January 2012
5 posts
“Be careful when you cast out your demons that you don’t throw away the best of...”
– Can’t sleep with Nietzsche on the brain.
In all things we are but simple assemblage artists.
How funny would it be if I went to a therapist to discuss my growing fear that I’m a full-blooded Lacanian?
December 2011
2 posts
November 2011
4 posts
My autocorrect has started suggesting “Perec-y”- there’s no hope for me.
“The bad lover, like the bad poet, perhaps because of a preoccupation with self,...”
– Stephen Dunn, Walking Light: Essays and Memoirs (via wwnorton)
October 2011
8 posts
“The University broadened my mental horizon. Opposition increased my power of...”
– Dr. Eliza Mosher, first Dean of Women at Michigan
“My mother’s getting married. On a related note, I’m going back to...”
– Brilliant text.
UGH. THE ONE THING I FORGET HAS TO BE GIGANTIC.
UGH
UGH
UGH.
Now begins my steady descent into madness that shall know no relief until January (one hopes) or March.
To be a poet is to spend one’s life composing eulogies.
It’s the first time this date has ever really crept up on me. I’m not complaining, but it’s strange.
September 2011
2 posts
Having desire and knowing what I want are always more disparate than I anticipate.
It would really improve my life if any sleeping pill would have an effect.
August 2011
12 posts
“Alain Badiou has argued that we live in a social space which is increasingly...”
–
Žižek “Shoplifters of the World Unite”
Gotta keep track of the Hegelian lexicon, but a very interesting take on the riots. A lot of resonance out of it — the quote is obviously just gratuitous for my semiotics fetish.
“Empty, I echo to the least footfall,
Museum without statues, grand with...”
– Barren Woman, Plath.
“Story: woman with poet husband who writes about love, passion — she, after glow...”
– Plath’s journal, Sept. 6, 1957
“Wanting to be what we are not, we come to believe ourselves something other than...”
– Rousseau, Preface to La nouvelle Héloïse
The conflation of proximity and the endowment of significance seems ineluctable in this moment. Or maybe this paradigm. This world?
Used poetry collections come with the strangest comments in them.
I suppose mine would be strange to another reader as well.
At least someone was engaged with the text?
“Thank you for the soda — I guess you’ll be happy when basketball season is...”
– Teenage boy to a crying woman in The Last Picture Show.
בְּרֵאשִׁית, בָּרָא אֱלֹהִים, אֵת הַשָּׁמַיִם, וְאֵת הָאָרֶץ.
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita.
Those who do not want to imitate anything, produce nothing.
Which was the moment in which the purity of imagination ended?
July 2011
13 posts
Nous nous devons à la mort.
All I want to do is drink champagne and read Derrida’s book on photography - is that so much to ask?
So much truth it hurts.
Charlotte: Anyone up for playing Old Maid?
Samantha: Aren't we?
“That’s like the soup can telling Warhol where to buy his coke.”
“Let me tell you something about Tom Riddle. We were teacher and student in...”
– (via warmgun)
Old, but pertinent.
The nostalgic impulse of the m-ist movements and corollaries seems misplaced to me. Something about the knee-jerk devolutionary model betrays a faulty value system, perhaps a harmful one.
Why don’t we ever study Blake and Whitman together? That seems an obvious pairing…
One of the stranger nights of my life. At least of the past year.
I get the strange sensation that the next few moves I make in life will be indicative of the shape I desire for its whole.
Achievements
Today was the first day since returning to CO that I woke up without a nosebleed! Yay oversized humidifiers in small spaces!
Is there a pill to turn off the constant Žižek-Derrida interplay going on in my
head every time I try to sleep?
Besides cyanide.
June 2011
10 posts
A student, a young woman, in a fourth floor hallway of her lycee, perched on a ledge of an open window chatting with friends between classes; a teacher passes by and chides her, Be careful, you might fall, almost banteringly chides her, You might fall, and the young woman, eighteen, a girl really, though she wouldn’t think that, as brilliant as she is,...
Caught — the bubble in the spirit level, a creature divided; and the compass needle wobbling and wavering, undecided. Freed — the broken thermometer’s mercury running away; and the rainbow-bird from the narrow bevel of the empty mirror, flying wherever it feels like, gay!
Elizabeth Bishop, “Sonnet”
