A stupendous Essay by Maksymilian Wolski "Eros, pornos and others." On the difference between disciplinary eroticism and the post-ludic pornography of liberation of the body. And it also explicates the sexlessness of "Sex and the City." In Polish.
"Pornography must in this sense become the source of understanding of the body, instead of being hermeneutics of the soul (as in contemporary "eroticism") or idolization of "organs without body" ( as in "porno"). This understanding cannot from the start assume boundaries of corporeality, nor allow subordination of the body to emotional and spiritual processes, as well as mechanisms of "identity formation" - pornography must represent sex as that which per se questions corporeality, uses, abuses and ill-uses it, as that which agitates the body without depraving it of anything; contrarily adding substance and sense to theresuch experimentally widened space of corporeality and allowing for unimaginable excesses of spiritual multiplicity and ambiguity. Thereby the body is to become the word of new spiritual constellation of fluid individualities - in the place of the word which has become the body of fixated and uniform identities." (Excerpt. Translation mine)
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
AGELESS SEX
YouTube - Ageless Sex
As Palahniuk wrote, "The point was, it's not the sex part of pornography . . . [i]t was the confidence. The courage. The complete lack of shame. The comfort and genuine honesty . . ." (Choke 18) As a side note, something more idealistic than cynical within me rears its head more and more with age as I notice how beauty and romantic duplicity rot relationships from the inside. It has nothing to do with sexual nihilism, irreparable gender difference or the belief that everyone has a sexual freak fetish. I just wish more people were that delusional about the possibility of separating good sex from physical attractiveness and age. Only porn sites offer such utopian demarcating lines without the threat of cultural contempt or criminalization. Alas, where pornography has outgrown some aspects of the culture of medicalization and judicialization of all sexual behavior, it has denigrated ars erotica. I'd wish more ars sexualis for the new century..
As Palahniuk wrote, "The point was, it's not the sex part of pornography . . . [i]t was the confidence. The courage. The complete lack of shame. The comfort and genuine honesty . . ." (Choke 18) As a side note, something more idealistic than cynical within me rears its head more and more with age as I notice how beauty and romantic duplicity rot relationships from the inside. It has nothing to do with sexual nihilism, irreparable gender difference or the belief that everyone has a sexual freak fetish. I just wish more people were that delusional about the possibility of separating good sex from physical attractiveness and age. Only porn sites offer such utopian demarcating lines without the threat of cultural contempt or criminalization. Alas, where pornography has outgrown some aspects of the culture of medicalization and judicialization of all sexual behavior, it has denigrated ars erotica. I'd wish more ars sexualis for the new century..
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
LACERATION
"What was it you whispered to me, that last night we were together? "The communication joining lovers depends on the nakedness of their laceration. Their love signifies that neither can see the being of the other but only a wound and a need to be ruined. No greater desire exists than a wounded person's need for another wound." Your voice was tender, but matter-of-fact, without a trace of urgency. I didn't understand that this was your way of saying good-bye. Only later did I realize that you had been quoting Bataille. And so we bled into each other, slowly, in the dark. At daybreak you left. I never saw you again. I needed your wound, but since that night you've withheld it from me. Instead, you've hurt me far more with your absence. Now my lust, my longing, can never be assuaged. "I wish I could eat your cancer," as Kurt Cobain sang.
