but it's strictly external.
AnthonySEaston (12:29:31 AM): but they dont really succeed
AnthonySEaston (12:29:42 AM): the chicago girls go to jail, the nazis win
AnthonySEaston (12:29:48 AM): stratten is murdered.
ingreatcaves (12:29:55 AM): in the terms of the show, they're true to themselves.
AnthonySEaston (12:30:40 AM): that doesnt mean they win
ingreatcaves (12:32:54 AM): what do you think they tell themselves?
AnthonySEaston (12:34:41 AM): i think they think they can stop moral decay, that there own moral decay doesnt mean anything about a soceity at large
ingreatcaves (12:36:35 AM): I think that's true.
AnthonySEaston (12:37:33 AM): which is interesting, because they all seem to be having so much fun, like he is a moralist, but he doesnt want to give up on the fucking and the drinking etc
AnthonySEaston (12:37:35 AM): you know
ingreatcaves (12:38:12 AM): "seeming to have fun" is such an obvious "good" not.
ingreatcaves (12:38:54 AM): ...
AnthonySEaston (12:39:08 AM): well most of the 70s seems to be making that mistake
AnthonySEaston (12:39:13 AM): he made that mistake
ingreatcaves (12:40:01 AM): well, you have fun, whether you like it or not, when you're the smartest objects in the universe.
AnthonySEaston (12:40:34 AM): what do you mean
ingreatcaves (12:41:11 AM): there is a strain of "is that all there is?" under the fun.
ingreatcaves (12:41:48 AM): they choose what they want for themselves, and this bob fosse production is it.
ingreatcaves (12:42:51 AM): it sucks a bit, being so self-centered.
ingreatcaves (12:43:37 AM): at least from the outside perspective!
ingreatcaves (12:43:54 AM): ...
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Friday, March 16, 2007
Some things Griel Marcus missed while writing about I Wish I was A Mole In The Ground (A Song that I have been listening to lately, as an attempt to hadnle my depression)
1) Marcus claims that Lunsford who sings it wants to be "changed into a creature insignificant and despised" (lipstick traces, 16), and claims it as a beginning of mystical negation, moving thru Elvis, to Dylan, and of course the sex pistols. He misses that it’s a prison song, and a mole in the ground, is not insignificant in this metaphor. Its the only animal that could dig deep and efficiently enough to let him escape. The mole here, then, is a metaphor for hope, an escape from the Bend.
2) When Lunsford says, in those first few lines, root that mountain down, the way that he sings it, is Appalachian, so the end consonant is dropped. So root the mountain down, thru deliberate and specific work, sounds like rue that mountain down. Rue as in repent: feel remorse for; feel sorry for; be contrite about. I like that idea, implied or not, that the mourning itself, the worrying and the guilt, of being in prison, of being unable to even provide necessities can be so strong that it can take down one of those mountains, that seemed so eternal.
3) The reference to the Bend, later on in the song, is a reference to a prison in Tennessee, the song cannot be dated from this, because folksongs add or subtract details, and the big red box often retains the most commercial, or most expected reading. Having it be a prison song makes it part of a recognized genre, but also a mystical exploration of transfiguration into something painfully literal. That’s why I like to think of it as not Bend but Bin, the Bin, “with the Rough and Rowdy Men, “ because the next words make a little more sense. Being in the Bin sounds like being in a chain gang or a hollow hiding spot, or something hidden or metallic, something where men told secrets and stories about women. It reminds me of the Last Supper, which seemed to be the first place where those stories took place.
4) Marcus talks about “an almost absolute negation, at the edge of pure nihilism, a demand to prove that the world is nothing, a demand to be next to nothing…” (Lipstick Traces, 16). But that’s not what the song says. Every time he wants to be something, a mole in the ground, a lizard in the sun, escape from the railroad men, he wants something larger for himself. The mole wants liberation (from the Bend prison, but for all men everywhere), a lizard in the spring because he wants finally to “hear his daughter sing”, and because the railroad men are literally out for his blood. Is it nihilism to want to escape those who are destroying you?
