![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
letterbladeHave had two of my classes so far. The digital arts project tutorial is just about as I'd expected, and Nino wasn't even put off by my crazy pretentious-as-fuck proposed modeling project. The Literature of Artistic Obsession...well, it's a class with Marguerite Feitlowitz. An advanced lit seminar with Marguerite Feitlowitz. I am in gorgeous brilliant pretentious lit heaven. (And I have to read Pygmalion by Thursday. But, frankly, I'm not worried about that yet. Won't be able to buy my copy until tomorrow anyway.)
Marguerite has as a first-day exercise (she did this in the class of hers I was in last term too) a freewrite/brief response bit of in-class writing. She'll give us a page of quotes and we'll respond to one.
This short Utena fic has been eating my brain. Gah. Brilliant.
I'm posting my freewrite because my hands were shaking when I read it aloud in class, so I know I put something more into it than I normally do with these sorts of things. Emotionally *and* intellectually.
"Je est un autre." [I is an other.
--Arthur Rimbaud
I was, at midwinter, earlier today, February 24th, at the ritual and sacrifice and rebirth, and I saw and felt within and without.
How much is art an interior reality? I think of the puny writings of my childhood. Fantasy and science fiction and other worlds, but always the interior. As I grow and have more knowledge of reality, my interior reality intensifies. I acquire the ability to become transparent, or almost. I have felt and seen the roses of spring grow black and white and green around my bare and slender limbs within minutes, and the thorns grew into my skin and drew no blood, for I was bled dry and frozen and yet awaiting my return to life; I the male consort of my terrible and beloved sister-mother-lover-goddess. Midwinter to spring in a few twining moments, before she kissed me upon mouth and phallus with her mouth filled with my blood and returned my sword to my heart in a cascade of light so I might bloom again and be loved on a bed of roses.
For all of this, I was transparent. Form my soul like glass and words and images come into arrangement; and then I return to my usual self and what I saw and wrote dogs all my waking life and I mutter it to myself in corners.
But surely there must be more than mere becoming? I have always had this imagination. It is only my nascent grown-up definition of reality which makes it unreal, and sends me racing deeper into it, fleet as a red-coated wolf, to pile it up into something exquisite to myself and call it important.
[The question that then dogs me--what is my self? If not my others, what is my self?]
Somehow getting the impression that some of the readings in this class are going to cut too close to home. I've spent how long losing myself in other people's characters? And mostly they are not particularly healthy men to have as shadows. *coughs at Mikage, or whatever his name might be today*
But heightened interior experiences do me good, in their own way, all sorts of them. They keep me from staying all frozen up and walled in. I'd like my feelings to at least be known to myself, and maybe to my art.
And she keeps telling me that I have enough chaos power within me to destroy the world.
Maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to invest myself in my original work again.
I wonder what Becky Godwin will do if I write about werewolves for the short story class.
Marguerite has as a first-day exercise (she did this in the class of hers I was in last term too) a freewrite/brief response bit of in-class writing. She'll give us a page of quotes and we'll respond to one.
This short Utena fic has been eating my brain. Gah. Brilliant.
I'm posting my freewrite because my hands were shaking when I read it aloud in class, so I know I put something more into it than I normally do with these sorts of things. Emotionally *and* intellectually.
"Je est un autre." [I is an other.
--Arthur Rimbaud
I was, at midwinter, earlier today, February 24th, at the ritual and sacrifice and rebirth, and I saw and felt within and without.
How much is art an interior reality? I think of the puny writings of my childhood. Fantasy and science fiction and other worlds, but always the interior. As I grow and have more knowledge of reality, my interior reality intensifies. I acquire the ability to become transparent, or almost. I have felt and seen the roses of spring grow black and white and green around my bare and slender limbs within minutes, and the thorns grew into my skin and drew no blood, for I was bled dry and frozen and yet awaiting my return to life; I the male consort of my terrible and beloved sister-mother-lover-goddess. Midwinter to spring in a few twining moments, before she kissed me upon mouth and phallus with her mouth filled with my blood and returned my sword to my heart in a cascade of light so I might bloom again and be loved on a bed of roses.
For all of this, I was transparent. Form my soul like glass and words and images come into arrangement; and then I return to my usual self and what I saw and wrote dogs all my waking life and I mutter it to myself in corners.
But surely there must be more than mere becoming? I have always had this imagination. It is only my nascent grown-up definition of reality which makes it unreal, and sends me racing deeper into it, fleet as a red-coated wolf, to pile it up into something exquisite to myself and call it important.
[The question that then dogs me--what is my self? If not my others, what is my self?]
Somehow getting the impression that some of the readings in this class are going to cut too close to home. I've spent how long losing myself in other people's characters? And mostly they are not particularly healthy men to have as shadows. *coughs at Mikage, or whatever his name might be today*
But heightened interior experiences do me good, in their own way, all sorts of them. They keep me from staying all frozen up and walled in. I'd like my feelings to at least be known to myself, and maybe to my art.
And she keeps telling me that I have enough chaos power within me to destroy the world.
Maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to invest myself in my original work again.
I wonder what Becky Godwin will do if I write about werewolves for the short story class.