May 5, 2001 [10:00-10:30]
A dust cloud on a hill. Globe. Indian (British) (tie) / pope. Damascus. Rape. We’re carrying the ayatollah’s portrait through the streets. At the moment the girl is mostly suede jacket with white ribbons on her sleeves. A small explosion flares up/impact. Camouflage. Close up. We’re analyzing the situation. He’s dead right? Dead dead. Dead. Everything without, these, and only with the body. Indices signal death. Dollar bills are printed in factories. Holes. Light patch. Globe in a box. Microphone. What’s the situation? Grey impact on a green hill (field?). The water is blue. He has no lips. Interns on the background with skirts that are too long. This is an example of a sonnet. An Islamic woman pushes against the door of an electronics shop. Arrows (percentages (prices)). Is this what awaits the American? Touch screen interface. The word, an island, can only be a sign in that situation. We pull up a chair, join in on the fun. On the shelves only books about computers. One glance in the distance is enough to lighten up a luna park in the distance. She’s really desperate, especially when she laughs. Click. Ah. Next. And now it’s raining, but that’s ok. Yellow stains sliding over the south. Shallow caves light: clothes, boots, electrical equipment. 45. 22:10. Nothing gives you the right to eat more than people starving to death. The Hague. Slam dunk. Traffic light. Two H’s, one L (standing for the L (little prick)). We’re happy to say something. Clouds, small suns, temperatures, cities. The truth is never an excuse. Yellow. Yellow. Green. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Green. Green. Yellow. Will you email me? Skeleton: “No.” Ex-nerds in brand-new and brightly red sport cars. $$$. I love. Shihab. Hooves in the sand. Skinny senior with over-sized sunglasses; old jockey (cap, trophy) smiling in slow motion. And there I am again, flashback, crying with my head in between my hands. Sometimes I’ve got the feeling that cannibals. Eyes: blue. Cancer. Why would I wait until tomorrow? Golden beams protruding from the lifted/lit earth.
Transfixed by Maps
I am transfixed by maps, colorful, blue and pink and pale green, black lines tracing the paths I will never take. Mountain ranges rising from the surface, where you can run finger down and imagine all the towns, all the places where you could go and make your life better. Maps are like words, the anecdotes to describe my life. I give a one-dimensional, flat portrait of myself, using sentences and guesses about myself. I map out my existence. But like the maps themselves, the stories create a verisimilitude which has nothing to do with reality. See this line? this black highway running toward the West? You can follow that line all the way and never imagine the flat fields and endless roads.
I can tell you where I came from, what classrooms I sat in, where I drank my coffee and even who I kissed and what he said, and my sentences are merely black lines running into my past, a past whose richness I could never explain with black lines, a place you can’t even imagine. My mother’s house, her porch and yard and the roads leading to it amounting to only a dot. I pull myself farther and farther from the earth, I see longitude and latitude, it was here, I could even point my finger here where I left him behind, my heels kicking up the dust of the road. Horizontal lines, vertical lines along the earth, forming a mesh, a net to catch the past in.
-From Theresa’s journal, 9/17/1989
Image: Two of Theresa’s journals and a few of the contents clipped to the pages.
See Theresa’s blog The Wit of the Staircase
The modern State cannot be grasped as a reality, substance, objectivity (an inert or organic object). The State is not seen. No more than the Law. They do not pertain to the sensible. You can photograph rulers. Not the State. What does the spectator see, from the outside, or the member, from the inside? He does not see the Law, only the policeman. We only see the theatrical appearance of the State, the ceremonial garments. The State is not seen, it is conceived: this allows Hegel and Hegelians to claim that the State is (nothing but) an idea.Lefebvre, Henri, De l’État, vol. 1, 1976, pp. 42-3 (via fuckyeahdialectics)
I say: I am the riverThomas Lux, from “Early Blur,” in God Particles: Poems (via anhelos)
and you are its blue, burning current.
My only plan for today is to hide behind something for a little while.
Desolation tries to colonize you.Jeff VanderMeer, Annihilation (via spiritandteeth)
David Harvey, A Companion to Marx’s Capital, 109
This is sooo helpful for understanding Marx’s dialectical method.