The big O, not the little one. The one that signifies not something--not something in the world next to me; but one that is other in a way I can't understand--can't comprehend--can't master: O. Of course, the big O conjures other thoughts--phonetically it makes one think of something else--an experience so unique it also requires to be signified differently. The big O--Orgasm. The big O--Other. Is there a similarity here? Is there a hOmOlOgy, or are the two Other to one another?
Let's start with the big O--orgasm. And, let's restrict ourselves to the big ones--the memorable ones--or, better yet, the ones that stop memory and language and thought for a second or two or more. Let's only talk about the big ones. I dare to say the big ones require an Other. Auto-affection won't do it.
It is a process--a building--an unlocking--a revealing--preparing--trying--coalescing--moving--hoping--expecting--and all sorts of other things. You and I, going somewhere we can't talk about. Trying to take the Other to a place where they are Other to even their own self--to a place where their own self is obliterated into a shaking mess of non-language. Trying to take an Other to a place they can't go by their-self--to a place of non-selfhood that is somehow an experience of selfhood. Trying to reveal to them their singularity--their irreplacebility--in that moment--in that second--their singularity--their absolute uniqueness. Trying to unlock and open their self so they can have it--feel it--experience it--even if only temporarily, temporally. Yes, trying to make them cum so they can come--to come by cumming?
Vulgar? Perverted?
The Big O--both of them--you, standing opposed to me as one I can't comprehend, can't reduce, can't make my own. You are something in the world of which I am not master--something I don't know. I am something--something in the world I can't comprehend, and something I don't know, especially by mastery. Desire for the Other--for orgasm--for becoming one that is singular, non-objective, and irreplaceable--one that is eternal for having somehow escaped the temporality of solitude and the solitude of temporality even for a few seconds, moments, or hours.
You--Other--give me me. Me, your Other--I'll give you you. I'll give you what I don't have and receive a gift I know you don't own.
The Big O. I'll receive you. I'll try. I'll hope. I'll expect. Even if it never happens--if the cumming is no coming--the desire for it never ceases. Even if it never arrives, the big O, the big one, there is always trying--always hoping--always wanting--that is tragic and wonderful all at the same time.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Perhaps, it occurred to me, I was in some new space. I'd entered the place where oblivion was born. Or despair. And also understanding. Or perhaps even love--not as a mirage but as a space for the soul to move in. -Ivan Klima
I am in a new space. Well, I might have always been here. Regardless, I am aware of a new space--or trying to be. This is the where oblivion was born. This is the primordial lack--the deficiency on which I operate--the one that keeps me moving back and forward, keeping me always in between the behind and the ahead. I don't have a foundation to be-from. I don't have a future to be-toward. Thus, the abyss can lead one to think that this space is also home to despair.
But, for some, it is the opposite--it is the place where love is born--where love resides--where love is situated.
What's the lesson?
Love is movement. Love is flux. Love is longing. Love moves--always moves--between an oblivion and the threat of despair. Love is the possibility for hope despite the oblivion, and in the face of despair.
I am in a new space. Well, I might have always been here. Regardless, I am aware of a new space--or trying to be. This is the where oblivion was born. This is the primordial lack--the deficiency on which I operate--the one that keeps me moving back and forward, keeping me always in between the behind and the ahead. I don't have a foundation to be-from. I don't have a future to be-toward. Thus, the abyss can lead one to think that this space is also home to despair.
But, for some, it is the opposite--it is the place where love is born--where love resides--where love is situated.
What's the lesson?
Love is movement. Love is flux. Love is longing. Love moves--always moves--between an oblivion and the threat of despair. Love is the possibility for hope despite the oblivion, and in the face of despair.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Desire
Pleasure itself . . . that which would accord us (to) pure presence itself, if such a thing were possible, would be only another name for death. -Derrida
Pleasure--the drive for happiness that Plato and others have spoken about--the drive for fulfillment--for enjoyment. What kind of enjoyment? The kind--the only kind--in which time is stopped and I am me--present to me--wholly me--altogether myself. The kind in which there is no more striving--no more pushing ahead--or looking behind--in which time doesn't lead one toward an end in nothing, or from a beginning from before memory. Pleasure--the drive to recreate one's self in a way that is whole, lasting, and permanent--the drive to find a place to rest away from the scattering effects of temporality. I want to be whole. I want to be permanent. I want to rest in something eternal, unchanging, and good.
Why is it the same as death? Death is that experience--that non-experience--the only experience of which we can try to speak--that is outside of time. It is the non-moment when time no longer pushes, or pulls, or anything. It is outside--it is me--stopped--forever. In this way, pleasure leads to pure nothingness.
. . . this desire carries in itself the destiny of its non-satisfaction. -Derrida
Thus, the desire for pleasure is doomed from the beginning. We strive--all day everyday--to find the center that will hold us in place--but the only one available is the abyss--the hovering abyss that awaits. Pleasure is the contradictory desire for death--to re-create ourselves permanently--to be outside of time--that is, to be dead.
