[ˌθɛrəˈpjuːtɪk] diary

Writing in short stitches. Mainly on the revitalizing effects the conscious revalorisation of the feminine symbolical has been having on me...

[androsexual-blog]

Pop masturbation

[androsexual-blog]

30 March 2019 Saturday

Josephine Decker to watch and to watch again and again and again and again. Chantal Akerman is often cited, among other female directors, but Decker’s alive editing, flickering of scenes and angles contrasts so much with Akerman’s stills, from which I didn’t not live nor breathe. I am a sad girl who has no movie to watch, but at least there is a three-movie of Decker, precious, current and next. Fields and backs of heads, backwards inside the morning. Akerman feared and froze to death within her stills. Because an editor’s cut, the thrown fragments, would give away the sexual belonging of her subjectivity. For a film, it is the editing that stands for syntax. It is exactly what is at abundance in Josephine Decker’s films: there is a lot of cuts. I should add her films up to the filmography of feminine logos. It isn’t easy to watch, because the symbolical path is broken: the feminine is armed, differently active, sheds men’s blood. My consciousness gets tired. In Madeline’s Madeline the young girl has a hysteria, she substitutes her mother with a pregnant woman she knows. What happens next? A girl can live if she unties the patriarchal conflict, learns to interpret her desires, feelings, from a distant standpoint, in which she isn’t a man or a woman, but merely a bodiless voiceover. A healer to herself, a cold-blooded psychoanalyst. Comfort and pleasure and enchantment by a young men are too often misleading, before she learns to psychoanalyse herself with apropriate maps. Don’t be afraid of making a director’s cut, and letting the camera make the first move. Josephine Decker herself admits, that handfilming gives spirit to film, transforming art and life dichotomy towards a subtler hybrid.

[androsexual-blog]

Autopsia and psychoanalysis without anesthesia

[androsexual-blog]

29 March 2019 Friday II

I wish, in my thoughts, I could accumulate, our future. My breasts cuddle themselves softly, sleep inside the wings of my dress. Animals or children. After your passage, the blanket is mini-crumpled, proud of its texture. It isn’t me, it is the veins of my hands that are writers, senders, the talking subjects. Five years ago, of unknowingness how to articulate, I used to want to have yet more tattoos. Now it’s veins who choose to show or hide themselves, approach the skin or gain distance from it - depth. I wanted to hide beneath the epithelium. Both K. and J. create confusion with texts: you wake up and read de nouveau, because you cannot remember the exact referral. He speaks in broken syntax. A religious figure, a statuette’s hard-on.

[androsexual-blog]

29 March 2019 Friday

I double-check the memory of yesterday’s dream. I slow-kiss hands in the night, the night is free, hands lunar. If every day, as you say, is a stone, I will never time-travel. To shield my head from falling tiles, red songs of silent Willam Basinski. I promise to keep it even cleaner. It is both his birthbed and his deathbed. I wake to fire of his lungs and nostrils. Nothing is as thrilling as his body. How to build a religion without faults and leaks? I enumerate father: one, two, three. His lovers and mischiefs. But my mouthful falls beside the plate. Everything is a nutrition, the walls painted in a thick layer of chalk. Everybody is an angel. But his daddy buys an expensive mansion in the neighborhood, from which his mommy comes from. Nothing links him to the region except for her. But she is ex, and he sees a younger lady. I say, he bought the mansion to reaffirm his power. But why would he reaffirm the power over someone he has taken youth, years and first lifelong experience of love from? His cruelty goes back deep into the unconscious. I imagine the conscious and unconscious interraleted, as visible and invisible parts of my clitoris. Only a tip of it, under the tip of your finger, glistening. I write an oblong message. I dream to decorate the apartment with a statuette of Margery Kempe, the 14th century saint, whose rebellion reverberates yet, even now, especially à travers one sixty-and-something old gay man’s autobiographical novel... please, unremember me unbraided, roaming across places where there was no navigation or hope to ever find you.

[androsexual-blog]

28 March 2019 Wednesday

Just before waking up, I dreamt again. I walk down a crowded narrow street, catching attention of some familiar men. And there is a man who meets me and enlaces me. A lover or someone I know. I walk happily, it is a happy state of mind overall. I feel so desired and beautiful. My dress is violet pale, above knees. And I also wear high-heeled black shoes, that make my pace stagger charmingly. I approach the market. The market is selling used clothes, tribal items, vegetables, all along different rows. I notice handmade bags, a rucksack made of white net, to show the things it holds in it, transparent. I negotiate the price, the perfectness of the item fills me with happiness. I buy it, white with black lace. I am happy. I walk, attention of men on me, more feminine. Than ever. This dream is maybe a pressentiment of an Alberta Ferretti skirt I am about to receive. I fantasized about it for six months, before buying.

In the article on representation and feminine auto-affection I read about women dreaming of their beauty, a symptom of hysteria, interpretation by Freud. Page 38, linguistic inertia according to which the women desist at their position of subjects. The man is a necessary mediator for seeing, of themselves. Either his gaze or a mirror.

As I see first wrinkles gather around my eyes, it occurs to me: older women have painful dreams in which they see themselves young. An advertisement poster in the street says: grant light to the youth of your skin*.

* my translation