As darkness swells up from within
and towering clouds rain from above
No one can walk away
from inner rot
There is no way to the sides
We cannot fly
All we can
is dive
To find peace therein
is to merge with yourself
and indulge in
darkest hopes
Here we go
11.1.10
het staat voor alles
Waar het misgaat bij bijvoorbeeld een bepaald slag politici: het bevechten van intolerantie wordt gedaan met behulp van niets anders dan intolerantie. Conservatisme met conservatisme. Haat met haat. En haat voedt haat. Men houdt elkaar in stand door vernietiging, vernietiging van hoop, optimisme en mogelijkheden. Het is net zoiets als een spiraal van geweld: men laat zich erdoor meeslepen en daalt steeds verder af in een wereld waarin de uitgang steeds moeilijker te vinden is. En het is allemaal niet nodig. Hebben we niet allemaal geleerd dat je op a geen a moet zeggen, maar b? (of was dat nou iets anders…) We moeten een ander geluid gaan laten horen, en hoognodig ook (voordat die uitgang schier onbereikbaar wordt).
Ooit, niet zo heel lang geleden, had men duidelijk begrepen welk geluid er gehoord moest worden: een vreedzaam geluid. Hippies en idealisten zijn zo gek nog niet. Het enige probleem is dat de zachtaardige gesteldheid van het geluid toe heeft gelaten dat alles er uiteindelijk overheen walste. Men verloor al snel die eigen, heel simpele idealen uit het oog, en als men die al behield, behoorde men voortaan tot een groep in de samenleving die verdrukt en zonder rol van betekenis in een hoekje stond te verkleumen. Het pacifisme blijkt als ideaalstroming op zich niet sterk genoeg om te overleven. Dus is het hoog tijd voor een nieuwe formele term die dat mooie geluid weer nieuw leven inblaast. Een term die iedereen, ook de meest intolerante klootzak, maar al te goed zal begrijpen en niet zo makkelijk zal durven negeren. We stellen aan u voor: offensief pacifisme.
We gaan het geweld bedelven onder grote hopen loodzware vrede.
We verstikken de haat met nevels van onverzettelijke liefde.
Er zal gevochten worden, en niemand zal sneuvelen.
Daadkracht, de kracht van de daad op zich zal zegevieren.
Maar is dit niet al veel eerder gedaan? Hebben ze daar niet allang een term voor? Heette dat niet flower power? Waarom zijn we dat kwijtgeraakt? Waar is het heen gegaan? Dit symbool:
Ooit, niet zo heel lang geleden, had men duidelijk begrepen welk geluid er gehoord moest worden: een vreedzaam geluid. Hippies en idealisten zijn zo gek nog niet. Het enige probleem is dat de zachtaardige gesteldheid van het geluid toe heeft gelaten dat alles er uiteindelijk overheen walste. Men verloor al snel die eigen, heel simpele idealen uit het oog, en als men die al behield, behoorde men voortaan tot een groep in de samenleving die verdrukt en zonder rol van betekenis in een hoekje stond te verkleumen. Het pacifisme blijkt als ideaalstroming op zich niet sterk genoeg om te overleven. Dus is het hoog tijd voor een nieuwe formele term die dat mooie geluid weer nieuw leven inblaast. Een term die iedereen, ook de meest intolerante klootzak, maar al te goed zal begrijpen en niet zo makkelijk zal durven negeren. We stellen aan u voor: offensief pacifisme.
We gaan het geweld bedelven onder grote hopen loodzware vrede.
We verstikken de haat met nevels van onverzettelijke liefde.
Er zal gevochten worden, en niemand zal sneuvelen.
Daadkracht, de kracht van de daad op zich zal zegevieren.
Maar is dit niet al veel eerder gedaan? Hebben ze daar niet allang een term voor? Heette dat niet flower power? Waarom zijn we dat kwijtgeraakt? Waar is het heen gegaan? Dit symbool:
Dat is alles wat er te zeggen valt. En het is al gezegd, en het is al gedaan. Dus wat rest ons nu nog? We kunnen het alleen nog maar herdenken.
