nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission mercury may have the best of me, but you've got the beast in me
textual relations/e-ruptions in swedish, there is a word for "to dance intimately with," "tryckare," ie, to "squeeze" ("trycka") oneself against one's partner.
i'm watching the rats children detectives falling tiles. everything's coming down, everything's falling into place, only it's not obvious, not where you'd expect, not like fitting a round peg in a round hole. there are circuits underground and there are places they stick out, but they don't tell you anything. too busy staring at the back of yr head, words and what they meant, the possible achievement of a warm bed.
figures with wings folded stand in doorways ashen. embrace and flight.
you tell me that the artist died. and i think you mean yr friend. the one i laughed with once. and i am shaken. i am half-asleep and scared and wondering if it was his lungs.
3 words articulating an affinity for "queer": nineties, activism, academia.
2009 (all the time? black eyes?): good clean fun. an invitation to suggestion, connectivity, lateral movements, restraint. restraint - a guarded heart and handcuffs. language that is a code that is a code. evocative as opposed to literal. not bent on communication, authenticity, expression, delivery. not a key in a slot, but a door unlocked. not in my face, but me with my arms and hands out. it doesn't come easily, but it is given freely.
maybe it's starting to snow, and i'm starting to see, and i see yr big brown dogged dolphin eyes. desperate but not with sex, and the lack of sex desperation is a turn-on. and the sidewalk is too cold for you and not fast enough for me, so i suggest diner coffee. and i bathe you in rosewater and cover yr cracks with crisco and show you the possibility of finding pleasure in our pain.
a circle is simple is dirty is a hole.
i am living vicariously through myself, when i should be living vigorously.
"and would the gold of their setting sun help me find the strength to say to them: here is the future, in that past that you never wanted. if i melt their gold into light, might they then open their eyes to see a new day dawning?
how to get them beyond their love of gold? to get them to see beyond gold? is life ever given in exchange for gold? and if indeed one must dig the land in order to put down roots, if a man persists in changing into gold the lode that he finds, is it not death that he worships?" --irigaray nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission "i've had a bit too much tonight, but i think i'll ride my bike all right."
textual relations/e-ruptions "when quails were trained to copulate with a piece of terry cloth, their conditioning was sustained through ongoing repetition."
the appreciation of art - both making it and looking at it - alone and with and among others - is fetishistic. probably more often than not it is at least partially and specifically erotically fetishistic. art itself is fetish. as with most objects, the specificity of fetish arises both from personal histories and equally social but more universal conditionings. controlled by both magic and manipulation.
freudian conceptions of fetish rely on efforts of compensation for the evident and apparent lack of the phallus by the mother. the fetish object is that which stands in for this lack. for if mother was castrated, then so too may be child, and this is a difficult thought to bear. the fetish object makes it digested more easily through a twofold process of denial and compensation. disavowal and avowal. this process is not to be pathologized. nor is it innately tied to a gendered and freudian conception of fetish as such, more than to a general structure of states of anxiety (emergency) and dissatisfaction. the realization is that the world does not belong to one, nor can be brought to one, nor even aligns with one's nascent vision of what the world even is. i adapt to the impact of this realization through fantasizing about the (art) object of desire. ("not be satisfied with such a love. leave it to the men of ressentiment, and try to create another world.") in this way, proust's madeleine is not a trigger for the delectableness of memory but a fetish object that rejects the solubility of the past in the present.
many fetishes have obvious relations to the body, specifically through the skin organ - rubber, leather - and through descent - piss, feet. in art, these relations are analogously the viscerality of form and content and the sadism of exhibition and voyeurism. put another way, the fetish of art is both plastic and spiritual.
in some sense, if we are to consider the history of art and its autonomy from church and state (and thus capital), then art is the object of fetish of art itself.
from the door jamb i can jus see a leg and a sneaker, but i know there's cash on top of the fridge. you and i - both left to the care of our mothers at the age of six - we seek electric fingers that will remover handkerchiefs from back pockets and dip them in our blood. the stolen tortured heart of a clown. a confession of rape. a foetus preserved in a jar of formaldehyde smashed on the floor and wounded lightly. a body moves down a hallway and blood flows black. it is collected in cups delicate as loose tea. the cups perch like birds til they topple and spill ink and hair, sounding like suitcase.
