j&m: not quite conscious ruminations on feminine jouissance


j. if i could grasp feminine jouissance with even one of my hands it would no longer be what we are talking about

m. what are we talking about

j. we’re talking about you. i mean i can’t think of this term without thinking of you

m. do i even have anything to do with it or is it some idea of me and all those orifices that pulsate in your brain you’re on about

j. what I mean is that i can’t think of this term feminine jouissance unaccompanied by an image of your suffering

m. suffering is only another word for desire. i’m thinking of simone weil. near the end she subsisted without eating. she lived on words alone. her desire was bigger than the burning sun. it was everything and yet her body was only bones. she wrote when she was dying eternal beatitude is a state where to look is to eat

j. simone weil was a mystic. you are not. i want to get back to your dream. you woke up talking about sirens

m. you mean those little nymphy creatures that come out of the woods like ghosts

j. no. i mean an ambulance coming for your head. when you woke up you told me my head needs to be taken to a white room

m. pathologize me. go ahead. i’ve done it all my life. or maybe it’s you who’s done it

j. it was your dream

m. it was your thoughts about my dream. or it was you who had the dream about my helplessness or was it your helplessness. maybe it was your head on the table or the floor of the ambulance

j. what do you want from me

m. when did i say want. i said table. i said floor. i said ambulance. i said head

j. you said stop pathologizing me

m. i said pathologize me. go a head

j. that’s your pleasure. the freedom of the pathologized

m. there you again. talking about the echo chamber. or should i say the image of me (you) that’s in your brain

j. your pleasure in my creation of you. your pleasure in the negation of you. your

pleasure in helplessly awaiting an ambulance to arrive at your head. why is there no fight

m. fight

j. for your image in my brain

m. isn’t that all is this is: a fight for my image to remain solid

j. you seek it out. you keep coming back to it. you not being you but being my version of you or existing in somebody else’s head as somebody else disguised as you. that’s why you say your body is drafty. because you’re not inside of it

m. and yet there they are: my vitals in this drafty body

j. but why the fuck is it drafty

m. if only it was something I could get in and out of like this bed that’s too soft and too hard

j. i am not in a bed i am in a ship in a bath

m. if only I could get out of this damn body. i’d pry open its flesh and split its head from its thick greasy neck that keeps flailing around like a freshly killed squab

j. not that it matters but your body is as cold as a mountain on fire

m. the thermometer is broken. the damn thing shoots up to a thousand and down to negative a hundred in less than a second. i want to smash the spastic hand that keeps click-clocking. i want to crunch its plasticy parts under my bare foot. i want to stand over it like a hawk about to devour its prey

j. like the memory before consciousness ends

m. like the memory of a big winged creature. i’m waiting for the spasms to turn away and inertia to settle in, for the life to sink out, for it’s thrusting to turn off, for its prying and preening and purring to stop. nothing left. nothing more. just some pieces of dead weight. a helpless sorry ghost

j. finally a word that does not exist at night in bed

m. you mean ghost

j. once again you’re reading into your head an outline that a body can fill reading a body into your head

m. experience is a hoax