- Considerations of "Modern life"
- Creative writing
- Joie de vivre
- New York City
- The law
J’ai tant rêvé de toi
que tu perds ta réalité.
Est-il encore temps d’atteindre ce corps vivant et de baiser
sur cette bouche la naissance de la voix qui m’est chère?
J’ai tant rêvé de toi
que mes bras habitués en étreignant ton ombre
à se croiser sur ma poitrine
ne se plieraient pas au contour de ton corps, peut-être.
Et que, devant l’apparence réelle de ce qui me hante et
me gouverne depuis des jours et des années,
je deviendrais une ombre sans doute.
O balances sentimentales.
J’ai tant rêvé de toi
qu’il n’est plus temps sans doute que je m’éveille.
Je dors debout, le corps exposé à toutes les apparences de la vie
et de l’amour et toi, la seule qui compte aujourd’hui pour moi,
je pourrais moins toucher ton front et tes lèvres
que les premières lèvres et le premier front venu.
J’ai tant rêvé de toi,
tant marché, parlé, couché avec ton fantôme
qu’il ne me reste plus peut-être, et pourtant,
qu’à être fantôme parmi les fantômes et
plus ombre cent fois que l’ombre qui se promène et
se promènera allégrement sur le cadran solaire de ta vie.
I’m reading a book named after this famous Robert Desnos poem. It’s kind of a historical fiction, kinda Marguerite Duras-esque. Totally a little cheesy but kind of geeked out over it, I just spent all morning on wiki.
plein de souffrance.
came across this phrase earlier today in a marivaux play; this could make for an interesting post.
Excellent read via @zhcheekybastard. If you can look past the particular brand of French male gender perspective, there are some gems in there:
H. W. – ‘Love is always reciprocal’ said Lacan. Is this still true in the current context? What does that mean?
J.-A. M. – This sentence gets repeated over and over without being understood, or it gets understood the wrong way round. It doesn’t mean that it’s enough to love someone for him to love you back. That would be absurd. It means: ‘If I love you, it’s because you’re loveable. I’m the one that loves, but you’re also mixed up in this, because there’s something in you that makes me love you. It’s reciprocal because there’s a to and fro: the love I have for you is the return effect of the cause of love that you are for me. So, you’re implicated. My love for you isn’t just my affair, it’s yours too. My love says something about you that maybe you yourself don’t know.’ This doesn’t guarantee in the least that the love of one will be responded to by the love of the other: when that happens it’s always of the order of a miracle, it’s not calculable in advance.
There’s what Freud called Liebesbedingung, the condition for love, the cause of desire. It’s a particular trait – or a set of traits – that have a decisive function in a person for the choice of the loved one. This totally escapes the neurosciences, because it’s unique to each person, it’s down to their singular, intimate history.
No, between any man and any woman, nothing is written in advance, there’s no compass, no pre-established relationship. Their encounter isn’t programmed like it is between the spermatozoon and the ovum; it’s got nothing to do with our genes either. Men and women speak, they live in a world of discourse, that’s what’s decisive. The modalities of love are extremely sensitive to the surrounding culture. Each civilisation stands out for the way it structures the relation between the sexes. Now, it so happens that in the West, in our societies which are liberal, market and juridical, the ‘multiple’ is well on the way to dethroning the ‘one’. The ideal model of ‘great lifelong love’ is slowly losing ground faced with speed dating, speed loving, and a whole flotilla of alternative, successive, even simultaneous amorous scenarios.
Balzac said, ‘Any passion that isn’t eternal is hideous.’ But can the bond hold out for life within the register of passion? The more a man devotes himself to just one woman, the more she tends to take on a maternal signification for him: more sublime and untouchable than loved. Married homosexuals develop this cult of the woman best: Aragon sings his love for Elsa; as soon as she dies, it’s hello boys! And when a woman clings on to one man, she castrates him. So, the path is narrow. The best destiny of conjugal love is friendship, that’s essentially what Aristotle said.
Word to Aristotle.
I’m sure you’ve seen this mother’s post on her son’s choice to dress as Daphne for Halloween by now. It’s as viral as any post could be.
When my friend first sent me an article on the subject, I didn’t even bother reading it. I have since read the post, obvs. It immediately struck me as the 21st Century “Supplement au voyage de Bougainville” (link does not contain sufficient info on it.) Diderot raised a lot of perverse “observations” about the people of the South Pacific, which were more or less an assertion of his own perverse fascinations, hang-ups, and fantasies about sexuality. It was different, it was new and strange to him. It was on a foreign land. The ONLY difference here is that the novel concept of a boy dressing in girl’s clothes (for one day) in thrust upon these A and Bs in their own midst, so to speak. Whatever perception about sexuality of the boy is rooted in the adult’s mentality. A child of 5, most likely (even if he realizes dressing as a girl will draw unwanted attention), does not realize that it implies gender orientation. It is neutral and devoid of sexual implications. Many children have had the curiosity to put on a mother’s heels, boys or girls alike; does it make the boy gay? No. DO people realize that 5 year olds do not yet have a concrete concept of sexuality (Freud or popular Gay proclamations be damned), this is adults imposing their views! Even if he does realize he is gay, it won’t be as simple as wanting to don a Daphne costume on Halloween.
