On Intercourse

I resist the word penetration as a term to describe intercourse from a biological male perspective as it carries an invasive undertone. But the action itself is almost irresistibly desirable, not because it demonstrates any dominance attempt or desire of possession, but because of the actual physical presence of being possessed.

Being enveloped by a body, being accepted in a physical form, being hugged by the most intimate part of a human body.

It’s the only thing that a female body can not perform, or being performed, in a sexual context. But at the same time a woman become the only one who is capable of giving that acceptance, and ultimately, giving birth. In such an angle, the role of (physical) male body and female body in a sexual act is reversed, the female body being the one that is giving (compare to ejection), and the male body is the one receiving. 

* Dance *

Dance is, unknowing where boundaries are supposed to be but testing, pouring the plasma and watching where it goes; consciously formulating your steps without committing to a direction.

It’s murmuring with limited vocabulary, uttering the sound that’s familiar while making it exotic, vomiting when you don’t necessarily have to, just to sense the warmth in that narrow path between your lungs.

Dance is, instead of turning your language into music, turning the music into your language.

Read The Metamorphosis

Since Verwandlung does not exclusively mean metamorphosis, it really leaves to the reader to determine what exactly is the subject of the metamorphosis/transformation. By saying that, I almost directly position myself to the side of the “death of the author”, though I have no credential of claiming to be a post-structuralist; what I would like to do is just to keep a record of how I interpret this work. 

The transformation has been suggested to be presented by the physical metamorphosis of Gregor into the insect/beetle/bug, by the transformation of the attitude of Grete, and also, by the altering mental state of Gregor. I have no objection to any of these. Sincerely, the transformation of Grete is distinctly noticeable and the theory itself is very convincing. 

However, instead of asking what the metaphor is about, what is the subject of the metaphor, and which character represents what, I want to know what has been genuinely transformed?

The entire story to me, is actively mourning the vanish of love.

It doesn’t matter what kind of insect, or not insect, he turned into, or that his didn’t even transform to anything at all, the point is that he became a burden. This burden, partly the result of not able to communicate, turns this into a tragedy, rather than a fable. He is not the ugly duckling, and there is no positive insight in it. I believe Kafka simply wrote down what he thought was real, that love, no matter how much you have, as Gregor tried to provide Grete the opportunity to be a musician, will (I would say may) degrade, it will be forgotten. He could simply write a story about how someone got leprosy and his family turned away from him but it can be much scarier than that. Because seeing love turning into nothing is one of the scariest thing ever in its nature, and that we just don’t even want to look at it.

Journal Entry #3 – Notes on Writing

I sincerely am not even trying to write good poems or proses as a mean to express if any, of my inner self. What I am trying is merely to take note of my thought, my suffering, my existence, and wish that years to come I have a realistic account of what happened to me, at this very moment. I thought about naming this blog “Look what love did to me”, as an honest demonstration of exposure, of myself being able to display the most vulnerable part of me, or a way to process my growth in a therapeutic way. However, I realized it will, as the original intention is to process the lose, one day not about a lost relationship anymore, so I decided to use the name “the fleeting moments” to suggest a possible future focus.

That doesn’t mean, however, this is currently anyhow about self-pity, digital mourning, or public bereaving. 
I just want the words that I wrote precisely reflect the flows of my inner dialog, maybe depressed, or maybe angry or even joyful. I have no idea, as she always said, we will see the story unfold.

Journal Entry #2

I somehow have this unease sentiment of not being able to put my feelings of the past few months into words (at the very moment they occurred) as I went through the emotional turmoil. In a sense they became this monolith of sadness and I failed to register the delicate aspects of all the sorrow that possessed me at the time. Failing to solidify and purify the presence of the lowest point of my life. In terms of literature.

And it brings me back to my obsession of capturing the moments, the detailed yet miscellaneous parts of a living life. 

Instead of creating images or movements, poetry and prose, much like photography, provide me with a sense of recording what occurs in that specific fleeting space-time, a rather confessional form that is, documenting not just the events, but the reflection of it. In a much precise and thorough manner, the mental work creates a documentation of all the fragile elements once existed, and that to me, is an epitaph.

I’m constantly mourning the past; so nostalgic and melancholic, that it seems I’m pessimistic about the future and fixate on the wonderful past I’ve ever experienced. But deep down in my yearning heart I found, is my tremendous adoration of life in the current moment, that by looking at the entirety of our immense life experience, I realized that every single moment (those which are happening or happened), even the most heart-breaking ones, deserve to be preserved by virtue of truthfulness and beauty. Ukiyo, the floating world as it is poetically called in Japanese, offers us this image of world being intangible and impermanent, and I truly believe it captures the essence of the existence, and remind us that all, every slice of time, are/is valuable.

We are not omnipresent; I couldn’t experience that moisture on my lips ever again, so I write about it. Being honest to all the thrilling experiences and thoughts I ever had, I choose to turn them into something, and mindfully telling myself that at this moment, no matter how painful it is, it’s a treasure to the completion of my life story.

Because I have no choice, I love them, I love all the moments I ever had. 

Journal Entry #1

I once quoted Virginia Satir for her sorrowful reminder on the subject of creation and regret; “I’ve often wondered how many dreams, and how many possibilities, have died with their owner without expression.” She said.
It makes me think of the meaning that dance has to me.
That in a sense, all my dances end with a desolate notion as it denotes the closing of a series of actions, a sequence of intentions, and perhaps a collection of my obscure emotions. It ceased to exist as I anchored myself into that still state. They were born and I am often time the only witness of the death of the expression.
That I gave birth to those dreams and possibilities yet they were born to be dead. Without being noticed, if I extend the metaphor by Virginia Satir, I became the only griever of the vanished existence.
But they existed.
As I would.