after seeing an old friend after the passage of much time

i have learned some secrets
in my time
(still haven't learned to keep them but
i always tell them out of love)

i have learned some secrets in my time
and i could tell you
but what would they mean?
you must learn your own secrets and
tell your own tales,
as i have
mine.

1. you must give love to get love.
2. you must trust to feel trust.

i am a problem solver; i must be not so hard on
myself for always discussing problems.

why do things fall apart? the
answer hardly helps, doesn't mean
anything
although the answer
at times it is essential.

poster down the train says, big:

JESUS PAID THE PRICE FOR OUR SINS

but i think that's slightly wrong

he paid the price for our sins to be
more like us, we
pay the price for our sins without the threat of hell,
right here on earth.
for what is sin but something we do
when we feel hurt, alone, misunderstood, angry, alone, pained,

something we do instead of be honest
something we do instead of love

(and what does sin do to fix any of that?)

we pay for our sins when we realize what
it is to love, to forgive, to trust.

i am paying now when i regret the
times we didn't talk, didn't share, i don't exactly remember why
fear? pain? hurt? anger? fear?
right, you moved and didn't tell me. i drew a line.

(an emotional artist, i'm always drawing lines. but i use pencil. they move, these lines, like people move, like people move and don't tell you.)

i wanted you to think i was special (you always did)
and i wanted you to do the work to prove it
and now neither one of us works, we just drink vodka in columbus park
and laugh in the darkness at the rats
eating chocolate shaped like rocks
telling stories
trying not to cry

"i can't tell you how many times i imagine getting really, really trashed and just showing up on his doorstep." (in the rain, of course in the rain.) "and we fuck, or... or, we do something, i don't know."

this is the problem with people like us:
we give because we have so much
we can't imagine anything else
love is boundless, ebb and flow
only mean change, not scarcity

this is the problem with people like them:
people who don't give don't give because they don't have anything
tight-fisted with emotions
they cling, trying to live without
the comforts of lived dreams

3. dreams generate dreams, dreams generate self, but
4. our actions define the real.

this is the problem with people like us:
we do it because we know naught else
we do it because we cannot stop
dreaming and dreaming until we ACT!
pain is pain and fear is fear
but there is always something more.
pain and fear are always there, but they are nothing but
shadows cast by desires realized, desires uttered,
parading in the sun.

they are the change left over from
precious things bought at a hard price.

we eat our buns,
we kiss goodbye on the platform
no grandiose speeches, nothing more than
the knowledge that we will continue to live our parallel lives
3,000 miles apart. this is enough. i
used to need evidence, but i have learned so much.
i understand now how this is enough.

5. love is a spontaneous reaction. it cannot be forced; it cannot be faked; it cannot be rationalized. it can only be felt.








how many words will i have to write
to write you away?
how many pages until you disappear
completely?
but why bother
why bother
why bother
why speak when there is no one there to listen?

we don't speak when there is no one there to listen.

the more i write myself
the more i write you

why speak?
we don't speak.
why speak?

listen -

points and the bitches that have them

Last night I went to a poprally at MOMA in drag and worked the free absinthe like it was going out of style. When the woman behind the drink table says, “oh, you! You want another one?” when you walk by, well, you know….. hmph. Exactly.

The funny thing is that I didn’t really drink that much at all, my tolerance is back to being a bit lower than it was and it was never that high, but I’m still absurdly sensitive about it – obviously. And this colors my perception - undoubtably. The truth of the matter is the woman recognized me because I was dressed somewhat ridiculously in a pink and chartreuse bow tie (among other things) and because I was super-friendly – I like to chat up the help at big events. (I mean, shit, all they ever hear is “give me that now” and “I want a drink” and “hurry up!”)

I think I am sensitive about drinking because I obviously am quite personally concerned with notions of presence and control (I’m a bloody Foucauldian, for god’s sake). drinking enables me to flirt with both notions in a strange, convoluted way. And this makes me excited and once I get excited about something I usually get suspicious.

I did get an “I (heart) absinthe” button out of the whole shenanigans, so you know, that’s worth something. And what is interesting to me, what I think of now as I hold it in my hand and giggle at its affable stupidity, is that I only got it because I asked for it. I wanted it, and I said I did, and I got it. (there weren't any to be had, so the girl gave me hers.) And here it is, on my decrepit antique end table, a tangible evidence of a desire fulfilled. I like this.

