Posts filed under ‘sex’
You’re not supposed to be gay
But you don’t fit into straight
Believe us they say, “the girlfriend is coming”
But what they mean is A Tom trapped in high heels
Who forget her name
It’s like being in a Zoo
You will buy her gifts
She will run off to Thailand with whores
You will be bored
Masturbate? who knew a sexual fantasy could make you poor?
Who knew all those little girls
Put you inside a genocide machine?
Society is screaming with stereotypes
But I have watched them all my life
Their lives are not ones of ease
It’s more like someone with a disease
We’re in a fucking suicide machine
In time you will appreciate this lesson
Identity is something you can afford
Even if it’s the way you are born.
Is sexuality stored in the id? Can we undesire the uncontrollable? There is a kinda urban legend of sexuality, that you only get one shot, once you’re one thing you’ll never be another, but i’m not so sure in the long run such advice is valid, the id fluctuates, attenuates, unravels, the id is actually cosmopolitain and loves to learn and forget. We’re not condemmed to sexualities, we merely learn to crave them.
Kafka isn’t about human beaurarcy, but the beauracy of ideas. How they come to operate
and how they defy logic in their own way. He was essentially providing metaphors
for agency before Latour and others were giving birth to them, his novels are about
reaching ideas through the convulotion of institutions and barriers that keeps thinking
for ever really acheiving it’s goals. It’s about arriving.
You Don’t Love Me Yet by Johnathan Lethem
I have a tendency to skimp on novels, but go in on movies.
While I feel a strange guilt (perhaps do to my Dad’s own reluctance
to splurge on my reading habit years ago) when it comes to buying books
and never finishing them, I am literally still swimming in piles of DVDs I’ve never
finished, to sit through a movie I don’t like for 2 hours is nothing compared to
barely even breaching a book I might enjoy. But Lethem’s latest managed to make
it past my inherint biases and into my bookcase, and it was well worth the read.
It’s a romance story set in Los Angeles which takes place between neurotic complainers,
indie rock singers, and conceptual artists.Lethem’s prose strides down the halls of
enjoyment like an arch-conceptualist brisking down his galleries hallways, never caring
for aesthetics, but merely for ideas. Hermenuetics and erotics fuck as one in Lethem’s prose.
His characters are often only softened by their humor their personalities aren’t just flawed, but are written with an almost uncanny exagerration of their features. At that, I get the feeling Lethem understands his complainer and his artist more than his indie rock bands, I can think of few people who remind me of Bedwin, Lucinda, or the vegetarian lead singer Matthew. Their counter-cultural bohemia is almost parody while the complainer is a concept rapped into a very sexy and satisfying enigma (I found myself thinking of myself as Lucinda in the sex scenes). Perhaps it’s merely my own immersion in such rock scenes that blinds me, when I think about it a kangaroo in the bathroom isn’t out of bounds for many I know, but atypical. Regardless, Mr.Lethem (picked up 3 books by him today on sale ay my bookstore) has written not just an enjoyable book, but possibly the summation of a generations’ ennui. Read it, please. it’s good.
Question of the day:
Why are homosexuality and heremeneutics so often interlinked? What gay artists
didn’t employ interpretation as a means of creating aesthetics? and how have they defied
the either or stance of Sontag in relations to hermeneutics and erotics in art? Mapplethorpe interpreted the body as sculptural, but in effect he made erotics out of it, and in one case thoroughly defused the eroticism of homosexuality for the sake of aesthetics. Other examples:
Todd Haynes, Matmos, Wolgang Tillman, Nan Goldin, etc. Counter examples exist but let’s just say for arguement etc.
Perhaps it’s merely timing, but I get the feeling something in
homosexuality is leading artists these ways. The experience of it, is teaching them something about the malleability of identity and the potential for intentionality in places where typically we accept the pre-existing to be standard and acceptable.
1. It reminds me of people. In particular two friends of mine from college, which of course means it captures youth perfectly.
