longing: a record

Barthes: The amorous subject wonders, not whether she should declare his love to the loved being (this is not a figure of avowal), but to what degree he should conceal the turbulences of his passion: his desires, his distresses; in short, his excesses (in Racinian language: his fureur).

X, who has left for his vacation without me, has shown no signs of life since his departure: accident? post-office strike? indifference? distancing maneuver? exercise of a passing impulse of autonomy? or simple innocence? I grow increasingly anxious, pass through each act of the waiting-scenario.

Nov. 24th 2017 –  To cover the 7,331 miles from Vancouver to Bangkok would take approximately 12 hours on an airplane, 6 more with a stopover. I look for things to do, just waiting to hear from you again.

Barthes: But when X reappears in one way or another, for he cannot fail to do so (a thought which should immediately dispel any anxiety), what will I say to him? Should I hide my distress–which will be over by then (“How are you”)? Release it aggressively (“That wasn’t nice at all, at least you could have…”) or passionately (“Do you know how much worry you caused me?”) Or let this distress of mine be delicately, discreetly understood, so that it will be discovered without having to strike down the other (“I was rather concerned…”).

Nov. 25th 2017 -When I get home from work is when you wake up. When I start cooking dinner is when you’re having lunch with a new group of strangers. When I go to bed is when you are off to explore old ruins. When I wake up is when you open a bottle of beer. When I open a bottle of beer is when you are asleep.

Nov. 26th 2017 –  I hook your house keys with mine.

Nov. 27th – “I just want you to be here with me. Like meeting all these people in hostels is fun and ppl are fun to hang around with, but once you start talking about meaningful things you realize how much of soul mates you and I are. I’ve been thinking a lot about how we are 1 in a million, D. Well I can’t tell you how to feel, but I can tell you how I feel. If there were anyone in the world I would want with me on the trip right now it would be you. I miss you tons.”

Nov. 28th 2017 – You call me beautiful as if it were my name.

Nov. 29th 2017 – Lately I feel as if life offered me penance for all of its transgressions , and as a result, you.

Nov. 30th 2017 – Spotify – “My Girl” by Otis Redding – Added 2 hours ago. What were you thinking when you thought of adding this song to your playlist for me. Where were you, what were you doing, what were you wearing, who were you with, what image of me was in your head, what was the weather like there in Chiang Mai because Vancouver has been brutal, have you eaten another fried scorpion yet-hey can you look through my statement of purpose for my Master’s application-what are the names of the women who have touched you so far-what games would you be into for the ps4-i think your bed sheets need to be laundered soon-i saw gregg turkington tweet about a new season of On Cinema-what do you think about Vancouver’s new housing strategy-have we settled on ‘babe’ as our definitive pet name-hey it has been exactly 17 hours since our last conversation so i am saying hi and i am expecting you to say hello back-beginning a new relationship this way sucks. Oh, wait. There you are.

Dec. 1st 2017 – Look, you have to realize what I know: I am not as beautiful, or as intelligent, or as funny, or as emotionally stable, or as kind, or as secure, or as organized, or as strong-willed as you think I am. The sooner you realize this, the sooner you can leave. But before you do that, let me do it first.

Dec. 2nd 2017 – I am beginning to need physical reminders of how we were, how we could be, how we will be: my fingers on your lips, your breath on my neck.

Neruda: so close that your hand on my chest is my hand

Dec. 3rd 2017 – Today I think in synecdoche. Remember that one day in snowed in November, in the evening I woke up and you were looking at me. In a half-stupor, I asked what was wrong, as is my impulse to look for hints of cracks, fragmentations, mistakes. Instead, you say, Dionne, I’m just so happy right now. Your thumb runs down my cheek. Lines form at the corners of your eyes.

Excerpts from “A Lover’s Discourse” by Roland Barthes


déclaration / declaration

The amorous subject’s propensity to talk copiously, with repressed feeling, to the loved being, about his love for that being, for himself, for them: the declaration does not bear upon the avowal of love, but upon the endlessly glossed form of the amorous relation.

1.      Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire. The emotion derives from a double contact: on the one hand, a whole activity of discourse discreetly, indirectly focuses upon a single signified, which is “I desire you,” and releases, nourishes, ramifies it to the point of explosion (language experiences orgasm upon touching itself); on the other hand, I enwrap the other in my words, I caress, brush against, talk up this contact, I extend myself to make the commentary to which I submit the relation endure.



adorable / adorable

Not managing to name the specialty of his desire for the loved being, the amorous subject falls back on this rather stupid word: adorable!


