tell me what to swallow.
Look at the most ordinary of men, at a time when a little beauty has contrived to steal into their darkness.
Plot-summary: Golaud, grandson of King Allemonde, has lost his way hunting in a forest. He sees Melisande crying beside a pool of water. Afraid and avoiding questions she tells him she comes from a place to which she does not wish to return. He offers to retrieve her crown, which he sees lying in the water; she forbids him.
The French Revolution represents the rupture of an equilibrium which paved the way for new forms of representations (new forms of democracies, new moral questions such as that of reproduction). This break with the old system rendered the crisis not only explicit but made of crisis the new organizing force. ‘We can think of it this way: previous social forms counted on a certain calm, and crisis came periodically; but now an epoch has opened when we live in permanent crisis. What is provisional now are the moments of status quo’. What Kristeva is suggesting is then a stalling of the modernist project at the point of crisis, that is modernism now equals crisis. She also proposes a way out of crisis. Against a defensive rejection of the achievements of modernism, she believes that a move beyond the narratives of modernism will entail a ‘passing through’ those narratives. In other words, to transcend the modernist deadlock is to work through its narratives, and more importantly its points of resistance with the aim of finding new modes of representations that would permit to move the project beyond obstruction.
Eyes lit / I pawn short breaths / A fawn's dark eye lids /Dada dada die /But life's breast / Like a sun against my head.
He looks at me and talks of the absurdity of cloning as cancer; that the relation is not there so I say; I tell the motherfucker that it’s about trafficking in excess, an excession of cells, bodies which there are too many to begin with. The revolutionary female body in stochastic motion; the hips, the lips and the guts counter-possessed by a (the) hysterical male: sanguine, miscreant, obsolete - and yet utterly (oh God I’m coming please hit me again I need you to please) necessary. You need to do better than just applying band-aids in ethics and therapeutic regimes. So long as we all know they’re being gang raped, there in the camps, it will make all better and yet I call them on these pathetic attempts to willfully ignore the shear failure of - the shear unknowable failure; the collapse and implosion of meaning and all they give me is glucose-addled notions of hope. My faith left me forever ago - at least have the honesty to openly accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior. You must believe you can be forgiven and are worthy to be redeemed in order to be saved.
Writing two years ago I have the identical thing to say: ‘Boastful, belligerent and eager to disprove and argue every point, I start fights with everyone. There's a contesting quality to my arrogance.’
Again I will quote for you the only true thing I have ever said, listen:
When I said I loved you that was it. Don’t you understand you betrayed me; we could read eachothers thoughts.
I’m vulnerable and desperately drinking, lapping at your waters only to spit it out at you, to speak, sputtering 'see I would drink from your cup!'
Plot-summary: Golaud, grandson of King Allemonde, has lost his way hunting in a forest. He sees Melisande crying beside a pool of water. Afraid and avoiding questions she tells him she comes from a place to which she does not wish to return. He offers to retrieve her crown, which he sees lying in the water; she forbids him.
The French Revolution represents the rupture of an equilibrium which paved the way for new forms of representations (new forms of democracies, new moral questions such as that of reproduction). This break with the old system rendered the crisis not only explicit but made of crisis the new organizing force. ‘We can think of it this way: previous social forms counted on a certain calm, and crisis came periodically; but now an epoch has opened when we live in permanent crisis. What is provisional now are the moments of status quo’. What Kristeva is suggesting is then a stalling of the modernist project at the point of crisis, that is modernism now equals crisis. She also proposes a way out of crisis. Against a defensive rejection of the achievements of modernism, she believes that a move beyond the narratives of modernism will entail a ‘passing through’ those narratives. In other words, to transcend the modernist deadlock is to work through its narratives, and more importantly its points of resistance with the aim of finding new modes of representations that would permit to move the project beyond obstruction.
Eyes lit / I pawn short breaths / A fawn's dark eye lids /Dada dada die /But life's breast / Like a sun against my head.
He looks at me and talks of the absurdity of cloning as cancer; that the relation is not there so I say; I tell the motherfucker that it’s about trafficking in excess, an excession of cells, bodies which there are too many to begin with. The revolutionary female body in stochastic motion; the hips, the lips and the guts counter-possessed by a (the) hysterical male: sanguine, miscreant, obsolete - and yet utterly (oh God I’m coming please hit me again I need you to please) necessary. You need to do better than just applying band-aids in ethics and therapeutic regimes. So long as we all know they’re being gang raped, there in the camps, it will make all better and yet I call them on these pathetic attempts to willfully ignore the shear failure of - the shear unknowable failure; the collapse and implosion of meaning and all they give me is glucose-addled notions of hope. My faith left me forever ago - at least have the honesty to openly accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior. You must believe you can be forgiven and are worthy to be redeemed in order to be saved.
Writing two years ago I have the identical thing to say: ‘Boastful, belligerent and eager to disprove and argue every point, I start fights with everyone. There's a contesting quality to my arrogance.’
Again I will quote for you the only true thing I have ever said, listen:
When I said I loved you that was it. Don’t you understand you betrayed me; we could read eachothers thoughts.
I’m vulnerable and desperately drinking, lapping at your waters only to spit it out at you, to speak, sputtering 'see I would drink from your cup!'