SOMETIMES, ON THIS BLOG, I TALK ABOUT THINGS I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO


but I never talk about the things I’m really not supposed to say

like not only how I exist but all of those things which have happened do also.

this is a thing I’ve been forced to think about a lot lately, mostly because

I am taking motherhood studies as a class this semester and when women get

together in a room the first impulse is to verify every example with personal

experience. I think I have an issue with this.

I say “I think” because, when I am thinking about it, I think I would rather think

than exist in a body which is required to feel something in addition to thinking.

this is why I am really opposed to using class as group share time which is that I

have no desire to feel anything in a classroom. this is why I live there.

 

in the classroom one might talk in an entirely dissociated state. one might. this is

why literature and theory. so that one might engage without acknowledging

the inherently…components of language; the third-person eliminates this need.

 

in the workshop the first thing one questions is “I” ; in class, “reliability.”

“so that the curious student can observe with one’s own eyes….”

THAT WHICH MAKES THEM UNCOMFORTABLE.

I waited four years to take class with a specific professor. in undergrad. for a long

time I would see her in the hallways of the english department building

I would see her wearing black or jewel-tones and patterned tights and leather

boots or very fashionable flats walking around like a ghost, the whole time. recently

I started reading the #whitegirlproblems twitter feed.

there is a specific tweet that says something about having been dead

for several years, but having not yet fallen down.

today I sat beside a rock on a patch of grass in front of the building where is held

“workshop.”

 

(this, in any case, is supposed to be some sacred, ritual act.)

 

there used to be a way around the economy but now otherwise you have to be a whore.

 

if one is not interested in using one’s body one is best disposed to dispose of it.

 

today I was looking very french with a group of poets and a law student walked by

and said,

 

“isn’t that look a bit affected?”

 

before workshop I read virginia woolf’s suicide note aloud to the class. I wanted to

sit down but someone told me to stand up so I did.

 

the reason I mostly didn’t want to stand up was because I feel like virginia woolf

would have been sitting down, and in spite of a lot of things

I believe in authenticity.

 

I was given a book once and told that some people buy them and hoard them.

I was told that one day, I would buy and hoard them,

& only to give them to someone else.

 

I did this & hoped it was food of the spirit. like I hoped it would make them sicker like

I hoped they would have to stop eating or sleeping or doing too much of both or either.

 

anyway I waited for years to take this class I took this class on sex and death

in the victorian novel.

I became obsessed with madame bovary

because I understood every single part of her psyche and I hated the freudian reading

but I couldn’t help but think it was a little bit relevant.

anyway I just wanted to talk about this book.

I had read it the summer before and I had spent a long time thinking

except something random happened and I felt compelled….

 

anyway. the things one is not supposed to talk about are the things

one is supposed to remember.

 

before and on the day of 9.11.11 it was for me and for a lot of people about avoiding media,

and I was inclined to think about things that I was trained to avoid.

 

in the book by sara ruddick I am reading for a class there is this concept that “training”

is a facet of “mothering” and the other day in the class

people had a big talk about “institutions” and “The Patriarchy” and I have been trained

to “know” they are the same.

it’s a matter of semantics. still, I know I’m not supposed to be thinking about the note I

was never supposed to know on that day and after. I am supposed to know

that there was a wrong done and that such gives one “power.”

 

I do not know how to acknowledge the fact that a person I waited a long time to know,

a person I never did know, did a thing I think I do know,

and in any case virginia woolf put rocks in her pockets, stepped into the river, and wrote

a note which any person is able to read and freely –

 

there is something very oppressive about remembering.

 

or getting a laugh because a trope has killed itself. it is easier to vomit even if you don’t

really have to. there are no cities in which the very cold winter is acceptable. anyway

no one was supposed to talk about knowing and that is how the law works.

 

there are a lot of things, having not forgotten, that become part of one’s lexicon,

which must be abstracted from some metaphor, some grounding.

I think human’s are designed to be in love by which I mean “preservative.”

but honestly I don’t really care.

I am primarily concerned with conveying information which this form cannot allow,

so I am compelled to be honest about it. look. someone I never grew close to died,

and I have since been compelled to understand syntax in a more concrete way

so as to make her existence a concrete thing.

I don’t think any particular life can function as ballast.

also I am afraid that in pretending nothing happened she might cease to exist.

 

everyone pretended it was not a crisis but it was a crisis.

 

in the car today, on the way to buy wine, a good friend said that I could not infinitely

not acknowledge a forced payment.

 

how the lack/loss, how a body gone missing or faint or weak.

 

here’s just how it happened: I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.

 

it doesn’t make sense in chicory or lavender. stolen spaces in the columns

for the sake of laughter or the woods that desire an invisible string. I wished upon

a comeback just so I would get an answer to this ridiculous question I’m not

qualified to ask. which has to do with was it cause you couldn’t live, having been

blessed so as having such a brain the body must behave dead, or to glorify the

nullification of the signifier for the signified…?

 

it was right before the unit on post-structuralism and theory

& was the thing I wanted most to know

& I was never-sleeping and writing a lot of poems because this was the only language

I had in which I could talk about the world,

by which I mean (& meant) that which I was forbidden or trained not to know,

but nonetheless did know. and I felt a right to it. it felt right.

 

unlike this being awake and embodied, having many years ago died but not fallen

over, not life on a mast like a flag or sussed & burned. how in the note the modal

auxiliary is what functions as the turn.

 

but love. to be clear. this is not a denial of a forced silence. + “this” has no actual

objective correlative.

 

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