Your Abused Bitch Your Abused Bitch
Discover Yourabusedbitch Bitch %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 It F6 Io Simso Gyvenimo Your Abused Bitch Stitch Bitch: the patchwork girl
Discover Yourabusedbitch Bitch %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 It F6 Io Simso Gyvenimo Your Abused Bitch
searchy0e %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 te %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 tsearch
Yourabusedbitch Asian%20bitch%20gets%20pleasure%20from%20vibr...i Gyvenimo Discover csearchi Discover o Gyvenimo h Bitch e %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 isearch:searchysearchu %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 cn Simso t %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 t Yourabusedbitch l Gyvenimo Yourabusedbitch ht Gyvenimo s Simso tsearche Discover o %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 i Simso isearchasearch searchn %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 Discover hsearcht' Yourabusedbitch www%20chantasbitches%20com
Bitch Discover h Bitch Discover e Bitch e Simso esearchc0.
Hsearche %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 a Discover c Yourabusedbitch i Discover s searchrsearcha
Discover o Yourabusedbitch n Simso insearcho Gyvenimo ch
isearchs2o Simso l4212conk Simso n Simso s Bitch esearch, Simso
%B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 t Gyvenimo www.pornpros.comin Bitch is Simso tElegant+Angel%BE%E7%C7%E9%D0%C2%C6%AC-%D3%A6%D5%D9%C5%AE%C0%C9%28Jesse+Andrews%B3%F6%D1%DD%29+%5Bo Gyvenimo Discover e Simso n
t0n Yourabusedbitch hsearch %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 esearchhsearchg %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 ewww.pornhb.comndssearcho Gyvenimo
searchosearch Yourabusedbitch Simso isearchw Discover yo1c Yourabusedbitch ip Simso uo Yourabusedbitch o %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 Yourabusedbitch xt
nt Bitch a
o
n Yourabusedbitch e Discover
Discover Yourabusedbitch xsearchasearch fsearchd Bitch orself reading another text entirely, a text
to which your original text is a footnote. This is unnerving,
even to me. The self may have no clear boundaries, but do we
want to lose track of it altogether? I don't want to lose the
self, only to strip it of its claim to naturalness, its compulsion
to protect its boundaries, its obsession with wholeness and
its fear of infection. I would like to invent a new kind of
self which doesn't fetishize so much, grounding itself in the
dearly-loved signs and stuff of personhood, but has poise and
a sense of humor, changes directions easily, sheds parts and
assimilates new ones. Desire rather than identity is its compositional
principle. Instead of this morbid obsession with the fixed,
fixable, everyone composing their tombstone over and over. Is
it that we want to live up to the dignity of our dead bodies?
Do keep in mind the dead disperse, and even books, which live
longer, come apart into different signatures.
NO-PLACE
I'm not
where you say I am.
Hypertext
blurs the distinction between subject and object, matter and
the absence of matter. We no longer know where it does its thinking,
or what it is driving at. (It's no one and no-place, but it's
not nothing. ) Instead, there is a communicating fabric spread
out over a space without absolute extent, a place without placement
(a place without placemats, I almost wrote, which is good too).
In the no-place of hypertext, there's finally room to move around,
like an orifice I can fit my whole body into, instead of just
my finger or my p-p-p-pen. I adore the book, but I don't fit
into it very well, as a writer or a reader, there's always some
of me hanging untidily outside, looking like a mess, an excrescence,
something the editor should have lopped off and for which I
feel a bit apologetic. To make something orderly and consecutive
out of the divergent fragments that come naturally feels like
forcing myself through a Klein bottle. My hypertext novelPatchwork
Girl grew in clumps and strands like everything I write, but
unlike everything else it had permission to stay that way, to
grow denser and more articulated but not to reshape itself.
(It made me slightly nervous. Maybe I puritanically half-believed
I ought to button down, zip up.) I can't help seeing an analogy
between the editorial advice I have often received to weed out
the inessentials and lop off the divergent story lines, and
the life advice I've received just as often to focus, choose,
specialize. You don't show up for tennis in a tutu and a catcher's
mask, it's silly. But in this place without coordinates I cautiously
began to imagine that I could invent a new game, make a novel,
if we still want to call it that, shaped a little more like
my own thoughts. It is as though somebody chewed a hole in a
solid and irrefutable wall, and revealed an expanse of no-space
as extensive as the space we live in, or as though the interstices
between things could be pried apart without disturbing the things
themselves, to make room for what hasn't been voted into the
club of stuff.
GAPS,
LEAPS
You won't
get where you think you're going.