5) The railroad men, “they'll kill you when he can/
Drink up your blood like wine”. He sings the song low and steady, so every word is enunciated. Every word is spoken. I wonder if he hears the railroad, or if they didn’t provide him work, or what makes such a clear, vampiric image. But it is not only a vampiric image. The whole song (and I know that I say everything is about Jesus, but keep w. me) is so holy, because it traces the parables. The mole is the meek, its small but it inherits its mountain. The lizard basking in the sun, are the lilies of the field: “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. And yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” (Sermon on the Mount, Matthew 6:24–33 (KJV)) The workingman, here becomes the saviour, but of what? Is it just of his own martyrdom, like when in Folsom Prison Blues, Johnny Cash sings: “I hear that train coming, Its rolling down the bend, I’m stuck in Folsom Prison, But that train keeps rolling, down to San Antoine”
6) The problem is, that he is dying for someone, or escaping for someone, or wanting to be that lizard for someone. Marcus starts his essay on the song, saying “It was an account of everyday mysticism, a man dropping his plow, settling onto the ground, pulling off his boots, and summoning wishes he will never fulfill.” It is an account of every day mysticism, a man in the pen or the bin or the bend (that’s why it reminds me mightily of Johnny Cash, the Bend being what you cannot see beyond, and maybe what reminds Marcus of Elvis: “Train train, comin round, round the bend/Train train, comin round the bend/Well it took my baby, but it never will again”). A large portion of the song is about him wanting to buy a shawl for his lover (Smith id’s her as Kimby, other lyrics say Tippy, Marcus doesn’t mention her name at all). He has 90 dollars (in 1924); the immortal shawl that would make everything right was 100 bucks. He was arrested before he had the chance to collect that extra ten dollars. But the shawl was ever beyond his means, like the 16-coach train was ever beyond the bend, and Folsom Prison will never move those tracks.
7) Then the song is about escape. It is not about death, or obliterating the self, of anything else that seems hip now. It is about hope, even though hope will never be achieved. It is about praying for redemption and that extra ten bucks, for the mountain to come to Mohammed even knowing it won’t. It’s for a woman to love you, even in prison (of self, and of literal prisons.)
8) I’ve in the hospital of late, because I wanted to kill myself, and now I want to be that mole in the ground. Not because of self-destruction or suicidal tendencies. Those have passed, but because the mole ever blind, keeps sensing. He digs tunnels, makes passageways, seeks the light and seeks to escape from the ground, a small creature moving large earth. I want to be a lizard on the wall, because like the lilies of the fields, I am reminded that the sun shines on all of god’s children, and I want that extra ten bucks, because maybe things might be a bit better. Maybe Kimby will stay.
1) Marcus claims that Lunsford who sings it wants to be "changed into a creature insignificant and despised" (lipstick traces, 16), and claims it as a beginning of mystical negation, moving thru Elvis, to Dylan, and of course the sex pistols. He misses that it’s a prison song, and a mole in the ground, is not insignificant in this metaphor. Its the only animal that could dig deep and efficiently enough to let him escape. The mole here, then, is a metaphor for hope, an escape from the Bend.
2) When Lunsford says, in those first few lines, root that mountain down, the way that he sings it, is Appalachian, so the end consonant is dropped. So root the mountain down, thru deliberate and specific work, sounds like rue that mountain down. Rue as in repent: feel remorse for; feel sorry for; be contrite about. I like that idea, implied or not, that the mourning itself, the worrying and the guilt, of being in prison, of being unable to even provide necessities can be so strong that it can take down one of those mountains, that seemed so eternal.
