Brazilian Bikini Wax Palm Springs Ca

technical writings. Love and stuff, vol.1
Explain How I can I need you here and not here too

I am surprised to see the set photo of Natalia Oreiro parisienese the new Oh la la, and my thoughts are interrupted before the Asked whether I'll take something from one of the employees of the place. I tell him I was looking for a book of 200 pages, and points to a shelf with a tower of Babel made of papyrus, Arts, and other brands. Winnie Pooh, windsurfing, the band Doberman (yuck), all caps look too gay, eighty or just cops, so I'm flipping through more than average time. I feel the presence of the employee uncomfortable watching my body bent, as if waiting to do something and give in to pressure by choosing a notebook with an uninspired picture of Sid Vicious as a cover. As I wonder how Sid became such a bastion of iconography, the employee asked for a mechanical pencil graphs. While looking, I can look askance at the cover of Oh La La, and continues to amaze me the opacity of the skin Oreiro, a foundation that manages a face that could have appeared in the court of Versailles, or at least in the version that Sofia Coppola did pop it. Average lap gawking, the employee almost puts me in a graph hands Faber Castell, and stared at me like a child about to test its first host. I do not like Faber Castell graphs. Especially the HB, which have ultra smooth stroke, and usually break at the slightest pressure. I'm kind of ritual, and I can not use other graphs that Pilot (2b, where possible). Even the ceremony of removing the graffiti Left-inch uncomfortable that always remains in the compartment, and insert a new one has a particular effect on me that if I try to crawl back to my fascination with arms chopped and subsequent Trainspotting drugmovies that marked my youth (and of which I spoke in this post). In fact, now that I think, I usually get a tip of the graph, and then insert all putting pressure on the arm, so it actually looks as if I were giving a chute on a vein.
But so no, these graphs that chose the mine are shit, and if you do not have the Pilot that I want, I'll look elsewhere. Just as I'm about to ask, type appears above the stage. Stands firmly in front of her, and with a monotone voice, almost ceremonial, he says: "Just passing
to tell them that I will not buy at this store.
try to see the other way, but my eyes rest on the type, which is fixed at her, and then hers, trembling, without flinching. I do not like to fall into clichés, but there are five seconds that seems to have stopped the world. The blue of his eyes look watery and thick mascara is like the last dam that prevents the release tear to the cheek as kamikaze. It's strange to think that people are still out doing their thing, complaining about taxis that fail, joining their poop dogs with bags of supermarket across the street while trying to write a text message. Here, in this stationery, the three of us can not help but tremble. Thus, the sixth second type above is gone, opening the door and off into the street. I think (well, I think now, at this moment I can not think of anything) that the scene would have been completed with a bang, but are those glass doors have a system that avoids these risky, though picturesque, fits of rage. When I return to the side of the employee, has run a little shade to the temple. As a skater who rejoins after a fall on ice, attempts a smile and asks me choked voice
"You will take the graph too?
"Hey, yeah, yeah, sure.