2. It’s controlled. Chabon isn’t interested in splattering Michael Chabon mega-genius across every page, but rather it’s like he’s so in love with these two characters that he forgets himself and like Arthur, his words are plotted for maximum manipulation, humor, and pathos.
3. The gay experience if essentially the San Francisco of our generation. Everyone has had this experience, but that’s what troubles me about the novel, it’s ending ends with a call towards women as being preferable because they’re different, similar to my pronouncement a few weeks back that loving a guy is easy, but a women harder. I felt disappointed that Chabon wasn’t capable of providing me with more enlightenment beyond what I had already realized. After all while Phlox might have an engrossing world, this doesn’t quite capture the feeling of finding the right one, that special little opposite sex-er with the clever ideas and good haircut. Is dating the wrong girl really better than the right guy? Phlox, I guess, isn’t a good foil for Arthur Lecomete, who seems like a much better partner for Art than Phlox. Cleveland and Jane are a heterosexual couple that make out Chabon’s idea in a better light. Phlox weakens Art’s argument by her very vapidness, while Jane and Cleveland show how even the difference of sex can be a way of growing closer than Art and Art probably could.
4. Modern day literature seems to be marked by authors who gloriously expel their failures whether is Foster Wallace’s realization that he’s not a genius or Dave Egger’s humility or Steve Erickson’s repetition etc. However Chabon is genuinely a good author, unlike Wallace’s early stuff Chabon’s writing is the product of plotting and contemplation unlike Eggers he isn’t dependent on auto-biography for his stories, lastly he is able to bring his novels to a satisfying conclusion while making the story churn into the finely form ideals needed to not only lend it emotional weight, but to let the concepts take flight.
5. It made me rethink my own views of my own literature. It made me think maybe I could be an author… if ya know I only actually wrote something sometimes.
6. The ending nearly made me cry and the book’s characters really are so lovable it’s hard to believe.
Loving someone of the same sex is easy. You understand them. They understand you. The whole thing begins to seem mundane, the sex is easy, the relationships fairly easy. Its a valid relationship and I do believe that genetics and a good ol elektra complex can occur in men or oedipal in women, and for anyone the love you share is amazing, but in the end, as Woody Allen put it, relationships are like sharks. They have to keep moving to stay alive. Someone too similar to you will kill your love. You experience your compassion as mundane, as something anyone could have, like the little trinkets pulled from a store shelf. The mystery is squished by familarity. To love someone of a different culture, race, or gender is a different deal entirely. It requires passion, but also it requires space, and each day you explore them a little more. In the end women might be objectified as sexual objects do to the male gaze but also with out even being aware of a need to counterbalance the ease with which men can fuck men and love them and vice versa. It is the enigma of gender that keeps the patterns in our heads spinning, who is this person? why do I love them? In the end, it is our differences that comprise relationships each person a story that unfolds beneath tongues and breasts, cultures and interests, and finally that pivotal moment where you agree I’m not exploring anymore. It is here that we decide on our mates, here that we find that balance between the known and unknown, here where gender not only defines us, but provides us with a fiction that justifies its own existence. p.s. this is being posted almost 12 hours later and don’t feel the same way anymore.
The problem with pornography isn’t the explotiation of women. The fact of the mater is women enjoy sex and some enjoy performing. The problem comes in it’s approach to the subject of women. In porn not only is the male substracted, but the act becomes something it hardly ever is in reality, eroticism for erocticism’s sake. Or maybe I’m just one totally unattractive dude =)
I downloaded a nurse school movie from javtalk.com a month or so back. Anyway, I've noticed that my fantasizing has changed since then. Previously I would have masturbated about a romantic scenario ya know meeting some girl, dating, and then having sex and perhaps throw in some love and affection etc. Anyway, since then I've become more atuned to just the erotic (i.e. women masturbating and other scenarios that don't involve me). It's interesting that porn distances the social self from sexual desire. In other words it cuts down on pining over the girl next door. Is it possible that porn creates the fictional male who can meet women with out giving away the slightest hint of sexual interest? and do women really want that?