| (no subject) |
[Jan. 7th, 2010|02:36 pm] |
i went on a first date last night and let me hands do all the talking; there was no end to my fidgeting, my tongue just flapped away about NOTHING. The window decals got peeled and some plastic got torn to shreds and i invented new ways of sitting in a chair. who knew i was capable of such horrific awkwardness.
but BUT i don't want to be with someone unless they make me a bit of a babbling idiot, otherwise i probably don't like them enough. sometimes i know i can get away with long legs and being young and vivacious, but then there are the ones who don't care so much about those things, and i get insecure about my brain and whether i'm serious/intellectual/politically active/ambitious enough.
anyways, andrew and i have finally started running. we have spandex and new, bright white shoes and probably look like big yuppies. that doesn't matter though, because my body feels great! i am on speaking terms with my muscles again. i am also reading road sense for drivers, and hopefully will get my L soon. i'm tired of being the roadtrip tag-a-long that can't drive, as well as having stupid driving anxiety dreams.
so maybe all this self improvement will balance out my insecurities. |
|
|
| lhasa de sela |
[Jan. 5th, 2010|03:57 am] |
i'll be part of an awesome group show taking place in portland, oregon this january 7th, 2010.
"self psyche" at the pony club gallery:
625 NW Everett St
Suite #105
Portland, OR 97209
503-206-1943
Gallery Hours:
Wed-Sat 1-6
First Thursdays Art Openings 6-10 |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jan. 3rd, 2010|11:20 pm] |
1) Its fifteen degrees below zero in NYC and tomorrow evening, I have to go all the way from Queens to Manhattan in this cold, to tutor Spanish to Steven Spielberg’s daughter. Steven Spielberg’s daughter is eight years younger than me, and has her own apartment near Central Park. Meanwhile, I’ve never lived with less than two people, but what matters is quality, not quantity. Steven Spielberg’s daughter is interested in Don Quixote, and in getting into UCLA, because she wants to go to college somewhere sunny, with beaches, with tanned people, very far away from the NYC weather. Meanwhile, I’m applying to graduate programs in NYC, because apparently I think I can handle this weather. Steven Spielberg’s daughter is my mother’s high school Spanish student, and she has a real name too, that I won’t mention due to celebrity privacy issues. Steven Spielberg’s ex wife is paying me a lot of money an hour to tutor Spanish to her daughter, so that she gets a good grade in her Language class, and gets into UCLA. But maybe I shouldn’t mention this either, because now my friends are going to think I have money and say: “You owe me for this time, and for that time I paid for your drinks and for that time too. And how about donating any extra money to charity?”
2) You know how I manage to handle this weather? I play mind games and imagine I am some hot detective from Florida who is on a mission in Alaska. That is, in my imagination and under my rags, I am actually really good looking, but over my huge winter coat and upon the sock covering my entire face, I am just another homeless lady. I believe in my mind that this is my original idea, but in reality this theme is from a really bad movie I watched once, about a detective in Alaska who is trying to solve a crime. I’ve noticed how sometimes at parties, a guy will try to show off to a group of people by narrating an “original movie script” to them, something they believe they spontaneously came up with. But then the story is exactly like some famous action movie that everybody has already seen. People are so predictably spontaneous, even Steven Spielberg.
3) Allen Ginsberg once wrote in some biography that one could get fat by eating Oreos. He mentioned that even if you didn’t eat anything but Oreos all day, you would still get fat. Guess what I’ve been eating all day? Half a pack of Oreos. You see, I’ve been acting like a skinny person lately. That is, skinny people are always “too nervous” to eat, and they are always too neurotic, or too stressed to finish their entire plate of food. Boo. Skinny people used to get on my nerves, so I always tried feeding them, hoping this would stop making them act so neurotic and stressed, so skinny. I love feeding skinny people because I feel like I’m caring for a starving child. But then I started acting like a stressed, neurotic skinny person myself. And eating like a skinny person was getting on my nerves, but I was too stressed and moody to do anything about it. I mean, I have all these Italian genes, and not enough flesh to go with them, so I thought: I’ve been acting like a moody depressed skinny person, and I’m sick of it. Pass me the Oreos and let me be happy. Yes, happiness is a box of Oreos don’t you judge me.