3) The reference to the Bend, later on in the song, is a reference to a prison in Tennessee, the song cannot be dated from this, because folksongs add or subtract details, and the big red box often retains the most commercial, or most expected reading. Having it be a prison song makes it part of a recognized genre, but also a mystical exploration of transfiguration into something painfully literal. That’s why I like to think of it as not Bend but Bin, the Bin, “with the Rough and Rowdy Men, “ because the next words make a little more sense. Being in the Bin sounds like being in a chain gang or a hollow hiding spot, or something hidden or metallic, something where men told secrets and stories about women. It reminds me of the Last Supper, which seemed to be the first place where those stories took place.
4) Marcus talks about “an almost absolute negation, at the edge of pure nihilism, a demand to prove that the world is nothing, a demand to be next to nothing…” (Lipstick Traces, 16). But that’s not what the song says. Every time he wants to be something, a mole in the ground, a lizard in the sun, escape from the railroad men, he wants something larger for himself. The mole wants liberation (from the Bend prison, but for all men everywhere), a lizard in the spring because he wants finally to “hear his daughter sing”, and because the railroad men are literally out for his blood. Is it nihilism to want to escape those who are destroying you?
5) The railroad men, “they'll kill you when he can/
Drink up your blood like wine”. He sings the song low and steady, so every word is enunciated. Every word is spoken. I wonder if he hears the railroad, or if they didn’t provide him work, or what makes such a clear, vampiric image. But it is not only a vampiric image. The whole song (and I know that I say everything is about Jesus, but keep w. me) is so holy, because it traces the parables. The mole is the meek, its small but it inherits its mountain. The lizard basking in the sun, are the lilies of the field: “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. And yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” (Sermon on the Mount, Matthew 6:24–33 (KJV)) The workingman, here becomes the saviour, but of what? Is it just of his own martyrdom, like when in Folsom Prison Blues, Johnny Cash sings: “I hear that train coming, Its rolling down the bend, I’m stuck in Folsom Prison, But that train keeps rolling, down to San Antoine”
6) The problem is, that he is dying for someone, or escaping for someone, or wanting to be that lizard for someone. Marcus starts his essay on the song, saying “It was an account of everyday mysticism, a man dropping his plow, settling onto the ground, pulling off his boots, and summoning wishes he will never fulfill.” It is an account of every day mysticism, a man in the pen or the bin or the bend (that’s why it reminds me mightily of Johnny Cash, the Bend being what you cannot see beyond, and maybe what reminds Marcus of Elvis: “Train train, comin round, round the bend/Train train, comin round the bend/Well it took my baby, but it never will again”). A large portion of the song is about him wanting to buy a shawl for his lover (Smith id’s her as Kimby, other lyrics say Tippy, Marcus doesn’t mention her name at all). He has 90 dollars (in 1924); the immortal shawl that would make everything right was 100 bucks. He was arrested before he had the chance to collect that extra ten dollars. But the shawl was ever beyond his means, like the 16-coach train was ever beyond the bend, and Folsom Prison will never move those tracks.
7) Then the song is about escape. It is not about death, or obliterating the self, of anything else that seems hip now. It is about hope, even though hope will never be achieved. It is about praying for redemption and that extra ten bucks, for the mountain to come to Mohammed even knowing it won’t. It’s for a woman to love you, even in prison (of self, and of literal prisons.)
8) I’ve in the hospital of late, because I wanted to kill myself, and now I want to be that mole in the ground. Not because of self-destruction or suicidal tendencies. Those have passed, but because the mole ever blind, keeps sensing. He digs tunnels, makes passageways, seeks the light and seeks to escape from the ground, a small creature moving large earth. I want to be a lizard on the wall, because like the lilies of the fields, I am reminded that the sun shines on all of god’s children, and I want that extra ten bucks, because maybe things might be a bit better. Maybe Kimby will stay.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Nathan Lee in the Voice:
On first glance, the terms couldn't be clearer: macho white guys vs. effeminate Orientals. Yet aside from the fact that Spartans come across as pinched, pinheaded gym bunnies, it's their flesh the movie worships. Not since Beau Travail has a phalanx of meatheads received such insistent ogling. As for the threat to peace, freedom, and democracy, that filthy Persian orgy looks way more fun than sitting around watching Spartans mope while their angry children slap each other around. At once homophobic and homoerotic, 300 is finally, and hilariously, just hysterical.