I met friends of friends and chatted politely, but what I really enjoyed was being free to get into my own trouble and knowing my entourage was around somewhere to back me up if the need arose. Don’t get too excited - you know that for me “getting into my own trouble” meant wandering around the kirchners agog, giggling at whatever pleased me, frowning at all that didn’t, and making security guards nervous by getting THIS CLOSE to everything.

Upon my expressing a desire to take another turn through the exhibit, now that I was a little drunk, friend-of-a-friend laughed and said, “ah, I can tell you’re a real artist!” I didn’t bother to correct him; was correction even necessary?

I don’t know what I am sometimes. I am better now at reminding myself , feeling even, that the confusion is delicious, that the untangling and working-it-all-out-ishness is the magic of life, the meaning of life. Perhaps one could say I am an artiphilosoflaneurlinguistisist. (the extra “ist” is very, very important, it’s what makes it post-postmodern.) hmmm. I almost like this. I’ll keep trying. (Ha, of course I will.)

I think I’ve worked out the problem of foucauldian agency. Now, I’m not stating this to be egotistical; if anything, at times my thesis confuses me because I’m like, “can’t you just read the book? It’s all right there, you know?” so I feel as if I’ve just deciphered a bunch of dusty, obscured, enigmatic, crabbed and cranky hieroglyphs (and, trust, Foucault on agency is all of those fucking things). But at any rate, it speaks to this notion, this notion of constantly working out and creating the self anew, and you know, bitch has a point. A real fucking point.

[how fantastic would it be if, for my defense, I could just walk in the room and throw two books on the table (zettel and Foucault live) and be like, “bitches got POINTS, yo! WestSIIIIIIDE. Peace! I’m out.”]


I like this. I like this.

on love, II

"yes, sure. (laughs.) a good club sandwich with a coke. that's my pleasure. it's true. with ice cream. that's true. actually, i think i have real difficulty in experiencing pleasure. i think that pleasure is a very difficult behaviour. it's not as simple as that (laughs) to enjoy one's self. and - i must say that's my dream - i would like and i hope i'll die of an overdose (laughs) of pleasure of any kind. because i think it's really difficult and i always have the feeling that i do not feel the pleasure, the complete and total pleasure and, for me, it's related to death.

(why would you say that?)

because i think that the kind of pleasure that i would consider as the real pleasure would be so deep, so intense, so overwhelming that i couldn't survive it. i would die. i'll give you a clearer and simpler example. once i was struck by a car in the street. i was walking. and for maybe two seconds i had the impression that i was dying and it was really a very, very intense pleasure. the weather was wonderful. it was 7 o'clock on a summer day. the sun was coming down. the sky was very wonderful and blue and so on. it was, it still is now, one of my best memories. (laughs.) ...a pleasure must be something incredibly intense. but i think i am not the only one like that."

happy birthday, michel.

(xoxo, and thanks again for everything.)

heavenly discourse

(day. new york city. upper west side.)

horoscope:
Cancer:
"Hypersensitivity is a mixed blessing"
Thursday, Oct 9th, 2008 -- Although you are quite familiar with your emotional attachments, they could pull you in a slightly different direction today. You may realize that your hypersensitivity is a mixed blessing, for you cannot avoid feeling someone's discomfort with your affection. When you understand that this is not about rejection, you may be able to grant him or her the necessary freedom for a new kind of love to blossom.

me:
you know what, horoscope? why don't you just go fuck yourself?! ....aww, goddamn it, tell me something i don't fucking know. shit. i know, i know, i know already. you know what? fuck repetition, too. AND freud. fuck y'all.

shit, i need some more fucking coffee.

damn. (sips coffee reflectively, eyes softening.)

damn.

oh, snizzzap! or, i thought i was so fucking original or, it's amazing how things come full circle, isn't it?

"subjects of desire vs. agents of pleasure..."

on love, I

dad: i hope i didn't annoy you with all the texts i kept sending.
me: no! i told you i always wanted to do that, so i was excited to know where you were!
dad: i got you a present!
me: ooooh!!!!!! what what what, tell me!
dad: okay... so we were up by ely, and we found this road called the echo trail. it's this dirt road that goes like 50 miles straight into the woods.
me: oh my god! awesome!
dad: and we took it to this pristine lake. it was so desolate. and that's where the road ends.
me: ooohhh.
dad: but anyway, right by this beautiful lake there was this birch tree. and so i peeled off a bunch of birch bark for you.
me:... dad, i'm tearing up. no, really. that is so sweet of you.
dad: i'll mail it to you. and guess what else? the whole trip, from start to finish, took us 707 miles!
me: [seven is my lucky number] ahhhh!!!! that is so awesome. okay, go get a pencil.
dad: okay, why?
me: you gave me a present so now i'm going to give you one... i listen to this band a lot and think of you every time i hear them. you're gonna love them. it's like surf rock, but the chick sings in khmer - she's from cambodia.
dad: oh!!! i think i've heard of them.
me: okay, are you ready? D-E-N-G-U-E F-E-V-E-R. you know, like the disease? i really like, i think it's their first album. the one with "flowers" on it.