4) I used to think that to get a good job you just had to be well qualified. I also used to think that to get into a graduate program, all you needed was a good writing sample that showed you could address a philosophical issue clearly and successfully. I used to think people would select you, for a job or for a program, based on your merit. This is why I spent so much time working on my writing sample. But this is Humbug. Apparently, a big part of succeeding in life is learning how to kiss ass. Screw merit.
Kissing Ass applies to your boss, your supervisor, your professors, and also ( I'm recently learning) graduate program committees. Ever since last summer, I have been introduced to professors whom, if I successfully kiss ass, might have enough influence to get me into their program. When people recommend me to e-mail professors who work in my programs of choice, what they are implicitly recommending me, is to kiss their ass.
At this point and knowing that rejection rate is %80, I am still wondering why do I even have to explain myself with a cover letter! Just read my writing sample which I have spent time on, and if you like how I do philosophy, fine, and if you don't, then spare me the trouble of having to meet you, shake hands with you, tell you that I like your work, e-mail you to remind you that I like your work, e-mail you to ask you for a letter of recommendation, kiss your ass. I have other things to do over here. Like write in this journal, or read chick-literature for example. But also, when I get rejected, I may just wonder if it was due to my lack of philosophical abilities, my lack of ass-kissing abilities, or a combination of the two.
5) My sister is wearing two sweaters and a knitted hat to go to sleep; this is how cold it is in NYC. My sister was telling me that for people who are from Chicago; this weather is flip-flop and Bermuda weather. I guess you don’t know cold until you know Chicago. But then again, you don't know Alaska until you spend the night in Flushing, Queens. |
|
|
| A Child's Christmas in Buenos Aires |
[Jan. 1st, 2010|07:59 pm] |
My mom told me this story about my niece in Argentina, and I thought it was sweet in all its innocence, so I’m writing it here. Ana’s mother (my sister) has a Catholic background, while her husband comes from a non-religious background. When she turned five, my sister who had been talking to Ana about Jesus, decided to take her to a church in Buenos Aires for the first time. “We are going to the house of the Lord!” was the theme of the day. So Ana, excited to get to see the Lord, put on her best dress and shoes, tied her blonde curls away from her face, painted her little nails pink and held my sister’s hand all the way o the church. There was no mass when they got there but there where plenty of sculptures and images of a crucified Christ, and a suffering Virgin Mary, crying at the feet of her son, the usual guilt-trip oriented Catholic stuff that we see a lot in Argentina. Lighted candles with melting wax, holy water at the entrance, the smell of wine mixed with salt and lavender, the usual James Joyce-Dubliners-catholic decorative items, etc.
But Ana was enjoying herself, until she sat down with her mother in front of the altar and waited anxiously for God to come out and greet her. It was his house after all, was it not? After a while of silence, Ana began to yell “God! God?” with her five years of youth and her innocence placed at the altar, she was only waiting for God to stop being rude. She wanted a face, she wanted to see. “Mom, this man is very rude!” she complained to my sister on the way back home, “We waited for him and he didn’t come!” “Maybe he lives in some other church! Maybe this was the wrong house Mom! What a rude man!” “Where is he?!”
And at this young age, and given her upbringing, Ana will probably hear two different answers to this question. Her mother will tell her that even though she can’t see him, Ana will feel God in her heart. And that God loves her unconditionally and that through the gospel, she will learn to love the way Jesus did. Her mother will tell Ana that there is an ultimate truth to God, and that part of her life’s mission should be to get closer to this Truth.
Her father on the other hand, may tell her that Truth is at times relative, that she should believe in principles that help her get along in life, without constraining her mind, and that she should not fall into dogmatism. He may tell her that although some people want to look for ultimate truths in their lives, such as a God, others are ok with the certainty generated by a community. Her dad might say that if some truths don’t work anymore for society, then we can discard them, and that this may only be for the better.
Both her mother and her father’s teachings will, hopefully, only strengthen Ana’s perspective, and her critical skills as a religious or as a non-religious person, whatever she chooses to be. I don’t write to take sides tonight (I spent way too much time debating about this in the past.) But what is interesting is my niece’s initial disappointment at such an early age. This disappointment is linked to her want of an easy answer, and a fast relief to her anxiety. How many countless times have I myself experienced this disappointment? Ana, with her five years of age and her ruffled skirts, her childlike manners, wanted God himself to confirm to her perceptually that there was a God. Because in future times of trouble, she would then be sure that this God would back her up regardless.
