expulsion

Writing theses under death.
Dissertation at Middlesex:
Thesis here. not really here or there or this or then...

Soft sounds and the smiths. Music which sounds like places. Morrissey that sounds like new kings road.
Forward ever backward never – but I want to write the past out.
Writing and history destroys memory. Is that the intention? I think it is sometimes. To displace it – replace it. Make room. Make space. And other spatial metaphors.
To land it elsewhere. To countrify.

Reliving the past relieving it.

To get to death I have to move through desire. To get to desire I have to get through what I’ve had (who) and where we’ve been. what I want back.

I do not want what I havent had I want again. Bringing the past back – because we are never there as we are now. And now is always looking forward looking back. And even when I am there – that moment – thinking Be Here Now it is because I know I won’t be long.

But sometimes – and those times – it’s feeling nothing but being there then. No space for ‘feel this.’ Just.

So we live – I live – seeking those moments. Abdications of anxiety – being in the body times so much there is no corporeality to fixate on, just breathing.

I used to feel like that when I rode my bike, but now I smoke too much and the corpus intakes sharp and mental.

At diamanda galas next to heidi at some point (one wail) I closed my eyes and what I felt then was loss of enni, more than chris or kelsey even. Because he lives on and change has killed us, not killed our changing. Because we killed we and no others. Because we live. And the living loss sometimes aches more. Ache. Ache. Ache.

Backache.
Brighton. When we got fever from the cold and the rain the wind and the waves coming up on us at the end of the point where the sculpture sits.

Scotland. Where we hunted for mushrooms hunched over and I sang camp songs the whole time because it helped me focus on the task at hand. And hands so cold I had to alternate.

Wales. For valentine’s day. Walking home from the restaurant talking about sex and back to the b+b to sound off and sleep. Before the pub the next day (the day before?) I said I think I’m leaving. But I didn’t. til I did. (but perhaps I shouldve)

And Ireland. For the last time. In and on the beach that day: ‘let’s get married. I want to have your babies.’ Give me a year, he said. I have. Did. And didn’t. but ireland was beautiful – all those islands were. But there was also the country in the middle of europe, not european, or unionized. And I never never felt like home was there. Although it was, of sorts. Like casa creativa, and the patio. The courtyard.

Remember the first time: there’s the stone wall, the little alleys, and there’s the gate. There’s the wind and there’s enni, key in the lock, opening. And I’m expecting something else- a hallway, I suppose, a room. We move inside and there’s the covered space, as I expected. An entryway, supposed. Or something. But around the corner the light comes on and then – mosaic’d stone ground, and a fountain. Grape grown walls and a full stone table. Home all around. This here? Yes, this castle. Welcome home, will you?
And so I got to know rapunzel.

Casa creativa was a haunted house. Still full of furniture. Paintings and sewing. And a swallow with a broken wing, sitting on my head and on my shoulder, the day we closed the door. When a door opened behind us banging and we just figured those were ghosts (good ghosts) giving us a ciao goodbye.

California calls because of family – ocean – blue and warmish winters.
Europe calls because
Well why because.
Because I found what I was and wasn’t there


I see us growing old… and growing old… and growing old.

And before that bong hits. With devo to hip hop and roots rock reggae. In the house on may by the high school.
And before that high school
School
And school
And years of schooling
Cooling it cutting it
Doing homework.

Rocky horror and I was magenta always. Had that loud lascivious kinda flip the hair dark eyes thing going on. Not quite so sexy but I tried.

Hip hop. A california thing. Bong hits and shows at palookaville, elijah driving. Elijah on my ipod bringing what I wouldn’t do. Musical phases and stages …
“do you go to parties?” said matt. Meaning do you rave? And I didn’t but I did with him.

The first and the last time at homebase in oakland. When the lights came on and everyone still dancing.
But devo’s truck’d been stolen.

Sleeping with a guy whose only tattoo says s h u t u p on his bicep.

And me I want many many.

Shallow days … hollow nights

Can’t write about chris, see.

Just telescoping the past into my moments here, reminding me of them and him and him and her. Expelling my memories – from retention to detention.

Like if I could get them all out then I’d be for now again.

But now is not important – impotent. But isn’t. but I’m enamoured with who and where and what who with I’ve been. wanna tell all y’all
I’ve been her
And here
And there and

It’s always been like this, since I began remembering. Don’t wanna theorize memory wanna live it again.
And he said she said I did we did what then.

I took my bike to brighton on the train. I walked it through gatwick on the way back cuz I needed to pee so bad. I’d crashed and drank a couple pints alone. I took photos and then I rode home. From london bridge... to chicago avenue. biking in the dark.

I want to turn it all out, histories.
I always have.
I don’t know what that has to do with studying.
But it’s true, it’s to lose my memory.
A cliché but: living out loud(ly).

snippets

- Reading Julia Kristeva -- Black Sun -- frustratedly because the first four chapters (as far as I read until the weekend) address melancholia/loss/depression from such a psychoanalytically linguistic perspective that the communique was all but utterly obscured to a 'layperson' such as myself... reminding me of other linguistic frustrations (switzerland) but that this is supposedly my mother tongue. So - arguments for accessible theory - that isn't written like an AP address, either, but doesn't presume such elaborate prior education of the reader. Is that possible? It's a translative problem that I experience... psychoanalysis being both a rigorous academic discourse (and precise language) and a 'lingo' that has been extensively disseminated via pop-culture 'ensures' that terms such as autoeroticism / oedipal / narcissism / libidinal / neurotic / subject ... etc etc have double meanings, are actually unsure. And I have no patience to learn the true language of Freud and his readers - prefer summaries of Lacan to the man himself. (Much as I had no patience for German grammar... oh woe. Oh, failure.

- Talking to Joey from downtown to Division - his suggestion that one possible route (of all these many) to 'take' would be researching inhabiting the liminal - the divisions, as it were - the personal vs. the academic. the professor vs. the friend. the presentation vs. the conversation. acceptable vs. the invalid(ated). Meaning (I'm thinking) investigating the vs. itself - the ring time. When and where they meet and merge and how bloody fuckin emotional that space is - because we have no rules there, in the border (drag).

- I don't know if I can do this. There is no 'this' yet, really. I told our class today I was considering a leave of absence. I probably won't, I don't know what else I'd do. But I have no critical distance from my research now - to even call it research is ridiculous. I gag on Chris-lessness. I'm resisting my positioning because even though I wear the dark hair and Calaveras earrings / all in black I hate to be the poster girl for dead.

- The bartender tonight (sweet woman) thought I was her age. I knew she was older but propriety doesn't allow me to say that, does it? She's 35. I'm 27. She checked my ID and the joke was on her / on me - god I hate having a body these days.