Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Right now we're just doing some worksheets, and a few project type things. For some reason Umberto just loves worksheets. For my part, I admit to feeling a great deal of frustration over teaching him to read. I feel like I sound the same letters again and again until I'm ready to scream. And he still doesn't get it. It drives me mad sometimes. H pointed out that I need to back off when I feel that way, and he's right.
I have some books with different ideas I just need to spend some time making flashcards, learning center, etc. And I'm buying a math curriculum in a couple of weeks. We'll see how it goes.
His latest poetic outburst: "The sun looks just like a ball that someone threw across the sky."
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Now I know why my mother is happy. I drop the presents and launch myself into his arms. He holds me away from him looking surpised and then embarssed. It is only then that I realize this man is not my father but his brother. Everyone in the room laughts at his discomfort, and I tr hard to not cry. I don't know if I wanted to cry because I am humilated at this mistaek or because it is not my father. I stay for a short bit of time, long enough to get a candy cane, and then I go back to our apartment. But the moment won't go away. It is trade among my family for the whole night and the next day. Everyone laughs, and remarks how much my uncle looks like my father. The story will follow me years later. In fact, it will be told at least once every Christmas.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
"where there is a wound, there is a subject...and the deeper the wound, at the body's center, the more the subject becomes a subject: for the subject is intimacy. Such is love's wound: a radical chasm (at the 'roots' of being), which cannot be closed, and out of which the subjects drains, constituting himself as a subject in this very draining."
The scene, she knew, was like an old movie. She imagined that somewhere in the future she would look back, and laugh at the absurdity of it all. But tonight, she lay in bed and replayed it all over and over. The busy chatter of the lounge. How she had gone to smoke (her roommates at the hotel did not smoke). She had dressed in a short black skirt, ripped black tights, a shirt slashed and held together with safety pins. She had her vampire caps in which pressed into her bottom teeth when she smiled. The effect she had on others electrified her. The "normal" people not associated with the con moved away from her, uncomfortable, shocked. Some of the men would look longingly, something deep and dark stirred inside them. But their wives dragged them off, giving her distrustful, angry glances. But the real moment, the moment when her world began to spiral out of control was when she sat down on the huge circular divan that squatted in the middle of the lounge. She sat and began to smoke, not looking at anything in particular. And when he sat, she felt rather than saw him. When she turned, he was already looking at her. Dressed in black, with long hair pulled back, he smoked as well. He was older than her. His gestures were smooth, easy, almost effeminate. He smiled, and said "I like you tights." And then she smiled, and she saw something light up in his eyes.
"And I really like your teeth. Are they sharp?"
And something opened up in stomach. Something like a wound. Her head, that part which does not rule so well in love, sensed something but she didn't care. What she felt was that if he did not touch her then, that if he got up and left...it would all be over. Life would never have color again. He took her to his hotel room, where they talked. When she left, he gave her his address, and kissed her, she cut his lip with her teeth, and he sighed.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
Once again, there is no reason to say that the variables are merely situational, and that the statement remains constant in principle. Not only are there as many statements as there are effectuations, but all of the statements are present in the effectuation of one among them, so that the line of variation is virtual, in other words, real without being actual, and consequently continuous regardless of the leaps the statement makes...there is a constant tendency to seek a 'reduction'...Placing in variation allows us to avoid these dangers, because it builds a continuum or medium without beginning or end"(Deleuze and Guattari,"A Thousand Plateaus", 94).
What happens when we view not just language but our thoughts and our lives as not constants but constant variables? In this scenario, there are lines of possibility flowing from the one actual. We are always aware that beneath the actual lies the endless possibilities of the virtual. This allows a new way to view the world, and our choices. Instead of a loss maybe it's just an awareness of possibilities. This is similar to what Austin gets at. Language is performance. Even as we swear in one way, all the other ways to swear are inherent in that one utterance.
Relooking my own life....the actual: I am a bisexual woman. I am in a monogamous heterosexual marriage. I have three children through this marriage. Yet I still identify myself as bisexual. The actual does not replace the virtual. Behind my marriage trails the threads of the possibilities. The choice I made does not entail necessarily a loss but a different set of actuals. The other actuals are still there. They are always present like a friendly specter haunting the actual of my life. There is no one thing to reduce to. There is no one thing to loose. What could be is always here. It is there when I see a beautiful woman and imagine what her skin would feel like beneath my hand.