3.     I encounter millions of bodies in my life; of these millions, I may desire some hundreds; but of these hundreds, I love only one. The other with whom I am in love designates for me the specialty of my desire. This choice, so rigorous that it retains only the Unique, (Lacan) constitutes, it is said, the difference between the analytical transference and the amorous transference; one is universal, the other specific. It has taken many accidents, (Proust) many surprising coincidences (and perhaps many efforts), for me to find the Image which, out of a thousand, suits my desire. Herein a great enigma, to which I shall never possess the key: Why is it that I desire So-and-so? Why is it that I desire So-and-so lastingly, longingly? Is it the whole of So-and-so I desire (a silhouette, a shape, a mood)? And, in that case, what is it in this loved body which has the vocation of a fetish for me? What perhaps incredibly tenuous portion—what accident? The way a nail is cut, a tooth broken slightly aslant, a lock of hair, a way of spreading the fingers while talking, while smoking? About all these folds of the body, I want to say that they are adorableAdorable means: this is my desire, insofar as it is unique: “That’s it! That’s it exactly (which I love!” Yet the more I experience the specialty of my desire, the less I can give it a name; to the precision of the target corresponds a wavering of the name; what is characteristic of desire, proper to desire, can produce only an impropriety of the utterance. Of this failure of language, there remains only one trace: the word “adorable” (the right translation of “adorable” would be the Latin ipse: it is the self, himself, herself, in person.)

LACAN: “It is not everyday that you encounter what is so constituted as to give you precisely the image of your desire.”
PROUST: Scene of the specialty of desire: Jupien and Charlus meet in the courtyard of the Hôtel de Guermantes (at the beginning of Cities of the Plain.)

4.     Adorable is the futile vestige of a fatigue—the fatigue of language itself. From word to word, I struggle to put “into other words” the ipseity of my Image, to express improperly the propriety of my desire: a journey at whose end my final philosophy can only be to recognize—and to practice—tautology. The adorable is what is adorable. Or again: I adore you because you are adorable, I love you because I love you. What thereby closes off the lover’s language is the very thing which has instituted it: fascination. For to describe fascination can never, in the last analysis, exceed this utterance: “I am fascinated.” Having attained the end of language, where it can merely repeat its last word like a scratched record, I intoxicate myself upon its affirmation: is not tautology that preposterous state in which are to be found, all values being confounded, the glorious end of the logical operation (Nietzsche), the obscenity of stupidity, and the explosion of the Nietzschean yes?


The critic Fredric Jameson defines late capitalism or postmodernism as an era of “new depthlessness, which finds its prolongation both in contemporary theory and in a whole new culture of the image” (14). The image as a primary category in defining the logic of late capitalism functions as Debord’s foundation on the spectacle. This is the world of the “autonomous image” (2) where images mediate social relationships between people; and this mediation is called the spectacle (4). The spectacle permeates daily life insofar as it obscures the distinction between the real and the imaginary:

The spectacle cannot be set in abstract opposition to concrete social activity, for the dichotomy between reality and image will survive on either side of any such distinction. Thus the spectacle, though it turns reality on its head, is itself a product of real activity. Likewise, lived reality suffers the material assaults of the spectacle’s mechanisms of contemplation, incorporating the spectacular order and lending that order positive support. (8)

Debord details the fusion of reality into spectacle, and spectacle into reality where one cannot be separated from the other. Through its autonomy, the intangible image assumes the substance of tangible reality. Images transform into beings since “the spectacle’s job is to cause a world that is no longer directly perceptible to be seen via different specialized mediations” (18). Sensory experiences are skewed along with this inability to perceive. The sense experience of sight has been elevated to the sense experience of touch, the “most abstract of senses and the most easily deceived” (18). However, Debord argues that this skewing of senses does not entail the clear perceptibility of the spectacle; rather, considering its deceptive nature, the spectacle remains immune and inaccessible from any true perception. As “the opposite of dialogue,” the spectacle is by definition immune from human activity; wherever representation takes on an independent existence, the spectacle reestablishes its rule (18). In this amalgamation of real and imaginary, which rendered the spectacle hidden from plain sight, an illusion of a unified society appears.