Flowers

dad: you know what song i've really, really been liking lately? (laughing) that "graveyard girl" song. it's like, 80s but new 80s. it's awesome.

Graveyard Girl

me: hmm. i've never heard it, but i'll have to check it out. oh, i love you dad.
dad: i love you too!

from monday: "second reader"

desire
i write
comes from where?
a nihilist types:
1. not a good question. its like asking where light comes. the point is that there IS desire. it has something to do with the body but cannot be reduced to it.

oh ho ho!
don't i know
my body is willing but the mind says
know i know i
know i've phrased it badly,
i meant to say
what makes desire
possible?
no, i know! i wake up and the words are on my lips and the feeling is only just fading.
"no, can't have pleasure, it's not for me."
not i
know pleasure i know pleasure but
no pleasure lets me know pleasure
because i know
what makes desire possible:
"the impossibility and possibility of a relation to the other."

desire is pleasure, is trust, is faith, is hope,
where they flow together i fish.
a wet underworld, slippery, dark and constant
constantly shifting.
you're biting,
but when
i reach in
the water
you're gone.
changed.
slippery fish!
the self is fleeting and we
write not to die,
must kill you with language,
pin you down, mount you
- wait, wait, wait, i've got it all wrong! -

kill me with language
pin me down, mount me
on your wall
stare
alter as need be until
i am perfect
visions, revisions

i'm looking at you
(my desire)
but i want you
(is about)
to be looking at
(the other)
me
(not me)

this pleasure can't exist with me
this pleasure erases me
it's a small death,
a little death,
very little, almost nothing

desire
i am always and only me
in response to you
desire
you are always and only you
in response to me
desire
and yet,
desire
and yet!

pleasure is not you
nor me
it is the border
we share, it is the language
we speak, the same language
we both speak,
with different tongues.

do you see?
help me see.

speak me, say me, pin me
down with language.
kill me, make me die. i
hate that
only you can
make me
me
it can't be
me
it can't be
true.

is this pleasure?

on parrhesia

1.  today i picked up my first leaf of the season. like a rich flame, it flickers from a ruddy raw umber to a burnt terracotta orange, with tiny ebbs of goldenrod around the veins. 

i look at many leaves and i wonder.... that one? should i? and sometimes i do and sometimes i don't. but every rare while i see a leaf and i know. this knowing does not happen often enough to give me any peace or spare me any anxiety and yet it always happens again. always. 

(the sodden world will be dry tomorrow.

why do i feel in this a loss?

for it will rain again...

how foolish to imagine - yet i can't help but imagine

a world without rain.)

2. i am sore undoubtably, emotionally. yet today i had several tastes, mouthfuls even, of bliss. not the kind that overwhelms you and makes you screechy-giggle and dance but the kind that swells up through you slowly, like a hidden spring, and spreads across your chest and up into your eyes and nourishes you wholly. i did my best, my absolute best, not to ruin my experience of it by pre-mourning it's departure. i did a good job.

3. i was walking down 72nd street from central park and i caught sight of a man working a UHO table on the corner. now i've made a point in the past of giving to them as often as possible (i mean jesus christ what do you really do with your pennies, anyway) but lately i've been paying for things with pennies on some occasions so... you know, i've been having to look out for myself first.  but today i was feeling pretty benevolent, not to mention grounded, and i happened to know that i had some change in my coin purse so i decided it was the exact right time to make a donation. (bliss should be shared, passed on, spread like a rash or a smile.) the man wasn't really doing much to draw people's attention; he seemed a little listless.

"how's it going?"

we began to scrape up the usual small talk as i collected my pennies, him warming to me as he realized that i could hear him (my headphones are a bit imposing!)

"okay - and you?"

"well... i've been better..."

my voice wavers, i am scared for a moment i am going to choke up - no, i am scared for a moment that i am going to cry, i am choking up-

"one of those days, huh?"

"yeah, one of those days...."

my voice trails off. i am looking him in the eyes.

