Friday, November 30, 2007

i couldn't find my journal. searched everywhere. nada. i keep a journal to take notes of the books am reading. to jot down my dreams. this one has all my entries from june 07...mostly entries on Irigaray, Bachelard, Trask and notes from the underbelly of the psyche.

like this one from elemental passions...

When you say I, you, he, or she, if she says: I, where and what becomes of you? Thinking that she has now become one in your image, according to your model, you take fright at what you begin to sense: how enclosed you are, how unattainable to others. You strike, knock, cut, would, rub raw this living body to rediscover the source of life. When the way to it is never closed. When it flows on forever, outside as well. When it only dries up if it is covered by you or imprisoned in you, by you. If she says: I, is that not to remain open, and yours? To escape capture, escape the net you draw around your catch, the ice in which you store your property, the mirrors where you conserve and freeze your desires? To become once more that constantly moving life she is. Flowing everywhere without boundaries -- deathly boundaries.

Do not strike so hard, you are paralysing her, stopping her flow. Those blows are only aimed at you. You are the one who needs to be opened up again. (18)


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