August 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
Who in the fuk is Johnathon Swift?
Crazi grl luvs 69 🙂
Who the fuck’s George W. Bush when he’s home?
Did he make that war thing with Christ?
I’ve got to sleep with more guys.
Thoreau was bored,
I’m a cunt
And some other things I don’t recognise.
There’s brain in the flesh of my thighs.
There’s viscera dripping in clumps to be found
Like Mozart adrift –
Spinning adrift –
Like Mozart, like lycra, like pi.
August 23, 2011 § Leave a comment
I’m not going to whinge, though this is one of those “rough patches” that some trope has planted an instinctive acknowledgement of… American television or pop psychology or one of those things which I ignore but still know about.
My mother and I, having at one point been a picture of polarised femininity and slung in an ever divergent catfight – she supporting me financially, full of the achievement of marriage and the right way to do things; me young, hateful of authority, resentful of my lot and bent on individuality – are now both poor, middle aged and alone. It is beginning to seem almost feasible to live together, spending our afternoons drinking coffee and locked in incessant, makeshift, sickeningly insubstantial conversations about “what happened” with my father, how he passed through our lives like an extended patch of unpredictable weather, as if women are soil, forever waiting for life and never knowing what might seep or take hold. One gets to thinking that this living period isn’t really all that long; by the time one gets free of these people and their insistence upon making one like a crusted tartlet, one is tossed on the institutions, sick of their predictable signs and characters or the agony of pretending to know them afresh, duped by one’s own mysterious desires, and ready to re-write the past into a golden state of secure love, imagination and free spirit. It is this, we tell ourselves, we have been trying to recapture, with all those parties and people and poems. I am just a retrospective, and a capitalist; I read that without the chemical emotion planted in me by my waking eyes, I am without the desire to work. I smash things. I do. And yet I don’t see that person in my hands; a part of me is just in Tolstoy, a variable.
I don’t know. I can’t sit and write a passage about how I want beautiful things in my life. It is the war of the want I am engaged in, the daily burial of these feelings that come from nowhere. To not need anything at all is the perfect state – this is what I shall remember – and not to have one’s wants fulfilled. Which is dung: smoking is one of the most pleasant things on earth. A fulfilled need in a cute flippy box. Humanity, right there.
August 22, 2011 § Leave a comment
I can’t understand marriage; if I’m want to spend years of my life creating an intricate fiction I’ll do it on paper and exchange it for cash, thanks. Part of the reason for this is that I feel that somehow too much of the old romantic ideal is sure to have lingered. I know that these days the white dress is more about spending $4000 on looking like a vile dessert than it is about demure chastity, and having Dad give you away is “tradition”, but how many other “traditional” notions manage to sneak into the modern marriage, like dominance and submission, ownership, duty? It is an institution we act out almost subconsciously, “becoming our parents”, and it feeds huge industries like advertising which rely on the comfort and pleasure of socially endorsed family structure to sell shit. I welcome marriage equality because for me, it will once and for all smash some of these concepts as they pertain to gender specifically, and make marriage seem more meaningful – finally actually about private love in whatever form that takes rather than acting out typical roles in society. Who knows, it might break up some of the “routine” that married people say they fall into, if any of this is about codified behaviour. I am not stupid enough to believe there will be no bad gay marriages, but I suppose I think marriage will mean more for everybody if it’s about people, instead of being complicit in defining what it is to be “a man and a woman” as we keep hearing. It is because of this that I know that there are people who will hate this change for the same reasons that I love it. They feel marriage will be destroyed because the way they understand it will change. I have no more sophisticated argument at this hour other than to say that they are sado-masochistic pond scum who hopefully will die soon, and leave the rest of us to squeeze as much enjoyment and meaning out of this ridiculous story as we possibly can.
Clearly, this necessary change isn’t about “what’s in it for me”, although this is always how debates about changes in policy lapse. It’s about living in a world that one can believe in, because it isn’t shitty, because everyone has the same rights as everyone else. I don’t like my law turning me into an oppressor, where are my rights not to be an oppresser? Now what bunch of nutters would oppose changing something like that…
August 20, 2011 § Leave a comment
Before I lodge my next post I’m just going to register a quick apology to anyone who objects to me, or anyone, using capitals for emphasis. While I find pedants annoying but sexy, and accept that the “blogosphere” is eroding language at the rate of a whole football commentator every half an hour, I am going to continue to do it, at least until I am sick of it, because I enjoy it. This blog arose out of a need for expression, and part of expression is entering the world of shapes rather than codes, losing one’s fear of being incorrect, and learning about oneself by breaking a few; rules? There we go, £ . Still alive, aren=t we? Superb.
P.S. If I start using more than one exclamation mark, I have a letter in my bottom drawer that permits I be put out of my misery. Ta.
August 17, 2011 § 2 Comments
I owned this D. H. Lawrence book for years and never read it fully, merely skipped through it looking for the sex scenes, which I was sad to note were, by today’s standards, very pedestrian. For a book that has been the subject of a trial I was expecting, I don’t know… well that’s the thing. I don’t know. I can’t imagine anything more graphic and extreme than what I have already read and seen in this, my sexually saturated era. It is difficult to imagine what a society devoid of sexual depiction would look like, given that there is currently some bosoms on the bottle of apple juice I am drinking. But are we becoming more mature or more immature for this incessant message that sex is everywhere, plentiful, mandatory EASY? Is beauty sex, and does it make good sex? Is seeing sexual advertising on all the bus stops on the way home enhancing our private lives? Is porn just harmless fun? I don’t have thorough answers to all of these questions at the moment, but I do have some editorial crap about the book:
Lawrence’s book, like the literature of the other Victorians, must be read firmly in context. In present times it just seems like a lesser novel of a great, though fairly typical, male writer. It would have been so liberating for its (Freudian) time, and for this reason the horrid, horrid characters must be ignored in service of the larger message: people have sex and it isn’t a very big deal at all and they want it to be important and they want to talk and read about it so stop being prigs since we validate our behaviour and cues with ideas in live currency. Or similar.
