tumblr writing 3 

sassmadness:

kristen-stone:

The Bookbat: fuckdudeskilldudes: stayinbedgrowyourhair: there is a certain writing…

I’M REALLY INTO THIS CONVERSATION && in the words of bookbat “twist[ing] your thread to talk about my personal shit, sorry!”/not sorry

it is a privileged position to find people whose language projects touch our bodies, it is a privileged position to find people like me

internet synchronicity, always, i mean the point of the internet is synchronicity, right? lately i have been thinking i talk like people from the internet, people i’ve never met, and how that makes me feel weird and quaint but also cyborg-ish and Part Of Something 

the dream of the shared language is really powerful, but also kind of gross to me (what happens after we begin to identify with each other? also one of the complicated feels i’ve been having about feminism lately is performative identification), which is why i keep thinking about going to Al-Anon but not actually going, which is also why i decided not to go to therapy anymore, because she started using all this language, this therapeutic language of wholeness and healing and ugh ugh ugh she told me i was having a ‘breakthrough’ because i started to panic and cry and she was all, can you make eye contact with me, and i said no but then i felt like i was being mean, and then she was like, it sounds like you’re afraid of [redacted*] and i was like NO SHIT THAT’S WHAT I TOLD YOU, THAT’S WHY I CAME TO THERAPY, BECAUSE I’M AFRAID OF [redacted] AND THERE’S NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT THAT SO I GET HIGHLY ANXIOUS AND BECOME OBSESSED WITH UNPLUGGING THE TOASTER

while this is happening i am experiencing full body disgust like i never have before, i mean i’ve slaughtered animals, i’ve been peed on by other people’s children, some kid sneezed scrambled eggs on me at camp a couple summers ago, but this was the most disgusted i’d ever been. i held my hands away from my body like they were contaminated, the way i used to when i was sure i’d get HIV or tetanus or e.coli from going out in public. all my muscles hurt because she was touching my poetics with her assumed-true, assumed-universally-valid, healing and wholeness discourse, she thought she was right about me.

i said something like, this is excessively earnest and i am filled with disgust. and she said something like ‘honesty hurts and healing is difficult’ and i was like, i said earnest not honest, and i have a poetics of disgust, that’s not what i mean, and she said healing isn’t pretty or poetic

DON’T TOUCH MY POETICS DON’T PUT YOUR THERAPY TALK ON MY BODY

so basically i think that at least for me i want to participate in a shared language until i don’t, until i become grossed out by touch because prude sensibilities, because come closer/stay away, because the asymptote poetics, because i don’t believe in getting healed, because i don’t believe in arrival. 

*i say ‘redacted’ but what i mean is complicated and boring stuff about keeping things from falling apart/keeping people from hating me forever/leaving and dying/etc 

othernotebooksareavailable:

fuckdudeskilldudes:

stayinbedgrowyourhair:

there is a certain writing style that smart/angry/gross ladies on tumblr utilize and i used to be WAY into it but now i’m realizing that it’s v limiting and conformative in a way that the aforementioned ladies would not be in favor of but i’m…

Love, love, love. Maybe when I’m less scared I’ll write more about my phobia stuff, although I feel like I might need an anonymous blog to really do that sort of thing. That would defeat the purpose, because then it might go by unseen and uncommented on, and that’s part of the point isn’t it? Issuing into fusion.

Most of the bolding mine, I think this is so important for a lot of reasons.  The way that I talk about my traumas, the way that my politics and my feminism has been shaped by that trauma, is to celebrate the festering wound, to reject the narrative of “healing,”

and maybe that’s the reason why I get so pissed off at so much about narratives of becoming whole “again,” because maybe I’m not meant to be like that, maybe it’s okay to be fragmented, what if I split all of my existence into finite particles so they never have to touch again, because touch me/don’t touch me, because I’m thinking about that Nora Ephron quote

“Vera said: “Why do you feel you have to turn everything into a story?”
So I told her why.
Because if I tell the story, I control the version.
Because if I tell the story, I can make you laugh, and I would rather have you laugh at me than feel sorry for me.
Because if I tell the story, it doesn’t hurt as much.
Because if I tell the story, I can get on with it.”

Because to me, the story is what’s important, and the stories that are most interesting to me are the ones that are tangential and non-linear, because fuck a linear narrative, because fuck everything being neat and rational and being in it’s proper place, and it’s why I feel so torn up about fuckdudeskilldudes’s post about linguistic specificity because on the one hand, it is important to me to be specific because it is part of my personal practice of honesty, which is very much tied to my performance of cunty femininity, but on the other hand, sometimes it is important or interesting to obscure your meaning,

again, going back to the earlier part of this post about the privilege of identificatory language/poetics— that’s something I think a lot about on Tumblr, because you know, I do read blogs that aren’t just “smart/angry/gross ladies” (which are, for the most part, white college educated cis girls) and how I am constantly caught between wanting to be less and more all the time, never complete (or maybe too complete, too much) and it’s why I sometimes have weird feelings about participating in this.