"History is what hurts, it is what refuses desire..."


I think this sort of writing here is actually a desiring sort of writing but un-directed and not-in need of a response. I don't need to know who you are or why you read, even though I've intimately made this for you. The internet has always been about intimacy for me because distance is already sort of built in (you can't really press closely to anything if you try). So distance and intimacy is a productive tension.

Having a crush on someone is a sum gain, you get to know and care about someone and become acquainted with their mode of being. It's always arriving and wherever it leads doesn't matter, you've identified a star in the sky and now it is somehow part of your constellation. I look back on things I've done and see all the people I've loved. Maybe desire manifests in the will to be more like someone or something, or maybe it points to a latent way of being that you haven't permitted yourself to acknowledge or enact. So desire of something or someone is the tip of an iceberg person you are meant to become.


Was raining on my walk home, I saw a person walk by with an umbrella and thought about asking to share it.

Often when I post or write things I like going back and editing it to mean maybe the opposite of what I wrote originally.

This is why I'm not good at writing theory, you could say it's not my strength.


I remember the first time I saw a locksmith cut a key on the machine–one mechanism finely sensed out the contours of the original, while another connected arm cut through the raw blank key to produce an analogue.

Life can be exciting, but I think this blog isn't about that–there are these long pauses between things (the closest I’ve felt to being involved any political action has only lasted for a moment–and then the moment seems to have closed up). Maybe art offers an extended moment, an intensification of something; feelings, movements or whatever. But then again, this intensification is so much a part of technology and all the other things that litter a capitalist life.

Visual art might be be located in the ruins of old and new forms. When I say old I could mean yesterday or 65,000 years ago. Or maybe art is just *located* and the form doesn't matter. Or maybe.


There are certain relationships that are delicate, unusual, unprecedented–that require you to be cautious, gentle, to play a long game. But instead you bumble your way in, showing all your cards at once, spooking everyone with an emotional outpouring, exploding the whole situation, removing the nuances, occupying all the emotional space. From this seamingly irredeemable point, you learn and begin to understand what is at stake, you start to see the other person not as wish fulfillment, or fantasy–and you stop assumming to know their desires, or intentions. You basically give in to a world of misunderstanding and misinterpretation and use this mis-recognition as a kind of knowledge– a shell game of appearances.


Master narratives of history as progress decompose into the tense confabulations of a continuously re-membered past that hits the present like a nervous shock.