My niece’s anxiety at the church, related to her inability to see, reminds me of the time I took a Metaphysics class. One of the first themes we had to cover was Aristotelian substance, which is basically a non-changing, intrinsic aspect of being which we don’t see (we only “see” the changing aspects of being). Fine, but when I commented to another of my professors how interesting that Metaphysics class was, this is what he answered: “Metaphysical Substance?! There is nothing such as a substance Carolina! Where is it? I can’t touch it and I can’t see it, so why do we need a substance? Obviously, he was a pragmatist and a pretty cranky one too. He was not a metaphysician, but who can blame him for wondering? Who can blame him for, like Ana with God, having once felt disappointment due to lack of direct proof that it was there and that it was successfully working?
Something I know from experience is that whatever path my niece chooses from here, in faith or outside of it, will probably be equally as arduous. But hopefully she will pick the one that, besides orienting her in spiritual or earthly matters, will also allow her to handle life’s disappointments as best as possible, so goes it. |
|
|
| gigantic music retrospective |
[Jan. 1st, 2010|07:51 pm] |
this was written as a reply to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) starskin, only that it apprently exceeded the maximum characters. leave it to me. anyway, the subject is, SONGS OF THE DECADE!
i spent so much of this decade (really the last 5 years) diving obsessively into music from other eras... so it's difficult to think of this period of time strictly in terms of new music.
sigor ros: svefn-g-englar (1999)
technically released in the 1990s, this song really set the stage (to my small town teenage eardrums) for the coming of a new era. i think that i actually heard it for the first time in the summer of 2001. its soft, shuffling melancholy melds with a sensual, vulnerable sense of peace to create ten minutes and four seconds of perfect ambient pop.
radiohead: everything in its right place (2000)
this song really brings me to an interesting state of mind. sounding a world apart from radiohead's previous work, and radiohead was a very 1990's kind of band, this song stood up and ushered in the Y2K. it was awesome and, i think, it was also what none of us expected. however, despite everything being "in its right place," the song also leaves us with a lingering question, a sense of unease, and the feeling that we have some catching up to do.
air: playground love (2000)
when this song came out, it sounded both fresh and timeless, just as reminiscent as it was present. classic air, elegant saxophone, the virgin suicides. need i say more?
tool: lateralus (2001)
this album and song changed my life in ways that i needn't explain. at least, not to anyone that's been reading this journal since 2001 (holycrapthat'salongtime).
bjork: pagan poetry (2001)
bjork's album "vespertine" was absolutely stunning from beginning to end. the focus on microbeats and the sampling of tiny, ordinarily unnoticed sounds lend to a very internal, organic, and almost futuristic sound. i consider "pagan poetry" to be the biggest hit from the album, and it beautifully evokes the fragile danger of falling in love- and then again it also represents a very deeply rooted, newly discovered power. additionally, in the video, we see just a few seconds of bjork topless with little black tufts under her arms. what is not to love?
red hot chili peppers: universally speaking (2002)
i think that this song deserves recognition because of all of us '90s kids that clung to "blood sugar sex magik" and, as life goes, evolved to a more grounded, less "socks on the cocks" perspective. and here's to you, john frusciante, for giving us a hand.
wilco: war on war (2002)
in a catchy and clever way, jeff tweedy reminds us that we have to die if we really want to be alive. in the same year, yoshimi who battled the pink robots realized that everyone we love someday will die. i guess it was a moment of collective consciousness.
peaches: bag it (2003)
i love peaches for many reasons, but i love her most of all because of her conscious inclusion of every fold of human sexuality. when it comes to peaches, nothing is taboo, and this is something that i think benefits us all. not only is her music fun, it's got a very good and relevant message. this song, for instance, uses various euphemisms for safe sex, as well as noting the fictitious sid vicious that just happens to be doing her dirty dishes. and, come on, who hasn't been there?
the white stripes: i just don't know what to do with myself (2003)
probably one of the best covers ever. the white stripes came to be and knew how to stay in any self-respecting music lover's itunes catalogue. this star-crossed pair know when to keep it down and when to rock, and this song really exemplified that. jack white let it rip with unparalleled passion. the evident delta blues influence not only warmed my heart, but it opened the door to a new generation that might, someday, hear son house or john lee hooker and think, "hm, that sounds good... where have i heard this before?"
