panama crone harelip abed 
head stand good
rich oboist arc
cosine obelisk
parapsychology dollar
algorithmic blot

I thought today about resolutions. 
I thought about stopping this... conversation with ghosts.
I feel sadness, always, as cosmic microwave background radiation.
I stay up later than I should, looking for the muse. When she finds me, we wear each other raw. She comes to bed and is never there in the morning. I don't resent her for this since I don't want to be there either. 
I stay up later than I should, looking for the muse. She's always out for blood. When she finds me, she'll only whisper as much as she can draw. I still wake up somehow more than I was. 

Gender Politics Aside
"...instead of seeing giving birth as a forced production, we see it as a “natural,” “biological” process, forgetting that in our societies births are planned (demography), forgetting that we ourselves are programmed to produce children, while this is the only social activity “short of war” that presents such a great danger of death. Thus, as long as we will be “unable to abandon by will or impulse a lifelong and centuries-old commitment to childbearing as the female creative act,” gaining control of the production of children will mean much more than the mere control of the material means of this production: women will have to abstract themselves from the definition “woman” which is imposed upon them."

From
"One is Not Born a Woman"
Monique Wittig



definition "woman"

Date: 2013-05-14 02:11 pm (UTC)From: [personal profile] keplers_angels
yesterday i transcribed this poem to facebook. it's by Dawn Lundy Martin from the book Discipline.

I realize the other women in the house think I am not a woman who belongs in the house. Or perhaps, I think there should be more women like me in the house. Filling a house with bottles of Irish whiskey and stumbling through the black night to smoke. When I am here I think, all the poets have become mothers who wear flowy clothes. You can't smoke in cafes anymore anyway, so why bother. The cafes are so bright they feel like ice. Žižek whispers dirty secrets in my ear and I think of him succumbed to masturbatory habits. When I see the women in the house, I imagine them at their homes, drinking half glasses of wine and arranging flowers in kitchens. In some ways, I am not a woman at all, but one does not have to be a woman to be here, there just aren't any men.

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