. . . the desire for presence is . . . born from the abyss. -Derrida
So, what? Despair? Back to Camus and the absurdity? Back to nihilistic anarchy? No. Well, at least not for me. Why? Well, the void--the abyss--is all I have. And, I'd lie if I didn't said I didn't love the exquisite agony of the perpetual drive for pleasure. That exquisite agony of longing to be together--to find One that could make me me for the first time--to find one way of experiencing death--not my own--but the death of temporality--without destroying myself in the process. I love the coming together and the breaking apart. The building pressure--the anticipation--the insatiability that exceeds words--exceeds time--or, at least gives one such impressions. I would lie if I said I didn't love the desire--the structure of desire--that possesses me at every second, calling me toward the One I know isn't there, the One I won't find, but the One of which I dream for so fervently.
What I am interested in is the desire for the experience of the impossible. --Derrida
That desire--the one for the impossible--for a moment in which time is destroyed and I am not. Will it ever come? Of course not. Do I want it--can I feel it shiver through my bones at ever waking second? Of course. That is the point, the structure, and the tragic beauty of desire.
Pleasure--the drive for happiness that Plato and others have spoken about--the drive for fulfillment--for enjoyment. What kind of enjoyment? The kind--the only kind--in which time is stopped and I am me--present to me--wholly me--altogether myself. The kind in which there is no more striving--no more pushing ahead--or looking behind--in which time doesn't lead one toward an end in nothing, or from a beginning from before memory. Pleasure--the drive to recreate one's self in a way that is whole, lasting, and permanent--the drive to find a place to rest away from the scattering effects of temporality. I want to be whole. I want to be permanent. I want to rest in something eternal, unchanging, and good.
Why is it the same as death? Death is that experience--that non-experience--the only experience of which we can try to speak--that is outside of time. It is the non-moment when time no longer pushes, or pulls, or anything. It is outside--it is me--stopped--forever. In this way, pleasure leads to pure nothingness.
. . . this desire carries in itself the destiny of its non-satisfaction. -Derrida
Thus, the desire for pleasure is doomed from the beginning. We strive--all day everyday--to find the center that will hold us in place--but the only one available is the abyss--the hovering abyss that awaits. Pleasure is the contradictory desire for death--to re-create ourselves permanently--to be outside of time--that is, to be dead.
. . . the desire for presence is . . . born from the abyss. -Derrida
So, what? Despair? Back to Camus and the absurdity? Back to nihilistic anarchy? No. Well, at least not for me. Why? Well, the void--the abyss--is all I have. And, I'd lie if I didn't said I didn't love the exquisite agony of the perpetual drive for pleasure. That exquisite agony of longing to be together--to find One that could make me me for the first time--to find one way of experiencing death--not my own--but the death of temporality--without destroying myself in the process. I love the coming together and the breaking apart. The building pressure--the anticipation--the insatiability that exceeds words--exceeds time--or, at least gives one such impressions. I would lie if I said I didn't love the desire--the structure of desire--that possesses me at every second, calling me toward the One I know isn't there, the One I won't find, but the One of which I dream for so fervently.
What I am interested in is the desire for the experience of the impossible. --Derrida
That desire--the one for the impossible--for a moment in which time is destroyed and I am not. Will it ever come? Of course not. Do I want it--can I feel it shiver through my bones at ever waking second? Of course. That is the point, the structure, and the tragic beauty of desire.
Monday, November 10, 2008
But who, sometimes, doesn't feign emotions in an effort to transcend the void that suddenly looms between them and someone they believed themselves to be on intimate terms with? It looks as if it's only possible to be genuine in a game in which you have more than one life. Or rather it is easier to achieve justice and authenticity in a game than in real life. --Ivan Klima
The void looms regardless. The void looms not because of a deficiency or lack left from a failed attempt at plenitude. No. The void looms as the condition for intimacy, effort, and transcendence themselves. The void looms between the two--it is the difference that makes me possible, and you too. The void looms between us--we long for an encounter in which it might disappear--even for a second--and thus feign emotions in an active tweak of the real--an attempt to forget in order to overcome. But, actively forgetting is not possible--we only forget those things we won't/don't try to forget. The void looms and it draws us near--draws us out--draws into places we really don't want to go--into places unlit and unsafe--into places vulnerable and new.
Did I say I hate the void?
I love the void. I love the movement of play the void spurs on in every moment. I love the waves crashing over, and over, and over--changing shapes--changing form--changing color--changing me. I love the difference and the movement. I love the perpetual activity and flow. If there were no void, there would be no moving--no coming together and breaking apart--no desire--no attempts at self-transcendence. All attempts at self-transcendence would be null and void.
I have only the void. And, so do you. I have only the felt absence--the sensed absence. And, I have it only passively. I'll take it (I have no choice), and let it take me into places--no, spaces--of which I do not know.
The void looms regardless. The void looms not because of a deficiency or lack left from a failed attempt at plenitude. No. The void looms as the condition for intimacy, effort, and transcendence themselves. The void looms between the two--it is the difference that makes me possible, and you too. The void looms between us--we long for an encounter in which it might disappear--even for a second--and thus feign emotions in an active tweak of the real--an attempt to forget in order to overcome. But, actively forgetting is not possible--we only forget those things we won't/don't try to forget. The void looms and it draws us near--draws us out--draws into places we really don't want to go--into places unlit and unsafe--into places vulnerable and new.