pink martini: let's never stop falling in love (2004)
pink martini embraces a sound that traverses "world music" - their sounds are like a gourmet of fine chocolates or cheeses, or wines, carefully selected from around the world. this song happens to be served up in english, matched delicately with harp and viola, piano, trumpet, and a sweet salsa shuffle. the female vocal is lush and confident. going beyond the beauty of such a song, i like to consider the cultural interplay that it suggests of this point in time: the graceful integration of our newly globalized society.
the flaming lips: the w.a.n.d. (2006)
"time after time those fanatical minds try to rule all the world... we've got the power now, motherfuckers, it's where it belongs!" this song strongly echoes the worldwide political dissent going on at the time, and the awakening of the call for change. it indicates that we were becoming more aware and mature, and most importantly, we were preparing for the duty of cleaning up the mess of our past. it comes from the album "at war with the mystics," and to me the flaming lips ARE those mystics, reminding us that ultimately it is each of us in charge of our own destinies... and thus that of the world.
justin timberlake: sexyback (2006)
this album was HUGE, and this track was EVERYWHERE. i hesitate to mention it because, within two months, it was almost played out. but at the end of the day, it's a perfectly executed slice of dance bliss. it really brought a sense of playful class to an otherwise boring and sleaze-infused genre.
gogol bordello: start wearing purple (2006)
an energetic, crazy gypsy punk song that inevitably puts a smile on your face, and likely a jig in your step.
beck: timebomb (2007)
this non-album track was only released online. not that it was the first to do so, but the online free-for-all is a lovely characteristic of the decade, and i chose a beck song to reflect this. why? because beck's a creative genius. and anyway, what a fun jam.
the decemberists: the hazards of love 4 (the drowned) (2009)
at the end of it all, the decemberists come along and remind us that even when we have everything we think we want, we still somehow can't find a way to live with it. so, to find salvation, we lose ourselves in the sea. how very 2009. |
|
|
| The Grudge |
[Dec. 30th, 2009|10:38 pm] |
Talking to my neighbor Austin last night, I discovered he is one more in the list of those who think that women “hold a grudge” longer than men do. Trust me; I’m sure he is right. If we assume that this term is connected to a type of emotional response, and that emotional responses are linked to the female gender, and that this response may include feelings such as resentment, sadness, lots of yelling, passive-aggressive bitterness and victimization, then I agree with Austin: I think that women are able to hold grudges against men, and that they are not scared of holding them.
But I also think women are less worried about dwelling through their “grudge” and of talking to others about “their grudge” (friends, therapists, their mother, their father, ministers, support groups and whoever else wants to listen.) And that in the long run, these women who “hold a grudge” manage to successfully work their way out of it, strengthening their character in the process, even if it takes them time. I may be too optimistic, but I would like to think that this is mostly the case. So it may also be the case that “holding a grudge” the way women generally do, is better than ignoring the grudge and blocking it, or pretending the grudge is not there and focusing on other things instead, like men generally do. So Austin is right, but for different reasons than the ones he may assume. That is, the problem may be that men don’t know how to effectively “hold a grudge.”
This brings me, again, to my APA afternoon session of the day, the “Women in Philosophy” conference. Gladly, there was a feminist man in the Panel, Tom Digby, who was presenting a paper about the issue of Manhood. I think that his position may help to understand why it is that men don’t “hold grudges” as much as women do. Assuming that a “grudge” is a highly emotional, passive aggressive, reaction to a circumstance or event, predominately held by women, then men don’t hold grudges because they don’t react like women do. Instead, men, who are generally trained since boyhood to be less emotional, to “suck it up,” and to “quit acting like sissies,” are also socially trained to “suck up” the grudge. So Digby, fighting oppression from the other side of the gender sphere, argues that the conception of manhood is damaging to males. Here I can add that ignoring “grudges” may also, in the long term, damage our fellows of the other sex, and indirectly harm women. I’ll make my point shortly.