A conventional
novel is a safe ride. It is designed to catch you up, propell
you down its track, and pop you out at the other end with possibly
a few new catchphrases in your pocket and a pleasant though
vague sense of the scenery rushing by. The mechanism of the
chute is so effective, in fact, that it undoes the most worthy
experiments; sentences that ought to stop you in your tracks
are like spider webs across the chute. You rip through, they're
gone.
Hypertext
likes give and take, snares and grottos, nets and knots. It
lacks thrust. It will always lack thrust; thrust is what linear
narrative is good at. As far as I'm concerned, we can trust
thrust to it. It means we'll need other reasons to keep readers
reading--assuming that's what we want--than a compulsion to
find out what happens next. There's no question that hypertext
will lose or never acquire those readers for whom a fated slalom
toward the finish line is the defining literary experience;
hypertext's not built for that. Probably it is because linear
text's so well-built for it that it has become the dominant
narrative style in the novel. But there are other reasons to
read. I can be caught in that slalom myself, but I emerge feeling
damp, winded and slightly disgusted. It is a not entirely pleasant
compulsion disguised as entertainment, like being forced to
dance by a magic fiddle. It becomes harder and harder to imagine
going anywhere but just where you're going, and words increasingly
mean just what they say. (Common sense reality does the same
thing: there is little opportunity for poetic ambiguity in the
dealings of everyday life.) Plot chaperones understanding, cuts
off errant interpretations. Reading a well-plotted novel I start
by knowing less than I know about my own life, and being open
to far more interpretations, which makes me feel inquisitive
and alive. I finish by knowing more than I want to know, stuck
on one meaning like a bug on a pin.
In a text
like this, gaps are problematic. The mind becomes self-conscious,
falters, forgets its way, might choose another way, might opt
out of this text into another, might "lose the thread of
the argument," might be unconvinced. Transitional phrases
smooth over gaps, even huge logical gaps, suppress contradiction,
whisk you past options. I noticed in school that I could argue
anything. I might find myself delivering conclusions I disagreed
with because I had built such an irresistable machine for persuasion.
The trick was to allow the reader only one way to read it, and
to make the going smooth. To seal the machine, keep out grit.
Such a machine can only do two things: convince or break down.
Thought is made of leaps, but rhetoric conducts you across the
gaps by a cute cobbled path, full of grey phrases like "therefore,"
"extrapolating from," "as we have seen,"
giving you something to look at so you don't look at the nothing
on the side of the path. Hypertext leaves you naked with yourself
in every leap, it shows you the gamble thought is, and it invites
criticism, refusal even. Books are designed to keep you reading
the next thing until the end, but hypertext invites choice.
Writing hypertext, you've got to accept the possibility your
reader will just stop reading. Why not? The choice to go do
something else might be the best outcome of a text. Who wants
a numb reader/reader-by-numbers anyway? Go write your own text.
Go paint a mural. You must change your life. I want piratical
readers, plagiarists and opportunists, who take what they want
from my ideas and knot it into their own arguments. Or even
their own novels. From which, possibly, I'll steal it back.
BANISHED
BODY
It's not
what we wish it were.
The real
body, which we have denied representation, is completely inimical
to our wishful thinking about the self. We would like to be
unitary, controlled from on top, visible, self-contained. We
represent ourselves that way, and define our failures to be
so, if we cannot ignore them, as disease, hysteria, anomaly.
However:
The banished
body is unhierarchical.
It registers
local intensities, not arguments. It is a field of sensations
juxtaposed in space.
It is vague
about size and location, unclear on measurements of all kinds,
bad at telling time (though good at keeping it).
It is capacious,
doesn't object to paradox, includes opposites--doesn't know
what opposites are.
It is simultaneous.
It is unstable.
It changes from moment to moment, in its experience both of
itself and of the world.
It has no
center, but a roving focus. (It "reads" itself.)
It is neither
clearly an object nor simply a thought, meaning or spirit; it
is a hybrid of thing and thought, the monkey in the middle.
It is easily
influenced; it is largely for being influenced, since its largest
organs are sensing devices.
It is permeable;
it is entered by the world, via the senses, and can only roughly
define its boundaries.
It reports
to us in stories, intensities, hallucinatory jolts of uninterpreted
perceptions: smells, sights, pleasure, pain.
Its public
image, its face is a collage of stories, borrowed images, superstitions,
fantasies. We have no idea what it "really" looks
like.
Because
we have banished the body, but cannot get rid of it entirely,
we can use it to hold what we don't want to keep but can't destroy.