And people want to talk about preserving innocence? Then, don’t confound your issues with a child’s attraction for orange hair.
I just read and reread this book, “Desolation” by Yasmina Reza, which could be my credo. If you want a deeper look at my disturbing psyche, feel free to pick it up and have a skim. (English versions are available.)
This post will have no common thread, which is the common thread to this blog as a whole. So, a microcosm for my life, perhaps.
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote, and quickly privatized (which apparently does not bypass the cache of rss feeds and readers) a long post about assholes, which in my usage has a broad coverage of everyone from a douchebag, an imbecile with no common sense, to a malicious human with not an ounce of empathy. Well, I still feel the same way. People seem to manifest and iterate my peeves. What can I say? You make it hard for me to be a decent human being, which at the end makes me feel like an asshole (of the last and worst category). It is exhausting. I would like to be able to be indiscriminate when it comes to tolerance, but I lack the altruism. I can’t find it in my heart to have a more profound faith in humanity and overlook certain bs traits that proliferate in so many. Worst of all, the unaware and hypocritical.
Y’all annoy the last ounce of kindness out of me.
And I ask, how did you get to be 23+, but still more boring than the rocks I kick on the way to class?
I am bored with life right now. I mean, two days ago, I was so bored I made mac and cheese from a box. (Can you even?)
I don’t hate law school, I’m mostly ambivalent about it. There’s nothing intrinsically stirring about it to evoke anything other than apathy, ya know? I suppose this is how I’ll feel about my career for the next 40 years. And…I am kind of apathetic about that prospect, too. It’s a matter of fact. (AM I DEAD INSIDE? JK)
I also wish I could just have fun with any and every one or that I could be more of a people’s person. It doesn’t necessarily make me act like a giant ball of hostile bitchiness, really; just a lot of internal awkwardness, which thanks to my impeccably cool front, translates as cold hearted misanthropy.
Life might be a big misunderstanding. Sometimes I think about how much grief and heartache is caused by miscommunication and misguided speculations and I wish to go resolve everything with anyone I’ve ever known (ok, maybe not everyone). (For example, a couple of weeks ago, someone told me that I have intimacy issues. And well, while the statement bore no legitimacy and validity to the parties in that particular conversation, it’s not the first time I’ve heard it and I’ve also considered if anything I do give off that impression, especially, to people whose opinion I’d respect and care for.) Unfortunately, this society doesn’t appreciate that kind of directness and transparency, so we’ll continue being vaguely happy but “peaceful” with the occasional, dull aches.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m generally happy with my lot, chipper even. I just need some change! Obvious change, like punctuations! Yes, right now, I feel like I’m in the middle of a run on sentence which has no end in sight, no strong thesis, and is unnecessarily complicated (like any good run on sentence should be).
I don’t want anyone to hate me, either. I’m just as disappointed as you are about this (though probably for different reasons). I’ve come to have less specific expectations about people and relationships, not exactly lowering my standards, but still I face inevitable disappointment. There have been two instances where all my expectations or lack thereof were completely squashed and thrown out the window like the silly, meaningless, juvenile projections they were. This may be why these two continue to retain so much respect in my mind. The moment I realized that you will never come close to that was when I said, I value respect in a relationship and you said, it doesn’t matter how much you respect a horse, it’s still a horse. I still have no idea what that even means other than that there is a fundamental difference that cannot be reconciled.
So many dalliances are marked by pervasive indifference, at best there are rare moments of intrigue, that with enough optimism, effort to exaggerate, sometimes carry it and prolong mild interest. People disappoint in the dullest way possible, the kind of disappointment that doesn’t even move you, like oh, you’ve disappointed me so much to the core that I feel the need to reevaluate my perspective. No, it’s all, more or less, yes, of course, another utter failure of a disconnect. Of course, moving on.
Susan Sontag, Reborn, Journals & Notebooks 1947 1963, edited by David Reiss, FSG, New York
By way of The Purple Diary.
Paranoia? How masochistic! Which makes sense if it came from Sade. I tried to read the Sontag Journals, but never made it past her undergrad years, which for most people are interesting but lacking in clarity.
Will ponder this one.