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Three Goblin Art
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Sweet Seals For You, Always
#extradirty
One Nice Bug Per Day
will byers stan first human second
Show & Tell
oozey mess
DEAR READER
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
⁂
Claire Keane
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
ojovivo
roma★
Not today Justin
Janaina Medeiros
taylor price
izzy's playlists!
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@corpse--reviver
Someone, / Who claimed to have known me years before, // Approached, saying there were many poets / Wandering around who wished to be alive again. / They were ready to say the words they had been unable to say– // Words whose absence had been the silence of love,
Mark Strand, from “XLV,” Dark Harbor: A Poem (Alfred A. Knopf, 1994)
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(the last thing you said was the last thing I heard)
What the subject desires is not the object as such (sex, money, gadgets, art, sports etc.), but the objet a, the element in the object that the subject ‘believes’ to satisfy its desire. Objet a is always more than any concrete object itself.
Thus, language brings with it the world of meaning and alienates the subject from its real being. Desire is formed in the discourse of the Other. Objet petit a, the object-cause of desire, emerges when the child is separated from the mother, and thus the objet a can be understood as a remainder of the illusion of the full jouissance. By attaching itself to objet a, the subject attaches itself to the illusion of one’s coherence. What the subject desires is not the object as such (sex, money, gadgets, art, sports etc.), but the objet a, the element in the object that the subject ‘believes’ to satisfy its desire. Objet a is always more than any concrete object itself. Desire as such has no substantial consistency. Thus, objet a links the body to the symbolic. Desire and the subject are the results of language, and if the primary split would be overcome, that would be the end of desire and the subject.
Jaana Pirskanen - The Other and the Real. How Does Judith Butler’s Theorizing of the Subject and Contingency Differ from the New Lacanian Thought?. 2008.
Ideas are to objects as constellations are to stars.
Walter Benjamin, The Task of the Philosopher (via heteroglossia)
To ask a question, you must first tell the Other that I am speaking to you. Even to oppose or challenge the Other, you must say “at least I speak to you,“ “I say yes to our being in common together.” So this is what I meant by love, this reaffirmation of the affirmation.”
Jacques Derrida, interviewed by Nikhil Padgaonkar (via heteroglossia)
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Who is this Other? For the Other to be a genuine and absolute Other–something that Levinas maintains is essential to the ethicality of the encounter–the Other cannot belong to any genus whatsoever, not even one as broad as “humanity.” So it will not do to say simply that the Other is another human being.
Matthew Calarco, Zoographies: The Question of the Animal From Heidegger to Derrida (via heteroglossia)
Riding with Death, Jean-Michel Basquiat
Light Bending
keep a place for me, for me
A sign
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took it with you when you moved and got it broke
“This schema signifies that the condition of the subject, S (neurosis or psychosis), depends on what unfolds in the Other, A. What unfolds there is articulated like a discourse (the unconscious is the Other’s discourse), whose syntax Freud first sought to define for those fragments of it that reach us in certain privileged moments such as dreams, slips, and witticisms.
Why would the subject be interested in this discourse if he were not a party to it? He is, indeed, insofar as he is drawn to the four corners of the schema: namely, S, his ineffable and stupid existence; a, his objects; a’, his ego, that is, his form as reflected in his objects; and A, the locus from which the question of his existence may arise for him.
For it is an experiential truth for psychoanalysis that the question of the subject’s existence arises for him, not in the kind of anxiety it provokes at the level of the ego, which is only one element of his cortege, but as an articulated question--”What am I there?”--about his sex and his contingency in being: namely, that on the one hand he is a man or a woman, and on the other that he might not be, the two conjugating their mystery and knotting it in symbols of procreation and death. The fact that the question of his existence envelops the subject, props him up, invades him, and even tears him apart from every angle, is revealed to the analyst by the tensions, suspense, and fantasies that he encounters. It should be added that this question is articulated in the Other in the form of elements of a particular discourse. It is because these phenomena are organized in accordance with the figures of this discourse that they have the fixity of symptoms and that they are legible and dissolve when deciphered.”
-Jacques Lacan, “On a Question Prior to Any Possible Treatment of Psychosis,” Écrits, 458-459.
I kill, I kill in the wild
“Kern unseres Wesen, ‘the core of our being'—it is not so much that Freud commands us to target this, as so many others before him have done with the futile adage 'Know thyself,' as that he asks us to reconsider the pathways that lead to it. Or, rather, the 'this' which he proposes we attain is not a this which can be the object of knowledge, but a this—doesn't he say as much?—which constitutes my being and to which, as he teaches us, I bear witness as much and more in my whims, aberrations, phobias, and fetishes, than in my more or less civilized personage. Madness, you are no longer the object of the ambiguous praise with which the sage furnished the impregnable burrow of his fear. And if he is, after all, not so badly ensconced there, it is because the supreme agent at work since time immemorial, digging its tunnels and maze, is reason itself, the same Logos he serves.” Jacques Lacan, “The Instance of the Letter in the Unconscious, or Reason Since Freud,” Ecrits, 437-438
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Frank O’Hara poem stiched By @Molly_C_Meng
Mayakovsky
BY FRANK O'HARA
1 My heart’s aflutter! I am standing in the bath tub crying. Mother, mother who am I? If he will just come back once and kiss me on the face his coarse hair brush my temple, it’s throbbing! then I can put on my clothes I guess, and walk the streets. 2 I love you. I love you, but I’m turning to my verses and my heart is closing like a fist. Words! be sick as I am sick, swoon, roll back your eyes, a pool, and I’ll stare down at my wounded beauty which at best is only a talent for poetry. Cannot please, cannot charm or win what a poet! and the clear water is thick with bloody blows on its head. I embrace a cloud, but when I soared it rained. 3 That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks what a funny place to rupture! and now it is raining on the ailanthus as I step out onto the window ledge the tracks below me are smoky and glistening with a passion for running I leap into the leaves, green like the sea 4 Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern. The country is grey and brown and white in trees, snows and skies of laughter always diminishing, less funny not just darker, not just grey. It may be the coldest day of the year, what does he think of that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, perhaps I am myself again. Frank O’Hara, “Mayakovsky” from Meditations in an Emergency. Copyright © 1957 by Frank O’Hara.
Analyse one of the most famous dreams in the history of psychoanalysis.
Sergei Pankejeff, The Wolf Man’s Dream