But here’s what I mean about the characters, and why I take issue with the book. Firstly, being married to a disabled man is no need for intimacy to cease. That was the first thing that irritated me, where the hell was their imagination? If they really loved each other he could have twiddled her with a soft brush or maybe there could be some mild spanking and licking or whatever. Then we come to what I like to call The Fantasy Element, ie. “I’m a bit horny, what do you know, there is a really hot NSA lay in the potting shed.” No. There. Isn’t.
Then there’s the loving couple themselves, Connie and the buffoon she takes into her delicate crevice. We don’t really know why she fancies him. Though obviously, he talks like a pissed brawl between a Scotsman and a Scouse, which as we all know is the sexiest possible accent. It is hinted at one point that he has a very nice back, and that she hasn’t had it in months. This is what we call “A Clit Decision”, and these generally turn out to involve an obsessed party, uncomfortable mumbling, a weird long distance arrangement or all of the above. But it begins, and after some quite strange lovemaking ON THE CEMENT FLOOR, which seems to entail her getting to the first stage of arousal, being penetrated by the garden help and then turning into D. H. Lawrence, he proceeds to explain the virtues of metonymical Cunt, which obviously would make any sophisticated woman as rapturously docile as a tickled lorus. He cements his status as Bedroom God only by lewdly bringing up a host of former lovers, describing their genitals and belittling the ones who couldn’t manage to come when he mutely served up three or four minutes of vague penile shunting. “Hurrah!” We can almost hear this mind-bendingly boring couple shout. “We have much better genitals than those other losers! Let us get together and celebrate just how wonderfully sexual we are in comparison to the ones with the inferior genitals which just won’t work properly ie. the fridgy-didge and the cripple.” Charming. Never mind the gender-based insults (Connies sister is “unfeminine” – because she is organised, or plain, or not rutting against a lamppost, or whatever).
Hypothetical smartarse lady: Hi. D. H.? I’m ordinary looking. I like to fuck too, in fact I’m better at it than some poser. And yeah, women who like or need some sort of clitoral stimulation are not DOING IT TO SPITE YOU I assure you. And intellectual engagement tends to make a whole lot of difference in a relationship, otherwise you just have a weird man up your skirt, nosing around like one of those stupid little blind moles. Ok? Smashing. Can’t wait for the sequel.
August 16, 2011 § Leave a comment
What’s to be ashamed of really, with my blunt working class brain? I can’t see complication, is the problem, just pressurised zones of intellectual comfort springing through weak surfaces, shrouded in the type of heroes-not-me words which we know from history that we need. And which, shameful as the wound of a deserting parent, have at their core the seeds of death, like water from a melting mountain, destined to be lost in the sea.
Here’s a book that I like: The Outsider, by Albert Camus. I will say what I like about it and then why it was different to myself. A character of few words sits in the sun, eats when he’s hungry, takes what work is available, does the tasks allotted him with a pretense to accuracy merely so he can go unnoticed, has routine sex with someone he doesn’t particularly like, kills someone for no reason then goes to jail and dies. This is more or less how I see life: a slow slide of barely tolerable crap towards the sticky end of a pathetic conspiracy. However in the Camus book the portrayal of sex is sort of halfway between the job and the food. It might be him blandly acting out society so he can basically ignore it, or it might be a simple, consumption-based pleasure of the senses. I identify with the former approach, and this fits my latest theory that no matter how bleak the existentialist male (Camus, Kafka, Sartre, Orwell) he will never truly understand anomie since sex remains merely a solvable hunger problem or a thwarted enthusiasm, rather than an empty and alienating socio-cultural experience.
August 15, 2011 § 1 Comment
1. House Rabbit
The old device could not advance the hour,
Nor thought give words, this satellite being, a berth;
I locked myself from man’s wasp-waisted flower,
And lay with various magnets of the earth.
With head just turned, the droplets on the pane,
Slid coy like gentle pawing from the grey
Which churned abandoned; fictions of the sane:
The mad, infertile, sickness of the day.
Release the symbols, I ate, my fingers drumming
A strange and aimless beat against my skin,
Which brought to mind that parts of me were numbing:
None, here, jump, me, chemicals, noun, where I begin.
Then ah, a furious tide of setting beams,
Made shape of light; the light is what it seems.
Be grateful for this precious life my son,
Your government doesn’t need you for the war.
Get caught in something, find it badly won,
And moan dissenters; what we did it for.
Imagine things based on some lines of beauty,
And tear yourself to shreds based on the lack,
And when that comes at last into your duty,
Find beauty hollow, and softly send it back.
Make talk in circles until your childhood picture
Has sorrow spasm through your face and chest
For what you lost: the ways shut down and cinctured
Like smoke-filled lungs, all seared with your regrets.
And if, when mostly done, your time is free,
Be sure to drink alone, don’t come to me.
© Leisa Woodman