Formalism is a dirty word––a bad object––and perhaps this is what makes it such an exciting, yet slippery, site to engage. Plagued by universalist goals of purity, autonomy, self-reflexivity, and political indifference, formalism certainly seems bankrupt. Yet... happy
<p style="display:none" class="twosixtwo">sad</p>Read More
Dyke Action Machine, Family Circle, zine published 1992.Read More
I HAD NOTHING TO SAY
WHILE TRYING TO GRAPPLE WITH SOMETHING THAT SEEMED SO OBVIOUS, OBTUSE, REDUNDANT.
As a kid, I was comforted by somebody typing. A tingly sensation would ensue with specific cues, but I would only identify these triggers later on. The tingly sensation happened at the airport...Read More
I’d like to describe a particular setting. By committing this setting to language, I’m hoping to allow it to produce its own enunciations, its own pronouncements, and announce its own limits. I want to get at something, through this setting, which has set the stage for the formation of my approach, of my work, my way of thinking.Read More
Aren’t Latinidad and spichood similarly fucked—the fuckedness of always already being the same or of resemblance in repetition? Even when I attempt to reassemble new skin, sick of my spic casings, I remain destined to be crucified through them. I can only discard and abandon the carcass; I’m stuck. My new being through ecdysis remains within “the order of the same.”Read More