One finds that love is not a state, a feeling, a disposition, but an exchange, uneven, fraught with history, with ghosts, with longings that are more or less legible to those who try to see one another with their own faulty vision. —Judith Butler
A poem I wrote with each line coming directly from the Digest Of Ohio Motor Vehicle Laws:
If you hit a deer and cause its death, Bright lights shining on dirty glass Will hold frost and ice. Words have been replaced by symbols- These signs will provide guidance Upon hazardous roads To prevent being temporarily blinded. Upon your death, You may take possession of the deer.
“He could not tell anyone how he knew a change had been irretrievably wrought and that there was no returning the girl to land. It was not something you could communicate- any more than you could communicate the dreadful ancient quality of the machinery under the sea.”—william browning spencer, from ‘the ocean and all its devices.’ (via heksenhaus)
Before I moved to California I made the mistake of telling someone why I was moving (to be an artist, etc) and they did what everyone in Oklahoma does. They shared a story of someone they knew who did that very thing and how they’re back in Oklahoma after failing miserably. Shit pissed me off.
“It seems to me sometimes that I do not really exist, but that I merely imagine I exist. The thing that I have the greatest difficulty in believing in, is my own reality. I am constantly getting outside myself, and as I watch myself act I cannot understand how a person who acts is the same as the person who is watching him act, and who wonders in astonishment and doubt how he can be an actor and a watcher at the same moment.”—André Gide, The Counterfeiters (1925)
The most ancient stratum of the Hebrew Bible is structured, from the first, by the motif of exile—from the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the garden of Eden, to the long wandering of the Israelites in the desert. The Jewish sense of exile was never merely a state of separation from a specific locale, from a particular ground; it was (and is) also a sense of the separation from the very possibility of being placed, from the very possibility of being entirely at home. This deeper sense of displacement, this sense of always already being in exile, is inseparable, I suggest, from alphabetic literacy, this great and difficult magic of which the Hebrews were the first real caretakers. Alphabetic writing can engage the human senses only to the extent that those senses sever, at least provisionally, their spontaneous participation with the animate earth. To begin to read, alphabetically, is thus already to be dis-placed, cut off from the sensory nourishment of a more-than-human field of forms.
“My speech is a warning that at this very moment death is loose in the world, that it has suddenly appeared between me, as I speak, and the being I address: it is there between us as the distance that separates us, but this distance is also what prevents us from being separated, because it contains the condition for all understanding. Death alone allows me to grasp what I want to attain; it exists in words as the only way they can have meaning. Without death, everything would sink into absurdity and nothingness.”—Maurice Blanchot, The Work of Fire (via poeticsofdeath)