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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
She's not
what he says she is. The banished body is not female, necessarily,
but it is feminine. That is, it's amorphous, indirect, impure,
diffuse, multiple, evasive. So is what we learned to call bad
writing. Good writing is direct, effective, clean as a bleached
bone. Bad writing is all flesh, and dirty flesh at that: clogged
with a build-up of clutter and crud, knick-knacks and fripperies
encrusted on every surface, a kind of gluey scum gathering in
the chinks. Hypertext is everything that for centuries has been
damned by its association with the feminine (which has also,
by the way, been damned by its association with it, in a bizarre
mutual proof without any fixed term). It's dispersed, languorous,
flaunting its charms all over the courtyard. Like flaccid beauties
in a harem, you might say, if you wanted to inspire a rigorous
distaste for it. Hypertext then, is what literature has edited
out: the feminine. (That is not to say that only women can produce
it. Women have no more natural gift for the feminine than men
do.)
CONSTELLATION
I'm not
what you think I am. I am a loose aggregate, a sort of old fashioned
cabinet of curiosities, interesting in pieces but much better
as a composite. It's the lines of traffic between the pieces
that are worth attention, but this has been, until now, a shapeless
sort of beauty, a beauty without a body, and therefore with
few lovers. But hypertext provides a body, a vaporous sort of
insufficiently tactile body but a body, for our experience of
the beauty of relationships. It is like an astronomy of constellations
rather than stars. It is old-fashioned, in that sense. It is
a sort of return, to a leisurely old form, the sprawling, quizzical
portmanteau book like the Anatomy of Melancholy ( "a rhapsody
of rags gathered together from several dung-hills, excrements
of authors, toys and fopperies confusedly tumbled out,"
as Burton himself described it) to the sort of broad cross-fertilization
of disciplines that once was commonplace, only hypertext does
not provide so much courtly guidance across the intellectual
terrain, but catapults you from spot to spot. (The wind whistles
in your ears. It aerates the brain. You begin to feel like a
circus performer, describing impeccable parabolas in the air,
vacating every gesture before it can be fixed, wherever anyone
thinks you are is where you've just been, sloughing off afterimages.
You feel pared down, athletic, perfectly efficient.) The athletic
leap across divides has its own aesthetic, and so does the pattern
those leaps form in the air, or, to be more exact, in the mind.
People spend their lives forging such patterns for themselves,
but only the cranks and the encyclopedic generalists with vague
job descriptions, the Bill Moyerses, have the nerve to invite
others to try out their own hobby-horseride through the World
of Ideas. More often these are private pathways, possible to
make out sometimes in a novelist's ouevre (rare butterflies
turn up in Nabokov's fiction enough to make you guess that he
was a lepidopterist, if you didn't know already) as a system
of back alleys heading off from the work at hand, but not for
public transit. Until recently, that is, since the internet
seems to be making possible a gorgeous excess of personal syntactical
or neural maps, like travel brochures for the brain. What results
isn't necessarily worth the trip, but some of it will be: art
forms take shape around our ability to perceive beauty, but
our ability to perceive beauty also takes shape around what
forms become possible. Hypertext is making possible a new kind
of beauty, and creating the senses to perceive it with.
COLLAGE
We don't say what we mean to say. The sentence is not one, but a cluster of contrary tendencies. It is a thread of DNA--a staff of staphylococcus--a germ of contagion and possibility. It may be looped into a snare or a garotte. It is also, and as readily, a chastening rod, a crutch, an IDJbracelet. It is available for use. But nobody can domesticate the sentence completely. Some questionable material always clings to its members. Diligent readers can glean filth from a squeaky-clean one. Sentences always say more than they mean, so writers always write more than they know, even the laziest of them. Utility pretends to peg words firmly to things, but it is easy to work them loose. "Sometimes the words are unfaithful to the things," says Bachelard. Indeed they are, and as writers, we are the agents of misrule, infidelity, broken marriages. It was not difficult, for example, to pry quotes from their sources, and mate them with other quotes in the "quilt" section of Patchwork Girl, where they take on a meaning that is not native to the originals. We set up rendezvous between words never before seen in company, we provide deliciously private places for them to couple. Like the body, language is a desiring machine. The possibility of pollution is its only life. Having invented an infinitely recombinant language, we can't prevent it from forming improper alliances, any more than we can seal all our orifices without dying.
In collage,
writing is stripped of the pretense of originality, and appears
as a practise of mediation, of selection and contextualization,
a practise, almost, of reading. In which one can be surprised
by what one has to say, in the forced intercourse between texts
or the recombinant potential in one text, by the other words
that mutter anagrammatically inside the proper names. Writers
court the sideways glances of sentences mostly bent on other
things. They solicit bad behavior, collusion, conspiracies.
