smashing his literature degree into his typewriter ahhhh this show yesss
this rly is the peak #no gods no lit bros moment for the ages. let me never speak another word against aria montgomery just for having the same boring, arty interests I did when I was her age. pretentious teen girls are important, too.
I would like to say that I am done using my confessions and history as the springboard for my legitimacy, that I am done crafting the painful and pleasurable memories of my childhood and family into turning points of a critical think piece, or pivotal junctures in personal statements designed to garner me fellowships, grants, and above all award money to keep me in the miserly student lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed. I would like to say that I am refusing to cheapen my stories. I would like to say that I accept them as knowledge production in and of themselves, standing as such without the relentless hedging and prefacing and prologue-ing we think is necessary anytime we dare to mention our bodies or, heaven forbid, our hearts and, tenure forbid, our souls. I would like to say a lot of things.
literally all of my coworkers are reading deleuze rn
this goes back the teen girl gaze again, or the idea that on a given day, you pick and choose what defines you. but i was looking at kara jesella’s blog—i’m an admirer of hers, we were in class together in performance studies, and i had this weird hero worship thing going on—but on her blog, she was talking about this piece by shulamith firestone called ‘airless spaces,’ which is about experiences in asylums and mental hospitals. and shulamith writes about the experience in the hospital erasing everything that came before the hospital, and it becomes this continuous loop, where everything starts to lose its specificity but also its precarity, and that kind of feeds back into something i was thinking a couple years ago, in terms of erving goffman’s sociological studies of hospitals. he talks about this process he calls ‘looping,’ which is where someone in an institution only has recourse to the language that the institution provides, like it’s a totalizing language. so you have to instrumentalize the institution in a particular way. that’s very relevant to the way purge was built—and i like to say built, instead of written.
trisha low, bomb
i sent this to marc and he said “awesome!” and “do you like the person who is mentioning you?,” which is obviously the right delicate question, and i said yes and practically linked to my post on how she wears great lingerie. anyway, i almost privated the shulamith post last night in my ongoing but also recently amplified attempt at decorum, personal safety, and, just, something even easier, so there is something especially fortuitous about my seeing this interview today. it inspired me to unprivate things, including the post-engagement emails with aliza that are pretty important to #price tags, and even to tumblr at all. thank you, trisha. ps. i totally feel “built, instead of written” and it’s brilliant.
Over a dock railing, I watch the minnows, thousands, swirl
themselves, each a minuscule muscle, but also, without the
way to create current, making of their unison (turning, re-
entering and exiting their own unison in unison) making of themselves a
visual current, one that cannot freight or sway by
minutest fractions the water’s downdrafts and upswirls, the
dockside cycles of finally-arriving boat-wakes, there where
they hit deeper resistance, water that seems to burst into
itself (it has those layers), a real current though mostly
invisible sending into the visible (minnows) arrowing
motion that forces change—
this is freedom. This is the force of faith. Nobody gets
what they want. Never again are you the same. The longing
is to be pure. What you get is to be changed. More and more by
each glistening minute, through which infinity threads itself,
also oblivion, of course, the aftershocks of something
at sea. Here, hands full of sand, letting it sift through
in the wind, I look in and say take this, this is
what I have saved, take this, hurry. And if I listen
now? Listen, I was not saying anything. It was only
something I did. I could not choose words. I am free to go.
I cannot of course come back. Not to this. Never.
It is a ghost posed on my lips. Here: never.
— Jorie Graham
the new pope copies brandy
today I woke up with a mystery bruise on my face and the only explanation I’ve come up with so far is that my dream last night about taking karate classes was..too real
Momix is finally ready for print! Here is a family tree to help you comprehend it.