fashion blogged.

i suppose boasting about 3 hrs of sleep per night for a week brought me inevitably to sickness. is this really a sign of aging - the body fighting against my urges to live life on the edge (and i use that loosely, if only i were that bad. even at my wildest i like to think i was "good" but really, who is to judge?). i'm never sick though, and it's no way to be, everything feels like it is falling apart, slowly, shambles, splintering. i just hate being low energy and i also wasn't able to finish my fiction piece. i'm so close, so close, and i couldn't possibly rush it. the ending always contains the epiphany, for the character and myself (the writer). since, as i have said, nothing is ever planned my writing does teach me something (as it should) and when the work comes to its final closure, it is then that i feel like i have resolved something, too, that i have gotten closer to a truth that upon starting and even in the process was beyond my control. i am sure some of my "sickness" comes from an overwhelming desire to have things be over, completed, just so i can stand back and look at it, perhaps see it for what it is worth. i feel the work i am referring to is the best thing i have written. i feel it is the most honest, the most revealing, the closest reflection of reality even if that reality is hard to define because it is interior, intangible, fleeting, psychotic (the piece is entirely mental), and what makes me most proud is that finally there is a plot, there is a narrative. a professor told me that where most every author examines the outside life in an effort to hopefully illuminate/glimpse at the interior life, i have done just the opposite, like a glove put on backwards. she said that she wished virginia woolf were in the room to tell me what i am, perceptive to the lived moment. 

the challenge will never end though. i will always hope to be closer.

obama won. the city sounded like it was on fire. then you wake up, and it's like nothing really changed. if anything it just seemed like less people were around. some fashion blog filmed me the day before the election. to no surprise i was the only new yorker for mccain, but some how it did surprise me that he didn't win or maybe it was that he didn't even seem to be close. regardless (and i admit, to my own fault, i am not that informed on politics) there was something genuine about mccain, and i enjoyed watching him in the media, each time he touched me. it may be inexplicable, maybe i just felt for his story and i liked his sense of humor or maybe it was when obama became a victim of the media - larger than life - maybe i was opposing this liberal mindset backed so often by youth to do something different, to be different, to go against the grain, maybe somewhere perhaps unconsciously i too wanted to do that, and so to be different i supported mccain. but that all seems rather shallow, and i think this was one of the few times where we all came together and went deeper than just that. 

Why should we not be illuminated by the night of our jouissance? Which casts a different light on things, on their contours, their spacing and their timing. It brings them back into the world, and reshapes them according to a perception foreign to the rigour of the day, which makes colder distinctions. For sight is no longer our only guide. Seeking within an expanse which is dazzling and palpable, odorous and audible. A night of sensations where everything lives together, permitting co-existence without violence. Before the brutal slash of discrimination assigns each their place. Already trapped in the form of a judgement which obstructs the mutual embracing of relationship. An imperative verticality already weighing over the whole. Already organising it into a hierarchy. An overarching vision exiled from feeling. And not to be granted again to the one and the other save in an ecstatic jouissance. A beyond - out of. Beyond all unveiled-unveiling clarity, there is a night which is thicker than any forces yet revealed. 

Elemental Passions by Luce Irigaray