Interspersed with Theory and V

How do we enter a discourse that escapes us? How do we look within it? How do we make gestures or take shapes? Perch? To write now not for you but only for you. To write, perhaps to force oneself to write?

Boulder is covered in snow. The snow that is not beautiful large fluff, but thin powdery snowman stuff. I think about how unlikely it is for a girl and a boy. Think of popsicles. It is true that you make art, but where? It is true that I am trapped in a silo, inside the bubble. I don't want to wear the engagement ring and I don't like it when my professors go on sabbatical: Pierce, Taylor.

I force myself to write in the shadow. Or morning. This is probably the correct way to consume you.

Barthes said in Pleasure of the Text (and I paraphrase) that any text is boring unless it is full of desire and neurosis. I am entertaining as a text.

Lacan said, God-knows-where, that (and I paraphrase wildly) to be in-love with someone is to attempt to give them a void to fill, which they have no interest in seeing, much less filling. Every time I have claimed to "be" in-love, that is exactly what it felt like.

So, do we read and write one another? All of my distractions are awake and the text is unresponsive. The text blinks and changes channels for my viewing pleasure. She will, no doubt, force me to watch the film-to let the ink dry-to exhibit a sheen.

You are that installation I can't see from outside the gallery and before I get the chance to see it, will be taken down. All that is left is a video on the internet, reminding me of what is possible between text and author. Or artist or Author? Or, ....

Comment on FB to Rebecca Caridad

If one is an other, and by other we mean, bordered or border crosser. What is one's home, where does one live. Where is home situated. In language, nowhere, or here, or right now. If I call you because I will be homeless do you say? Yes? If language does not permit one to have a home (a Here) then that is where No. Where. Where is one's life situated if not here. Then it is there. There is where one, she, her life is situated. But not here. Not alive and not in life, but outside of language and self.


bajoycaridad.blogspot.com

New Work?

I was not actually having a talk with Joe Cooper about murderers. It seems that we were both working on similar texts, or at least related. I was exhibiting what Jung called introverted tendencies in artistic process and he, take a guess? Extraverted, which according to the same shrink is the transcendental key to a work. It is more relational to the collective. If that makes any sense? Well I have decided to abandon my thoughts about the necrophiliac, after I couldn't sleep thinking about corpses. It seems that this text has much psychological impact: I do not feel like I can write this at the moment. Instead I have chosen to go the left handed extraverted path. I suppose hunger is setting in... hello cannibal!

Pound (part 1)

A language charged with meaning, as opposed to not charged with meaning. I’ve never actually encountered such a language, with the negative charge, that is. In oversimplified terms, Chip says, Literature as a concept is invented. I want to know more. Pound confuses me; it is his tone. That tone of Pound’s whom Eleni Sikelianos once referred to as, and I paraphrase, fabulously grouchy. I see nothing fabulous about him, more pedantic and bathed with classism, really. Why should we follow in the steps of most of our teachers and worship the man? I suppose it’s because no matter what personal feelings you have toward or against Ezra Pound, he makes some interesting points. His ostentatious remarks make him candid. I appreciate candidness. Perhaps in reading him again I realize just what a wide-eyed Naropa student I was four years ago; how thirsty, how starved for some, for any theory. Ready to listen to anyone who had an opinion about poetry. That was before the slaps in the face and heartache and the internalized racism did me in. Ah, I think of Toni Morrison. I paraphrase, a certain kind of flower cannot grow in such a soil; it will perish.

When pound says, “Writers as such have a definite social function exactly proportioned to their ability AS WRITERS” I am lost, again. What is a definite social function? Is this weighed against the writer’s social value or ability to leave a mark upon the skin of the social body? How? How is the writer’s ability established, how do we investigate the relationship between her ability and her undermined potential? How do we wager against the lack of access to the resources that could allow for a more just assessment of her social function? How is this determined and who determines the proportions?

I am not historical. I have left many articles behind along with pronouns and call to Strunk and White as I do St. Claire or Our Holy Mother of Conception. On my knees for the proper use of a semi/colon. While you are away I’m huddled, or pounced upon whatever I can glean off of hesitant professors or the SWP. Tired, torrid, buried in a book. Pink highlighter in hand: this is confessional. This is feminism, 3rd world, post-colonial critique. You want an education? Fucking, then, come and get it. Pound says of the decline of a nation’s literature, “the nation atrophies and decays”. Is this the calm before the storm? I can only pray that Marx is right. I will light a candle. The legitimate child of the 1979 Nicaraguan revolution: Jesus in the marketplace. But what exactly does he mean by the “fogged language of swindling classes”? If a nation’s literature (as ours) is truly in decline, then bring in the doctor. I hate to bring in a materialist point of view when I know nothing about the subject, but this seems to be around the corner. So when it does shrivel and shrink, we’ll have a Working Class atrophied in some sense, but with a ready biceps to be flexed against those who keep us from the academies and universities. The new literatures is a literature of the streets in which commitment and NOT Daddy’s resources, and not Mommy’s DNA, hails us into our true social functions, what those are, shall be determined by the people of the future. In the meantime, a literature is dying: cheers!

