July 17th, 2010 at 12:45 am
Grownups can deal with scraped knees, dropped ice-cream cones, and lost dollies, but if they suspected the real reasons we cry they would fling us out of their arms in horrified revulsion. Yet we are small and as terrified as we are terrifying in our ferocious appetites.
We need that warm adult stupidity. Even knowing the illusion, we cry and hide in their laps, speaking only of defiled lollipops or lost bears, and getting a lollipop or a toy bear’s worth of comfort. We make do with it rather than face alone the cavernous reaches of our skulls for which there is no remedy, no safety, no comfort at all. We survive until, by sheer stamina, we escape into the dim innocence of our own adulthood and its forgetfulness.
- Geek Love by Katherine Dunn
July 13th, 2010 at 12:46 pm
sw33t
June 1st, 2010 at 7:56 am
I have inside jokes with myself
they are instant, on the internet
I was amused with them yesterday
you were a muse, like music
May 24th, 2010 at 9:12 pm
We won’t play nature to your culture
This is going to sound completely utterly wholly unconditionally atrociously pretentious, but I think I feel most comfortable articulating myself in writing. I feel rushed otherwise, trying to let as many words as I can escape my mouth before the other party loses interest and/or gets distracted with his own thoughts. I’m hastily pushing my own ideas forward as to prevent too many prejudgements, inevitably failing, qualifying statements with “or whatever… I don’t know, really.” On the other hand, I used to be the girl in various discussion sections who would make a concise statement and shy away from elaboration when prodded. I’ve remedied this, learned to explicate with confidence, knowing full well that classmates are just as doubtful of their own interpretations. Notwithstanding, I’m writing a blog entry instead of prioritizing my six-to-nine page essay on post-feminism as exemplified by “Murphy Brown” and “30 Rock.”
I’ve had this saved in my drafts for a few weeks now:
I want her
I want to stuff her
I want to stuff her box
I want to stuff her in a box
I don’t think it’s very clever, but I’d feel dishonest if I just kept it tucked away with various other files on my computer. Catharsis. Psychosis?
Speaking of which, in addition to exhausting the words “bonkers,” “palatable,” “supposebly [sic],” and “kind of,” my art history professor seems to correlate sexism with just plain sexy. Interestingly composed bodies are labeled violent, missing limbs are only a product of some sick desire to immobilize, and perky boobs are gravity-defying travesties, the result of distorted societal pressures to conform to unrealistic beauty standards. I’m probably being unjustifiably critical because I disagree with her obvious abhorrence for pornography and sex work. In addition, I will admit that I’m irritated by my forced contemplation on by what my definition of erotic is influenced. However, I will not find fault with specific naked forms if they are the opposite of biographical. I will not take issue with assorted forms of sexuality if they include a surrendering female, just as it would be ridiculous to discredit a woman as a feminist if she chooses to live as a homemaker. That is stupid, my professor’s scoffing at beautiful paintings is stupid, especially when she admits to conflicted feelings of her own in the form of a mumbled afterthought. I mean, she has every right to be conflicted since she has a concentration in fashion. Talk about an infuriating moralistic! :/
Anyway I guess I should open that Word document.
May 19th, 2010 at 12:40 am
Sir, yes sir
Freegan and green, plastic hag
let’s kill the poor and steal their bread
the lawn is full, the candles lit
the tangled braids, the world is shit
“I’d like to learn! I’d like to play!”
tell me, tell me, oh tell me praise
the tie dyed wave, a nostalgic farce
we’re fighting, we’re fighting
we’re wearing scarves
May 6th, 2010 at 2:28 pm
cathect (kuh-THEKT)
verb tr.: To invest mental or emotional energy in an idea, object, or person.
April 26th, 2010 at 6:40 am
untitled
throw yourself at the bottom!
you are a pebble in a sea of hands
you speak of loss and deprivation
of inadequacies and stumbling blocks
but you are an anchor an anchor an anchor?
I will tie myself to you, anchor
I will pocket you, pebble
we will sink to the bottom
to the innermost circle
with cracked teacups and tires
entangled in our seaweed garden
with the mermaids, those stupid mermaids
(reject their advances, salacious dear)
I’ll save you until you’re irrelevant
when the plastic disintegrates
when the last Hostess treat is consumed
the final necropolis will be a vacant supermarket
(20,000 leagues to be sure)
and then, and then and then and then
a concluding impulse between two nerve cells
a terminating dream
both jubilation and despondency
it’s over, it’s over, it’s all over!
relief is a submerged reverie
April 21st, 2010 at 8:50 am
Pygmalionism (pig-MAY-lee-uh-niz-uhm)
noun:
1. The state of being in love with an object of one’s own making.
2. The condition of loving an inanimate object such as a statue or image.
April 19th, 2010 at 10:37 am
There’s been a change of plan
Standing in the corner is the quintessential pedophiliac Buddy Holly. “He’s so fucking hot,” she whispers, intoxicated, to no one in particular. I am receptive to this comment, but only so I can move away from the non-conversation, the identical plaid shirts and dull expressions. Someone, presumably one of the people I came with, hands me a 32 oz. PBR and I talk to a man in a bright yellow poncho. He talks to me about Oakland and I slur something about bestiality and Magic the Gathering. “What is it you most desire?” he asks. My eyes are glazed over with confusion and disinterest, but he repeats the question. “Someone who gets it, man,” I want to respond. “A nice ass,” I say. He smirks and asks me if I’d like to follow him outside. But I’m tired and the sexy-dark-sexy-sex sounds of Portishead playing in the background put me on edge. I move into the next room with the expansive DVD collection and Tom Waits posters. I feel like a Brett Easton Ellis character (albeit contextually incorrect) as the experience of squeezing into this fissure has prefaced some grand narrative as opposed to escaping failed seduction. I consider reflecting on my detached state and fancy myself an aloof protagonist until I remember that I have a vagina. Hysteria.
April 14th, 2010 at 8:51 am
The Microsoft Word is “procrastination”
I love pseudo lesbians;
(teenagers in thigh highs and garter belts)
they’ve invaded my Internet
with their deceitful beckoning
it’s okay though
I will continue my menstruobjectification
and they their exhibits