The Aesthetics of Modernity

"Please don’t talk to me I don’t want to catch your mentality."

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 18:50:57 -0400

“Please don’t talk to me I don’t want to catch your mentality.”

- Pharrell Williams

"If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror be polished?"

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 12:59:14 -0400

““If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror be polished?””

- Rumi

"always, i met in him a dark so deep we could shed our shadows our futures our religion like..."

Sun, 14 Apr 2013 04:27:40 -0400

“

always,
i met in him a dark so deep
we could shed our shadows
our futures
our religion
like clothes
and taste our own
fall down

there,
light closed up shop
for a union the daybreak
could never caress
and the sun rays
lost their way
or simply
thought better
of trying

”

- ~LarryLy (via thatbrainiacboy)

“ALL BY MYSELF” Eartha Kitt DOCUMENTARY, 1982 by...

Fri, 12 Apr 2013 04:27:30 -0400

“ALL BY MYSELF” Eartha Kitt DOCUMENTARY, 1982 by Christian Blackwood #TourDeForce

Happiness #1

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 18:52:00 -0400

I wish my heart could take pictures. I’d capture the joy I feel right now so that when it leaves I can direct my soul, which sees better than my eyes, to the photograph of the day(s) I knew joy. I wouldn’t be able to turn away in ignorance denying bliss ever existed and it’d never come again.

The Painless BreakUp

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 05:09:21 -0400

“I have worked arduously at nurturing a disastrous relationship with my pain,” I whispered in the ear of Reverend Annie Danger under lowlights and soft hymn music in the ‘Great Church of the Holy Fuck’, a performance theater piece at Counterpulse in San Francisco. The audience was asked to confess a deep cut they caused when looking inside their mental mirror that caused deep shame. As the sentence formed in my mind waiting to be uttered, I was shattered under the immensity of the vibrations repressed in my throat. I do not know when I entered this relationship, what I imagined it would profit me. Surely, my pain is not a respectable suitor, a date worth my time, let alone a marriage I should viciously defend, but only felt secure sharing discreetly. No, this longstanding relationship lasting longer than any date, crush, or fuck with a guy I’ve ever had could not be where my loyalty resided. There is something intrinsically intimate about trauma, how it remains and manifests in the body unfading like ethereal kisses, blushing compliments, and intense orgasms. In a world where the only certain thing you have is your story, it is easy to read your life text intent on highlighting the sorrow. In experiences of great and utter loss, it’s not absurd to want something lasting. Even if this relationship destroyed me in a blazing passion reminiscent of Romeo & Juliet I would die entangled in the arms of what I so carefully worked to establish and maintain.

Today, I broke up with my pain, it dissipated silently not even thinking to fight for me the way I have in return for years. My replayed heartbreaks have crippled me from experience standing tall, though I have told myself they are safeguards from future pains: a parameter of false possibilities. When, ultimately, the fear of knowing the possibilities of my highest joys are uncharted territories my abusive relationship has restrained me from ever knowing. I often write and think about the claustrophobic confines of (black) masculine patriarchal performances, and if I am to truly live outside those crumpled old black suits, it is necessary for me to began staging my delight. I am unsure of the future for me. I pray there aren’t nights of weakness I usher my pain in for a cheap cuddle. I am sure I deserve all the bliss I am dedicated to manifesting.

Mykki Blanco, ‘Bigger Than Hip Hop’, 2013

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 03:29:23 -0400

Mykki Blanco, ‘Bigger Than Hip Hop’, 2013

The Studio”, 1928

Sat, 16 Mar 2013 06:28:43 -0400

The Studio”, 1928

The Dapper Rebels of Los Angeles, 1966 In the summer of...

Sat, 16 Mar 2013 06:19:34 -0400

The Dapper Rebels of Los Angeles, 1966

In the summer of 1965, riots broke out in the Watts neighborhood of southern Los Angeles. Over a six-day period, 34 people were killed, 1,032 injured and over 3,438 arrests were made. In 1966, LIFE magazine revisited the site of the worst riots America had ever seen in its history. The photo essay depicting the region’s ‘fearsome street gangs’ however, turned out more like a fashion shoot for dapper style…

This article is such an interesting look at the history of black fashion, quintessential “Los Angeles” style, and how we perceive early gang culture. I’m fascinated with the pride of dress shown by the “dapper rebels” and the dignity presented in their portraits and photos.

