Archive for February, 2009
When I think about that first girl I’m not so sure I really wanted her. I remember at summer camp and a few notable differences. The guys around me had already developed some type of chauvinistic desire, I didn’t really have any. My major hetereosexual fanatasies were really ones on entrappment and the relation I had with women ran counter to them. Did I merely pick up on that moment of objectification and go with it? Sexuality isn’t really built out of hottness, it’s simply desire or longing. My identity is a squishy thing, pushed down and rolled around because I don’t really know who I am. This experience is growing because I have a more defined sense of myself.
Reading so much of eighties and nineties Academic discourse, one is struck by the constant need to leave the question open. Queer Theory was supposed to be open ended and eternally defining itself, deconstruction never stops, linguistics are lost in translation. These frequent extensions of an ideas’ lifespan by trying to turn them from Territorial Beasts into paradoxes and enigmas that forever buzz in the brain’s eyes seem little more than stances, but post-modernism can at times feel like a rainforest full of nats, ancient ideas of substance being obscured by an over-analyzed and glossy field of parasitic sub-theories but questions that leave huge open arcs in the self, a philosophy of thinking that requires the reader to constantly formulate new discourses to fill them, but ultimately leads less to cohension, but to a maze in which the writer is placing herself along with her peers, their voices leading not to conclusions, but rather to absorption their story writing others into the text, giving them new stories to fullfill etc. Open endness is the nature of enquiry, not a feature that necessarily needs to be included in a set of ideas. Such seems to be the point of Pelevin’s The Helmet of Horror.
We use identity and it’s various tools all the time, whether copying someone’s behavoir to make ourselves better parents, more productive, or merely not fly into road rage. But when we use identity to produce pleasure, we are making the queer. Identity is a multi-faceted tool, one in which people play to find their place in society whether it’s a transvestite trying to fit in, or merely an ambitious lawyer curbing a behavoir to be better at her job. That often, and perhaps this is just me, we feel somewhat covert about our identities is due to the fact that we live in a culture that imposes penalties on pleasure seeking identities (GLBT) or that we often concieve of the self as fixed under the glare of science’s dictates (such a notion is changing in neurology though). Sincerity is a false idea, it pins itself on the idea of a central self, while pyscho-analysis opens up identity as pleasure (even that lawyer will enjoy her new found competiveness). Transgender is a somewhat radical attempt to fit in. We know 60 years after its advent that it is more than possible for some individuals to become the opposite sex (the other day I watched a transitioning khatoey on a date with her new boyfriend), but we have to ask why does society, especially Thai society, prefer to some people adopt traits of the opposite to the point that they “fit in”. Why do we demand a play with such strictly casted characters, a smooth surface to culture, when a more heterogenous one might actually suit us better. This is a contuation of an idea Vnai Dee had when I asked him why doesn’t cross dress anymore, and he said it was merely what society wants, that you fit in.
Since Orlando when I first lost my ability to stand up for myself, I remember being overhwelmed by noise music, afriad to listen to anything to loud.
this dude has gotta go
There’s a peculair feeling one gets when one has been over the world a few times. A kinda slowing down of culture of how slow the local is to injest the whole. So complicated is the memeosphere that it’s download times are measures in decades, its movements in centuries. At times walking through Japan’s nearly derelict expanses of age, one is forced to consider the question, is it really all over? Has the world really begun to end? Is this party over and the ideas decaying, so many cramped into the world’s neurosis, that they’ve merely succumbed to impact wounds, never making it over the rise, or is the world merely lacking in theory, perspective, the new. p.s. JUST POPPED AN ANTI-DEPRESSANT. FIRST THOUGHT AFTER PROZAC BEGINS TO HIT.
at times when I realized I’m locked in this person, set in this self, it just annoys me. If you took myself and set it in space, I’d be a thistle of brambles. Ketamine is about the closest I’ve come chemically to describing what it’s like to be me, just mute and content to die. Passion in check, withering. If the software ain’t right, if the self isn’t in alignment then life isn’t enjoyable, but far worse is to be in purgatory now. Hell at least has a feeling.