Friday, August 31, 2012


Hybrid bodies are ambiguous not only because they can't be easily categorized but also because they incarnate our ambiguous feelings towards our own bodies.

The figure of shaman, as conjurer of spirits, trickster and healer, able to transmute himself into powerful animal forces in the shadowy depths, epitomizes a a world of continuous mutation. Shaman's body emphasizes that unity is an illusion by disrupting the boundaries between human and animal, the natural and the constructed, the physical and the non-physical. There is something chilling about this message. But there is also a promise of a world where we may not need to fear the partial and the contradictory identities, and may actually enjoy the idea of a continually disassembled and reassembled self.

Monday, August 27, 2012

Writing is like a little door. Some fantasies, like big pieces of furniture, won't come through.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

The Cherry Blossom Girl

She is looking out the window. The wind is kissing her face. It makes a resplendent picture.
I am feeling very warm right now.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Lay me down. Let the only sound, be the overflow.

I like how sunlight peers into the water and helps you look inside and around. I like how you would go to the bottom, even with your  lungs bursting and look up, the sun blinding you. 'Cause she's a cruel mistress, and a bargain must be made. As you look up longingly, you realise that it makes you love the land more, makes you grateful for what you have. But oh, my love, don't forget me.  I like the ocean. I like how it has a heart big enough to take in all of you just as it gives back whatever it has to offer. It is unselfish. Like Her.  
But would you have it any other way?
Would you have it any other way?
You couldn't have it any other way.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Dreams trapped in purple perfume bottles.

In her rare moments of sanity, she picked out fresh flowers and curled her hair. She cut the chicken, marinated it and put the baby to sleep. Then she dressed prudently and met friends for lunch.

Monday 25 October (first day of wintertime)

Why is life so tragic; so like a strip of pavement over an abyss.I look down; I feel giddy; I wonder how I'm ever to walk to the end. But why do I feel like this? Now that I say it I don't feel it...Melancholy diminishes as I write. Why then don't I write it down oftener? Well, one's vanity forbids. I want to appear a success even to myself...I think too much of whys and wherefores: too much time of myself. I don't like time to flap around me...

-Virginia Woolf, 1920