On first glance, the terms couldn't be clearer: macho white guys vs. effeminate Orientals. Yet aside from the fact that Spartans come across as pinched, pinheaded gym bunnies, it's their flesh the movie worships. Not since Beau Travail has a phalanx of meatheads received such insistent ogling. As for the threat to peace, freedom, and democracy, that filthy Persian orgy looks way more fun than sitting around watching Spartans mope while their angry children slap each other around. At once homophobic and homoerotic, 300 is finally, and hilariously, just hysterical.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
link dump
high performance spears, from coldsteel.com, for all yr huey newton needs.
its good to have all of yr enemies in one place, its just bad they have insurance.
thousands of sound effects, searchable, including such categories as birds, humans, holidays, and my favourite mayhem.
a truly creepy mickey mouse comics that teaches soilders about sulfa drugs.
the australia defense ministher says they are fucked in iraq.
matthew moores artistic dissection of the suburban take over of his family farm, is a fascinating, explicit discussion of rural and urban issues, that needs to be talked about ,but is ignored in the omnipresent of the urbanity of the art world, and attaches to the similar issues of the truck book. really worth spending some time w.
Embrodied sonic patterns, gorgeous.
Dita Van Teese, Underwear Ad.
Larry Clarke talks about his films and photos for the gaurdian.
one of the best things about flickr, is that collected, almost random ephemera, can be easily adni mmediately seen by millions, and sorted electronically, with much ease. This collection of 19th Century Shipping Labels is a perfect example. the sheer level of detail, in the drawings, the fonts, the over packed concentration of competing visual signals really talks about what the continued modernist history of stripping ornament was about. (from Loos to Helevetica), and also, how the reclaiming of this kind of aesthetic in the 70s, ignored the wonderful use of colour, esp, the blues and greens.
From 1970s.
emily payne tight, domestic, recreations of 20th century modernism, in easily identifable forms, esp the v. small, v. orderly recreations of gego wire work, and the almost tile sized noland lites, are incredily beautiful.
Fin Juhl, Pelican Chair, mid 50s, reulphostured.
Freida Hughes is an awful poet, and crazy.
the marines really love 300.
Betty Hutton, Im A Sqaure in A Social Circle
Betty Hutton, Cant Stop Talking About Him.
Betty Hutton, Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief
high performance spears, from coldsteel.com, for all yr huey newton needs.
its good to have all of yr enemies in one place, its just bad they have insurance.
thousands of sound effects, searchable, including such categories as birds, humans, holidays, and my favourite mayhem.
a truly creepy mickey mouse comics that teaches soilders about sulfa drugs.
the australia defense ministher says they are fucked in iraq.
matthew moores artistic dissection of the suburban take over of his family farm, is a fascinating, explicit discussion of rural and urban issues, that needs to be talked about ,but is ignored in the omnipresent of the urbanity of the art world, and attaches to the similar issues of the truck book. really worth spending some time w.
Embrodied sonic patterns, gorgeous.
Dita Van Teese, Underwear Ad.
Larry Clarke talks about his films and photos for the gaurdian.
one of the best things about flickr, is that collected, almost random ephemera, can be easily adni mmediately seen by millions, and sorted electronically, with much ease. This collection of 19th Century Shipping Labels is a perfect example. the sheer level of detail, in the drawings, the fonts, the over packed concentration of competing visual signals really talks about what the continued modernist history of stripping ornament was about. (from Loos to Helevetica), and also, how the reclaiming of this kind of aesthetic in the 70s, ignored the wonderful use of colour, esp, the blues and greens.
From 1970s.
emily payne tight, domestic, recreations of 20th century modernism, in easily identifable forms, esp the v. small, v. orderly recreations of gego wire work, and the almost tile sized noland lites, are incredily beautiful.