Butchering the Fictions
several years ago that I write a love story. It's something that has haunted me, feeling like one of my biggest frustrations of the past year. Not only does not know how to generate certain climates, or draw certain characters, I can not think straight at all, any plot or who may be crossed by such feelings, almost like sitting on the water, without having eaten in days, waiting for something happen. Almost directly proportional manner, the stories are overloading of sex, sex to Antonioni already Selby jr-feeling in a way so extrinsic that look as if they were the result of a macumba Lissardi Ercole I did. The only story that comes to cherish certain edges of love is one that personally I find it sad that I generally cost to get to the last part. I always like to think of a particular artistic production-a storybook, a series of novels, a disc, a series of films coagulated by a link-like a stock or a particular geography, and I think the place I've been building in last year, is a difficult place to live.
is very strange to live a certain romantic vision of the world with a neurosis trying to bury every wish. When I was eighteen, after a few massacres love where I was primarily responsible, I concluded that it was more in love with the feeling of being in love that the people themselves who catalyzed these feelings. Reversing the famous phrase: "love the game, NOT the player" . Had reached a point where, to quote my friend Peter-the pain of others, but mostly served to make own-song, as if digging for oil in question. Lacan share with a particular view of sex that most people discuss me, but somehow that extends to a vast other sensations. The sex, fuck , take , fuck , make-love , it is impossible to appreciate in its entirety, in real reality, so to speak. Yes, a portion of my body is actually exchanging bodily fluids with another person, but I can not see that situation from reality, not fiction accessory. No, that would be too, maddening, traumatic, so we feel compelled to mediate that through the symbolic. All the sex is mediated by fictions, and so I do not mean that my girlfriend put on police, or any of the couple is thinking in the corner grocer. No, the momentum ficcionalizante goes beyond making places where only believe it is the simple perception. This fiction is structured in a more subtle, is in fact concentrate on a particular body part of our family, in a word that whispers, panting, in the fiction of power or submission which is represented on stage, or away a second and get a picture of us doing it, voyeurism and exhibitionism inseparable in its original state, without sextape, or anything like that.
Sex as sex itself, does not exist.
From all this we have only fictions.
(This is a great comfort for Onan, and can tell no difference between what some people have to act in hotels and what you do in their bedrooms).
In fact, among the latest discoveries of neuroscience, there is evidence that in the perception and mental representation of an object, activates the same neurons. Perception, memory and imagination at the physiological level is materially the same. This small scientific discovery mat placed on all common notions that we understand the reality of the real. Everything is so real and fictional.
The point is that as soon as you understand the premise, is pulling the thread and realize that, like sex, everything in the world is mediated by fictions, and probably very few things are as much as love. At this level, you could say yes, we do not love the person but the character, or rather, paper, piece of script that our actress / actor plays in the play of our lives.
What is particularly strange is that in the past year, despite my stagnant writing when pierced by the love story, much of what obsessed me in music or cinema was mediated by this feeling.
First, Wong Kar Wai.
Whenever I watch a film by Wong Kar-Wai to not be the last, which is a considerably smaller film, "I leave that world with a feeling that in a phenomenological dissection could not be other than infatuation. The compendium of sensations is exactly that, what it feels like to those nights where you realize that you are hanging with a certain person, remembering eyes, or things he said.

Some accuse it of formalist "I do not agree, and that always makes the same story. On this last point, the truth is that yes, beyond the familiar trilogy of Days of Being Wild, In the spirit of love and 2046, almost the completeness of his films are always based on love and perpetually sought lost, a dog that tries to biting its tail, and faint mareándose after several attempts. The asymptotic quest for reciprocity, signed and confirmed that defeat again and again. Apparently, from the perspective of Wong Kar Wai is the only love lost love, or love, unable to fruition, and yet his films are not bitter. On the contrary, again and again I fall in love with the characters, from the police eating pineapple in syrup expired and the girl who puts time and again California dreaming in Chungking Express, to the entropic Happy gay couple together , to the beauties parading through the life of Cho-mo Wan, delivered to your abject loneliness 2046, and tenants spiteful, but unable to betray their partners in this monumental film is In the spirit of love. We were born to lose, it has a very clear when you enter the world of Wong Kar Wai, but want to witness the defeat, making it their own, live and suffer sweetly, as do the characters in his movies. And this symptom
worries me, because I saw that such characters are becoming a pattern in my life.
cost me write this post because I have to supplement it with my frantic downs of all chapters of The office (U.S.). I can not point out how cool I think the series. I'm impressed by the way the characters are enriching chapters. In this regard, I would not care to say that a few characters are much more multidimensional than the Seinfeld . A not misinterpret, Seinfeld is probably the best sitcom of all time, and with it came to such perfection that I can not choose one of four players (though internally I think the thing is between George and Kramer) . However, as shown in the last chapter of the series, none really end up learning nothing, and in this small detail is the great bastion of The Office . Steve Carrell in the role of Michael is politically wrong, kid, egomaniac, chanta, in short, an asshole. However, it is much more than that, and what starts as an unpleasant character one bothers to see on the screen, shown in its wide spectrum, with bewildering chiaroscuro for American comedy. And so with most of the rest of the characters (up to Dwight bizarrísimo has its tender side, especially in relation to the frigid Angela).
Now, where does all this rodeo? Different from what I imagined, the main theme of the series is not the shit that is sent Michael, but the relationship between Jim and Pam, two employees of the company. With the great appeal of the camera within the diegetic universe of the series, along with some resources that are reminiscent of the best of the Dogma 95 ', the lens can see gestures, glances and silences than ever, as far as I remember, I had seen in any television series. The effect given is as if all stakeholders act in each scene, as the camera quickly focuses on a doing something, and it blurs into a second focusing on the effect this action had on other employees. One feels almost like that person who knows a secret, and trying to corroborate it in silence every time there is a particular situation.