Digby in his book "Male Trouble" (2003) argues that our cultural ideas of manhood are deeply influenced by the idea of the warrior. This ideal is characterized by a though, hypersexual male who can selectively focus in a war zone, can suspend his capacity to feel compassion for others and can only express “manly” emotions such as anger (so feelings of vulnerability here, are not “manly.”) Because this is a cultural idea, it means that boys are not born fixed in masculinity, but are rigorously trained through youth, often through humiliation by other boys or peers, to be men. What is interesting about Digby’s argument is that he explains how empathy, compassion and the tendency to nurture are biologically grounded in both sexes, but males are more prone to give up these qualities as they strengthen their “warrior” tendencies instead. So what is at stake here is men’s mental and physical health. Digby uses an example of NFL players who are now dealing with PTSD issues and physical deterioration after having spent their best years knocking each other down, and recalling how suicide rates in males are larger than in females because they are powerless over their vulnerability. Also, Digby argues, a male trained socially to be a “real man” would, like a warrior, be unaffected by the suffering of others, because a warrior must suspend his capacity to feel anything for his enemy in war, as to kill him without any doubt. Showing compassion would make “the real man” a sissy, or “a woman,” which is derogatively, the opposite of a man.
Even though none of my male friends are really like this, which is why they are my friends, I do notice that the social sphere and even the media still, explicitly or implicitly, portrays manhood through the idea of “the warrior.” Although most guys are smart enough to challenge this conception, there are some notions that are still deeply embedded in their sociality. Which brings me back to my initial point: Men hold grudges differently than women do, but maybe they could learn something from women. Generally, men either suppress their feelings, having been trained since boyhood that vulnerability is not “manly,” or they reveal them through anger, which is the only “manly” form of expression. And intermediate between these two is harder to find for men, because since boyhood, nobody has taught them how to express their vulnerability, for example. Women on the other hand, can more easily express vulnerability because they where not socially trained under the “warrior” ideal.
So men’s potential happiness is delimited by this notion of manhood, embedded in them since youth, and constrains their capacity to care for themselves and for others. According to Digby, a male raised with a “warrior” sociality, is not only more capable of committing domestic violence to the people who love him the most, but also, is most likely to commit suicide unable to work through his feelings. In conclusion, if men are liberated from this social constrain, then women will be one step less oppressed. That is, if women are less prone to suffer domestic violence, rape, emotional abuse etc. by men trained under this “warrior” ideal, they will gain equality and more freedom. And the more equal are men to women, the better for feminism. So letting men express their vulnerability would involve changing the norms of sociality that train them into becoming men through the idea of “the warrior.” By getting rid of this "manly" ideal, women may suffer less abuse from men, less domestic violence, and thus, be one step less oppressed. And men may even be happier overall as a gender.
Moral of the story, let men hold a grudge as much as they want to, maybe even for as long as women do. But let them do it more effectively. Let them talk, cry, dwell, instead of getting angry about it or suppressing it. It would only contribute to the achievement of equality, and this, hopefully, benefits everybody. |
|
|
| in my fractal reflections, |
[Dec. 30th, 2009|02:45 pm] |
perhaps the most important thing i've learned this year is to have enthusiasm. even if i really don't care, or i'm really quite doubtful, or i'd really rather not, a confident posture and attentive heart are all i need to evoke that crucial sense of presence. dropping the baggage to be here, now: the very definition of enthusiasm. and once the world recognizes this depth of perception, it responds in the form of winds or people or situations that are nothing short of fortuitous.
if you need me, i'm going to be in the garden. |
|
|
| Bad Romance |
[Dec. 29th, 2009|11:49 pm] |
When I think of all my bad relationships, I tend to blame it on incompatibility. When I think of the relationship between Art and Philosophy, I also think of incompatibility. This is why I still have fun with this discipline; I can always test my arguments on real life examples. Let me explain, my morning session at the APA Conference today was on Aesthetics. Precisely, about the relationship between Art and Philosophy. More specifically, a drag. Not because these should not work together, but rather due to the way these were forcefully joined. Carlos Garcia from Buffalo State University (NY) was attempting to link art and philosophy by giving us a philosophical interpretation of the art of Carlos Estevez, a Cuban artist. He first provided a definition of art that was in nature essentialist through two conditions: 1) art has to be an artifact, and 2) art has to generate an aesthetic experience. This definition is at a first glance already flawed, because it wouldn’t be able to include much of conceptual art. But beyond this, because nobody cares about defining art except for philosophers. But what is interesting about his project is what is at risk in this relationship.
