I am free and that is why I am lost.
Nietzsche is someone that one must at once discover, find, and lose. One must discover him in his truth, find him as he who forces us to identify a new rupture with sense, and then lose him, once philosophy has established its own space. The task, that is, may be to look Nietzsche straight into his eyes and know how to lose him.
But I don’t know:
is it tenderness
or habit, perhaps a tender habit,
when the woman brushes her cheek
against the man’s shoulder?
Do they admire the moon’s ascent, or lament its decline?
How often have I seen these two?
Am I stricken by memory or forgetfulness?
I’d like to break a real taboo at this point, and raise a few questions that the pro-sex people consistently evade. Where do these sadistic and masochistic fantasies come from? To borrow from Simone de Beauvoir, are they born or are they made? Are they really agents of our liberation? If we are aroused by them, does it automatically follow that we are empowered by them?
To begin to answer these questions, we have to look beyond the fantasies themselves to the culture in which they develop. It is not just coincidence that they imitate the violence men do to women and girls. Think about the implications for our sexuality of the following statistics: More than a third of us were sexually abused as children (Russell, 1984). For many of us, our first sexual experience was a sexual assault. Forty-four percent of us will be raped (Russell, 1984). The environment in which we learn about and experience our bodies and sexuality is a world not of sexual freedom but of sexual force. Is it any surprise that it is often force that we eroticize? Sadistic and masochistic fantasies may be part of our sexuality, but they are no more our freedom than the culture of misogyny and sexual violence that engendered them.
"Why do you write poetry?" by Shinji Moon
Because I have forgotten everything else.
Because there are questions that no one has answered. Because there are dreams that have snuck up from behind me and left burns in the places that I can’t reach with just my hands, with just my skin. Because there are muscles that I’ve only just discovered the uses for. Because there is no other place for me to go but here, a place where there are only more questions - only more metaphors, only more excuses. Because I’m scared of cutting into myself with a knife, and have found that this page is an incision, that these words are sharper than the blades that people have dug into their stomachs. Because there is light just as much as there is darkness; because the man who works in the falafel truck on Third Ave no longer knows my name. Because there is such a thing as love. Because there is no such a thing as love. […] I write because I am finally giving in to my own name, am no longer running from where I have come from and am no longer running towards anything and because the only place where I can feel myself feel is in paper. Because margins are no longer cutting it for me. Because there are gaps between teeth and gaps between people and people still wonder why there is such a thing as loneliness. Because there are dead that don’t want to rest. Because there are living that want to be dead. Because my Writing Teacher told me that my favorite author was an asshole. Because I’m trying to prove that I exist, that I’m alive, that I’m not a mistake but something blooming. Because there is still no cure for sorrow. […] Because I have seen love - have witnessed love, have touched love, have fought with love, have tried to drown love only to see it again one morning, making me coffee in the kitchen - humming a song that I thought I had forgotten. Because there are people that I’m scared to call. Because when I think of voicemails I think of bad news. […] Because there is a world that I will never see. Because you broke my heart. Because I broke yours. Because we still don’t understand how that could be so. Because. Because. Because I still love you. Because I always will. Because you are the most honest verse I have ever never written. Because fuck poetry. Because fuck me. Because please. Because yes. Because you.
i forgot about this and then it came up here and now i’m faced with this strange feeling of having moved myself
Use what you have, use what the world gives you. Use the first day of fall: bright flame before winter’s deadness; harvest; orange, gold, amber; cool nights and the smell of fire. Our tree-lined streets are set ablaze, our kitchens filled with the smells of nostalgia: apples bubbling into sauce, roasting squash, cinnamon, nutmeg, cider, warmth itself. The leaves as they spark into wild color just before they die are the world’s oldest performance art, and everything we see is celebrating one last violently hued hurrah before the black and white silence of winter.”
―Shauna Niequist, from Cold Tangerines: Celebrating the Extraordinary Nature of Everyday Life (Zondervan, 2007)