Her-denken. Dat is meer dan een nostalgische terugblik (of dat zou het dan toch tenminste moeten zijn). Het is een her-nemen, een her-beleven en uiteindelijk een her-leven. Er moet nieuw leven in geblazen worden. En wel met een hele lange adem. Geen holle frasen meer, geen grapjes, geen flauwdoenerij, en vooral niet de aandacht laten verslappen. Want dan wordt er over je heen gewalst door al het tegengeluid dat er nog is. Dan raak je het kwijt of eindig je in een hoekje. Dus laten we nu eindelijk eens met een serieus oor luisteren naar een boodschap die toch vaak te lichtzinnig werd behandeld: All you need is love. Love is all you need.
7.1.10
Boom
geciteerd van een paar blaadjes:
543
"Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share."
545
"Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say.
Of course those who write short books have even less to say."
337
"He tries to escape his invention but never succeeds because for whatever reason, he is compelled, day and night, week after week, month after month, to continue building the very thing responsible for his incarceration."
546
"The house is history and history is uninhabited."
543
"Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share."
545
"Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say.
Of course those who write short books have even less to say."
337
"He tries to escape his invention but never succeeds because for whatever reason, he is compelled, day and night, week after week, month after month, to continue building the very thing responsible for his incarceration."
546
"The house is history and history is uninhabited."
uit "House of Leaves", Mark Z. Danielewski
3.1.10
The Catcher In The Rye
An excerpt of ingeniousity:
"The cab I had was a real old one that smelled like someone'd just tossed his cookies in it. I always get those vomity kind of cabs if I go anywhere late at night. What made it worse, it was so quiet and lonesome out, even though it was Saturday night. I didn't see hardly anybody on the street. Now and then you just saw a man and a girl crossing a street, with their arms around each other's waists and all, or a bunch of hoodlumy-looking guys and their dates, all of them laughing like hyenas at something you could bet wasn't funny. New York's terrible when somebody laughs on the street very late at night. You can hear it for miles. It makes you feel so lonesome and depressed. I kept wishing I could go home and shoot the bull for a while with old Phoebe. But finally, after I was riding a while, the cab driver and I sort of struck up a conversation. His name was Horwitz. He was a much better guy than the other driver I'd had. Anyway, I thought maybe he might know about the ducks.
"Hey, Horwitz," I said. "You ever pass by the lagoon in Central Park? Down by Central Park South?"
"The what?"
"The lagoon. That little lake, like, there. Where the ducks are. You know."
"Yeah, what about it?"
"Well, you know the ducks that swim around in it? In the springtime and all? Do you happen to know where they go in the wintertime, by any chance?"
"Where who goes?"
"The ducks. Do you know, by any chance? I mean does somebody come around in a truck or something and take them away, or do they fly away by themselves-go south or something?"
Old Horwitz turned all the way around and looked at me. He was a very impatient-type guy. He wasn't a bad guy, though. "How the hell should I know?" he said. "How the hell should I know a stupid thing like that?"
"Well, don't get sore about it," I said. He was sore about it or something.
"Who's sore? Nobody's sore."
I stopped having a conversation with him, if he was going to get so damn touchy about it. But he started it up again himself. He turned all the way around again, and said, "The fish don't go no place. They stay right where they are, the fish. Right in the goddam lake."
"The fish, that's different. The fish is different. I'm talking about the ducks," I said.
"What's different about it? Nothin's different about it," Horwitz said. Everything he said, he sounded sore about something. "It's tougher for the fish, the winter and all, than it is for the ducks, for Chrissake. Use your head, for Chrissake."
I didn't say anything for about a minute. Then I said, "All right. What do they do, the fish and all, when that whole little lake's a solid block of ice, people skating on it and all?"