give me the curious look of someone who's interested but doesn't even know what in or why or how (yet). taurines may be bulls, but they've just as much in common with the accoutrement of the matador - the capote de paseo and that which will interpellate.
everyone keeps saying it's so clear cuz it's so cold, but i think it's the other way round. what we need is a little soft focus to get back the heat.
the space is fluroescent blue and cavernous but not clinical like hospital, no unglamorous gowns, but more like how cool can be comforting. you exhale and yr breath condenses into marbles that i accidentally swallow. i am a plate of blue and ornate china floating abreast the sea swells. caught between the tension of air and water (which is less tension than between earth and water?). surface tension creates buoyancy and i - the plate - am thinking about flux like heraclitus. the buddhist disavowal of attachment is about insatiability. when everything flows like river, there is no one thing or set of things that will keep us from hunger for eternity. don't hold on to it cuz it is likely to move and leave yr mouth empty.
nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission overripe, peachy bits of rough trade, with yearning mouths and hair like black ice cream textual relations/e-ruptions the ignorance of present physical space allows for the activation and recognition of past space, which is always already a portion of present mental space. once i stood in a physical room facing a wall of windows and you were there and so was rain falling and golden glitter falling on glue. i can still stand before those windows, only now they are once removed: they have become the screen for memory's projection. i peer through the mental room onto the space of that which once was. ("and doesn't every landscape metamorphose? who can still recognize the intimacy of his birthplace? into his home the supernatural has descended. and everything is thereby changed. no more artless embraces. mystery invests the simplest gesture. a day of reckoning, both brutal and too slow, is expected, feared.")
the difference is between seeing only coming and going, only entrances and exits and seeing in the midst. like the difference between the waves at shore and at sea. see?
i want to hit you hard enough that there is a pause of confusion in yr face before reaction. in this moment i will stuff it in yr mouth, abating tears and sounds.
yes, it's true, charles demuth, the abuse, the dead father, the alcoholic mother, the guns, the car parts, the factory, the orchard, the apples and cherries. maybe you could pick me up like a dancer from a dance. maybe you could make a mark with blue masking tape on the floor. tape for a square to move in. tape to bind yr wrists with. maybe you could make a square (call the corners and the coroners) in a way that made it feel safe - a shoulder where my ear could fall - for us to dance in. just as much as a church is a place for stillness is it a place for confession and redemption and these are dynamic. an ice cube. a cube of toothpicks. or shattered glass.
dribbling from the corner of yr mouth is something sticky, thick, and red. i watch you finger it, mix spit with it, try to get rid of it, but it's not removable, it's just a rope of graceful that gets stuck when you move yr hand away, ruffling the freshly shorn hair on the back of yr head.
ADULT BABY + DEADPAN SENSUALIST + DISAPPOINTED LOVER + DISKO DICK + DISSTHENTIC ACADEMIC + ENFANT TERRIBLE + ENGINEER OF BRICOLAGE + HOMOTEXTUAL ARTIST + ITINERANT BEGGAR-POET + MOMENT MAKER + MYSTERY PRIEST + PRISONER OF LOVE + RELUCTANT GENTLEMAN + SCHIZOID + SHY HUNTER + SLY FOX + STALWART LOVER
"Oh, Renoir"—it sounds like "au revoir." It sounds like the exclamation of a sculpture connoisseur! Together, it sounds like a farewell to bloated artistic declarations.
"A Journal"—A locked and flowery journal written in by a twelve-year-old girl. A scholarly journal. ((As s)cholar.) The combination of which—twelve-year-old girl scholar—seems apt enough, if not particularly apt, of describing the mental trappings of so many of our college-educated twenty-something peers. An eagerness in the wrong direction. Knowledge funneled through inexperience. Curiosity will kill our cool cats. Really, this is a sketchbook.
