Octubre 2018 – lecturas reparativas

Soy viejo de cuerpo y joven de espíritu
Me pasa la cuenta esta actitud
Mucho vicio y poca virtud
Uno más de la multitud
-Sentinela del Norte, Vales Junaeb

– [Teoría] Donna Haraway, “‘Gender’ for a Marxist Dictionary: The Sexual Politics of a Word,” in Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature (London: The Free Associatin Books, 1991), 127–30.
– [Teoría] bell hooks, “Moving Past Blame: Embracing Diversity,” in Writing Beyond Race: Living Theory and Practice (London: Routledge, 2017), 26–39
– [Teoría] Hélène Cixous, “The Empire of the Selfsame,” In The Newly Born Woman, translated by Betsy Wing (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008 [1975]), 78–81.
– [Cine] McQueen – Ian Bonhote
– [Película] My own Private Idaho – Gus van Sant
– [Cuento] Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius – Jorge Luis Borges
– [Disco] Something to Tell You – Haim
– [Disco] Le Manteau de Pluie – Jean Louis Murat
– [Música] Tanta Devastación – Milton James
– [Cine] Jigoku – Nobuo Nakagaw
– [Música] Bedroom – Goodnight Moonlight
– [Cuento] The Lottery – Shirley Jackson
– [Teoría] Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, “Paranoid Reading and Reparative Reading, or, You’re So Paranoid, You Probably Think is Essay Is about You,” Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity (Durham: Duke UP, 2003): 123–51
– [Teoría] Gilles Deleuze: Proust and Signs. Conclusion to part 2: “Presence and Function of Madness”; “The Spider”.
– [Teoría] Gilles Deleuze: Two Regimes of Madness Chapters 1 “Two Regimes of Madness” and Chapter 2: “Schizophrenia and Society”.
– [Teoría] Gilles Deleuze y Felix Guattari: Anti-Oedipus, Chapter 2: “Psychoanalysis and Familialism: the Holy Family”; section 1 “The imperialism of Oedipus”; section 2 “Three texts by Freud”; section 6 “A Recapitulation of the three syntheses”; section 7 “Social repression and psychic repression”; section 8 “Neurosis and psychosis”; section 9 “The Process”.
– [Cuento] Axolotl – Julio Cortázar
– [Guión] The Social Network – Aaron Sorkin
– [Libro] Satin Island – Tom McCarthy
– [Teoría] Jacques Rancière, “Are Some Things Unrepresentable?” The Future of the Image, trad. Gregory Elliott (Verso, 2007), pp. 109–38
– [Libro] Xenofeminism – Helen Hester
– [Entrevista] Patricia Espinosa: “Los narradores chilenos están pegados en la autoficción” – Fundación La Fuente
– [Película] 20th Century Women – Mike Mills
– [Cuento] The Purloined Letter – Edgar Allan Poe
– [Teoría] Martin Heidegger, “What Are Poets for?” Poetry, Language, Thought, trad. Albert Hofstadter (Harper & Row, 1971), pp. 89–139
– [Libro] Duino Elegies – Rainer Maria Rilke
– [Película] O Futebol – Sergio Oksman
– [Televisión] Universidad Católica v/s Universidad de Concepción
– [Entrevista] Neil Tennant: ‘Sometimes I think, where’s the art, the poetry in all this?’ – The Guardian
– [Disco] Vessel – Frankie Cosmos
– [Fútbol] Feyenoord v/s Zwolle
– [Teoría] Sylvia Wynter, “The Ceremony Must Be Found: After Humanism,” Boundary 2 12.3–13.1 (1984): 19–70
– [Exhibición] EARTH – Metahaven – Stedelijk Museum
– [Televisión] Universidad Católica v/s Universidad de Chile
– [Película] Life of the Party – Ben Falcone
– [Música] Vales Junaeb – Sentinela del Norte
– [Libro] Can Jokes Bring Down Governments? – Metahaven
– [Televisión] Chilling Adventures of Sabrina

Ciudades: Rotterdam, Amsterdam, Utrecht, Londres

Favoritos: Alexander McQueen, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Gilles Deleuze, Patricia Espinosa, Rainer Maria Rilke, Matías Dituro, Luciano Aued, Neil Tennant, Sylvia Wynter, Metahaven, Sentinela del Norte, Andrés Tapia, Rosi Braidotti