Old Horwitz turned around again. "What the hellaya mean what do they do?" he yelled at me. "They stay right where they are, for Chrissake."
"They can't just ignore the ice. They can't just ignore it."
"Who's ignoring it? Nobody's ignoring it!" Horwitz said. He got so damn excited and all, I was afraid he was going to drive the cab right into a lamppost or something. "They live right in the goddam ice. It's their nature, for Chrissake. They get frozen right in one position for the whole winter."
"Yeah? What do they eat, then? I mean if they're frozen solid, they can't swim around looking for food and all."
"Their bodies, for Chrissake-what'sa matter with ya? Their bodies take in nutrition and all, right through the goddam seaweed and crap that's in the ice. They got their pores open the whole time. That's their nature, for Chrissake. See what I mean?" He turned way the hell around again to look at me.
"Oh," I said. I let it drop. I was afraid he was going to crack the damn taxi up or something. Besides, he was such a touchy guy, it wasn't any pleasure discussing anything with him. "Would you care to stop off and have a drink with me somewhere?" I said.
He didn't answer me, though. I guess he was still thinking. I asked him again, though. He was a pretty good guy. Quite amusing and all.
"I ain't got no time for no liquor, bud," he said. "How the hell old are you, anyways? Why ain'tcha home in bed?"
"I'm not tired."
When I got out in front of Ernie's and paid the fare, old Horwitz brought up the fish again. He certainly had it on his mind. "Listen," he said. "If you was a fish, Mother Nature'd take care of you, wouldn't she? Right? You don't think them fish just die when it gets to be winter, do ya?"
"No, but-"
"You're goddam right they don't," Horwitz said, and drove off like a bat out of hell. He was about the touchiest guy I ever met. Everything you said made him sore.
"The cab I had was a real old one that smelled like someone'd just tossed his cookies in it. I always get those vomity kind of cabs if I go anywhere late at night. What made it worse, it was so quiet and lonesome out, even though it was Saturday night. I didn't see hardly anybody on the street. Now and then you just saw a man and a girl crossing a street, with their arms around each other's waists and all, or a bunch of hoodlumy-looking guys and their dates, all of them laughing like hyenas at something you could bet wasn't funny. New York's terrible when somebody laughs on the street very late at night. You can hear it for miles. It makes you feel so lonesome and depressed. I kept wishing I could go home and shoot the bull for a while with old Phoebe. But finally, after I was riding a while, the cab driver and I sort of struck up a conversation. His name was Horwitz. He was a much better guy than the other driver I'd had. Anyway, I thought maybe he might know about the ducks.
"Hey, Horwitz," I said. "You ever pass by the lagoon in Central Park? Down by Central Park South?"
"The what?"
"The lagoon. That little lake, like, there. Where the ducks are. You know."
"Yeah, what about it?"
"Well, you know the ducks that swim around in it? In the springtime and all? Do you happen to know where they go in the wintertime, by any chance?"
"Where who goes?"
"The ducks. Do you know, by any chance? I mean does somebody come around in a truck or something and take them away, or do they fly away by themselves-go south or something?"
Old Horwitz turned all the way around and looked at me. He was a very impatient-type guy. He wasn't a bad guy, though. "How the hell should I know?" he said. "How the hell should I know a stupid thing like that?"
"Well, don't get sore about it," I said. He was sore about it or something.
"Who's sore? Nobody's sore."
I stopped having a conversation with him, if he was going to get so damn touchy about it. But he started it up again himself. He turned all the way around again, and said, "The fish don't go no place. They stay right where they are, the fish. Right in the goddam lake."
"The fish, that's different. The fish is different. I'm talking about the ducks," I said.
"What's different about it? Nothin's different about it," Horwitz said. Everything he said, he sounded sore about something. "It's tougher for the fish, the winter and all, than it is for the ducks, for Chrissake. Use your head, for Chrissake."