Fin Juhl, Pelican Chair, mid 50s, reulphostured.
Freida Hughes is an awful poet, and crazy.
the marines really love 300.
Betty Hutton, Im A Sqaure in A Social Circle
Betty Hutton, Cant Stop Talking About Him.
Betty Hutton, Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief
Prayer Requests at a Mennonite Church
Pray for the Smucker family. Their son Nathaniel's coat and shirt were
caught in the gears while grinding grain. Nothing would give, so now
he is gone. We made his clothes too well. Perhaps this is our sin.
Pray for the Birky family. Their son Jacob fell to his death in the
granary. He was covered in corn before they could stop the pouring—
chest crushed by the weight, seed spilling from his mouth. We hope
something will grow from this, besides our grief.
Pray for the Hartzler family. Their youngest has left the church and no
longer believes that Christ died for her sins. She buys clothes at the
mall. Tongue pierced, nose as well. Her shirt shows her belly where a
ring of gold sprouts. We pray she will remember that her Lord's side
was pierced, that His crown held no gold, only the dried blood of His
brow.
Pray for the Miller family. Last week their daughter, who lives in
Kalona, lost her baby at birth. Child only half-formed: head turned the
wrong way; heart laid on the outside of her chest; one leg little more
than an afterthought. Lord, help them know that life may come again,
that we are all made whole in heaven.
Pray for the Stutzman family. Their son fights in the war. We call him
back to the Prince of Peace, to our Savior who knelt to gather the
slave's ear, brushed the dirt away, lifted it to the side of his flushed face.
May we leave no scars. May we ask no blessing for the killing done in
His name
Todd Davies, Some Heaven.
Pray for the Smucker family. Their son Nathaniel's coat and shirt were
caught in the gears while grinding grain. Nothing would give, so now
he is gone. We made his clothes too well. Perhaps this is our sin.
Pray for the Birky family. Their son Jacob fell to his death in the
granary. He was covered in corn before they could stop the pouring—
chest crushed by the weight, seed spilling from his mouth. We hope
something will grow from this, besides our grief.
Pray for the Hartzler family. Their youngest has left the church and no
longer believes that Christ died for her sins. She buys clothes at the
mall. Tongue pierced, nose as well. Her shirt shows her belly where a
ring of gold sprouts. We pray she will remember that her Lord's side
was pierced, that His crown held no gold, only the dried blood of His
brow.
Pray for the Miller family. Last week their daughter, who lives in
Kalona, lost her baby at birth. Child only half-formed: head turned the
wrong way; heart laid on the outside of her chest; one leg little more
than an afterthought. Lord, help them know that life may come again,
that we are all made whole in heaven.
Pray for the Stutzman family. Their son fights in the war. We call him
back to the Prince of Peace, to our Savior who knelt to gather the
slave's ear, brushed the dirt away, lifted it to the side of his flushed face.
May we leave no scars. May we ask no blessing for the killing done in
His name
Todd Davies, Some Heaven.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
i wonder if (not the theory, or the thinking, because those can be changed or challeneged by books and talk) but the practice of sexuality stops when one has been abused.
i wonder if my sexuality hasnt grown since 15, b/c of sjsa.
i once again wonder if theory is praxis.
rays here, and we t alked about it last night, and didnt really come to any conclusions...but he suspects andi it may be the case.
(other note: rachels gift, a pink plastic saints bracelet, three magazines, one of her pocket pusssies, ruby slippers and other camp artifacts were deeply loved.)
i wonder if my sexuality hasnt grown since 15, b/c of sjsa.
i once again wonder if theory is praxis.
rays here, and we t alked about it last night, and didnt really come to any conclusions...but he suspects andi it may be the case.
(other note: rachels gift, a pink plastic saints bracelet, three magazines, one of her pocket pusssies, ruby slippers and other camp artifacts were deeply loved.)