Did I say I hate the void?
I love the void. I love the movement of play the void spurs on in every moment. I love the waves crashing over, and over, and over--changing shapes--changing form--changing color--changing me. I love the difference and the movement. I love the perpetual activity and flow. If there were no void, there would be no moving--no coming together and breaking apart--no desire--no attempts at self-transcendence. All attempts at self-transcendence would be null and void.
I have only the void. And, so do you. I have only the felt absence--the sensed absence. And, I have it only passively. I'll take it (I have no choice), and let it take me into places--no, spaces--of which I do not know.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
But who, sometimes, doesn't feign emotions in an effort to transcend the void that suddenly looms between them and someone they believed themselves to be on intimate terms with? It looks as if it's only possible to be genuine in a game in which you have more than one life. Or rather it is easier to achieve justice and authenticity in a game than in real life. --Ivan Klima
Feigning emotions? Why? in order to transcend one's self? In order to move past the void--to forget about it long enough to have an erotic experience with an-other? I hate feigning emotions. I hate pretending in order to transcend me. And, I despise the void.
The void follows me--haunts me--at every step; every breath. I live from it, in it, and through it, yet it dominates me in a way that is oppressively inescapable. I want nothing more than to escape it--fulfill it--remedy it--but I am afraid time won't allow that to happen.
In the meantime, I'll hope, pray, and want--nothing more and nothing less.
Feigning emotions? Why? in order to transcend one's self? In order to move past the void--to forget about it long enough to have an erotic experience with an-other? I hate feigning emotions. I hate pretending in order to transcend me. And, I despise the void.
The void follows me--haunts me--at every step; every breath. I live from it, in it, and through it, yet it dominates me in a way that is oppressively inescapable. I want nothing more than to escape it--fulfill it--remedy it--but I am afraid time won't allow that to happen.
In the meantime, I'll hope, pray, and want--nothing more and nothing less.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Collecting Connections/Connecting Collections
And surely we throw ourselves into erotic pleasures above all in order to remember them. So that their luminous points will connect our youth with our old age by means of a shining ribbon! So that they will preserve our memory in an eternal flame!
Life, it seems, is a moving between eternities. It is a stretched out continuum highlighted by points which link us--or at least give us the impression of linking us--to some sort of encounter with the infinite. And, of course, many times--most times--this happens in the throes of erotic desire. Life, it seems, is temporality lived out between the illusion of the infinite, and its infinite hope. This is who we become--not the continuum, but the points along the way that leave our memory seared with the mark of something more, something beyond. These encounters take us beyond ourself and thus, in some tragic way, end up defining us.
And take it from me, my friend, only a word uttered at this most ordinary of moments is capable of illuminating it in such a way that it remains unforgettable.
-Milan Kundera
In those moments, our lives become eternal. Within seconds, we build an image that becomes the irreplaceable, singular unity of the otherwise temporal existence of everyday life.
Shall we collect them? Mark as many points on that continuum as possible in order to create a storehouse of memories of the infinite? The hopeless quest of infinite memories? Or, shall we connect? Shall we connect intimate, fiercely, ferociously--attacking the moments, the seconds, the breaths with the impossible dream of destryoing them? The dream of timeless victory--timeless connection?
They say for me that I'm a collector of women. In reality I'm far more a collector of words.
-Milan Kundera
Regardless, there will always be words to speak about them--whether the connections and collection remains plentiful or few, vulnerable or superficial.
When I can't write anymore I'll die. But I'll die loving. -Ivan Klima
Life, it seems, is a moving between eternities. It is a stretched out continuum highlighted by points which link us--or at least give us the impression of linking us--to some sort of encounter with the infinite. And, of course, many times--most times--this happens in the throes of erotic desire. Life, it seems, is temporality lived out between the illusion of the infinite, and its infinite hope. This is who we become--not the continuum, but the points along the way that leave our memory seared with the mark of something more, something beyond. These encounters take us beyond ourself and thus, in some tragic way, end up defining us.
And take it from me, my friend, only a word uttered at this most ordinary of moments is capable of illuminating it in such a way that it remains unforgettable.
-Milan Kundera
In those moments, our lives become eternal. Within seconds, we build an image that becomes the irreplaceable, singular unity of the otherwise temporal existence of everyday life.
Shall we collect them? Mark as many points on that continuum as possible in order to create a storehouse of memories of the infinite? The hopeless quest of infinite memories? Or, shall we connect? Shall we connect intimate, fiercely, ferociously--attacking the moments, the seconds, the breaths with the impossible dream of destryoing them? The dream of timeless victory--timeless connection?
They say for me that I'm a collector of women. In reality I'm far more a collector of words.
-Milan Kundera
Regardless, there will always be words to speak about them--whether the connections and collection remains plentiful or few, vulnerable or superficial.
When I can't write anymore I'll die. But I'll die loving. -Ivan Klima
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