That is, why are we even trying to constrain the artwork to the cognitive claims of philosophy? Because, I argue, we still want to problematically hold on to the concept of autonomy in art. Garcia, claims that art is not reducible to philosophy, and yet by giving us a “philosophical” interpretation of the work of Estevez, he constrains the ontology of the work to the realm of logic and perception, reducing art to philosophy. What is at risk? For the sake of keeping the autonomy, at the level of philosophical definition, the historical dimension of the work is dissolved. So here we have another form of Iconoclasm in Aesthetics: The more philosophy we put into the work of art, the more distant we get from experiencing the work in its ontological completeness. That is, the less we get to bring in the historical dimension, which allows us to bring in the ethical dimension of the work. Clearly by looking at these artworks, if an installation by a Cuban exile who addresses violence and suffering is not political, historical, if it does not have an ethical dimension, then what is it? If it is not ontologically complete then it’s not art, it’s just philosophy. Talk about a one sided relationship over here.
Then again, to give philosophy a break, I went to the artist’s website to further explore his works, and this is what his statement of purpose said:
“In my art I answer the question, what is a human? What is happiness? What is freedom?”
So now, finally enough, we have an artist who believes that his art can answer philosophical questions. It can solve the problem of personal identity, free-will and also somehow give us a universal definition of what happiness is.
Not only are philosophers playing artists, but now artists are playing philosophers. Garcia’s project is just another example of scholarly work where art and philosophy have to compete for first prize by dissolving each other in the process. After sitting through this panel, all I can say is that Philosophy and Art needs to establish a better theoretical relationship. They are both pretty neurotic disciplines, but they need each other, because what is of the philosophy of art without art? And how can art answer philosophical questions without philosophy? Can’t join them together, can’t separate them.
Basically, another story of all my bad relationships, another bad romance. Maybe this is why I like Aesthetics. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Dec. 28th, 2009|09:01 pm] |
1) If we really want to understand why analytic philosophers have turned Art into one big logical problem of indiscernibility, all one has to do is walk around the Contemporary Art section at the Met. Here, we can see so many amazing art objects that are no different from their mere real counterparts. My own personal favorite of the evening: Dan Flaven, who put up a fluorescent light in a corner of the museum, and called the piece “Fluorescent Light.” I love it, I’m not being sarcastic.
2) So I can’t afford Ballet classes in Manhattan anymore. This constrains me to the art of practicing Pointe work at home. I usually use the living room, because I have enough space to jump. But I also like this area because I have view to the building in front of ours, where the neighbors decorated their window with Christmas lights. I like how the colored lights look from a distance, always glistening under the snow. I check my posture by looking for my reflection in the window, unaware if another person could be looking back at me. Mom keeps telling me that there is probably some neighbor, really bored, who could be spying on my ballet class. She could be right, people do seem pretty bored in the evenings here in Queens.
I did not believe her but now I do. Last night, before going to sleep I walked into the kitchen leaving the lights off. While I was getting some water, I looked through the window at the neighbor’s Christmas lights, always on and shining in the cold of winter. There was a figure moving, probably a small boy or girl, and it was twirling around and jumping, apparently striking some basic Ballet positions. Apparently I had a spy. The figure was a mere shadow from the window, but it was dancing and it appeared to look for her reflection in the building in front of hers. We could say that I was only spying back, but the child was too busy jumping and turning to the Christmas lights in winter to notice.
3) I went to the American Philosophical Association Conference this morning and it revived my strange love affair for this city. I don’t know if it revived my love affair with Philosophy, yet, but I have to say New York really does have so many resources and research opportunities, grants, fellowships that one can make use of. And ideas, sometimes it really is good to hear ideas from other people…I haven’t heard ideas like these in such a long, long time. On one side of the hotel; we have a panel addressing post-medieval solutions to the problem of Being. In another floor, the Contemporary Feminist Continental Philosophy panel discussing Foucault and oppression while on the other side of that room, the Radical Philosophy Association is debating Marxism. In another floor we have the panel of Christian Philosophers, on the room besides them, the Society of Existentialist Philosophy. It is hard to decide what panel to attend, and sometimes it is hard not to get lost within so many (sometimes incompatible, but hopefully reconcilable) ideas. But one thing I know is that the more exciting I tend to find these conferences, the duller do I find real life, real jobs, and real people. Which obviously goes both ways… that is, the duller real people, real life, and real employers find ME. |
|
|
| forgetting. |
[Dec. 27th, 2009|05:49 pm] |
|
remembering nice things past lovers did makes me catch my breath. |
|
|
| Open Letters |
[Dec. 27th, 2009|06:53 pm] |
Reading the New York Times this morning (I’m slowly transforming into a white person) I found an interesting article about a publishing company. Open Letters is a small press affiliated with the University of Rochester that publishes nothing but literature in translation. And this is just a really good idea. Starting out with the correct assumption that English speaking readers don’t have full access to voices and viewpoints from around the world, these translators want to change that. That is, they are trying to change the conditions of recognizability, so that Westerners can begin to acknowledge other voices. Their recent publications include “Season of Ash” by Mexican novelist Jorge Volvi, Brazilian political poetry, and an anthology of eastern European writers titled “The Wall in my Head.”