Why is it, Deleuze asks, that every love, every experience, every event, scars and shatters us? "Why is every event a kind of plague, war, wound, or death?" We are never equal to the event, Deleuze says, but always too early or too late, too frenzied or too passive, too forward or too withdrawn. Either it is "my life which seems too weak for me, and slips away"; or else "it is I who am too weak for life, it is life which overwhelms me, scattering its singularities all about, in no relation to me." Either way, my love for you is a lost opportunity, a missed encounter. The events that move me, that affect me, that relate me to you, are precisely the ones that I am unable to grasp. It isn't me and it isn't you, Bataille says, but something else that passes between us: "what goes from one person to another when we laugh or make love." Something lost in the instant, over as soon as it happens. Something inhuman, at the limits of communication. "Life doesn't exist inside language: too bad for me" (this is Kathy Acker, in My Mother: Demonology, appropriating, translating, and rewriting--channelling, in short--the voice of Colette Peignot, better known as Laure, Bataille's lover). I can't hold on to your life, or your love; I can only retain the trace of its passage, in the form of a scar. That's why every communication involves laceration. You got through to me only when you left a mark on my skin: a bruise, a puncture, a gash, an amputation, a burn. I was never able to possess the softness of your touch, the roughness with which you fucked me, the mocking irony of your voice. They were all too much for me, and vanished into the night. Only the memories remain, grotesque memorials etched ruinously into my flesh. Every line, every scar, concretizes your absence. For we suffer from reminiscences, and every reminiscence is a wound: whether slashed across the epidermis, or hacked out by the fraying of neural pathways in the brain."
Steven Shaviro Doom Patrols, Chapter 8 "Kathy Acker"
dhalgren
Why is it, Deleuze asks, that every love, every experience, every event, scars and shatters us? "Why is every event a kind of plague, war, wound, or death?" We are never equal to the event, Deleuze says, but always too early or too late, too frenzied or too passive, too forward or too withdrawn. Either it is "my life which seems too weak for me, and slips away"; or else "it is I who am too weak for life, it is life which overwhelms me, scattering its singularities all about, in no relation to me." Either way, my love for you is a lost opportunity, a missed encounter. The events that move me, that affect me, that relate me to you, are precisely the ones that I am unable to grasp. It isn't me and it isn't you, Bataille says, but something else that passes between us: "what goes from one person to another when we laugh or make love." Something lost in the instant, over as soon as it happens. Something inhuman, at the limits of communication. "Life doesn't exist inside language: too bad for me" (this is Kathy Acker, in My Mother: Demonology, appropriating, translating, and rewriting--channelling, in short--the voice of Colette Peignot, better known as Laure, Bataille's lover). I can't hold on to your life, or your love; I can only retain the trace of its passage, in the form of a scar. That's why every communication involves laceration. You got through to me only when you left a mark on my skin: a bruise, a puncture, a gash, an amputation, a burn. I was never able to possess the softness of your touch, the roughness with which you fucked me, the mocking irony of your voice. They were all too much for me, and vanished into the night. Only the memories remain, grotesque memorials etched ruinously into my flesh. Every line, every scar, concretizes your absence. For we suffer from reminiscences, and every reminiscence is a wound: whether slashed across the epidermis, or hacked out by the fraying of neural pathways in the brain."
Steven Shaviro Doom Patrols, Chapter 8 "Kathy Acker"
dhalgren
Sunday, July 18, 2010
PLEASURE SURFACES
"Now the organs figure no longer as orifices leading into the inner functional body, but as productive apparatuses attached to the surfaces of the closed plenum of the body, functioning polymorphously perversely to extend pleasure surfaces. The pleasure surfaces thus extended are surfaces of contact, where infant face and maternal breast, infant cheeks and blanket take form together as the convex reveals the concave face of an object. They are surfaces of sensuality—not of contentment, but of what Freud called excitations, freely mobile excitations. Excitations are not properly “sensations,” that is, sense data, givens of meaning and orientation, information bits that would be fed into the inner functional body. They are flows of energy that ripple, irradiate, intersect, and condense. The infant intensifies its surplus energies in extending surfaces; discovers the pleasures of surfaces; and discovers the pleasures of having surfaces, of being outside, being born. This extension of pleasure surfaces to which life attaches blocks the compulsion to return to the womb, the primary death drive. These freely mobile excitations converge, affect themselves with their own intensities, and discharge in eddies of egoism. Nomadic, multiple, ephemeral surface egos form where surplus energies are consumed in pleasure—eddies of egoism that consume themselves. This is a third production." (Alphonso Lingis Body Transformations, 61)
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