As the chapters pass, you realize that Jim and Pam are love each other, but do not get to present it in a verbalized, a situation against which a series lobotomized as Friends be responsible to present a fun-filled confession my gods! and laughter fill. One knows that their relationship is marked from the beginning, since Pam is committed to a not so eloquent, but still good, an employee of the company's deposit (returning to the examples, any number would have been commissioned to paint this as a Cro-Magnon man or a completely negligible, at best empatizáramos way for the love of the protagonists), while she and Jim are in an untenable condition of friendship. It is a relationship in which small gestures and glances are accumulated chapter by chapter, and one ends up falling for that relationship. It seems half
repetitive, but I note one point. When I say "you end up falling in love" is not a mere means of expression to say that the presentation of the couple seems gentle, engaging, or is very well crafted. When I say "you end up falling in love", I refer specifically to that. It is a fiction that one is going to internalize, and beginning to take certain areas of your life. And the symptoms are the same, just as one can excite a painting, or mourn with a song. An earlier post noted in my pyramid of taste how one without knowing a certain person, tell yourself a musician, actor, footballer, writer, mikado-professional player can develop against the same genuine feelings of affection or devotion, as if actually knew that person. When I see Chan Marshall, there comes a sense of embrace and help to move, exchanging scarves and stay talking to her, like my best friend, and I think Tom Waits admire someone with the eyes of a child, as this guy to which one you end up taking as an idol or role model. One thinks that such feelings are only own fans that are often unhealthy disguise his idol and attend conventions with other people who dress up and make them feasting on each of their birthdays. Has always tended to think that the fan occupies a peripheral role and liabilities, as only limited to the morsels of genius casts an idol. However, Henry Jenkins in Textual Poachers, in its analysis of the culture of fans said that the role of them is more active than it seems, rewriting and taking over their favorite movies and after a series of techniques such as reframing, refocusing, crosses between different texts side by side. Thus, the activity of fan has an element of empowerment: "The fans made their raids and loot what they can, use the looted goods as a foundation to build an alternative cultural community."
The self-infatuation is just that, an idealization of the individual and a sack of this idealization, which can make a person live with someone, he can be truly dangerous to your life "is an element that is ubiquitous in cases of battered women.
Come to think of the parable of courtly love, where the characters without touching approach is a particular obsession of mine, going back to my puberty, or earlier. Possibly unfinished and endless relationship of the nineties is the binomial Fox Mulder, Dana Scully. It is difficult to make them understand the role of X-Files occupied in my life. This is the one who was said to be an FBI badge by putting a picture of his license. So Filing. But beyond the series, paranormal cases, government intrigue, for me, reaching the same bone in the series, everything is a mere decoration to develop the relationship between Mulder and Scully. At its core, The X-Files is a soap opera with elements of science fiction. You always hoped one of the two finally lowered its bridges, but at the same time was hoping to sustain this procastinación eternal, like watching even when you can inflate a balloon, even at the risk of being exploited in the face. Eventually the series was distorted, with the departure of Fox Mulder and the eventual realization of love, left a bitter aftertaste, but back to see the first six seasons, especially the third, I believe, the season of Scully's cancer, "one can attest that, while it lasted, was one of the greatest love stories told on television.
In recent years, I was realizing my bitterness, but this whole idea that made me head is shattered when I see it as a teenager, suffering and hoping that Jim and Pam can be together.