Open Letters and their recent project brings me to think the issue of acknowledgment in aesthetics. Once the authorial voices gain representation through translation, the public gets to acknowledge these formerly un-heard, un-read voices. No doubt that this is a great idea, given that there is a set of readers out there that’s very interested in translations and international literature, and is not getting what it wants. But it is also a great idea to specifically want to translate social critiques, political poetry, and literature that addresses suffering and the perils of violence. The issue of literary accessibility takes me to Judith Buttler, whom I have been reading these holidays. Buttler addresses photography related to violence in her work, but I believe the issue is the same with political works of literature. It is not exactly true that an excess of images of suffering makes us callous and passive towards these ethical/political issues. It is rather the opposite; the dominant media carefully selects and filters the images we get to see, excluding anything that may have more than a superfluous meaning. This is evident in times of war for example. As Buttler argues, it is in the realm of representation that humanization and dehumanization are confirmed endlessly.
Buttler’s assumption that whoever can be represented stands more of a chance of being regarded as human, while those that are not represented, are at risk of being de-humanized can be used in the realm of photography but also in literature. What this publishing company is doing then, at the level of recognition or representation, is allowing us to acknowledge and, thus, giving others the chance to represent themselves through the translation of these voices. I’m loosely interpreting Buttler over here, so bear with me, but if we fail to acknowledge due to a lack of translated political works, these voices and what they want to represent are at risk of loosing representation. Not just politically, but at an ontological level (because we don’t take into account their precariousness, vulnerability, interdependency etc. if we never get to read them.) So I think that when Buttler argues for more egalitarian norms of recognition at the level of representation in photography, we can also incorporate this view to the literary realm, where more egalitarian norms of recognition would demand for more translators that could help us gain more access to political literary works. So Open Letters press is not only translating but also allowing us to acknowledge, by giving us better, more egalitarian norms of recognition, how’s that for a good book deal. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Dec. 27th, 2009|12:00 am] |
christmas has been pretty fantastic so far.
I came up to montreal on the train and it was really weird when we passed Belleville. I kind of wanted to jump off the train and go home but I couldn't go and miss christmas with my moms now could I?
No of course not.
I've been here for two days and three nights now and were (mom and I) leaving on monday and back through belleville we shall go. Again I wont stop but Im getting mom to drop me off in belleville on the 5th I do believe.
I miss my house. I miss my friends and I dont have many reasons to stay in toronto.
I mean okay sure I have friends in toronto but to be honest I would much rather be in belleville with my friends from school right now.
I love Reidun, Peter, Rob, Nicole, Mark etc but I want to see Aiden, Karla, Nathan, Paige, Kahla etc.
Im sitting in my moms house. Ground floor with Pazuzu the giant puppy while listening to the hail hit the skylight above me. I love montreal.
This afternoon mom and I made cookies and then went out for Chinese food with an old family friend and her family who are in turn my family.
Nina is pretty much my sister and Kobir is also pretty much my brother but Mela is definatly not my mother.
She handed the keys to that place in my heart over the moment she started acting like a child over the whole Kari thing. Im sorry Kari is most defineatly my mother. She has been there for everything and will continue to be a wonderful parent to me for the rest of my life.
I guess its silly that my extended family is so broken up but to be honest I dont think that it is unusual to have some quirks in a family. Everyone has that one uncle that no one talks to and thats normal right?
I dont know its pretty late so I should go to bed.
Sleep.. .Sleeeep.... it calls my name
and pazuzu is twitching a lot and keeps kicking the couch so. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Dec. 25th, 2009|08:16 pm] |
|
this afternoon when i untangled the rosary from a dead man's fingers, i remember having some quiet, distant thought, something like, they're of no use to him now. later, while zipping up my second body bag of the day, i looked down at the naked boy's tattoos and wondered what exactly they all meant; surely they meant something. then i came home and burried zelda, my six inch long eel, under the tree where i put my spells when they're done and the flowers when they're dry. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| |
|
|