"but you know, it's like, it sucks when you're going through it, the problem that is, and it sucks to have problems. but..."

i am speaking slowly for once, trying to think about how to say it, how i mean it right now, to him.

"when you solve the problem, it's like, wonderful. you figure it out and it's like, a reward."

he is not just looking at me anymore, he's looking at me.  and this is enough of a reward.

"...have a good one, okay?"

"you too!"

i can tell, even in those two  little words, that he means it, that what i've said has penetrated. i feel his eyes on me as i turn around and cross the street. 

4. i also went to my first botanica today. i've wanted to go to one forever since moving to bushwick, but i just never had the balls to do so. there are times, in the past, where being looked at, in certain situations, was so extremely disturbing and upsetting to me that it absolutely prevented me from doing things i wanted to do. and by looked at i mean what might also be expressed in the spirit of our times as being hated on. there is a fine line between the two, and one sees that line often in bushwick, one sees it get crossed and stamped out and erased and ignored and obeyed. 

but today, all of that was different. i walked home a different way than i usually do because i had new eyes and i wanted to see new things. and there it was, on a streetcorner, just being fascinating. and i was so fascinated and intrigued by it that, even though i felt a slight reluctance to enter and be judged to be something i wasn't, that i didn't even really feel the reluctance fully... it was far outweighed by my own desire to experience it. additionally, i did rationalize, i was wearing my virgin mary bracelet (which, if you've never experienced it, was made by nuns in a basilica and is covered in rhinestones and pearls, and is magnificently exquisite simultaneously in such a cheap and such a sacred way) and that had to earn me some kind of botanica cred. 

so in i went and i was so interested in everything that i was barely self-conscious. and, wow... 

look, just go in one, i'm not going to cheapen my experience by killing it with words right now. (although i want to be specific and say that while is not at all my full opinion on the function of language it cannot be denied that it, at times, certainly functions in this fashion.)

as i was finishing up my tour the man behind the counter, surprisingly, greeted me warmly and in english. i replied back kindly and went back to my exploration hesitantly, eventually turning around to him and speaking.

"um, yeah... could you possibly make a recommendation?"

he smiled and replied in the affirmative, and leaned in to hear me as i started speaking - so hushed did i begin.

"well... i just broke up with someone last night, and i, i have a hard time speaking up for myself and saying what i want and, i, it's like, i don't even know what i want, like i have no desire... so if you could recommend some herbs or a candle or something, that would be great."

"yes," he said. "yes, i think candles work well. how about a candle?" 

he lead me over to them, looking on them in a way that i couldn't suss out entirely, i wasn't yet sure that he was taking me completely seriously. 

"we have lots of candles," he began. then paused, then spoke again.

"you want him back?" (looking over at me.)

"i want myself back," i answered, with a quickness that surprises me in recalling it. 

he laughed, surprised, an honest laugh. i see admiration quickly pass through his eyes. he is taking me seriously now, i am sure of it.

"what about control?" he says.

"like you mean, controlling other people or like, control and myself?"

"having control of yourself."

"ah! that's perfect. yes. great!"

he pulls a yellow candle off the shelf and hands it to me. i looked at it briefly earlier. it is covered in blue spiderwebs and near the top a large threatening spider looks down on a small man, praying in fear near the bottom. 

later on i get it home and anoint it with the perfume i wear (after all, that is what my name means in hebrew), and light it. it takes a few tries, but it's still burning now. and i prayed, and had a moment with myself. you can imagine what i thought of, what i may have told myself. but that's it - once again, not a space for this kind of language. 

language, language. i follow it for a space, but it always goes on without me. 

no. no!

5a. "more precisely, parrhesia is a verbal activity in which a speaker expresses his personal relationship to truth, and risks his life because he recognizes truth-telling as a duty to help improve or help other people (as well as himself). in parrhesia, the speaker uses his freedom and chooses frankness instead of persuasion, truth instead of falsehood or silence, the risk of death instead of life and security, criticism instead of flattery, and moral duty instead of self-interest and moral apathy." - foucault.

5b. "the parrhesiast is someone whose fidelity to the truth becomes the pivot of a process of self-transformation." - parrhesia, the journal of critical philosphy

5c. "parrhesia is the price the subject must pay to gain self-control and self-definition back from the other. this, contradictorily, enables it to then fully consort with both itself and the other; this is what enables love, makes it possible. (of course, it only makes it possible. love only results in the rare situations in which parrhesia is able to fully function as a bridge between the subject and the other.) but love is certainly nothing without it, it simply cannot fully exist without it." - ...

(maybe this only for the neurotic, but...)

?