Author: Nada Gordon

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; }

IMG_5017, originally uploaded by Ululate.

I love that there was a rainbow in Manhattan on LGBT Pride Eve. Photo taken at 2nd Ave. and 1st St. yesterday at about 7:30 p.m.

In my Lustrelessness, norm, form, and function are revealed as blithely editable,then turned into an intonation beyond the irrigated “pirate” mind.

I was sat with a malevolent question… but now I am more or less riotous and bounded, because, well duh, the encounter between spectator-subject and image-object is a process of frivolous interference or mutual indignant mutation! I hope this doesn’t sound too confrontational.

Don’t know why the passive butterflies still hide in my messy entanglements.

In a story about the traveller and a pencil and the conceptual plenitude of its polychromic dog (can a dog die from eating a firework?), do we cross the ocean just to find a tricked-up fog in the false nature park? Filled with the myriads who lived but never existed in the perverse bricolage?

Will everything become a blur in the afternoon? Can we tell a tiger from a mottled patch of shade in this lambent cacophony?

What a waste to chase the sun in this implausible account of mental life, like homemade fake puke… just as some white people envision breasts as (ontic) white, and go on to associate the latter with white screens.

If love poems are written in pidgin python in my dreams, there is also some polemic in some places, because all imagery is a bad riposte against the predictable triumph of “whimsy.”

Turned inside. Turned inside. Inturned social speech, adult. Vanishes with social speech. Persists, turned inward. Persists, subconscious. Persists primitively. Pragmatic, posits as inner structure. Persists. Persists.

The balloons, singing: that’s the way to party (the fecundity of the unknown in the heart of aberrant intimacy).

I will unite with the easterly wind’s bum schemas and rattle-trap heuristics in the cocky dismissal of my lustrelessness, its impulsive body, the white nose of its prattling excess.

to stop eating cherries

Lesley Poirier, Mel Nichols, and me.

(Photo was taken with Mel’s camera and is therefore her intellectual property. I don’t remember who actually snapped it… Julian maybe? or Rodney?)

All of the quotations below are from Flaubert to his (proto-feminist) poet-mistress Louise Colet, entirely decontextualized, and gleaned from Francine du Plessix Gray’s Rage and Fire: A Life of Louise Colet, Pioneer Feminist, Literary Star, Flaubert’s Muse. There’s much delightful trivia to be found in the book, including the fact that Victor Hugo initially thought that “Gustave Flaubert” was Louise Colet’s nom de plume!

I love you precisely because there’s very little woman in you, because you have neither their hypocrisy nor their weakness of intellect.

You write verses the way a hen lays eggs.

Don’t you feel everything is currently dissolving into the humid element – tears, chatter, breast-feeding. Contemporary literature is drowning in women’s menses.

I refuse to look on art as a slop pail for our passions, like a chamber pot barely cleaner than a confidence… No, no! Poetry must not be the foam of the heart…

Your second weakness is that vague feminine “tenderomania.” Once arrived to your level of quality, linen cannot smell of milk anymore. So do me a favor… show us your muscles and not your glands.

I’m not made to enjoy life. Happiness is a monstrosity! It punishes all who seek it!

I kiss you on all your lips….I place my finger in a secret place…which is full of your being, and go to sleep on your image, sending you a thousand kisses.

I kiss you everywhere.

Irony never takes away from pathos. On the contrary, it can enhance it.

even slower poetry