the dark sound of night

sea anemone me

[vanishingseas]

I cannot write.

There is no mirror.

There is no master.

[vanishingseas]

it is night and things lose their memory.

[fucktheoryquestions]

Do you have any particular opinion on Carl Jung?

Yes.  I’m a Freudian.

[vanishingseas]

Every time I fall in love, I don’t feel more settled in my queerness, instead I feel endangered, because I know what I am capable of risking.

[vanishingseas]

Everyone loves Andrea Long Chu for her burns and to be fair, so do I. But what moves me time and again in her writing, is that note of grief. I suspect that there is grief even when there is laughing. I see this in her writing - that for some of us the will to live doesn’t stem from the promise of happiness. If anyone were to ask me about my plans, I fake it. I dream things up for their questions not because I cannot bear to fail but because they cannot look at something they think is failing. And I am not speaking of people who don’t know me, but those who do, and who love me. I know it scares them. And so only I (mostly) know that I am always coasting. A boat gliding down the river surprised that she is making it so far. This is the closest thing to will, that I can muster. 

[vanishingseas]

We fall in love with people who know how to hurt us.

——

From a conversation with the best friend.

[vanishingseas]

really tired of indifference. 

[vanishingseas]

Kind of hate how the emotional labour discourse and the self care discourse (in the West) have come together to prevent from providing care to a lot of people who really need it. The oft heard, get yourself a therapist, so as to avoiding providing space and care to someone is cruel but also misguided. The truth is, even as professional caregivers there are sacrifices to be made. I have given up on my time, sleep, food for patients. There is no way to be compensated for that time, I wouldn’t think of asking for it to be. I want to write about that specific subjectivity housed within capitalism that brings my patient and I close in the suffering we experience. It’s most apparent to me now that I’ve moved to Canada where in lieu of intimacy there is a kind of performance of it such that when anything real comes up it is seen as a threat. I’ve had someone run away when I mentioned that I was homesick, as if they had to do something about it because I mentioned it. To me it is the least private thing I could say about migrating to this country. What would they say I wonder, if I told them how alone I felt or how depressed and displaced? 

It is no wonder to me then, that this side of the world is obsessed with studying affect, like its something foreign to them, something to be fearful of, something to run away from or take to the gym. A professor on the picket-lines had said to me once “North America is the last paradise of capitalism”. Perhaps this is the price of paradise for those who inhabit it.  

[vanishingseas]

A man jumped in front of a train in Azadpur today

i) I am walking through the river again lonely as two pin pricks of light in dusk. April is a brittle month in which the hard salt of suicide will not melt on my tongue. And yet I know I have never been so alive.             I am blooming like dark wind against your window and I am leaping for the sun and I am stuttering                          like knives in a wooden drawer I am no longer numb. When I see the sea,   I see my body I see birds in the buttermilk of waves I see the marrow, the dirty, the broken bright of my future I see that destiny is the softest blow and I am still recovering. (ii) In Azadpur, a hill of garbage burns : a pyre for this city it disappears like a mountain in mist. We are inside grief now, how can we remember when the tongue is half smoke half stone? We are missing more than we know, suicide is a deep footprint : a presence carved from what it absents.

Karuna Chandrashekar

[vanishingseas]

Summer is strange. Pale frog-leaves are lit up. By naked lightning. White child-limbs that open up and coil around the Good God’s throat. Snake-ferns sleep by a forest path. Stars glimmer in a virgin brush. Black larkspurs that want to dry and penetrate your dead camphor cabinet. The little capsule in your evil heart. The forest should be the cruel star Or the stars in my virgin hair. Black waterlily water. With deep and desolate mud bottoms. Where the cold unfolds like a father harbor. A small female eider drowns in your murky reeds. Or in the murky limbs of your Male-limbs. What I forsake to your gaze.

ANN JÄDERLUND (source: TypoMag)

[thatonesuheirhammad]

What Great Grief Has Made the Empress Mute                    by June Jordan

Because it was raining outside the palace

Because there was no rain in her vicinity

Because people kept asking her questions Because nobody ever asked her anything

Because marriage robbed her of her mother Because she lost her daughters to the same tradition

Because her son laughed when she opened her mouth Because he never delighted in anything she said

Because romance carried the rose inside a fist Because she hungered for the fragrance of the rose

Because the jewels of her life did not belong to her Because the glow of gold and silk disguised her soul Because nothing she could say could change the melted     music of her space Because the privilege of her misery was something she could     not disgrace Because no one could imagine reasons for her grief Because her grief required no imagination Because it was raining outside the palace Because there was no rain in her vicinity

Dedicated to the Empress Michiko and to Janice Mirikitani

by June Jordan

[pairedaeza]

Pakeezah (1972)

“ek har raat, teen baje. Ek rail gaadi apni patriyon se utar ke, aur mere dil se guzarti hai…” “Every night, at 3 o’clock, a train slips off its rails and passes through my heart…”

[beachdeath]

me: *looks @ these pics*

my queer life force: *returns 2 me* *strengthens me*

[vanishingseas]

Oh my gosh! ❤️

[vanishingseas]

yeh chamanzaar, yeh jamuna ka kinara, yeh mahal (2) Yeh munaqqash dar-o-dewaar, yeh mehraab yeh taaq ek shahenshah ne daulat ka sahara lekar hum garibon ki mohabbat ka udaya hai mazaak meri mehboob meri mehboob, meri mehboob kahin aur mila kar mujhse   Meri mehboob kahin aur mila kar mujhse

Sahir

[rabbitinthemoon-blog]

Feral moments so valuable you never share them with anyone.

Bhanu Kapil,  Ban en Banlieue (via rabbitinthemoon)

[universalhumansituation-blog]

tsering wangmo dhompa

In the event of change

I am saying primroses lined the pathway of toothless hedges. I am saying the ocean shimmered like corrugated steel in themorning sun. The context of my story changes when you enter. Then I am dungon the wall of the nomad’s field. Then the everyday waking person. I am nodding in your direction like fissures between dandelion fur.Seeing in your manner. I am speaking your pace. Slippage of silk slippers. I say you are losing sight. I say your breasts are dry shells. I am afraid of what I am capable of doing. This is all a manner of stating how I prepare myself to be loved.

Rules of the House (Apogee Press, 2003)

[lacan-psychoananalysisaspraxis]

That the subject should come to recognise and to name his desire, that is the efficacious action of analysis.

…what’s important is to teach the subject to name, to articulate, to bring this desire into existence, this desire which, quite literally, is on the side of existence, which is why it insists. If desire doesn’t dare to speak its name, it’s because the subject hasn’t yet caused this name to come forth. 

That the subject should come to recognise and to name his desire, that is the efficacious action of analysis. But it isn’t a question of recognising something which would be entirely given, ready to be co-apted. In naming it, the subject creates, brings forth, a new presence in the world. He introduces presence as such, and by the same token, hollows out absence as such. It is only at this level that one can conceive of the action of interpretation.

Lacan, J. (1988b) The Ego in Freud’s Theory and in the Technique of Psychoanalysis: The Seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book II, 1954–1955, trans. S. Tomaselli. New York: Norton