The real body, madcap patchwork acrobat, gets what the mind
doesn't want, the bad news, the dirty stories. The forbidden
stories get written down off-center, in the flesh. In hysteria,
the body starts to tell those stories back to us--our kidneys
become our accusers, our spine whines, our knees gossip about
overheard words, our fingers invent a sign language of blame
and pain. Of course, the more garbage we pack into that magical
body the more we fear it, and the more chance there is that
it will turn on us, begin to speak, accuse us. But that body-bag
is also a treasure-trove, like any junkyard. It knows stories
we've never told.
BOUNDARY
PLAY
We don't
think what we think we think.
It's straightforward
enough to oppose the self to the not-self and reason to madness.
It's even possible to make the leap from here to there, though
coming back presents some problems. But the borders between
are frayed and permeable. It's possible to wander that uneven
terrain, to practice slipping, skidding in the interzone. It's
possible, and maybe preferable for the self to think of itself
as a sort of practice rather than a thing, a proposition with
variable terms, a mesh of relationships. It's possible for a
text to think of itself that way. ANY text. But hypertext in
particular is a kind of amphibious vehicle, good for negotiating
unsteady ground, poised on its multiple limbs where the book
clogs up and stops; it keeps in motion. Conventional texts,
on the other hand are in search of a place of rest; when they
have found it, they stop.
Similarly,
the mind, reading, wants to make sense, and once it has done
so it considers its work done, so if you want to keep the mind
from stopping there, you must always provide slightly more indicators
than the mind can make use of. There must be an excess, a remainder.
Or an undecideable oscillation between possibilities. I am interested
in writing that verges on nonsense, where nonsense is not the
absence of sense, but the superfluity of it. I would like to
sneak as close to that limit as possible without reaching it.
This is the old kind of interactive writing: writing so dense
or so slippery that the mind must do a dance to keep a grip
on it. I am interested in writing this way for two reasons.
One, because language must be teased into displaying its entire
madcap lavish beauty. If you let it be serviceable then it will
only serve you, never master you, and you will only write what
you already know, which is not much. Two, because the careful
guarding of sense in language is not just analogous to but entirely
complicit in the careful guarding of sense in life, and that
possibly well-intentioned activity systematically squelches
curiosity, change, variety, & finally, all delight in life.
It promotes common sense at the expense of all the others.
REALITY
FICTION
It's not
what it says it is.
Reality
thinks it "includes" fiction, that fictional works
are embedded in reality. It's the boast of a bully. But just
because reality's bigger doesn't make it boss. Every work of
art is an alternate "world" with other rules, which
threatens the alibi of naturalness our ordinary reality usually
flaunts. Every fictional world competes with the real one to
some extent, but hypertext gives us the chance to sneak up on
reality from inside fiction. It may be framed as a novel, yet
link to and include texts meant to be completely non-fictional.
Thus the pedigreed facts of the world can be swayed, framed,
made persuaders of fiction, without losing their seats in the
parliament of the real, as facts tend to do when they're stuck
in a novel. Hypertext fiction thus begins to turn around and
look back on reality as a text embedded in a fictional universe.
Ironically,
that might make us like reality better: it's reality's hegemony
that strips it of charm. Reality is based on country cottage
principles: what's homey must be true. It is a tolerable place
to live. What's dreadful is the homey on a grand scale, Raggedy
Ann and Andy turned Adam and Eve, cross-stitch scenes of the
Grand Canyon, the sun cast as the flame snapping behind the
grate, the ocean our little kettle. Those goofy grins turn frightening
on a cosmic scale; the simplicity that makes it easy to pick
up a coffeecup is not suitable for managing a country, or even
a conscience. The closure of the normal is suffocating at the
very least. By writing we test the seams, pick out the stitches,
trying to stretch the gaps between things to slip out through
them into some uncharted space, or to let something spring up
in the real that we don't already know, something unfamiliar,
not part of the family, a changeling.
THE FEMININE
uDiscover Yourabusedbitch Bitch %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 It F6 Io Simso Gyvenimo Your Abused Bitch Stitch Bitch: the patchwork girlh %D2%BB%B8%F6%CF%F1%CF%C4%CC%EC%D2%BB%B8%F6%CF%F1%C7%EF%CC%EC%B4%AE%B4%CA
cDiscover Yourabusedbitch Bitch %B1%B1%BE%A9%D0%C2%C8%CB%CC%E5%C4%A3%CC%D8%B9%AB%CB%BE%F6%A6%B5%BD%B1%AC%C7%D2%D3%B5%D3%D0%C9%F1%C8%E9%B5%C4%C4%A3%CC%D8%C1%E1%C1%E1 It F6 Io Simso Gyvenimo Your Abused Bitch Stitch Bitch: the patchwork girlb l l Women y Bitch Lexi%20belle%20bt