in the sea's spring storms
Ran across this today, on identities:
The basic point is this: I cannot assert a differential identity without distinguishing it from a context, and, in the process of making the distinction, I am asserting the context at the same time. (Laclau 1996).
This, this is my issue with labelling identity, sexuality especially. (I wasn't expecting to, but I am beginning to really like Laclau & Mouffe in all their high strung theory ways.) I should write out my thoughts on identity and labelling properly (like why I refused to ID as a feminist even during a time) but I still feel a little too trampled on at the moment.
Bad week continues to be bad. Have some poetry.
My skin is full of butterflies My skin is full of butterflies, of fluttering wings - they flutter out across the meadows and enjoy their honey and flutter home and die in sad small spasms, and not a grain of pollen is disturbed by light feet. For them the sun exists, the hot, immeasurable, older than the ages...
But under skin and blood and inside the marrow heavily heavily imprisoned sea-eagles move, broad-winged, that never let go of their prey. How would your tumult be in the sea's spring storm? How would be your cry, when the sun annealed yellow eyes? Closed is the cave! Closed is the cave! And between the claws twist white as cellar sprouts the nerves of my innermost being.
- Karin Boye, 1935, translation David McDuff.
Edit: Oh, and: my thread at "I've always wanted to tell you"-meme. Mostly because opportunities for honesty are good.
The basic point is this: I cannot assert a differential identity without distinguishing it from a context, and, in the process of making the distinction, I am asserting the context at the same time. (Laclau 1996).
This, this is my issue with labelling identity, sexuality especially. (I wasn't expecting to, but I am beginning to really like Laclau & Mouffe in all their high strung theory ways.) I should write out my thoughts on identity and labelling properly (like why I refused to ID as a feminist even during a time) but I still feel a little too trampled on at the moment.
Bad week continues to be bad. Have some poetry.
My skin is full of butterflies My skin is full of butterflies, of fluttering wings - they flutter out across the meadows and enjoy their honey and flutter home and die in sad small spasms, and not a grain of pollen is disturbed by light feet. For them the sun exists, the hot, immeasurable, older than the ages...
But under skin and blood and inside the marrow heavily heavily imprisoned sea-eagles move, broad-winged, that never let go of their prey. How would your tumult be in the sea's spring storm? How would be your cry, when the sun annealed yellow eyes? Closed is the cave! Closed is the cave! And between the claws twist white as cellar sprouts the nerves of my innermost being.
- Karin Boye, 1935, translation David McDuff.
Edit: Oh, and: my thread at "I've always wanted to tell you"-meme. Mostly because opportunities for honesty are good.