The image of the blissful unification of society through consumption suspends disbelief with regard to the reality of division only until the next disillusionment occurs in the sphere of actual consumption. Each and every new product is supposed to offer a dramatic shortcut to the long awaited promised land of total consumption. (69)

The paradox that underlies this notion of the spectacle as a unifying entity comes from the fact that this function primarily came from the “perfect separation” of society; where, “the world at once present and absent which the spectacle makes visible is the world of the commodity dominating all that is lived” (37). Debord writes, “the phenomenon of separation is part and parcel of the unity of the world, of a global social praxis that has split up into reality on the one hand and image on the other” (7). Debord owes the origins of the spectacle in the world’s “loss of unity” during the massive expansion of production in the modern period (29). Because all individualized work has been abstracted and fragmented (i.e. alienation) in a global scale, the spectacle has successfully divided the world into two parts: first, the unseen world of exploitative production and all its oppressive conditions, and second, the “Self-representation to the world, and is superior to the world” (29). The second division championed by the spectacle, reigns; where the true relations of production are suppressed to favor an image of it. It allows for the “estrangement of men among themselves and vis-à-vis their global product” (37). This produces a one-way relationship between spectacle and spectator; maintaining a separation through an act of wholeness.
A similar idea is brought forth by Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer in the essay “Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception.” Adorno and Horkheimer argue for the homogeneity of all mass media–including film, radio, journalism, and photography–which mimic the occupants of cities as inhabitants of work and leisure as “living cells crystallized into homogenous, well-organized complexes.”

The conspicuous unity of macrocosm and microcosm confronts human beings with a model of their culture: the false identity of universal and particular. All mass culture under monopoly is identical […] (95)

The idea of an illusory unified whole in the spectacular world of images, also referred to as “the culture industry,” is a filter where all things and all experiences must pass through. Using the moviegoer (the spectator as it were) as the example, Adorno and Horkheimer write, “The familiar experience of the moviegoer, who perceives the street outside as a continuation of the film he has just left, because the film seeks strictly to reproduce the world of everyday perception, has become the guideline of production” (99). The world of the cinema and the world outside of it begin to have a seamless conjugation; just as what Debord says of the spectacle blurring the distinctions between the real and the imaginary. An extension of the homogeneity of real and imaginary is the ambiguity between art and commodity. The rise of mechanized production saw the sacrifice of quality for speed.

The cheapness of mass produced luxury articles, and its complement, universal fraud, are changing the commodity character of art itself. That character is not new: it is the fact that art now dutifully admits to being a commodity, abjures its autonomy and proudly takes its place among consumer goods, that has the charm of novelty. (127)

The amalgamation of art with commodification, that is, the interspersing of art with fetishism and equating it with mere exchange value and use value, results in an “amusement industry” where the spectator and consumer of the artwork becomes the ideology whose institutions he or she cannot escape (128). The arguments for “art for art’s sake,” purposiveness without purposes, are almost oxymoronic insofar as the very purpose of art is to find its place in, and be dictated by, the market. The art-as-commodity then “defrauds human beings in advancing the liberation from the principle of utility which it is supposed to bring about;” that art, as soon as it started going through the process of commodification, has started to be deceived into the passivity customary in the process of consumption. Following the logic of Adorno and Horkheimer, art has become assimilated into the homogeneity of the mass media and all its superficial iterations.

Today works of art, suitably packaged like political slogans, are pressed on a reluctant public at reduced prices by the culture industry; they are opened up for popular enjoyment like parks. However, the erosion of their genuine commodity character does not mean that they would be abolished in the life of a free society but that the last barrier to their debasement as cultural assets has now been removed. The abolition of educational privilege by disposing of culture at bargain prices does not admit the masses to the preserves from which they were formerly excluded but, under the existing social conditions, contributes to the decay of education and the progress of barbaric incoherence. (130)

The deception inherent in the culture industry and its method of mass production, which entails easier accessibility in obtaining goods (luxury or otherwise),lies in the notion of accessibility to goods as analogous to accessibility to bourgeois privilege and culture. The culture of late capitalism encourages dilettantism, where “surface knowledge,” reflecting the equally superficial treatment of goods and commodities (i.e. perfectly identical produtcts via machinery as opposed to the artisanal craftsmanship whose handiwork supply ‘originality’ to each product). However, the fraud lies in the relinquishing of expertise (or rather, an appearance of relinquishment) as means of elevating the dilettantes to the level of the real learned, the real keepers of knowledge–the bourgeoisie. Mass media, while giving the appearance of a unified society who are able to partake in the same products, who are able to share in the same information (for “nothing is expensive anymore” (130) ), furthers class stratification not merely through the material, but through the cultural. All consumers, as vessels of ideology, are able to access the material; but what becomes more significant is the process of reification–the transformation of social relations into fetishes and signifiers. The cementing of bourgeois superiority becomes two-fold: first, through profit (material) and the second and more insidious, through taste (the cultural), which they themselves dictate and provide for the masses to consume. As the culture industry becomes a vehicle for profit, all of its modes become advertisements.