Saturday, March 10, 2007
joe came last nite, picked me up from the hospital, ca 7 pm, and we drove d own the whitemud, to 99th, stopped at the diner, had fries, a burger, milkshake, and talked. he said latin grace, translated easily into english over the g ood, and talked about how when you try to kill yrself the long term demons of self destruction become banal little things (almost like the black dog, has stopped becoming a hound of baskerville and has started becoming a lab), he has a grace, joe, an intelligence, and a connection to the holy spirit, so talking to him, letting the conversation flows, even at night, in a diner w/o the collar, has a feeling of spiritual work, father confessor, spirtual direction, but rough and tumble, earthy non-office kind of flexibility. we talked about the gifts of the spirit, and the problems of gender , and sex--of the inability for either the right or the left to be flexible, and the femminist/gl blocks to be as gaurded of their own power as the consertives one. he makes me feel comfortable and calm about his frankly borgie life, of the kids, the house, the wife staying home, which is kind of a miracle, and i feel like i can open immediately, that our conversations move quickly and seamlessly, over plath, augustine, church politics, the holy spirit, soul music, toronto, and other things--laughing, making improper jokes, and serious asides. my concerns about who i am, maintaining personae and personhood next to him disappear, into a great calm.
hes awesome!
(he's reading this too, so its going to be mildly embarrassing when he finally comments)
hes awesome!
(he's reading this too, so its going to be mildly embarrassing when he finally comments)
Friday, March 09, 2007
towards a deft:
the center axis of queerness is not a sexual one. it is not the sexual taste, practice, ability, praxis or theory that makes one queer, but how far from the hegemonic center those tastes, practices, abilities, praxises, and theories are (so gay and straight are closer then downlow or other msm potentials, the theatrical, almost liturgical rigour of formalised #### communities is closer then casual, unregulated, but still consensual pain/pleasure scenarios, etc...
so the estrangement from hegemonic norms is what causes (sadness/frustration/anger/rawness) as opposed to something formalised, from a freduian context like homophobia.
the center axis of queerness is not a sexual one. it is not the sexual taste, practice, ability, praxis or theory that makes one queer, but how far from the hegemonic center those tastes, practices, abilities, praxises, and theories are (so gay and straight are closer then downlow or other msm potentials, the theatrical, almost liturgical rigour of formalised #### communities is closer then casual, unregulated, but still consensual pain/pleasure scenarios, etc...
so the estrangement from hegemonic norms is what causes (sadness/frustration/anger/rawness) as opposed to something formalised, from a freduian context like homophobia.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
back in England, he took himself and his mistress off to a cottage in the lincolnshire village of Horkstow/ There he proceeded to bleed selected horses to death from the jugualr. He then injected the cadavers with warm tallow to perserve the form of pulsing veins and arteries (hence their perfect rending in his paintings) Finally, he suspended them in a standing or trotting pose from a contraption of hooks and tackles bolted to the celling and, amid the vile slop and stench, worked his way through the flayed carcass, muscle by muscle, bone by bone. It took eleven weeks to get through a single horse, and there were many of them.
Simon Schama on Stubbs, nyer, 3/5/07
Simon Schama on Stubbs, nyer, 3/5/07
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Disorienting Sexuality : Psychoanalytic Reappraisals of Sexual Identities by Thomas Domenici (Editor), Ronnie C. Lesser (Editor), Adrienne Harris
Arguing With the Phallus: Feminist, Queer and Postcolonial Theory: A Psychoanalytic Contribution (Hardcover)
by Jan Campbell
Sex, Paranoia, and Modern Masculinity, Ken Paradis, SUNY
THE WORLD OF PERVERSION Psychoanalysis and the Impossible Absolute of Desire
James Penney
Arguing With the Phallus: Feminist, Queer and Postcolonial Theory: A Psychoanalytic Contribution (Hardcover)
by Jan Campbell
Sex, Paranoia, and Modern Masculinity, Ken Paradis, SUNY
THE WORLD OF PERVERSION Psychoanalysis and the Impossible Absolute of Desire
James Penney
Monday, March 05, 2007
With Mercy For The Greedy
Anne Sexton
for my friend Ruth, who urges me to make an
appointment for the Sacrament of Confesson
Concerning your letter in which you ask
me to call a priest and in which you ask
me to wear The Cross that you enclose;
your own cross,
your dog-bitten cross,
no larger than a thumb,
small and wooden, no thorns, this rose --
I pray to its shadow,
that gray place
where it lies on your letter... deep, deep.
