tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193211722011-07-02T15:01:35.804-07:00An attempt at finding myself in the dark.George Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448827230154574144noreply@blogger.comBlogger61100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19321172.post-1134556798912891002005-12-14T02:35:00.000-08:002005-12-14T02:39:58.926-08:00

I don’t know how to sing for youthe way other men haveDo you know what it means, to miss New Orleans to miss it each night and dayand before you disappearedI didn’t know I had a right to.I was then(September, 2005)the prodigal child.Returning home,findingmy mother had died behind my back -and knowingshe did not need my helpto dieor to liveWhen the waters rolled back and uncovered the core of the

George Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448827230154574144noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19321172.post-1133131832464230132005-11-27T14:43:00.000-08:002005-11-27T14:52:20.233-08:00

[again, taken from a piece I worked on for a course. This is in part a critical piece about the question from a few posts ago - how does identifying with a work of art change the work and its meaning? and it relates closely to my quandries about weight and the body and what it can mean.]you are arms and arms and movinga leg that is lifteda tilt of the headEdgar Degas painted dancers. He brought

George Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448827230154574144noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19321172.post-1133044812566484712005-11-26T14:26:00.000-08:002005-11-26T14:40:12.696-08:00

What good does a body do when it feels nothing but heavy - when it weighs on you so much that you wish it would simply fall away and let you run and run and run and run and run.Some days I feel trapped by my own skin and all the things it can't do - trapped by horrible allergies and a tightness in my chest. Trapped by a bad ankle that swells and keeps me from dancing or running or jumping rope.I

George Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448827230154574144noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19321172.post-1132994348158709692005-11-26T00:35:00.000-08:002005-11-26T00:39:08.233-08:00

What does it mean to "see yourself" in a work of art? To look into a painting, or listen to the lyrics of a song, and feel that you have seen or listened to something of yourself?Are you seeing something that you are? Or are you seeing something that you wish you were?And if you see yourself, or read yourself into something, are you changing the course of the work forever? Making it something

George Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448827230154574144noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19321172.post-1132988249163221972005-11-25T22:52:00.000-08:002005-11-26T00:48:13.493-08:00

[ author's note: this piece was written in response to Roland Barthes' book A Lover's Discourse, among other things... I choose to post it first because the ideas gathering momentum at the end serve as a jumping-off point for some of the ideas I want to consider in later posts, later stories...]“As for woman, she touches herself in and of herself without any need for mediation...”- KristevaI read

George Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448827230154574144noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19321172.post-1132985534239395562005-11-25T22:06:00.000-08:002005-11-25T23:09:20.220-08:00

This is a blog about identities, but against identity politics.It's a story, sometimes true and sometimes not.It's something of a "rogue's gallery," a layout of various identities through different moments.The blog was inspired by some writing I did in a grad course - but I was tempted not even to say that much, because so much of the way I define myself lately has to do with graduate work or

George Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448827230154574144noreply@blogger.com3