Culture is a paradoxical commodity. It is so completely subject to the law of exchange that it is no longer exchange; it is so blindly equated with use that it can no longer be used. For this reason it merges with the advertisement. Its motives are economic enough. That life could continue without the whole culture industry is too certain; the satiation and apathy it generates among consumers are too great. Advertising is its elixir of life. But because its product ceaselessly reduces the pleasure it promises as a commodity to that mere promise; it finally coincides with the advertisement it needs on account of its own inability to please. (131)

Almost aware of its own deceptive nature, the advertisement is an enticement and a convincing of the ‘goodness’ in each commodity. As Adorno and Horkheimer note earlier, “The culture industry perpetually cheats its consumers of what it perpetually promises. The promissory note which, with its plots and staging, it draws on pleasure is endlessly prolonged; the promise, which is actually all the spectacle consists of, is illusory” (104). Mass media as remaining in a perpetual state of advertisement is at once deceptive and ubiquitous in all its forms; and what furthers its affectivity is its empty benevolence masking as authentic promise. The homogeneity in the culture industry which allows for the idea on the harmony between producer and consumer–that the elite and the masses read, write, watch, see, hear, consume the same things to form an undivided society with equal participation–contradict the very mechanisms that define class struggle, creating instead its own naturalized version of society, not as the culture industry, but the world as it is.

The culture industry champions the perceived “naturalness” between cultural product and everyday existence (101), a notion that becomes more effective in its insidiousness. Its creation of a lexicon, the transmission of ideas through a unique vocabulary and syntax, allows for the industry to control the entirety of media from what is explicit and implicit, to what is forbidden and tolerated (101). “Tempo and dynamism” represent the movement of the culture industry; where “nothing is allowed to stay as it was, everything must be endlessly in motion” (106). The motion of the culture industry is repetition; here, the culture industry’s totality has merged into the irreconcilable elements of culture, art, and amusement as having an “intrinsic” purpose where none really exists (as the essay notes, “the truth is that [the culture industry] is nothing but business used as ideology to legitimize the trash they intentionally produce (95). The commodification of culture, art, amusement–this commodification-of-everything¬–allows for the repression of the masses. “The culture industry does not sublimate: it represses” (111). This repression allows for the passivity of the consumer-spectator:

The spectator must need no thoughts of his own: the product–prescribes each reaction, not through any actual coherence–which collapses once exposed to thought–but through signals. Any logical connection presupposing mental capacity is scrupulously avoided. Developments are to emerge from the directly preceding situation, not from the idea of the whole. (109)

Echoing Debord’s idea on the one-way relationship from spectacle to spectator, Adorno and Horkheimer argue for the idea of the spectators’ pacification through presenting the totality of life in a manner that does not allow for any real response. “To offer them something and to withhold it is one and the same” (113). The culture industry is the end-all of wishes and desires; it creates reality in such a way that “all needs should be presented to individuals as capable of fulfillment by the culture industry, they should be set up in advance that individuals experience themselves through their needs only as eternal consumers, as the culture industry’s object” (113). Take, for example, the idea of “chance,” that is, the fortune or misfortune of the individual (117). Adorno and Horkheimer assert the correspondence between “chance” and “planning” in the context of late capitalism, especially in instances where one particular individual is given the illusion of a transformed life by “chance.” They write:

Chance itself is planned; not in the sense that it will affect this or that particular individual but in that people believe in its control. For the planners it serves as an alibi, giving the impression that the web of transactions and measures into which life has been transformed still leaves room for spontaneous, immediate relationships between human beings. Such freedom is symbolized in the various media of the culture industry by the arbitrary selection of average cases. (117)

