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 -
Monday, October 27, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
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.
happy birthday, michel.
(xoxo, and thanks again for everything.)
(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.)
Thursday, October 9, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, October 6, 2008
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!
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.
Flowersdad: 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 Girlme: hmm. i've never heard it, but i'll have to check it out. oh, i love you dad.
dad: i love you too!
Friday, October 3, 2008
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?
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?
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