The 20th century existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre wrote, in Being and Nothingness, “The obscenity of the female sex is that of everything that gapes open.”
No further comment.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
On Consciousness, and Nihilism
It is difficult to deny the degree of nihilism that I have absorbed like a dry sponge, once light, now heavy and weighted. I could deny it all that I may, but the moment I move, or the moment anyone applies any pressure, the water comes out in gushes.
That's how I feel. Dead, un-moveable, like a stone. I go to work, I talk to people, and I smile and nod. I really force those smiles and nods. But I mean, what else can I do? I am getting paid for my time there, and people would start to find me negative and problematic if I had a genuine look on my face. Reflecting what I am feeling on the outside would not be pretty, it would look horrid. Instead, I am conscious of my happy-perky-smile and agree with you, why don't you just shoot me now mask. This mask is exhausting to wear. It erodes at me, at the person inside.
I became so mentally and physically exhausted after I completed all of the requirements for applying to do my Master's at McGill. I was relieved, and saw the strength in myself for putting everything together for my dossier, so well, and in such a short amount of time. I don't think I've ever experienced a crunch like that before. After it was all over, I felt like an athletic runner who crosses the finishing line at such a fast speed that they must continue running to slow their momentum before they are able to stop.
Right after I completed everything, after staying awake all night on consecutive nights and then working full-time, I was to board a plane to Montreal. I was so worn down however, that I caught a very bad cold. On the morning of my flight, I woke up with such a strong sense of dread that it took me almost an hour to budge. My throat was dry and the soreness seemed to soak into the deep muscles and membrances of my throat and sinuses. My head was pounding, my nose was as stuffed up as it could be and I felt over heated. I had to will myself so very hard to get on that plane, but my sense of dread did not leave me for one moment. And maybe for the good, because that dread acted as a warning for what awaited me in Montreal.
My city that embraced me, my city that made me feel elated just to walk down its streets and exist in and amongst the ambience, never felt so cold, or so dark. My Montreal, I saw you in a different light, and infact, when I was there last, I did not experience any of your light. There are times, that I wish I were of vulgar and crude nature so things are unable to hurt me as much as they do. When you have a poet's soul, you are bruised so easily, because you are ripened to feel every nuance, every detail that most can block out.
I spent the first night in Montreal in my apartment bedroom, taking cold medications and sitting on msn. I watched a documentary on YouTube that was created by a former porn star turned anti-pornography advocate. I ate a tastey Shish Taouk sandwich and fries, I blew my nose. I fell asleep at 4am and didn't wake up until 2pm the following afternoon. I then spent the rest of my day arranging my clothes and shoes in the closet. The amount of clothes and shoes that I packed for my vacation turned out to be even more ridiculous than it seemed when my Mum first commented on the shear amount of stuff that I packed. It would turn out to be even more ridiculous after I left Montreal 5 days early, spending only a total of 3 full days there. Two big, fully packed suitcases for 3 days. Right-o.
And of the incident? And of idiots 1 and 2? More will be written about that later. I had to get out all of the surrounding details first.
Back to reading, 'A History of Misogyny.' And what a sad and brutal history indeed. And it's not even history, it is the present, it is the reality of patriarchy that has seeped in so discreetly amongst societal institutions, human relationships, politics, sexuality, and fantasy. More on this later, as the radical feminist warrior is born.
I am brought now, to remember a quote I once heard, although I do not remember who said it. "Those that die for their ideals die once. Those that don't, die a little bit everyday." - Unknown
That's how I feel. Dead, un-moveable, like a stone. I go to work, I talk to people, and I smile and nod. I really force those smiles and nods. But I mean, what else can I do? I am getting paid for my time there, and people would start to find me negative and problematic if I had a genuine look on my face. Reflecting what I am feeling on the outside would not be pretty, it would look horrid. Instead, I am conscious of my happy-perky-smile and agree with you, why don't you just shoot me now mask. This mask is exhausting to wear. It erodes at me, at the person inside.
I became so mentally and physically exhausted after I completed all of the requirements for applying to do my Master's at McGill. I was relieved, and saw the strength in myself for putting everything together for my dossier, so well, and in such a short amount of time. I don't think I've ever experienced a crunch like that before. After it was all over, I felt like an athletic runner who crosses the finishing line at such a fast speed that they must continue running to slow their momentum before they are able to stop.
Right after I completed everything, after staying awake all night on consecutive nights and then working full-time, I was to board a plane to Montreal. I was so worn down however, that I caught a very bad cold. On the morning of my flight, I woke up with such a strong sense of dread that it took me almost an hour to budge. My throat was dry and the soreness seemed to soak into the deep muscles and membrances of my throat and sinuses. My head was pounding, my nose was as stuffed up as it could be and I felt over heated. I had to will myself so very hard to get on that plane, but my sense of dread did not leave me for one moment. And maybe for the good, because that dread acted as a warning for what awaited me in Montreal.
My city that embraced me, my city that made me feel elated just to walk down its streets and exist in and amongst the ambience, never felt so cold, or so dark. My Montreal, I saw you in a different light, and infact, when I was there last, I did not experience any of your light. There are times, that I wish I were of vulgar and crude nature so things are unable to hurt me as much as they do. When you have a poet's soul, you are bruised so easily, because you are ripened to feel every nuance, every detail that most can block out.
I spent the first night in Montreal in my apartment bedroom, taking cold medications and sitting on msn. I watched a documentary on YouTube that was created by a former porn star turned anti-pornography advocate. I ate a tastey Shish Taouk sandwich and fries, I blew my nose. I fell asleep at 4am and didn't wake up until 2pm the following afternoon. I then spent the rest of my day arranging my clothes and shoes in the closet. The amount of clothes and shoes that I packed for my vacation turned out to be even more ridiculous than it seemed when my Mum first commented on the shear amount of stuff that I packed. It would turn out to be even more ridiculous after I left Montreal 5 days early, spending only a total of 3 full days there. Two big, fully packed suitcases for 3 days. Right-o.
And of the incident? And of idiots 1 and 2? More will be written about that later. I had to get out all of the surrounding details first.
Back to reading, 'A History of Misogyny.' And what a sad and brutal history indeed. And it's not even history, it is the present, it is the reality of patriarchy that has seeped in so discreetly amongst societal institutions, human relationships, politics, sexuality, and fantasy. More on this later, as the radical feminist warrior is born.
I am brought now, to remember a quote I once heard, although I do not remember who said it. "Those that die for their ideals die once. Those that don't, die a little bit everyday." - Unknown
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