Cet obscur objet du désir

"The love of a woman is only possible if one considers their real qualities, and therefore if you replace your psychic reality filly different reality and largely imaginary. The attempt to reach the very ideal of a woman, instead of taking the woman by itself, necessarily imply the destruction of the empirical personality of women. Therefore, the intent is cruel to women, the selfishness of love passes over women and is not concerned in the least by his real inner life [...] Love is murder "
is difficult to take the foot of this point when we know you who said it was Otto Weininger, a Nazi-Jewish homosexual (which combination, che), in his misogyny texts Gerardo Sofovich would see as a continuation of Betty Friedan. Also, the fact that he committed suicide at twenty years, gives no credentials as an example of a very balanced. However, as the old saying goes, even a broken clock gives the time correctly twice a day (well, the analog, at least), and indeed the type, perhaps without knowing it, said a great truth. If they can from their attacks on women, and consider what is said in more general criteria, points out something that is repeated in romantic relationships, which is a quasi-mutilation after the other to adapt to the image one has of it (like a Bonsai we were talking about.) In the mouth of Lacan, "I love you, but inexplicably want something in you more than you-to-order, so I will mutilate you."
idealizations This game is extremely perverse moments. Turning to women, and away from positions from the perspective of Weininger (by God, no), in male-dominated cultural production, provided the woman was understood as something elusive, and enclosed within a certain insight (hence phrase "women there, women" ). Given that fear epistemological has emerged the myth of women as the obscure object of desire, Lillith of the Bible, the femme fatale film noir, the sirens of Greek myth, the Salome makes heads roll by the charm of her hips. In these productions, she usually appears at first as the weak part of the binomial, but with the course of the work (film, novel, whatever), ends up devouring the male, and we are seeing how it performs. Looking back
mind, I realize how often this pattern is repeated in the film. Possibly one of the films that best illustrate this is The Blue Angel, looking like Professor Rath, Emil Jennings, is falling a dive under the charms of Lola (the historical interpretation of Marlene Dietrich). At first Lola looks like a sweet Burlesque dancer, but will eventually taking small territories of the life of Professor Rath, until it becomes more of a clown variety show she belongs. It is difficult to find the most painful scenes of decadence presented in these sessions in front of her makeup mirror. Even if one keeps track of certain key scenes, we see that Jennings is often at the foot of Dietrich, seeing her up like a child waiting for the gratification of an adult.
And as you continue watching movies, you realize that the femme fatale is repeated and again. It's almost a Jungian archetype. In The Viaccia , Belmondo yields to the charms of a prostitute, stealing to continue to assist the brothel where she attends (this makes more sense because of who attends is Claudia Cardinale, making the issue into something much more understandable, and even obvious). Le chienne , Renoir is practically the same. With film noir, and I get the same femme fatale term was coined around their distinctive female protagonists. And in more recent films that is repeated from Ran, Kurosawa, to Basic Instinct, Verhoeven, through Lost Highway, Lynch, Audition, Miike Takeshi, "which is actually a tremendous essay on the masochistic fantasy taken to its ultimate limits, and not so recent That Obscure Object of Desire of Buñuel, in which the two versions of the same Women are literally becoming her suitor in a puppet-what word so good that I use-to the scene where one of the shells, do not get me wrong, that's the name of the character, intended to have sex with a English before him.
However, a film in which the active role of women is often overlooked but is critical, Last Tango in Paris. Almost as if European version The Realm of the Senses , it is possible that the Bertolucci film is one of the best essays of grief and perversion.
Note: In this paragraph I talk about the plot itself, so who did not see it, I recommend you skip it and read from the next.

Oh, and if they want my full essay on the film, you can download it here (it was for power, so if Lacan embolism will not recommend it)
do not know if I told you, but Last Tango Paris contains my favorite male performance of all time. Marlon Brando making beyond which can make any human being, every scene in which it appears the world seems to tremble, but not only within the TV in the house itself, on the bed where you're sitting and watching that. Marlon Brando is Paul, a recent widower who after a casual sexual encounter with Jeanne (Maria Schneider) begins a strange relationship, where neither knows the other's name, and which provides an apparent system of domination, which goes crescendo to the end, where the balance of dominance is over mess, with Paul killed by Jeanne (notice that in essence is almost a replica of the Oshima film). In this regard, Paul is shown at the beginning as the great evil. The effort of perversion is directed not to remove significant impact on their knowledge of the offense, for what will be paid as an object of the fantasies of others, wanting to pervert, to turn one of their own. Can not find something more akin to that effect in the vicious didactic slogans against the constitution of the family, forcing Paul to Jeanne to recite while anally violated (the butter incident.) After all, the ideal of evil is based on the inanimate object, being the enjoyment nothing else to witness the coming into play placing himself or others as a mere object. At first you'd think that Paul is the ruler, being a mere underling poor Jeanne, falling on the most violent of all learning. However, sadomasochism no liability pole, and the very end gives us to consider whether, in the end, it is Paul, Jeanne, but the real puppeteer behind the screen, as soon as he tells his real name occupation, the truth of his wife and his past, a look of disdain on his face fills. Just then, Paul is no longer the object that fills your masochistic pleasure becomes disposable: a person. It is precisely at the time of Paul is presented as subject and not object Jeanne perverse desire is extinguished. It should leave the subject. Anyway.

