Tuesday, June 22, 2010
on the actresses and actors of hysteria
ken baumann and jennifer lowe both sent this link to me - it is fantastic! and yes has wonderful pics. i love the link to andre breton's nadja, the photograph of solange....okay i'm making no sense go and read the article.
Travels
Today I feel like a cow my sore udders slow moving about to get my period any minute...to get one's period messy explosive that quick sick in public in 90 degree weather no less in unfamiliar surroundings...you have been reading too much Ariana Reines John says to me as I milk this metaphor too many times...which reminds me of being in my uncle's house in Oak Park they are watching baseball on the television screen and I cannot sit still to watch a sport so I must talk around the sport...Baseball I think has the most metaphors of any sport I muse...the ones we carry over into real life...or are they cliches, fuck what's the difference between a metaphor and a cliche. The most sexual metaphors, certainly. My family ignores me. Summers spent on my father's lap I am young I am bored the WGN baseball like a narcotic.
Today I am in Philadelphia and it is no surprise that I find myself flaneuring in a city and it is the first time in one solid month I've written in my journal. When I wrote in my journal daily in Chicago. Because I exist here. I am a body moving in the street even if a slowly milling aching sweaty body...When in Ohio I don't exist, I am a dead body, I am the book and the room and the computer screen and no body...
And I feel, today, I cannot possibly write the book. Even though the chapter will deal, partially, with periods. PERIODS. The Papin sisters were on the rag. Their policeman named Deleuze. Channeling, channeling. Quick, Roz, what does Deleuze say about "the girl"? I was going to bring A Thousand Plateaus on the plane for the chapter but I remember you wrote about it in the comments section of FF...and I thought maybe I'd wiki it instead. I just need to know: what did they write? The girl is a liberatory example of the body w/o organs? That completely undercuts my argument. If so. I want to know. I am in no way a scholar. I am realizing I'm not a: poet, short-story writer, scholar, playwright, performance artist, novelist. Fuck. What am I? I am sweaty armpits and a bloated gut and cracked out on iced coffee. I am not w/o organs. I am: Bladder, Uterus, Anus, Skin, Coffeed Tongue, Aching Breasts, Swollen Feet, Aching Swollen Heart. I am not: Brain.
Breathless is replaying and since I'm in a real city thought maybe I'd see it this week and reflect on Jean Seberg, the model for my Ruth in Green Girl, the model of the girl. That movie. I saw that movie for the first time after my mother died, when I was still, still yet a posturing, pretty girl, before thinning hair and a certain measure of gravitas. And I was enmeshed in this short-lived love affair with a Buddhist-leaning actor with a sex addiction and a problem with impotence (re: me)..I will probably erase this that seems violating and inappropriate. Let's correct. He was a Buddhist-leaning...painter. And we watched Breathless at the foot of the bed. And this is all folded up into my grief. He would bathe me and sprinkle herbs into the bath and feed me olives and hold me as I sobbed into his arms wrapped into a bath towel.
I have been thinking lately of becoming a poet, although I don't know what I would have to do to undertake this. I also want to become: a journalist (again), a playwright, a performance artist, a short-story writer. I feel today if I lived in a city again I would exist and observe and write poetry. Everyone has been telling me I'm not a poet. I feel perhaps a poet is what I should be. And so I'm wondering whether there's something about me that cannot open up the moment, that lacks the lyrical. Today I think to write small trained measured pieces is braver than monstrous books that are always unfinished. To be trapped in a room with my paper corpses that no one will read, and then I forget that they're there, like that woman living with the corpse she forgot it was there I wrote a one-act play about it a year ago it was supposed to be a metaphor of the war it was AWFUL and went in my folder marked "abortions."
Today I am in Philadelphia and it is no surprise that I find myself flaneuring in a city and it is the first time in one solid month I've written in my journal. When I wrote in my journal daily in Chicago. Because I exist here. I am a body moving in the street even if a slowly milling aching sweaty body...When in Ohio I don't exist, I am a dead body, I am the book and the room and the computer screen and no body...
And I feel, today, I cannot possibly write the book. Even though the chapter will deal, partially, with periods. PERIODS. The Papin sisters were on the rag. Their policeman named Deleuze. Channeling, channeling. Quick, Roz, what does Deleuze say about "the girl"? I was going to bring A Thousand Plateaus on the plane for the chapter but I remember you wrote about it in the comments section of FF...and I thought maybe I'd wiki it instead. I just need to know: what did they write? The girl is a liberatory example of the body w/o organs? That completely undercuts my argument. If so. I want to know. I am in no way a scholar. I am realizing I'm not a: poet, short-story writer, scholar, playwright, performance artist, novelist. Fuck. What am I? I am sweaty armpits and a bloated gut and cracked out on iced coffee. I am not w/o organs. I am: Bladder, Uterus, Anus, Skin, Coffeed Tongue, Aching Breasts, Swollen Feet, Aching Swollen Heart. I am not: Brain.
Breathless is replaying and since I'm in a real city thought maybe I'd see it this week and reflect on Jean Seberg, the model for my Ruth in Green Girl, the model of the girl. That movie. I saw that movie for the first time after my mother died, when I was still, still yet a posturing, pretty girl, before thinning hair and a certain measure of gravitas. And I was enmeshed in this short-lived love affair with a Buddhist-leaning actor with a sex addiction and a problem with impotence (re: me)..I will probably erase this that seems violating and inappropriate. Let's correct. He was a Buddhist-leaning...painter. And we watched Breathless at the foot of the bed. And this is all folded up into my grief. He would bathe me and sprinkle herbs into the bath and feed me olives and hold me as I sobbed into his arms wrapped into a bath towel.
I have been thinking lately of becoming a poet, although I don't know what I would have to do to undertake this. I also want to become: a journalist (again), a playwright, a performance artist, a short-story writer. I feel today if I lived in a city again I would exist and observe and write poetry. Everyone has been telling me I'm not a poet. I feel perhaps a poet is what I should be. And so I'm wondering whether there's something about me that cannot open up the moment, that lacks the lyrical. Today I think to write small trained measured pieces is braver than monstrous books that are always unfinished. To be trapped in a room with my paper corpses that no one will read, and then I forget that they're there, like that woman living with the corpse she forgot it was there I wrote a one-act play about it a year ago it was supposed to be a metaphor of the war it was AWFUL and went in my folder marked "abortions."
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