Claves: recuperar en las tiendas, estar orgullosa del feminismo, la importancia de ser de clase trabajadora, usos de la paranoia, leer de forma reparativa

Rainer Maria Rilke (trad. Edward Snow)

It’s one thing to sing the loved one. Another, alas,
to sing that hidden guilty river-god of the blood!
Her youthful lover, whom she knows from afar: what sense has he
of that Lord of Lust who often, roused from solitude—
before she could soothe him, and often as though she herself
were nothing—ah, roused from what unsounded depths
lifts his streaming godhead, inciting the night to infinite uproar.
O the blood’s Neptune, O his terrible trident.
O the dark wind of his breast from the shell’s whorl.
Listen, as the night grows tunneled and cavelike. You stars,
does not the lover’s delight in his beloved’s face
come from you? Does not his passionate oneness with her pure
features derive from your celestial fire?

But not you, O girl, nor yet his mother,
stretched his eyebrows so fierce with expectation.
Not for your mouth, you who hold him now,
did his lips ripen into these fervent contours.
Do you really think your quiet footsteps
could have so convulsed him, you who move like dawn wind?
True, you startled his heart; but older terrors
rushed into him with that first jolt to his emotions.
Call him … “you’ll never quite retrieve him from those dark consorts.
Yes, he wants to, he escapes; relieved, he makes a home
in your familiar heart, takes root there and begins himself anew.
But did he ever begin himself?
Mother, you created him, you made him small;
with you he was new, and over his new eyes you arched
the friendly world, shutting the strange one out.

Where, where are those years, when with your slender form
you stood calmly between him and his surging chaos?
How much you kept from him that way; everything sinister
in his room at night you made harmless; from your heart’s haven
you poured a more human space into his own shadowy world.
You placed the night-light not in the darkness
but in your nearer being, where it shone like a friend.
The slightest creak—and you explained it, smiling,
as though you’d long known just when the floor would act up …

And he listened and was soothed. Your quiet entrance
had such force; his tall, cloaked destiny
stepped behind the wardrobe, and his restless future,
gently shifting, molded itself to the folds of the curtain.
And he: lying there, calmed, beneath
drowsy eyelids the sweetness of your gentle presence
dissolving into the first hints of sleep—:
he seemed well-guarded. But within: who fended there,
who checked the floods of origin within him?
Ah, there was no caution in that sleeper; asleep,
but dreaming, and in a kind of fever: what paths he took!
He, so shy, so unwary, how embroiled he was,
with all those spreading tendrils of inner event already
twisted into primitive patterns, into throttling growth, into prowling
animal-like forms. How he gave in to it all—. Loved.
Loved his interior world, his secret jungle, that primeval
forest inside him, from whose floor of ancient downfall
his own heart rose, shimmering green. Loved it. Left it,
followed his roots into that violent source-world
where his small birth seemed all but nothing. Awestruck,
he descended into the elder blood, into the ravines
where things ghastly lay, still gorged with fathers. And every
Terror recognized him, winked, “, seemed to understand.
Yes, Horror smiled at him … Smiled
as seldom you smiled, mother. How could he not love
what smiled at him that sweetly? He loved it
before you; for it was there even as you bore him,
dissolved in the fluid that carries the embryo.

You see, we don’t love like flowers, the effort
of just one year; sap from time immemorial
flows through our arms when we love. O girl,
this: that we’ve loved, within us, not that one person yet to come,
but all the weltering brood; not some single child,
but the fathers who lie like mountain-ruins
within us; and the dried-up riverbed
of former mothers—; and the whole
soundless landscape beneath our cloudy
or cloudless fate: all that, O girl, claimed him first.

And you yourself, unwittingly—: you conjured
primal times in your lover. What feelings
writhed up out of beings long vanished! What
women inside him hated you! Who were those shrouded men
you raised in his youthful veins? Dead children
strained to reach you … O gently, gently,
show him the love that adheres to a calm, everyday task, —lead him
close to the garden, give him those nights
that even out the scales . . . . . .
……………………………….Temper him . . . . . .

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