Tuesday, February 12, 2013


“We no sooner see from their expression that they mean to touch us than we are won over by them. They have an air of nobility and grandeur, their deportment is easy and majestic, their demeanor straightforward, their movements natural, their manner engaging, they speak easily in a sweet, gentle voice. Their message is accompanied by such beauty and grace that it penetrates our minds and opens our hearts to them. When they speak of good and evil their faces reveal an honesty that makes their arguments more persuasive. When they are carried away on the topic of virtue their heart is on their lips, and what they say about it, enhanced as it is by figures of speech and their own characteristically charming turns of phrase, appears a thousand times more lovely. . .”[1] “Enraged by her revelation that she has ‘retired’ him, Deckard tries to kill her and cannot, whereupon she reproaches him for loving the Nubian goat he has acquired with his bounty money more than he does her. . . It is as if Deckard’s attraction to her were destabilizing reality itself. . .”[2] “‘I no longer look into the eyes of the woman I hold in my arms but I swim through, head and arms and legs, and I see that behind the sockets of the eyes there is a region of unexplored, the world of futurity, and here there is no logic whatsoever. . . I have broken the wall. . . My eyes are useless, for they render back only the image of the known. My whole body must become a constant beam of light, moving with an ever greater rapidity, never arrested, never looking back, never dwindling. . . Therefore I close my ears, my eyes, my mouth.’ BwO. Yes, the face has a great future, but only if it is destroyed, dismantled. On the road to the asignifying and asubjective. But so far we have explained nothing of what we sense. . .”[3]

“‘I wish the drawing was better,’ she says, ‘but at least it shows what you’re like.’

‘What am I like?’

She taps the Mirror where’s my forehead, her finger leaves a circle. ‘The dead spit of me.’”[4]


Happy Valentines – this is a valentine to EVERYONE! This year my heart doesn’t get to melt into the couch in a sea-hawks jersey and bubble-wrap for pants. No, this year I drag my heart kicking and screaming into the shower at 6am and scrape the insides for debris. This year I pull and stretch and bend my heart out of my chest and over the furniture and out into the foothills, and then up into the desolate grimacing skies – out, over, in, through, punch, pulverize, caress outwards into everything. I renounce everything I have ever said but that I love you, for it is all I have ever meant.

My heart escapes and decimates the coast. . .

[1] François Poullain de la Barre, Three Cartesian Feminist Treatises Tr. Vivien Bosley (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 66.
[2] Katherine Hayles, How We Became Posthuman: Virtual Bodies in Cybernetics, Literature, and Informatics (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008), 173.
[3] Deleuze and Guattari, Capitalism and Schizophrenia: Thousand Plateaus Tr. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), 171.
[4] Emma Donoghue, Room (Toronto: Harper Collins, 2010), 6.

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