Photo

Tue, 12 Mar 2013 15:28:59 -0400

Photo

Tue, 12 Mar 2013 14:46:48 -0400

Happy International Women’s Day

Fri, 08 Mar 2013 14:01:19 -0500

Happy International Women’s Day

NP ‘Immortal’ by Kid Cudi

Fri, 01 Mar 2013 00:42:17 -0500

NP ‘Immortal’ by Kid Cudi

Memoirs of a Young Sexologist

Wed, 27 Feb 2013 22:54:00 -0500

“Before there was sex, before there was the city, there was me …Carrie Bradshaw”. I’ve been keeping up with the new show, ‘The Carrie Diaries’, a prelude to the popular HBO hit Sex In the City. The audience watches an uncanny resembling pubescent Carrie Bradshaw navigate suburban bourgeoisie life in Connecticut and her budding romances in, and with, Manhattan. The viewer is left to ponder the formative years between this character’s past and future. (Where are Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte?) A reality we all experience questing for arriving at our highest selves: the evolutionary events necessary in becoming ourselves, a tangible moment just inches outside of our longest reach. Eventually, you know, the young, doe eyed heroine will blossom into the Dior dripping concrete rose sex columnist waiting to be plucked by Mr. Big, but until then the audience is treated with visuals of a virginal Bradshaw learning the ropes of life, love, and labels. Although the show fails at highlighting anything resembling NYC, or sex, or the 80’s, let alone sex in NYC in the 80’s; beyond superficially overt references to the Reagan presidency. For instance, I highly doubt there will be an episode about GRID (Gay Related Immunodefiency Defiency, one of the initial names for AIDS in the early eighties) hitting the Big Apple, as a young Bradshaw passes a group of ACT UP activists putting their bodies on the line at City Hall while making the seemingly necessary Century 21 sponsored product placement cameo each episode. Nevertheless, I still find myself connecting with the protagonist, being a budding sexpert myself.

Recently, I’ve been having many, mostly internal, conversations about my career in human sexuality. Living in the Bay Area I am aware of many a route to do sex work. There are the academic white woman chic cliques peddling menage a trois classes at $30 a pop. There are porn companies digitally capturing sex auras available for transmission on your most convenient downloadable device. Dominatrix run wild in dungeons lavishing sadistic pleasures on masochistic clients. Ineffective social service programs and agencies grounded in the business of sex and body shame, fueled by the profit of pharmaceutical bills, insurance premiums, and lacking government funded interventions for at risk demographics continue thriving because those who are supposed to know better truly don’t. Then there is me. I have been at a standstill feeling I should be out in the streets trying my best to make something of myself in post-recession America. Working now means becoming a master hustler, always on hand with your business card for your pilates, taxi, plumbing, stripper, daycare services with all positive Yelp reviews. I’m trying to figure out where I fit in, so I can get in. Though, I’m growing more secure with fitting out, but, how do I thrive in my non-comformity? Even though I’m often over the lack of opportunities available to me, I know now is the time for innovation. Creating the services and products today necessary for a more sexually positive and educated world tomorrow are within my grasp. I hold the pen to my unwritten story. If Sarah Jessica Parker got a chance to advise her young CW self on the path to becoming a Louboutin loving relationship master what would she say? My future self, like Carrie Bradshaw, is still a fictional character with many a rough sketch. Thankfully, no final drafts are needed for submission anytime soon, and i’m earnestly learning to enjoy the process of writing myself real.

Mona Eltahawy: An Open Letter to Women Writers of Color by Gloria Anzaldúa

Wed, 27 Feb 2013 00:07:02 -0500

Mona Eltahawy: An Open Letter to Women Writers of Color by Gloria Anzaldúa:

monaeltahawy:

21 Mayo 1980

Dear mujeres de color, companions in writing -
I sit here naked in the sun, typewriter against my knee trying to visualize you. Black woman huddles over a desk in the fifth floor of some New York tenement. Sitting on a porch in south Texas, a Chicana fanning away mosquitos and the…

#NP “I-69” by Roman GianArthur

Fri, 22 Feb 2013 16:20:02 -0500

#NP “I-69” by Roman GianArthur

'Abiku' by Wole Soyinka

Mon, 18 Feb 2013 15:08:33 -0500

In vain your bangles cast

Charmed circles at my feet;

I am Abiku, calling for the first

And the repeated time.