Paradigmatic of this is the selection of the “lucky competition winner” held by newspaper or magazines; and coincidentally the winner always happens to be an average, “everyman” with a nine-to-five day job; the vessel through which the “powerlessness of everyone” is reflected (117). Another vessel for this powerlessness is the figure of the film star (112). The film star epitomizes the false unification of the universal and the particular; as a ubiquitous figure, the film star “with whom one is supposed to fall in love, is, from the start, a copy of himself” (112). Debord makes an equivalent distinction with the figure of the celebrity, the spectacular concentration of a living human being (60). The celebrity is the agent of the spectacle, put on stage as a star, and is the opposite of the individual, embodying the normalization of “power and vacations, decision and consumption” (60) representing the varied types of “global” life styles endemic to the spectacle. The film star, or celebrity, as image and embodiment of the banalization logic of late capitalism furthers the commodification of not merely objects, but subjects (i.e. not merely things, but people) as well.


In asserting the role of the written word, Debord traces its history to the emergence of political power as coinciding with the first signs of dissolution of the bonds of kinship (131). Writing then became a “purposeful succession of events, a mechanism of the transmission of power.”

The ruler’s chief weapon was the written word, which now attained its full autonomous reality as mediation between consciousness. This independence, however, was indistinguishable from the general independence of a separate power as the mediation whereby society was constituted. With writing came a consciousness no longer conveyed and transmitted solely within the immediate relationships of the living–an impersonal memory that was the administration of society. (131)

Writing is a form of political mediation, concurrent with the idea of spectacle. What comes to mind then are the contemporary forms of writing which specifically aim to transmit the political sphere to the public sphere. Jurgen Habermas defines the public sphere as the space where events and occasions are open to all (1). He details the many iterations of “public” where it turns into “publicity,” “publish,” “publicize,” “public opinion,” and “informed public” (2). The creation of mass media, however, changes the meaning of the public entirely. Of this transformation, he says, “[while the realm of mass media] originally [had] a function of public opinion, it has become an attribute of whatever attracts public opinion: public relations and efforts recently baptized “publicity work” are aimed at producing such publicity” (2). The transformation of society under mass media has also transformed the category of publicity. Furthered under the era of mass media is the rise of new commercial relationships: the “traffic in commodities and news” (15) in the beginnings of capitalism. The development of this traffic in news and the traffic in commodities showed a similar pattern: the great trade cities of commodities became at the same time centers for traffic in news (16) up to the degree that the exchange of commodities and of news became continuous. However, the news at this time were limited to “insiders”–merchants, urban and court chanceries–who preferred that the news served only the needs and interests of the administration. The beginnings of “news” then were circulated only to those who were allowed the published information. The process of commodification then transformed the “public” idea of newspapers into one that served the interests of private interests instead (16). Once a tool for socio-political debate, newspapers, like commodities, began fragmenting the public sphere into the relationality of an authority to his subjects.

The relation between authorities and subjects took on a peculiar character as a result of mercantilist policies, policies formally oriented to the maintenance of an active balance trade. (18)

As opposed to mere transmission of political events, news became an ideological tool, promoting the “maintenance of an active balance trade,” of an idyllic society that promotes fair correspondence between merchant and buyer; producer and consumer. However, the development of the printing press in the later stages of early capitalism reproduces more accurately the model of the press we have today. The first journals in the strict sense, ironically called “political journals,” appeared weekly at first, and daily as early as the middle of the seventeenth century. In those days private correspondence contained detailed and current news about Imperial Diets, wars, harvests, taxes, transports of precious metals, and of course, reports on foreign trade. Only a trickle of this stream of reports passed through into printed journals. The recipients of the private correspondence had no interest in their contents becoming public. […] It was essentially news from abroad, of the court, and of the less important commercial events that passed through the sieve of merchants’ unofficial information. (20-21)

Habermas notes that the privileged class who had direct correspondence with “real news” had no desire to disclose their information to the lower class merchants; however, the two had mutual use for each other where the merchants’ assumed a “dependence of public reporting upon the [elite’s] private exchange of news (21). Perpetuated in this public reporting, in addition to “less important commercial events” were the following:

Traditional “news” items from the repertoire of the broadsheets were also perpetuated–the miracle cures and thunderstorms, the murders, pestilences, and burnings. Thus, the information that became public was constituted of residual elements of what was actually available; nevertheless, it requires explanation why at this particular time they were distributed and made generally accessible, made public at all. (21)



Submission is in the shape of her body’s contortions–curved to her love, she moves with his reckoning, the lower lip cherry red, eyes half mast, shoulders imp, hair parted to lay at the back, giving full view of the body to the other’s eyes.


