Friday, May 7, 2010

Needle In the Hay

When I was in elementary school we had "moving-up" ceremonies (queue the R&B). At Chicago we have "convocations" (summoning a large assembly of people for the conferral of awards). But I'm going to my sister's "graduation" (cf. also: 2; the action of dividing into degrees or other proportionate divisions on a graduated scale.). Our relationship has been fraught, mostly because we have "graduated"--divided by degrees along some measured scale of silences, thinly veiled insinuations of disapproval (oh, really? a sorority?... really? he's in the Army?... Or: Why do you date men any way?). Graduated... Though, at least I'll have an excuse not to really engage. No, I don't know the first thing about getting a real job in the business world... No, I wish I could but I don't live in DC so I wouldn't know if that's a good rental price... That sort of shit siblings continue to pester one another with from whatever distances they have furnished themselves with. But I like my little corner of the world, and I don't need to ask anyone for their fucking advice. (Not true: just, no one in my family.)

To be honest, it's just that this seems like a chore. No: like a total bore. It is crazy or stupid or whatever. Perhaps mean-spirited. But only if you think that we should subordinate ourselves to the drudgery of obligation--familial obligations I find most repulsive. Some people wish for the bondage of familial obligation; gays call one another "family" (not, what I think is more appropriate, but hardly more accurate, "community"), and a cottage industry of philosophy has blossomed under the sign of a nostalgia fueled vehemence that can only lash out at the desire for more wiggle-room with all sorts of nightmarish doomscapes of nihilism.

It's a matter of being an adept psychoanalyst, I think. Yes, yes, all of this has been said: anomie, dis-empowement, alienation, exclusion, despair--the canon of 19th and 20th century literature (of the readable variety--which is to say, pleasurable). Honest, perhaps more properly. What is beautiful about literature, about sitcoms, music videos, video-games, movies, comic strips, commercials, ect--the cultural signs--detritus and otherwise--is this mirroring effect. Still: one can choose how to look in the mirror. Perhaps it is just me, but after really good sex I like to look in the mirror, to match the image to the corporeal sensation that is still alive on the memory of my skin. I like to see my lover next to me in the mirror, equally pleased, sated--but not quite--always more, always lacking, always wanting, wanting, wanting--to avoid boredom or an image that is too recognizable, too the morning after; desire is the good.

The bonds of family--this is a bizarre desire, I feel. An over-investment in the paternal order, the militarized state, the disciplinary apparatus of church, school, clinic.

My a girl I knew in high school is starring in the remake of "Nightmare on Elm Street". She's "Rooney Mara"--which is funny as her nom de theatre is her mother's maiden name. Anyway, she plays the chick who cuts or burns herself to keep awake, to keep out of the nightmare, and who (of course) gets hospitalized and sedated--how brilliant! Modern psychiatry is what is responsible for sending us to our hellish deaths: their arrogant expertise amounting to nothing more than a banal death sentence--a lethal injection of good intention. One night, at her house, we sat outside talking about how unforgivable fat is--on ourselves and on others (body fascists my Sokrates says). From the open window of her parents bedroom we hear her father exclaim something nasty about her (out of frustration?) to her mother, and there is nothing that can be said since we've both heard it and yet to acknowledge that it was heard would be to acknowledge that it was said, and neither of us want to do that--it would hurt too much, be too messy, too unexplainable--a wound impossible to treat. But there I was, and a part of me was so pleased: yes, I thought to myself, I know for certain that all the rest of "You" are as abject as I am--and yet, I get to take all the shit for you, from you, so you don't have to speak your own shit out loud, so it can be disavowed, heard but not really heard.

I think that if I ever win an award that requires me to thank people publicly, I think I'd be of the temperament which would say simply: you know who you are that I am thankful for. My love knows no bounds; and that nothing in me knows any bounds, I am constantly engaged in a playful wrestling match; I often keep my desires bound and gagged, moaning for release. Oh, my father-Freud, how vindicated I am! Infinitely invert-able, laughing at the sudden reversals--may I always be laughing!

Tonight J. make me laugh out loud; how wonderful, I said, that you transgress a threshold and I don't scream in pain, but laugh like a child! May I always be able to laugh! I love my body in his hands. Strong hands, skilled in delicate and intimate foldings and unfoldings. My hands are sometimes too clumsy: they clatter like a keyboard or a train-car. My hands, my hands, my hands! When they are in love with my ideas they dance for me: like beautiful boys in a ballet choreographed by Alvin Ailey and Lady Gaga... Half-psychotic, sick, hypnotic...

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