Flesh is dirty. As dirty as the earth itself, for flesh belongs to nature as much as to purifying posthuman technologies, but Americans suffer from dirt trauma. The body not only creates shit, it is shit, and when the body disproves the absolute and unerotically imagined contours and finish of a classical sculpture, it loses the grace that fantasy bestows. A mother and her daughter and son sat in the row behind me on an airplane.
- Stolen Child.
- Off the Red Carpet!
- Erotic Faculties.
- The Book of Job: How to Believe (Guardian Shorts).
- Shock Cinema Magazine Review Index?
- IPSA abstracts and bibliography in literature and psychology?
- Fin de Siècle/Fin du Globe | SpringerLink?
He was restless and pissy, and he started looking into the ashtrays, which I notice are generally empty now that airlines prohibit smoking on planes. The mother told the boy not to stick his fingers into the ashtrays, but he obviously kept on, because she let loose with a tirade of dirt trauma: "You don't know what could be in there!
It could be a heroin addict's needle, and maybe that addict had AIDS, and you'll get it, too! You would die. And you might stick that needle into your sister.
Do you want her to get sick? The extent of body-fear astounded me and struck deep. For several moments the entire airplane became a repository of filth that could damage me, and I was stuck in that metal body for at least another half-hour. If the airplane was the embodiment of dirt, then so must be all the world below, where many more people lived to shoot up, fuck, excrete, sneeze, touch their forks to food on restaurant plates and leave it there, and drop into open trash cans and office wastebaskets Kleenex that had caught phlegm from their coughing.
The world was a panorama of bodily horror. The body was an oceanic pit. Erotic bodies do not exist in isolation from mind and soul. No body does, and all bodies are erotic when groomed by the sustenance of love. Erotic scholarship makes love with words and ideas and makes love primary. In male-dominated Western culture women loathe themselves, even in a period of intense feminist activity, for they believe that they are physically flawed and sloppy. In a reshaped erotic economy women's love for themselves would not be the narcissism that isolates them from one another in jealousy and competitiveness.
Rather, women would take erotic pleasure in flesh that moves, in fluids their bodies normally excrete, and in polymorphous expressions of beauty.
I am forty-two but I am not middleaged, a word that connotes a fall from grace, from beauty in its many permutations, and I have, here in the flat and humid North, felt embarrassed by my own body and desires, but I have not gotten fat. I've worn silly slippers, so that the curve of my naked sole could not be kissed, and I have lain in bed all night with a comforter pulled up to my nose, no firm breasts or biceps available to my lover's eyes.
I used to wear tights and tank tops, little skirts over bare legs, feet decorated in anklets and brightly colored high heels. The dead are covered up, buried. I think about fruit sweetening and shrinking as it ripens. I think beyond middle age to sweet old ladies, little old ladies. The fall from grace nears completion in the image of a small and cloying female, a shriveling fruit on the way to the garbage.
Our language creates allegiance to the holocaust of hearts. Back in the desert, I am as naked and as beautiful as ever.see
IPSA abstracts and bibliography in literature and psychology
I love this Queen of Eros, my mud-red menopausal blood. Local newscasters exhibit Jive-second concern over the latest child abused and killed. Women students tell me about paternal incest. Co-workers belittle colleagues' work and deride the appearance of a woman professor who, in their eyes, is not sufficiently pretty to make them feel like men. In supermarket parking lots men profess the urgency and perfection of their sexual skills to women they have never seen before. We are pathetic lovers, filled with horror stories, which form a large part of today's mythic superstructure.
The author manqu is everywhere, full of erotic energy channeled into perverse sexuality, into ways to fear each other and to be feared. Most men we've known, a friend half my age and I agreed, do not know how to use their tongues and lips. She and I have more faith in women's oral talents and imagination. Today's perverse placements of sexual energy are inappropriate, for they are aggressive minimizations of erotic faculties.
The horror story is a wonderful genre, because it purges the imagination of banality.
English Language and Literature
But when horror is a staple, sustenance becomes subsistence, and daily life is a form of aversion therapy: the culture will cure you of paranoia, insecurity, and free-floating fear by barraging you with terror. The author loves stories that romance away the loveless narratives of popular culture and academic discourse. She believes in the alteration of narrative on behalf of love, in people s invention of loving stories, which requires leaping into a narrative and making it yours, locating yourself in the world by authoring yourself into it, purging the soul-inseparable-from-the-body of horror as obsession.
Erotic faculties require the activation of oracular voice, which is developed in Part Three, "Loving Stories. Listen to my story, said the Bouquet Scholar. Let us share each other's tongues. Take my story to heart, like a short and necessary kiss. Let it.
Max the Cat: Where is he now? – The Mac Weekly
I may be the excited ambiguity of flesh that moves, so unlike a body, numbed by doctrinaire language, that tells the truth of boredom. Flowery language has so many petals that scholars have been unable to count them all. Flowery languagegenerative languageis the language of love, a new logos, which is reasonthe ability to thinkunbound from rigor, which is not exactness but rigidity.
Oracular voice embodies thought as well as feeling, and it enters and lives in other people's bodies, so it is an intimate tool or weapon. The lover's and the prophet's language is oracular voice, a kind of subjunctive that tells what might be and what would happen if. That some people in the present use oracular voice means that what they say in it does not exist only in a utopian future. The struggles, caring, and vision communicated in oracular voice exist in the speaker's present because they exist in her body and mind.
Oracular voice tells what is and what can be done about it. I am information micromatrix, communications center for the voices of electronic, immune, and ecological systems. To go by different names, to speak in different voices is to be a shapeshifter is to function as a slippage of meaning. The actuality of such fluidity proves that "Love conquers all" is a serious statement. Hate, some say, is love malformed, a skewed disposition of energy and matter that is the opposite of love. The notion that hate is love's antithesis invites easily defined enemies: you're an Arab and I'm a Jew, you're young and I'm old, you're gay and I'm straight.
Hate is not love's opposite, but rather a variant, information networks stressed to distress. Not long ago an artist said to me, "Anything that has too much flesh and love the culture will reject. To a large degree, art comes from and communicates in nonrationalistic ways, but the mechanisms of art historiography, which function, too, in art criticism, inform artists' self-presentation: they know that certain vocabulary and explanations are approved.
Memoirs of Hadrian
My face grows flowers of pink and red. My mouth vomits flowers and sucks them in. I am the fucking fuschia arousing rose at the center of your heart. There no mind misconstrues pink as a maudlin color or mistakes rosiness for foolish optimism. A rose is not embarrassed by its color or its beauty. The rose is rowdy. This pink is love. In the pink first meant in love, the highest state of health.
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