What is a lover’s body? Within the confines of the sheets that crease when she rolls onto her side, moisture from macadamia oil evaporating from the skin, faint traces of sex in the circulating with each exhale. The lover’s body is in motion, static only in her gaze. In their quarters: a bottle of grape wine, scarlet silk sheets, incense burning. He buries his head in the adipose areas of her body–breasts, buttocks, belly. The belly grows patches of baby hair.


Natural selection recognizes threats to the body’s most vulnerable parts–the head, the eyes, the underarm, the sex–for that, it compensates with hair growth. Anatomical hair is virility, hence Andromeda has none. A woman cannot be both desirable and invulnerable. We weave clothes for protection, the body grows hair for the same purpose; Andromeda is stripped away of both.


The details bear no traces of the follicles, even to the precision of Rembrandt’s brushwork; light catches the curves of her body, shadows recede to where light does not hit–the artistry consummate save for when he misses anatomical aphorisms: where is her hair, and if it has been removed, where are its roots.


What is a body? To be naked is to be oneself, to be nude is to be seen naked by others. A body is an object. Tintoretto paints Susanna stripped, crouching to conceal her breasts from The Elders watching her. Venus is born a ripened woman, and Botticelli created her, from her Birth, the object of male desire. A body is languid, static on when the gaze is fixed. The painter directs it to where he wishes: soften your spine and lay lifeless as you look to me; understand that you give up your flesh when you allow me to turn it into brush strokes.

Today I invoked the name of God. Today I asked about the possibility of mercy. Today I asked if celestial ears ever heard pleading. My plea, the infinitesimal rising and falling of the chest whose tempo wavers between staccato and stillness. Today I try to maintain stillness. Today I can’t maintain stillness. Today it will take all of me to steady my legs, to put one foot in front of the other, to walk in a straight line, to keep my knees from buckling, as if in a pew.

All the hands you’ve held, the mouths you’ve kissed, the faces you’ve caressed, and the bodies that you’ve allowed to hold you–

Some mornings I wake up at J’s place in need of a hair tie and I know I’ll find one scattered around his bedroom. To this, a sense of unease overcomes me. I think about how many other women in his life who’ve thought the same, done the same. Women who must have left purses, socks, compact powders, receipts, lipsticks, and found them where they needed them just as easily as I do now. Women who’ve spent evenings and mornings with the ease of being able lose things (after all, isn’t it only in relaxed states that we are able to let loose, and let go). When we are asleep, J’s body is entwined with mine, and many times in the middle of the night, in a daze of half-slumber, he would stroke my cheek, kiss me on the lips, and tighten his hold on me. Intimacy is such a double edged sword.


Our familiarity with each other has given me an immense amount of happiness, a familiarity which has resulted in a willingness to share each other’s private spaces. But this happiness is doubly negated. First, it makes me feel insecure to imagine just how many women must have felt the same as I do now—just how many of them knew which particular corner of the room the hair ties would be in. Second, I am threatened by the next woman who will feel the same as me, or perhaps, even more. As Barthes wrote, Love makes me think too much.

This pain is self-inflicted. Through the framework of the critic and political theorist Fredric Jameson, whose primary method of analysis was to “Always historicise!”, tracing history is how I understand, and eventually, how I accept. In this relationship, I understand that J has seen many women, desired some of them, and even loved a few before he ever knew me. But in the same cruel logic of capitalism, I think: is his love a finite resource, a quarry of precious materials that have since been exhausted, and all that remains for me is the residual silt? Again, Love makes me think too much.


I look at J and remember this quote from The Unbearable Lightness of Being: “He kissed them all alike, stroked them alike, made no, absolutely no distinction between her body and the other bodies.” I am paralyzed by my own frailties, my shortcomings. And then I think about how many bodies J has loved before—how many of those bodies took desirable shapes and forms– and I find myself even further into paralysis. My body takes an undesirable form, and no amount of deprivation, overexertion, or expulsion would lead me to think otherwise.  Sometimes I wish love were enough to mold my body into desirability. Perhaps I can recite a litany of platitudes– I am loved. I am beautiful. My body is good. My body is good and beautiful. I am loved because my body is good and beautiful. I am beautiful because my body is loved. Maybe if I say these words often enough, and exhaust the variations of which I can repeat it, I’ll start to believe it.