Hypertext just makes explicit what everyone does already. After
all, we are all collage artists. You might make up a new word
in your lifetime--I nominate "outdulge": to lavish
fond attention on the world, to generously broadcast care--but
your real work will be in the way you arrange all the stuff
you borrow, the buttons and coins, springs and screws of language,
the frames and machinery of culture. We might think of Lawrence
Sterne, who, when accused of plagiarism, answered the charge
with an argument that was itself a plagiarism.
WE LIKE
TO MAKE STATUES
We are not who we wish we were.
We like to make statues of ourselves. The Greeks marched ever more perfect bodies out of antiquity, slim vertical columns, like a line of capital I's, a stutter of self-assertion. But works of words are self-portraits too, substitute bodies we put together, then look to for encouragement. Boundaries of texts are like boundaries of bodies, and both stand in for the confusing and invisible boundary of the self. The wholeness of an artwork helps firm us up; in its presence we believe a little more in the unity we uneasily suspect we lack. As a result we have an almost visceral reaction to disorderly texts. Good writing is clear and orderly; bad writing inspires the same kind of distaste that bad grooming does, while experimental novels are not just hard to read, they're anti-social. Proper novels are duplicate bodies to the idealized ones we have in our heads, the infamous "thin person struggling to get out." They're good citizens, polite dinner guests.
Books, of course, like other bodies, fall apart. Literally, and also in the invisible body of the text, because language is libidinous, and the most strait-laced sentence hides a little hanky-panky under the dust ruffle. But monkey brain doesn't want to think about that, project can't hear, and so the novel, over the course of time, has become, despite the most flagrant tendecies toward polymorphous perversity and transgender play, a very stalwart announcement of nothing much. A sturdy who cares. One writes, one produces literature, and as Bataille says, "one day one dies an idiot." A project without any particular purpose that I can see, besides the announcement that project exists, that there is purpose and order, a sort of recitation of what we already know. The novel has become the golem, the monster that acts like everyone else, only better, because the narrative line is wrapped like a leash around its thick neck. I would like to introduce a different kind of novel, the patchwork girl, a creature who's entirely content to be the turn of a kaleidoscope, an exquisite corpse, a field on which copulas copulate, the chance encounter of an umbrella and a sewing machine on an operating table. The hypertext.
Hypertext
is the banished body. Its compositional principle is desire.
It gives a loudspeaker to the knee, a hearing trumpet to the
elbow. It has the stopped stories to tell, it mentions unmentionables,
speaks unspeakables; it unspeaks. I don't mean to say it has
different, better opinions than novels can muster up, that it's
plugged with better content. Hypertext won't make a bland sentence
wild or make a dead duck run quacking for the finish line. Fill
a disjunctive structure with pablum and you will only cement
the world's parts more solidly together, clog the works with
glue. It's not opinions I'm interested in, but relationships,
juxtapositions, apparitions and interpolations. Hypertext is
the body languorously extending itself to its own limits, hemmed
in only by its own lack of extent. And like the body, it no
longer has just one story to tell.
CONSTRAINTS
& THE BOOK
It's not all you think it is.
I have no
desire to demolish linear thought, but to make it one option
among many. Likewise, I'd like to point out that the book is
not the Natural Form it has become disguised as by its publicists.
It is an odd machine for installing text in the reader's mind
and it too was once an object of wonder. Turning the page, for
example, has become an invisible action, because it has no meaning
in most texts, the little pause it provides is as unreflective
as breathing, but if we expected something different, or sought
to interpret the gap, we might find ourselves as perplexed by
that miniature black-out as by any intrusive authorial device
we get exercised about in experimental literature or hypertext.
Similarly, the linear form of the novel is not a natural evolutionary
end, but a formal device, an oulipian constraint, albeit one
with lots of elbow-room. Like all constraints, it generates
its own kinds of beauty, from graceful accession to linearity
to the most prickly resistance. My favorite texts loiter, dawdle,
tease, pass notes, they resist the linear, they pervert it.
It's the strain between the literal and the implied form that's
so seductive, a swoon in strait laces that's possibly sexier
than a free-for-all sprawl. Constraints do engender beauty,
Oulipo and evolution prove that, but maybe we've shown well
enough how gracefully we can heel-toe in a straight line. We
can invent new constraints, multiple ones. I think we will:
just because I advocate dispersal doesn't mean I'm as impressed
by a pile of sawdust as I am by a tree, a ship, a book. But
let us have books that squirm and change under our gaze, or
tilt like a fun-house floor and spill us into other books, whose
tangents and asides follow strict rules of transformation, like
a crystal forming in a solution, or which consist entirely of
links, like spider-webs with no corpses hanging in them. Language
is the Great Unruly, and alphabetical order is a contradiction
in terms.
AGAINST
HISTORY
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