my life is NOT: toward an aesthetics of depression; the orientation of feminized confessionals ("diaristic"). it is
a bowed head held between one's hands... it is 'my god, my god'... (in lower case, of course, because there is no god)
what do i believe in? the private life
mediocrity and melodrama
a scatological dig: a broad city
it is interminable mourning for myself
what does it mean if--a scaffold upon which we hang the tailcoat of our desires, what does it mean if a scaffold upon which we hung the rear cut of the id? got irrationally angry when the barista delivered my lox bagel to the wrong customer. what does it mean--slow, burning anger native to bourgeois mediocrity (which is to say: repressed monotony)
she made me aware of how she eludes all [theory's] efforts to grasp her logically, to reach a knowledge of her. she revealed a fluidity, a will to elude as persistent and as shrewd as other peoples' frankness and self-revelations.
is a rimbaudian innocence a tango with the absurd? it is a method of evasion. the fluidity of partial evacuation: a pendulum between tangled positionalities, so what is natural is an interest in symbols and systems of signification. the best poetry is constant play with the ludic entanglement of partially evacuated positionalities. the best poetry is elusion and illusion, and june, who inspires the feeling of anticipation: constant readiness for the marvelous, an avant garde collage and surrealist orientation of touch--but. poetry is scaffold for a solipsistic tango, the original postmodern project; hypermediated chain of evacuated signification.
the problem with the best kind of poetry, which is to say, no poetry, is its status as a project of meaning. that is: it expresses in form that to which theory aspires in mere words--feelings uncoordinated, various levels at once. the author of best kind of poetry aspires to be the model of literary immortality--the superego's ultimate evacuation. little does she know it is resignation in the project of self; salvation; the preservation of illusion and elusion.
is it possible to exist independently of one's writing--of "self"; character; caricature; is it possible for performative text to overtake the Real (whatever that is: a teleologically scattered position in relation to the mediated "r"eal)?
she lives without pattern, without continuity. as soon as one seeks to coordinate june, she is lost.
what do i value? the coordinates of loss. the incomprehensible, inconsistent logical system. "self" preservation rooted in desire not to give (away), but to possess and "reside" in deracinated poststructural "sub"ject-ivities under a negotiated discursive freedom. isn't that the purpose of elusion, aided by topographical inconsistency, uncertainty? rimbaudian "innocence" that is also tactical brilliance. read: irigaray, on the coordinates of loss. (the home of the speculum)
I AM A FETTERED, AN ETHICAL BEING EXALTATIONS AND THE MADNESS OF RIMBAUD IDEALISM IS THE DEATH OF THE BODY AND OF THE IMAGINATION. ALL BUT FREEDOM; UTTER FREEDOM, IS DEATH.
i hate the phrase NO PROMISES, NO EXPECTATIONS. it is in and of itself a perverse expectation; a twisted promise. freedom in name but without any of its trappings. NO PROMISES: an idealistic longing for freedom. NO EXPECTATIONS: delusional appeal to freedom which results in final displacement--death of postmodern womanhood. freedom in delusion, freedom in manifestation: a perverse logic.
EVIL IS AS LIFE AS WELL AS GOOD. i want to live without idealism and without ethics. but i am not free. i am incapable of destruction.
june destroys reality; her lies are not lies. they are roles she wants to live out she has made greater efforts than any of us to live out her illusions. but that is only because june is displaced from a "R"eal but bound by narrative trapping in a textual "r"eal. which, if you wish hard enough, manifests into a living, breathing void through which one rediscovers the fleshly body (mummified, floating). but what about the subconscious is there to romanticize? desire, shameful, for hedonism.
to say that freedom is Aestheticism is a gross reduction of freedom's possibilities and the infinitude of the free. "beauty for beauty's sake" is inane, naive, and the worst kind of lie (incidentally, the type of lies i most often tell): a misnomer. to hell with reason, wholesomeness, artificial unity! long live the cartographical impossibility of the haunted assemblage. i cheer for the coordinates of loss to the syncopation of the peanut gallery's chant: NO PROMISES, NO EXPECTATIONS.
if signification is fossilization, my obsession with symbolic inconsistencies and incomplete logical systems is an attempt at movement from the death drive of the lingual archive. anaïs nin reminds me: "you want to force delicate, profound, vague, obscure, mysterious, voluptuous sensations into something. you can seize and violate but will you caricature it? why do you want such clarity from me? . . . i never understood proust's need to know, to be present almost, when albertine was loving someone else" (55). you cannot possess without loving. is the linguistic drive a gesture of perverted love? i want ontological possession: if sex is essential possession. but i just AM. june just IS. a body: no longer tethered by significatory clarity. inconsistency is destruction is: freedom. there is a profound passage in sontag's diary, of early motherhood: ". . . vehemently refuse something and at the same time accept it. For the child, life is so utterly self-centered that there is no impulse to be consistent, which is already a limitation on desire" (78). freedom--destruction--end to discursive limitations on desire. this is what i do not want, i think. i spin from one subjective commitment to another. sometimes, what i just WANT is a staggered victorian in the berkeley hills and a four-year-old girl. do not listen to me: i have nothing worthwhile to say.