I detest my sins and I try to believe
in The Cross. I touch its tender hips, its dark jawed face,
its solid neck, its brown sleep.
True. There is
a beautiful Jesus.
He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef.
How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in!
How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes!
But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
All morning long
I have worn
your cross, hung with package string around my throat.
It tapped me lightly as a child's heart might,
tapping secondhand, softly waiting to be born.
Ruth, I cherish the letter you wrote.
My friend, my friend, I was born
doing reference work in sin, and born
confessing it. This is what poems are:
with mercy
for the greedy,
they are the tongue's wrangle,
the world's pottage, the rat's star.
Anne Sexton
for my friend Ruth, who urges me to make an
appointment for the Sacrament of Confesson
Concerning your letter in which you ask
me to call a priest and in which you ask
me to wear The Cross that you enclose;
your own cross,
your dog-bitten cross,
no larger than a thumb,
small and wooden, no thorns, this rose --
I pray to its shadow,
that gray place
where it lies on your letter... deep, deep.
I detest my sins and I try to believe
in The Cross. I touch its tender hips, its dark jawed face,
its solid neck, its brown sleep.
True. There is
a beautiful Jesus.
He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef.
How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in!
How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes!
But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
All morning long
I have worn
your cross, hung with package string around my throat.
It tapped me lightly as a child's heart might,
tapping secondhand, softly waiting to be born.
Ruth, I cherish the letter you wrote.
My friend, my friend, I was born
doing reference work in sin, and born
confessing it. This is what poems are:
with mercy
for the greedy,
they are the tongue's wrangle,
the world's pottage, the rat's star.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies
From Lady Lazaurus, Sylvia Plath
thinking about this, while driving thru malls and parking lots, burger kings and taco bells, pointing out to mikhael the value drug mart i bought the codeine and the liqour barn i bought the booze and the sobeys where i took the pills, and thinking, how much of this personae of madness is required, a sort of entertaining side show for others, caught not hating myself, but as an entertainment. people come to visit, present me with gifts, they fly out, and they drive across the city, visiting me in the ward, in bed, and i wonder how much of that is having to prove people love me, a narcissitic story made for ready audiences (the aesthete defense for rachel and ray; the jesus offense for mik and john)...i keep thinking about the imaginary invalid by moliere, im not rich of course, solidly middle class, tending to poor, but the doctors, the system, convive to convince that the sadness, the low grade ennui, the meloncholy is a offense that can only be cured by faking or feigning death...
did i really want to kill myself or was i just trying to find toinette (even the name...toinette, antoinette, anthony) (did michel write on the ii, it seems his play)
(or maybe it is the opposite, in the sense that i want none of it, that people should not think of myself as valuable, that it would be better if i was well or its equivlents, because the show is tedius, and kind of tawdry, the strip tease is ghastly, and im just exhausted)
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies
From Lady Lazaurus, Sylvia Plath
thinking about this, while driving thru malls and parking lots, burger kings and taco bells, pointing out to mikhael the value drug mart i bought the codeine and the liqour barn i bought the booze and the sobeys where i took the pills, and thinking, how much of this personae of madness is required, a sort of entertaining side show for others, caught not hating myself, but as an entertainment. people come to visit, present me with gifts, they fly out, and they drive across the city, visiting me in the ward, in bed, and i wonder how much of that is having to prove people love me, a narcissitic story made for ready audiences (the aesthete defense for rachel and ray; the jesus offense for mik and john)...i keep thinking about the imaginary invalid by moliere, im not rich of course, solidly middle class, tending to poor, but the doctors, the system, convive to convince that the sadness, the low grade ennui, the meloncholy is a offense that can only be cured by faking or feigning death...