Despues de Hejinian

¿Y entonces, quien habla? En caso de la poética-experimento de bELLAca, habla primeramente el patriarcado. ¿Y cuando no? A través de la objetificacion del cuerpo femenino y del genero asignado: mujer. Un error. La violencia en forma de agresión sexual, violación poética y psíquica de la sujeto-objeto en el contenido de la música popular que igualmente celebra y castiga la sexualidad abierta de la mujer, la tiñe de un salvajismo hyper-sexual, de una narrativa colonial internalizada. La mujer como continente indomable y conquistable. Es claro, la narrativa ofende y a la misma vez, mi generación repudia los versos pornográficos y detalladamente obscenos al igual que no les aparta la vista. Es dicho, no podemos huirle, lo intentamos, esta en todas partes. Negar las líricas de este fenómeno, es darle la espalda a la generación en que formamos parte, es aislarnos, negar los vínculos y es mentirnos. Este fenómeno es importante no porque sea cierto, si no por lo presente, lo incesante de la industria y sus mensajes. Que quede claro, no estoy proponiendo un zambullo en esta subcultura, y tampoco mínima participación en esta. No es tan difícil descifrar las narrativas y las opresiones que ahí operan. Me considero una feminista y mujerista, okay, como tu quieras. Pero abandonar a mis contemporáneos, excomulgar a los participantes, juzgar y rechazar a los otros miembros de mis tiempos es un suicido emocional en el que invierto absolutamente nada. Lo que puedo hacer es observar, y protestar solo hasta el punto en que me deje el leguaje. Cualquier violencia, hacia una persona, hacia un grupo, proviene de la enajenación de los agresores ante sus victimas. Como mujer, no me doy el lujo de ignorar esta explotación, pero tampoco abandono a mis queridos cacos, jóvenes, compañeros Boricuas en la confusión y la inseguridad sobre lo que nos aguarda el futuro. El reggeaton nos miente, pero en su ficción no es peor que la academia, el mito del capitalismo o la religión. Si es crudo, es de mal gusto, pero por lo meno nos ofrece un reto, una plataforma real para la critica y nicho fértil en el que se puede conducir el experimento del lenguaje. ¡Suéltate!

Rolando y Los Guanabanas

El lenguaje es otro, la emocion sata. Ven, a una actividad discretamente. Digo, yo fui el primero. Alimentalo. Lenguaje, yo te lo mimo. Hazme durar, duro mas que todo el resto. Esta en la practica este coitus. Dezplazate, sigue la relacion para el otro. Paso a él, y elaboro. Vamos. Sé sucia de palabrería inversa. Echate el que tiene por objeto, alocucion. Es una piel, mas nada, y esto lo sabes. Sabes que yo soy actividad discursiva. Indirectamente ven y bellaqueame. Un doble contacto, dale. Envuelvete: un significado unico “yo te deseo”. Y lo vamos (vamos a hacerlo) por otra parte, así mismo. Al que te someto, amorosamente, sin orgasmo. ¡Ay amor, temblequea! Yo froto mi lengua. !Lucete! Viene, como el unico y te libera. Ella lo hace estallar por otra parte, tirada en la cama. La relacion que yo te he hecho desvivir. Sin una forma literaria, Confiado que le guste guayarla. Una filosofía de las cosas, esa morena es proposito. Implica lamer fatalmente un abstracto sobre el amor, bañada en crema.

upon walking to Folsom St.

I spotted at two different points on one walk: one burgundy cotton thong and one pair of grey Hanes boxer-briefs. The latter were sopping wet and I almost stepped on them. Why is everybody loosing their fucking underwear, in Boulder, Colorado? Did these two people streak at different times on the same night? Were they assault victims? Did they prank someone? Was it their lover's underwear that they passionately peeled off? Was it a pissed off friend who chucked their laundry out of a window? Most likely a lover, though?

Indecency: my favorite!