What counts in the perverse is the inability to love, enjoy the ability to tie with love, the only act to establish durable object. In the perversion all objects are replaceable. Beyond the objects themselves (heels, latex, leather), even in the same black-book system that applies in certain hotels refined (a kind of specialized letter prostitution "), you can choose exactly how you want to his companion, and possibly ever in the absence of a redhead in braids, a mere hair dye solves the stumbling block. In love, thank God. One can not fall in love many times, let alone several people at once. Love is claiming exclusivity and exclusivity that is is the eternal-analytical observation, but my spirits are far from enacting the Christian myth of "till death do us part" . (On second thought, this is a pretty shitty conclusion for those who believe that polygamy should be the natural state of man).
Love is the great slaughter of the idealizations.
Now what, at least theoretically worries me is:
"This idea of \u200b\u200blove as mutilation of a person to a preformed image and internalized, it is in essence, its character as mere interchangeable molds, no more than another definition of perversion?

Epilogue Mary has
examination on Saturday. It's Friday night and has to stay at home studying. In Jet is celebrating the birthday of someone from my circle of friends. However, I decided to stay at home, trying to finish a story I had in his head the previous day.
's three in the morning. I've been watching and reviewing these chapters of The Office . Just now I realize that for forty minutes I've been skipping episodes that I've looked, seeking only the scenes that show the relationship of Jim and Pam.
There is one in particular fascinates me:
There is a strange custom in the office, which is that when two people repeating the same phrase in unison, one can not talk until he buys the other person a Coke. At the beginning of the chapter, Jim Pam repeated a phrase, for it is he who has to buy it. When you go to the vending machine, is that no more. Conclusion: Jim can not say anything the rest of the day, at least until I get a Coke for Pam elsewhere. The chapter goes on and pass other fun things that have nothing to do with this particular fact. What matters is that Jim is in love with Pam, and in later chapters she has been organizing her marriage (and of course, does not know what Jim-or half-known, although it is very likely depth in the know, ie your coworker is love you / and, incidentally, that she is). Near the end of Chapter Jim is sitting with her, still unable to speak, being faithful to the rules of the game, and she says you look That You Got Something really important to say But you can not for Some reason, only piss and drool for their temporary silence. He laughs and she fucks in different ways, sometimes in a serious tone, but with a laugh eventually sealing it like a mere joke. That's insistence that before such a joke, in the last "You can tell me anything," Jim is smiling, but it is looking a bit more serious and after a few seconds looks down, as if to say "I would say, but you know better than I can." The camera shows the face of Pam, and his smile is broken down into a face invaded by a momentary seriousness indistinguishable from fear. But neither said anything. Twenty seconds are great. And I can not stop watching them.
is my third whiskey at night. Volume one, and when the light leaves me dizzy, I'm going to fill the glass. On other nights think servírmelo be a pathetic imitation of Bukowski, as a ridiculous exercise of bohemian decadence. But I realize I really need to take this whiskey.
had thought I could take this night alone to do things I can not do when I'm with Mary.
had thought it could end this story, or start one to talk about a couple like Jim and Pam. However, I realize I can not.
I am writing this, and I think I'm wasting time, when in a few weeks miss these nights to myself. And yet, I realize, but do not want to acknowledge, that I'm missing tonight.
I lie in bed, staying upright on the elbow slightly. Bohren und der Pongo club of Gore . He had already talked about them here is a slow jazz, soft, with a saxophone that creeps into the room. It is almost a doom jazz, more like a Lynch film of a black police. Johnny took a sip of the walker. For the position of my body as if my digestive system blends with the music, taking its rhythm and tempo, I feel as fluid descends slowly, almost like a snake, to the depths of my body. After the initial burning of the throat height, the sip down the esophagus. I feel his way slowly, burning in the beginning, leaving a trail of fresh later. My body seems insignificant, almost disposable. It is as if the world were closing in on me like a book.

And then I'm sorry, slow like honey, whiskey into the stomach.