did i really want to kill myself or was i just trying to find toinette (even the name...toinette, antoinette, anthony) (did michel write on the ii, it seems his play)
(or maybe it is the opposite, in the sense that i want none of it, that people should not think of myself as valuable, that it would be better if i was well or its equivlents, because the show is tedius, and kind of tawdry, the strip tease is ghastly, and im just exhausted)
Sunday, March 04, 2007
im on a 4 hour pass, at the millwoods library, typing this among other people, sort of told to do something, whuch explains why im not on the ward.
bored, tired, frustrated, feeling indulgent, but ive felt indulgent for months, so thats nothing new.
its like you know, new therapy, new shrinks, a new god, new friends, new drugs, new art, wanking w. yr left hand instead of yr right, new hobbies, nothings gonna get me out of this mess.
ya know?
ase
bored, tired, frustrated, feeling indulgent, but ive felt indulgent for months, so thats nothing new.
its like you know, new therapy, new shrinks, a new god, new friends, new drugs, new art, wanking w. yr left hand instead of yr right, new hobbies, nothings gonna get me out of this mess.
ya know?
ase
Friday, March 02, 2007
sometimes its really subtle, and sometimes its really fucking obvious (like a therapist saying women suffer from depression in way x, men in way y) but all of my foccoult/laing/butler/kraus/gilbert/ruether is coming straight into the surface, and its not really helping me interact w. people... (that and being worried that peoples problems are much worse then mine, and so what i am doing whining when x or z happens)
(and because im drugged into docility most days. all of this shit is internalised, and so the the anxiety comes out unprocessed. (i used the word estrangement, and i really do feel estranged)
(its weird being in a group, and having them talk in ways that are so different from yrs that you cannot keep up, and you worry about being dragged down the rabbit hole)
(im starting to kind of meet people, say hi to them, that sort of thing, and the task group, where i sort or pound or shape, body things unrelated to thinking, relaxes me in a way the drugs cant)
(ever since ive been in the double, ive been on serequal to sleep, which makes it worse)
(i also really dislike the affirmation nonesense, every day its something like say something good about yrself---it doesnt fucking matter how good or bad i feel about myself as long as the work is getting done, and it sure as hell isnt, i dont need this to be some kind of teddy bear lets all hug kumbaya bullshit)
(and you cant really t alk to the nurses about it, because you are labeled oppostional, except my day nurse for the last couple of days, who has a habit of being both patronizing and obsessed with small rules/authority--i fucking loath her.)
also, ray, yr getting an ashtray.
(and because im drugged into docility most days. all of this shit is internalised, and so the the anxiety comes out unprocessed. (i used the word estrangement, and i really do feel estranged)
(its weird being in a group, and having them talk in ways that are so different from yrs that you cannot keep up, and you worry about being dragged down the rabbit hole)
(im starting to kind of meet people, say hi to them, that sort of thing, and the task group, where i sort or pound or shape, body things unrelated to thinking, relaxes me in a way the drugs cant)
(ever since ive been in the double, ive been on serequal to sleep, which makes it worse)
(i also really dislike the affirmation nonesense, every day its something like say something good about yrself---it doesnt fucking matter how good or bad i feel about myself as long as the work is getting done, and it sure as hell isnt, i dont need this to be some kind of teddy bear lets all hug kumbaya bullshit)
(and you cant really t alk to the nurses about it, because you are labeled oppostional, except my day nurse for the last couple of days, who has a habit of being both patronizing and obsessed with small rules/authority--i fucking loath her.)
also, ray, yr getting an ashtray.
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