September 16, 2014 § Leave a comment

The practiced air with which street canvassers raising money “to feed the kids in Africa” avoid approaching, or even looking directly at, me is intriguing. It says something about the coloniality of power. The direction of sentimentality is a well beaten path: it flows from a “here” (and that includes bodies with phenotypes whose belonging “here” is never in question) to a “there” which continues to function as the particular place where horror resides. And should it happen—as it did to me today—that a body with a phenotype deemed as belonging “there” is seen “here”, then requisite defenses are invoked to avoid the kind of frottage that might lead to unworlding.

In Which Sentimentality Is Located “Here” While Horror Is Still Located “There”

September 16, 2014 § Leave a comment

2013-09-06 11.13.46


September 14, 2014 § Leave a comment

Perhaps it is precarity, this need to render labor invisible, because you wouldn’t know he’s at work. For him it is all pleasure (“the pleasure is all mine”). Over and again he says, “So beautiful.” He means it as a compliment but it comes off as pained, painful even. He labors this way & that. So beautiful. He sweats, they writhe, their bodies jiggle. The pleasure is all theirs—so beautiful. If not for the (em)bodied vernaculars, you’d hardly notice he’s sweating over human flesh, so beautiful.

Missed Connection

September 14, 2014 § Leave a comment

“Eventually, wetness will happen.”


September 11, 2014 § Leave a comment

Against my Foucauldian training, a confession: I have been “trying” to re-learn how to dance. Because my recent flat affects do not lend themselves particularly well to bodily movement, this “trying” has involved many little moments of affective readjustment—or is it reassignment? Cheery! Or the shift from coasting to energetic depression. Or my favorite: the lateral movement from self-distention to—

The Semicolon

August 30, 2014 § Leave a comment

At a-certain-time-not-now I wanted to write about conversations that “flee” from us. I wanted to parse the many ways this fleeing occurs, like when context becomes unmoored, rendering what is said too deracinated; or when we become pleasantly and endlessly stuck in an aside, unable to resume our intended trajectory; or when the need to speak singularly gets interrupted by the “also” which renders specificity’s borders porous; or when polyvocality destabilizes, perhaps creating double vision in those of us with synesthesia; or when free association scatters the connecting dots; or when supervalent noises heckle from the penumbra of an elusive center; or, more predictably, when we get dogged by the Prufrockian inability to say fully what we mean; or—


August 6, 2014 § 1 Comment

How does one write burn out? If for Berlant writing is a performance of stuckness, why can’t I write? Because I am surely stuck.


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