I didn't say anything for about a minute. Then I said, "All right. What do they do, the fish and all, when that whole little lake's a solid block of ice, people skating on it and all?"
Old Horwitz turned around again. "What the hellaya mean what do they do?" he yelled at me. "They stay right where they are, for Chrissake."
"They can't just ignore the ice. They can't just ignore it."
"Who's ignoring it? Nobody's ignoring it!" Horwitz said. He got so damn excited and all, I was afraid he was going to drive the cab right into a lamppost or something. "They live right in the goddam ice. It's their nature, for Chrissake. They get frozen right in one position for the whole winter."
"Yeah? What do they eat, then? I mean if they're frozen solid, they can't swim around looking for food and all."
"Their bodies, for Chrissake-what'sa matter with ya? Their bodies take in nutrition and all, right through the goddam seaweed and crap that's in the ice. They got their pores open the whole time. That's their nature, for Chrissake. See what I mean?" He turned way the hell around again to look at me.
"Oh," I said. I let it drop. I was afraid he was going to crack the damn taxi up or something. Besides, he was such a touchy guy, it wasn't any pleasure discussing anything with him. "Would you care to stop off and have a drink with me somewhere?" I said.
He didn't answer me, though. I guess he was still thinking. I asked him again, though. He was a pretty good guy. Quite amusing and all.
"I ain't got no time for no liquor, bud," he said. "How the hell old are you, anyways? Why ain'tcha home in bed?"
"I'm not tired."
When I got out in front of Ernie's and paid the fare, old Horwitz brought up the fish again. He certainly had it on his mind. "Listen," he said. "If you was a fish, Mother Nature'd take care of you, wouldn't she? Right? You don't think them fish just die when it gets to be winter, do ya?"
"No, but-"
"You're goddam right they don't," Horwitz said, and drove off like a bat out of hell. He was about the touchiest guy I ever met. Everything you said made him sore.
p.81-83
On the textuality of sex
Two blogs earlier I reported about this idea:
That woman is not an origin but a 'writing effect' (écriture feminine). Claim: not sexuality of the text, but textuality of sex (sex is a product of writing).
That woman is not an origin but a 'writing effect' (écriture feminine). Claim: not sexuality of the text, but textuality of sex (sex is a product of writing).
I couldn't understand what it meant then. Now I think I may do (partly). It may be very easy.
--------
The claim may be: there is no sexuality of the text, but textuality of sex.
-possibly claimed by: Hélène Cixous
----------
It is the idea that 'woman' is not so much a biologically identifiable characteristic, as it is a culural one. We may all know the distinction nature/nurture: shortly, the difference between what is genetically caused and what formed you culturally/educationally/etc. What Hélène Cixous now claims, is that what understand to be typically female, is mostly or even only so because of the image we created of female and feminine. We invented 'woman' by writing her in all her nuances, and now women are measured by that image and forced to meet the invented expectations. So when Hélène Cixous says: no sexuality of the text, she means that the text doesn't show us any 'real' sexuality: the female sex exists only within the textual: 'textuality of sex'.
Or: another interpretation of her claim could be as follows:
----
The claim may be: there should be no sexuality of the text, but textuality of sex.
-possibly claimed by: Hélène Cixous
-------
This means something different: it would mean that one should be free of one's biological origin when writing. Any person should be able to write anything, without worrying about what he or she might be for real. Also, the writing should build the idea of your sex, and not the other way around; you shouldn't write from a conviction about your own biological origin and of that of others. You should be writing from a perspective of freedom, letting identity grow while the words flow. Writing shouldn't be a thing of fear and defense. Maybe I'm overdoing this now. But the point at least is: a text always is sexually tainted, and to claim it to be 'just this' or 'just that' does injustice to a text, as everyone may be reading differently into it. That is the textuality of sex we may be looking for: creating it from reading, growing conscious of it culturally, in a free way.
--------
Maybe it's not so simple, maybe it's not so easy.
Waddoyouthink?
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