Human Animal

[taylorappalachia]

Why the fuck is my tumblr feed filled with a bunch of posts from blogs I don’t follow? Literally every post on my feed.

[taylorappalachia]

Sex is not fun.

Sex is for a moment.

We do it over and over again to cause some consistency; whether with one or multiple partners.

But it is a repetition.

It is a moment that sometimes means very little, so one thinks. But it doesn't.

There can be many lies in sex. I suppose that's normal.

But this is why I find sex so boring.

Many find it is an achievement, developmentally and I suppose as the end of a chase, a pursuit, too.

But I don't want a life of sex. I want to have it. It is fun. It does feel good. But a life of sex, and only sex. No. A death. A dull, boring death. Silence is only broken by the moans of pleasure, by a bed or a car rocking back and forth to "the motion of the ocean". It can make us blush, the thought of it, perhaps the words being spoken or written, but truly, this high is not what a life is sustained by. Meant to be sustained by. It is a spark, as I said, a moment that maybe we try to prolong through its repetitions. Over and over, thrust in and out, again and again. And when we ourselves can't do it, and with another, we often turn to watching others do it for us, instead of us; they have met, they are in the right conditions of which we find ourselves for the moment, outside of. Thus, the convenience of the exhibitionist to the hungry voyeur. But that kind of pleasure alone isn't enough for me. The silence it returns one to can be an unfruitful silence, a fatal silence, a dull and lonely silence, a barren silence, a suffering silence, a constipated silence, a silence that really needs to talk, that's holding one's breath, no exhale, no inhale, that has something in it alive and bursting and frustrated and desperate to be felt and heard, but suffocated. It is not an empty silence because you have been emptied, to your relief. Not a silence that is also an achievement. Hold me, listen to me, let me know you, know me, open up, hear me, share with me. Let's open up and let ourselves be benevolently difficult for each other. Let's try to hear one another. Let's love. But even more, and somewhat disappointingly and somewhat gracefully and rightfully, who we love, the person we "choose", isn't a choice. We don't pick them. We either love them or don't. And honestly, I have tried to love many in action, but in my heart, where it really counts for me, where it feeds me, where it is deeply personal and intimate, not just global and common, there are very few that I have ever (with my unconscious) loved. And so, I am alone. And I speak with those I'm not alone with until they have to go to bed or need to go back to work. Another repetition born of the desire for it to last forever. Till I'm sick of it, of you, of me, of us, of this. And my aloneness becomes a respite.

[taylorappalachia]

scraps of musings on the rothko chapel in houston, texas

The Rothko Chapel in Houston, Texas was silent, the walls were, from my best attempt to memory, gray, Rothko's paintings in their tall, articulated display of drab color gradients. I knew there are some people who are moved by his work, and I could appreciate this in its own regard, but I took them as part of the space without feeling intrigued myself. I didn't care about this kind of art at the time, but I thought it could be nice to be someone who was. I couldn't stare at them without feeling I was forcing a posture, posing for another's eye, waiting to see something that was supposedly there to see. Waiting for "my" appreciation of them. (Is the viewer here part of the art? Is it the same without the scene of another, gazing?)

The Rothko Chapel in Houston, Texas laid religious texts from major traditions on a rectangular table, the design perhaps Swedish and complementary to the rectangle paintings it shared the room with, white so as to not speak over the colors and whatever they could evoke. I had originally written here that this line, like a cocaine line, of books included the Satanic Verses. Upon a Google search to "fact check" I found my memory disconfirmed, and I had to erase what I'd written about their display of religious texts including even traditions that were considered, perhaps, "unholy" by others. "They meant their attempt at "every" and were not loyal to what one tradition found holy and the other didn't", is what I'd mused. But this is a memory that perhaps I'd linked with another and misremembered as one linear instead of one I'd grafted together. Somehow, I suppose, they belong together, and together, for me, have some sort of meaning they can't have without their combination. The grafted memory: I stood outside the Vietnamese sandwich and vermicelli shop and considered asking people for dollars and quarters so I could afford a 2.75 bahn mi. I chose not to; I had food at home and my nerves, though quite bold at the time I thought, found their limits at the summit of this feat, though I'm sure that now I would've been alright, and even still, my survival was perhaps not my concern--although maybe it was. A woman sat by the window in front of her vermicelli, holding a book that now I wonder was The Tibetan Book of the Dead, but according to this twelve-year-old memory, maybe she was holding The Satanic Verses? I was intrigued either way and couldn't stop staring and wanted very much to talk to her and know her thoughts. Also, did she bike here? She looks so much like my sister, who when I met her, was vegan and straight edge and atheist. I thought my sister was bold too. I liked this about her, wanted to repeat it in my own way, maybe like this woman by the window, whichever book she was reading. I looked to each of them, but this woman in this moment in particular, with the kind of pause and fascination as perhaps the Rothko paintings are "meant to" evoke? Maybe their status there could be considered a kind of question in itself: Does this move you? Are you the kind to see what's here to see? I suppose I didn't care to be stuck in chapels gazing at colors, I'm sorry to say. Perhaps it'd be nice to be such a person; they're always painted as such interesting, profound people. But I was moved by women reading mysterious books eating noodles. I would have been most impressed had she ridden there on her bike.

[taylorappalachia]

You make love like we’re running out of time. Tell me we have plenty of it; go slow.

[taylorappalachia]

It’s nice to sit in a warm lap.