Must I weep for goats and cowries

For palm oil and the sprinkled ash?

Yams do not sprout in amulets

To earth Abiku’s limbs.

So when the snail is burnt in his shell

Whet the heated fragments, brand me

Deeply on the breast. You must know him

When Abiku calls again.

I am the squirrel teeth, cracked

The riddle of the palm. Remember

This, and dig me deeper still into

The god’s swollen foot.

Once and the repeated time, ageless

Though I puke. And when you pour

Libations, each finger points me near

The way I came, where

The ground is wet with mourning

White dew suckles flesh-birds

Evening befriends the spider, trapping

Flies in wind-froth;

Night, and Abiku sucks the oil

From lamps. Mother! I’ll be the

Supplicant snake coiled on the doorstep

Yours the killing cry.

The ripes fruit was saddest;

Where I crept, the warmth was cloying.

In the silence of webs, Abiku moans, shaping

Mounds from the yolk.

"Progressive intellectuals from privileged classes who are themselves obsessed with gaining material..."

Sat, 16 Feb 2013 19:50:00 -0500

“Progressive intellectuals from privileged classes who are themselves obsessed with gaining material wealth are uncomfortable with the insistence that one can be poor, yet lead a rich and meaningful life. They fear that any suggestions that poverty is acceptable may lead those who have to feel no accountability towards those who have not, even though it is unclear how they reconcile their pursuit with concerns for accountability towards the poor. Their conservative counterparts, who did much to put in place a system of representation that dehumanized the poor, fear that if poverty is seen as having no relation to value, the poor will not passively assume their role as exploited workers. That fear is masked by their insistence that the poor will not seek to work if poverty is deemed acceptable, and that the rest of us will have to support them. (Note the embedded assumption that to be poor means that one is not hardworking.) Of course, there are many more poor women and men refusing menial labor in low-paid jobs than ever before. This refusal is not rooted in laziness but in the assumption that it is not worth it to work a job where one is systematically dehumanized or exploited only to remain poor. Despite these individuals, the vast majority of poor people in our society want to wok, even when jobs do not mean that they leave the ranks of the poor.”

- hooks, bell. “Seeking and Making Culture: Representing the Poor.” Outlaw Culture: Resisting Representations. New York, NY: Routledge, 1994. 170-171. Print.

Deep Inside: A Study of 10,000 Porn Stars

Fri, 15 Feb 2013 11:53:45 -0500

Deep Inside: A Study of 10,000 Porn Stars

Selling Love Ain't Cheap

Thu, 14 Feb 2013 17:23:00 -0500

If you’ve a bitter intellectual friend, or are the bitter intellectual friend in your social circle, today, Valentine’s Day, offers dismantling chances at grappling with capitalistic holidays. Your friend probably will dive into the etymology of holidays, exploring today not being a “holy day,” which is correct. (Unless you consider each day holy and divinely purposed.) This Valentine’s Day I worked in the Cupid Industry, concocting ornate boutique gifts. Besides noting the abysmally abusive state of economic recovery workplaces, I had the experience of firsthand touching the ephemerality of capitalistic love expressions: Valentines Day presents. As customers surged in, last minute, to have unoriginal, expensive gifts crafted for loved ones attempting a tangible expression of a love kept secret until one day a year when its posh to proclaim, I considered the temporality of the mechanistic labor ending next week when love no longer proudly declares itself real. The love industry booms a week before springtime, hits its apex, and crashes with no need for a recovery: Love politics as usual, an economy with as much merit as sustainable energy.
Now, I applaud a day celebrating love, we need more in our world. Cornel West says, “Justice is what love looks like in public and tenderness is what love feels like in private”. In a postmodern society where public and private are marred, what is being done to create known tender justice for us all In a society consumed with hatred in its many Medusa headed incarnations? As Valentine’s Day strikes midnight, fresh cut flowers began wilting, chocolate covered strawberries digest into shit, and wine (or Molly) fueled sex depreciates in amorous meaning it makes me wonder is this day just an extravagant empty ritual complete with a no return policy? A mere mockery of the powerful viscera of true passion? I am perplexed at the state of love as a practice. Love as an art. Love as a way of life, and not just a momentary exorbitant transaction providing superficial products crafted behind dollied decorated closed doors fueled by poor, brown, (undocumented), labor. Selling love ain’t cheap, or is it?