Today I am doing a presentation on "The Science of Perversion" and "Gynocentric Feminist Allusions" in a novel called Nightwood by Djuna Barnes, a modernist lesbian author I am quickly falling in love with. Look at the picture. I think we look somewhat similar which is, um, scary.
Djuna, out of any lesbian author I have encountered, most resembles my real style of writing, which I never show to other people. I tend to present the funny jokey real-life accounts a la this journal to people because it is what is interesting to them and is what sells. My actual style is heavy in imagist style and symbolism; it is a combination between poetry and prose, that is still very experimental and needs to be decoded more than I think people are willing to put time into. Reading Djuna, however, is making me rethink more attempts on my actual style.
You don't understand; when I become obsessed with an author I literally fall in love with them, even when they're dead. Oh I admire Michelle Tea and Anne Bannon, but i'm quickly falling in love with Djuna Barnes, the only other lesbian I have seen who plays the same gender role as I do: that of the short haired, tough femme, one who polishes nails and smokes cigars in an organically posh sort of way.
And i've been thinking about how my life itself resembles a novel...join La Femme Bionique on her piteous sexual misadventures in the gay mecca of San Francisco. It's a three ring circus, lion tamers and fire eaters of love on display for a gawking voyeuristic public. She leads a breakneck life of excess and romanticism in a city quickly leaving her behind, she is hurled into inversion and damnation and doubled subjectivity of resemblance by forcing away the very ideals she lives by to become the glamorous evils she adores. And the tale only ends with two outcomes really; the absorption of Die Dmonische Frau by La Femme Bionique and the other unknown.
Life imitates art...Ecriture Feminine. You don't own your words, your words own you.
Djuna, out of any lesbian author I have encountered, most resembles my real style of writing, which I never show to other people. I tend to present the funny jokey real-life accounts a la this journal to people because it is what is interesting to them and is what sells. My actual style is heavy in imagist style and symbolism; it is a combination between poetry and prose, that is still very experimental and needs to be decoded more than I think people are willing to put time into. Reading Djuna, however, is making me rethink more attempts on my actual style.
You don't understand; when I become obsessed with an author I literally fall in love with them, even when they're dead. Oh I admire Michelle Tea and Anne Bannon, but i'm quickly falling in love with Djuna Barnes, the only other lesbian I have seen who plays the same gender role as I do: that of the short haired, tough femme, one who polishes nails and smokes cigars in an organically posh sort of way.
And i've been thinking about how my life itself resembles a novel...join La Femme Bionique on her piteous sexual misadventures in the gay mecca of San Francisco. It's a three ring circus, lion tamers and fire eaters of love on display for a gawking voyeuristic public. She leads a breakneck life of excess and romanticism in a city quickly leaving her behind, she is hurled into inversion and damnation and doubled subjectivity of resemblance by forcing away the very ideals she lives by to become the glamorous evils she adores. And the tale only ends with two outcomes really; the absorption of Die Dmonische Frau by La Femme Bionique and the other unknown.
Life imitates art...Ecriture Feminine. You don't own your words, your words own you.
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*blushes*
mmm