[funeral]

Susan Sontag, Against Interpretation

[funeral]

What is important now is to recover our senses. We must learn to see more, to hear more, to feel more. Our task is not to find the maximum amount of content in a work of art, much less to squeeze more content out of the work than is already there. Our task is to cut back content so that we can see the thing at all. The aim of all commentary on art now should be to make works of art—and, by analogy, our own experience—more, rather than less, real to us. The function of criticism should be to show how it is what it is, even that it is what it is, rather than to show what it means.

Susan Sontag, Against Interpretation

[taylorappalachia]

In defense of wanting, I’m afraid turning anything we want into a need is making us cowardly.

We disavow our wants into the approvable and supposedly fulfillable realm of “need”. Maybe we unconsciously believe the things we want are best disguised as a need so as not to be too much, or too daring, or too reckless, or gluttonness, or disruptive—to whom? And to not make ourselves vulnerable to their judgement, their scorn, their disapproval, and rejection. Of course not realizing that whatever happens, their negative feelings, their disapproval, can be there’s and not also ours. What if one stops saying they need something and just admit they want it? What dignity could be uncovered? What life could be lived? Oh my god!—Enjoyed?

A response might be that time spent, life spent, responding to wants is an enslavement to cravings and ephemeral sensation gratification. It could be true. Could it also be the scorn I just mentioned? One could say it’s an invitation to reflect, to clarify and purify the “desires of our hearts”. But perhaps it’s even more possible to avoid reflection from the covert operation of disavowal that produces the unconscious pursuit to fulfill our wants from the modest disguise of need. And, if one so chose to “clarify”, to “purify” such desires, wouldn’t they need to know what those are to begin with? To differentiate between their needs and wants in the first place?

If you have a need it must be filled—you can’t help it, you have to have it and sometimes someone is thus compelled to fulfill it for you, or at least give you their approval. But if you dare take responsibility and call it what it really is; if you tell someone, especially yourself, “I want this”, you become responsible for it. For creating it, achieving it, doing it, having it. I think this is much more interesting and much more enjoyable. It is perhaps, to honestly accept one of the misrecognized challenges of living. I don’t find myself having very many needs, but goddamn do I want!

[noosphe-re]

One of the great philosophers of mathematics Gottlob Frege made quite an issue of the fact that mathematicians didn't know the meaning of One. What is One? Nobody could answer coherently. Of course Frege answered, but his answer was no better, or even worse, than the previous ones. And so it has continued to this very day, strange and incredible as it is. We know all about so much mathematics, but we don't know what it really is.

Reuben Hersh, What Kind of Thing Is a Number?, A Talk with Reuben Hersh [2.10.97], Edge

[taylorappalachia]

not-one plus not-one equals not-two.

[ahumourlessworld]

“Psychoanalysis will be entirely discredited one of these days, no doubt about it. Which will not keep it from having destroyed our last vestiges of naïveté. After psychoanalysis, we can never again be innocent.” - Emil Cioran, ‘The New Gods’ (1969) [p. 89]

[onetwofeb]

'

"The real is the difference between what works and what doesn’t work.

What works is the world.

The real is what doesn’t work."

Lacan

'

[notgreengardens]

[sixty-silver-wishes]

so, I came out of this with a very different interpretation. yes, house of leaves is a satire of academic media criticism. if you've read a lot of crit, the book is hilarious; you really start to see the sort of ideas it's spoofing (not everything is a phallic/yonic symbol, guys!). but house of leaves also draws attention to something very interesting- that interpreting media is very similar to what navidson and co are doing when they explore the house (and johnny, and zampano, etc).

so, what is a house of leaves? it's a book. "leaves" are pages. and I think the title sort of gives the game away here. house of leaves suggests there is something eldritch, something endless, about literature. any one work of media may have infinite interpretations. you can analyze a story for all it's worth, and still not get to the bottom of it. everyone can look at the same piece and come away with something different. in this way, the house is like a story- the more you explore, the more it expands. and this is why I disagree with the cynicism expressed in the meme. yes, there's a satirical element to house of leaves. yes, it does make fun of academic media criticism. but it also exposes how infinite, how compelling, how maddening, how cosmic it is. it makes the truly incomprehensible scale of every work of art and storytelling accessible. and so I don't think it's just a satire; it's also a love letter to crit. if you've been involved with crit, you get the jokes. you can tell what it's poking fun at. but the story also pays tribute to just how awesome it is.

there is a maddening quality to it, though. you see so many different interpretations, an infinite spiral staircase that you'll never fully descend, and you begin to wonder- why does it matter? does any attempt to understand and interpret art matter? house of leaves clearly encourages interpretation. it's a book that wants you to try to figure it out. but you also have to content yourself with the knowledge that you'll never have it completely dissected. you'll never be able to wrangle every single interpretation out there. and either you accept this and walk away, or, like will navidson, you just keep coming back.

[taylorappalachia]

Much, too, like the psychoanalytic approach to the unconscious.

[taylorappalachia]

Hello, beautiful 2013

[taylorappalachia]

Hi there,

I’m reaching out with a quiet hope in my heart. These days are heavy, and my family is living through a reality filled with uncertainty—but I’m still here, doing my best to hold on and keep going.

If you have a moment, please check out my pinned post.

A simple share could help it reach someone who might be able to make a difference.

If you’re able to give, even the smallest kindness can bring light into the darkest places.

Your time, your voice, your compassion — it all matters more than you know.

With deep gratitude,

@nadinfamily

Help Nadin Keep Her Life Stitched Together

My name is Nadin I’m a mother, a wife, and just one of many women in Gaza who are trying to hold on — to hope, to our families, to any piece

❤️

[robert-hadley]

Louise Bourgeois New York apartment / studio. Photo - François Halard

[taylorappalachia]

[taylorappalachia]