(no subject)

[radfrac_archive_full]

Without Internet at home right now, I post less often than I used to, which is sad, since I have heaps of things I'd like to tell you.

Last weekend I had a perfect Saturday, fortunately also recorded by inlandsea. It's funny, and useful, how one perfect day can infuse the memory of a whole summer with satisfaction. I always think of A Summer as a unit, June to August.

I got up late and oh I probably played some solitaire and brooded, but move on from there, move on; even a perfect day needs a little gloom for contrast. Then I went to the Moss St. Market, where I went mad over the organic produce, which is finally starting to be full of all the wonderful things that ripen at the end of the summer, the swelling gold and red bulbous exuberance of life showing off its fat excellent fruition. And vegetation. Heirloom tomatoes! For only one sweet crisp example.

I ended up watching over the sauce booth while its owner made the market circuit, and as a reward she gave me the bottle of sauce she'd used for samples. (the other jars had all sold. As sugarpunfairy says, You gotta get on the sauce! It is Some Sauce.

sugarplumfairy loaned me two Anne Carson books, and I loaned her Two Strand River, which is one of those strange little novels Canadians seem to be so apt to produce. I was given it in a lot with Ulysses, The Double Hook, and The Invention of the World, by a long-ago ex otherwise best left out of this particular discussion.

Then there was blackberry-picking along the Galloping Goose trail, and then I did a quick overall cleaning-and-arranging of the house for the evening's guestage, and that's when inlandsea's account and mine converge, so maybe I will leave it there.

I want to tell you about Eros the Bittersweet, which is one of the two Carsons from sugarpunfairy -- the other being Plainwater -- and which is changing the way I think about eros. I am reading it slowly, so that I can watch the change happen in my mind. When the stone blocks of the labyrinth shift and new paths open, old paths close, and I don't want to forget them just yet. I might need them again.

My Eros is a muddy boy, composed of my notions of erotic love, mixed with some vague Freudian notions, dancing in the arms of his brother Thanatos.

Carson is talking specifically about the Greek conception of Eros, and she says that what defines eros, desire, is the lack of what you desire. If you had what you desired, you would not desire it in the same way; it would not be eros.

Eros defined by lack. It's terrible. I resist it. It's inescapably true. And immediately applicable.

{rf}

Comments

[sugarpunfairy.livejournal.com]

It's terrible, but fascinating, right? I'm rereading Djuna Barnes' "Nightwood," which is basically about miserable queers in the 20s, and it seems really relevant to lack idea - but maybe if you start thinking like that, anything you read about love/desire will look that way.

Love defined by lack...

[argus-in-tights.livejournal.com]

Yes. It's probably true in some ways. Like the grass is greener. Once you have your desire, it's quite human nature to wonder why it was so obtainable. Perhaps there was a flaw. Or it's just a terrible joke of which you likely are to be the punchline.

And if it goes again...well, there is desire back. But for what? The original object, or for some ideal of what you had? Hmmm. Something I shall think upon.

In other news, and thinking of that which goes away and returns, the Old Bailey is re-open for business. The floor is alarming, and it's far too clean. Pints are a bit pricey and the dart board is gone. The wings smell good. The food is rather smart looking. The music is louder and I imagine more pre-programmed. It seems to have an 80's/90's theme. Might even be somewhat Smiths/Morrissey inspired. So, it's not the Bailey of old, but it's a place somewhat like it. Perhaps we shall check it out at some point.

Adieu

\i/

on learning to share

[inlandsea.livejournal.com]

you know, since I originally got a livejournal account so I could reply to your journal, which I LOVE reading, maybe I should just make sure you use my islandnet account until we get the almost-highspeed-honest account (or maybe even the actually-highspeed account) all set up. Even though I keep whinging about how much over my limit I'm already going all on my own (I have a habit of writing posts and emails when I'm online, 'cause it's live, then, ya know, and happenin'. Or something. Doesn't make much fiscal sense when you have a small dial-up account. Not that I've ever made much fiscal sense.)

But one must make some sacrifices for Art, or even just art. And I want to read more of your postings! So, I'll pass over the secret password (I'm keeping the decoder ring for myself), and Bob's Your Uncle. (Well, he's my uncle, but I can share that too, if you like.)

Oookay, must be time for lunch...

Re: on learning to share

[radiantfracture]

My father's name is Bob. When I was little, my grandfather used to tease me all the time by saying "Bob's your uncle!"
"No, he's my daaaad!"

You, on the other hand, are my heeeero. In.

{rf}