Ariana Reines

has started a blog. Of course, it is ickily intimate and wonderful. And features a photo of her blood-stained white panties.

And this:

I am afraid

I did not dream and then I could not sleep.  I am afraid.
Nothing in the dark when I was sleeping resembled what I hoped for when I felt sleep come over me.  I was talking on the phone in a dreamy state, and ate chocolate covered cranberries and moved my hands over my hips.
Then nothing.
The internet scares me so much.
I think that something terrible is happening.
Everything that I write here will come out looking so cruel and interchangeable.  If there is a subtlety possible for me it will likely trace out only recondite aspects of my own vanity and other ignoble aspects of me.
Los Angeles seemed so calm that it could be like the Internet.
I think that I am scared of the Internet because it feels like ghosts entering my head and body.
I am so old.  I think I am ten thousand years old.
Maybe later I will find a ‘theme’ for ths blog with a ‘look’ that is more suitable and maybe the present ‘look’ of what I put here will somehow become acceptable to me.
At this time nothing is acceptable to me.  I am trying to accept things but I cannot.
I think it would be a fine and sensual feeling to dig a hole and to lie down inside it.  To cause the cool earth to be piled on top of my body.
And to sleep.

I really love this. Does anyone have a spare copy of Reines' Coeur de Lion? I want to read it and the library does not have it. 

listing

I am in deep arms deep I am into my essay on the Anorexic and Bulimic Text for the Semiotext(e) book, I am at the halfway point, it is all fairly exhilarating and vomitous. Today for about 30 minutes I had a feeling of intense joy while writing, but totally strung-out joy, suffering, like wanting to vomit and yet feeling strangely dehydrated and ecstastic, then  all you can do is dry-heave, and you are suffering...

So I have decided to graze for a few days on books for this essay on the Anorexic and Bulimic, as I want it to include a discussion of the contemporary, as well, and I thought I'd show you via list the books I have on my nightstand, which I won't read, don't worry, I will graze, like Ariana Reines in The Cow, I will graze and pick and voluptuously roll around them on the bed and that will tell me something. They probably won't all end up in there but will form some sort of grassy context.

I guess this functions like "process notes."

These books are either a)anorexic or b)bulimic or c)shiny

Danielle Collobert It Then
Danielle Collobert  Notebooks
Christine Brooke-Rose Amalgememnon
Christine Brooke-Rose Omnibus
Thomas Bernhard Histrionics (plays)
Celine Normance
Vedrana Rudan Night
Pierre Guyotat Eden Eden Eden
Remainland Aase Berg
Dies: A sentence Vanessa Place
Killing Kanoko Hiromi Ito
Ravenous Audience Kate Durbin
A Cannibal and Melancholy Mourning Catherine Mavrikakis
Pamela A Novel Pamela Lu
Affinity Konar The Illustrated Versions of Things
Jenny Boully The Body
Dear Ra Johannes Goransson
A New Quarantine Will Take My Place Johannes Goransson
The Hounds of No Lara Glenum
Maximum Gaga Lara Glenum


I am also trying to begin to read Deleuze and Guattari on Kafka, which Whitney Trettien has created a marvelous Wiki about (I love anarchist public intellectuals). I am curious about Kafka has an example of minor literature, I am hoping in my essay to bring in James Pates essay on the political grotesque, and the essay will be about the political, but is Kafka really that political of a writer? Is that what Dolce and Gabbana (a nod to Whitney) are arguing? I get their definition of what minor literature performs, iProxy-Connection: keep-alive
Cache-Control: max-age=0

is the major language written by the minority. By why Kafka as the paragon?

By the way I wanted to post a snippet of my last essay I wrote on the weepy and grotesque and emotion and excess and Duras and somehow weaving in Broadcast News but blogger has been absolutely fucking bananas lately, and I can't seem to COPY and PASTE. My mode of writing. COPYING and PASTING. Ha.