welcomeA blog by Vanessa Query aka Vee the Monsoon, with ruminations on topics ranging from my adventures as a dilettante/ gadabout/ starving artist to insipid missives about things and people I love to socio-political/ theoretical observations on art, entertainment, and culture. Plus some pretty pictures.
This blog is no longer. Check out my food blog, They Call Me Oystergirl, launched in September 2012.
taxonomy, sort of
we go way back
Category Archives: Best of the Missives
I tried to help pay. I always do. He almost never lets me. He let me once in the entire time I’ve known him, and that was one of the first times we’d seen each other since I graduated college. (In fact that one time he not only let me pay for myself but for his beer as well.) Continue reading
It’s like the Q-tip hitting just the right hard-to-reach itch. The thing that makes your senses come alive so fiercely you remember you were kind of numb before. Your mind gets caught up in things but your body, your body wants you to live in it, too. You can refuse it but it will remind you. The Q-tip will remind you. Or maybe the thought-equivalent of that Q-tip will remind you. Continue reading
Six years ago, when I was 20, I decided to opt-out of most holidays, particularly Christmas. I told everyone I was not exchanging gifts and followed through on that (i.e., not the version of not exchanging gifts which means just not exchanging expensive gifts). I spent as many Christmasses as I could get away with away from family, or anyone really, instead creating my own traditions. And forget Christmas trees. Continue reading
At long last, my paper from last year about raunch culture, drag, burlesque, parody, Butler, Foucault, Munoz, etc. My intention was to rewrite it integrating some new ideas, but it got back-burnered and never happened. 20 months later, I am making it public for the first time. Continue reading
I was fortunate enough to have been born after the rise of post-structuralism, which—though certainly not in the mainstream consciousness—gives at least the idea of an option alternative to an ideology which not only defines sex but gives it such prominence. Everything else is substitute. To the point where your “version of sex” is train-conducting, car-racing, model-building, and my “version of sex” is comedy and thought and rough-housing. Continue reading
A celebration of melancholia. It makes viable the associated passions and validates the emoting of the state not just as a purge but as connection, as creative expression, as celebration. As an exploration or some/one of the many unique things life brings us in moments. They are fleeting but through expression they are caught, captured, shared, “made visible.” And through this we can relive them, if we wish, or remember them, or feel less alienated because, alas, someone has managed to “make visible” that which we have struggled to explain our entire lives. The validation makes our experience somehow richer—perhaps because now we have the vocabulary for it.
Rousseau hates writing, civilization, and masturbation/fantasy, because they are the dangerous supplements to speech, nature and “real” sex. Derrida deconstructs this and shows how a supplement both adds on to and takes the place of the “original.” So, therefore, Rousseau pines for these “original” states (speech, nature, “real” sex), but because they are never complete, they are always marked by the absence he hates so much about the “inauthentic” sides of the binary (writing, civilization, and masturbation/fantasy), and therefore he will never attain them (“them” being what he thinks they are). Continue reading
I don’t like strangers. I just don’t. It’s not the individuals I don’t like, but rather strangers as a class. All these extraverts, or faux-extraverts, or whatever, I watch them together, socializing in large groups, and think about how ridiculous they look. Continue reading
“A bracing curative for the afflictions of our times”
Circus Contraption opened with a bang—a spectacle-bang. The translucent curtain covering the band was yanked away dramatically, dragged across the floor by unseen hands/tools, and a massive billowing of smoke was released. Simultaneously, the decorated band plunged into the first musical number, a beautifully dissonant arrangement. The ringmaster began his seduction… Continue reading