“Knowingness is the attitude that allows sexism to persist in progressive institutions that you would expect to know better, precisely because you would. When casual sexism pervades leftist theory, one assumes it is ironic; when progressive institutions ignore gender politics, one assumes this is because struggles for equality have already been won, or must be deferred so we can attend to more pressing political needs. Intellectuals tend to show class allegiance, bracketing or ignoring casual sexism in their own circles. They project misogynyoutward, onto Middle America megachurches and racialized others, or onto the powerful men that pander to those masses.”
the only living legacy of Karaite culture that I was able to perceive was Trakai’s openly obsessional relationship with a certain dumpling
which is perhaps related to the French croissant, insofar as the croissant represents the crescent moon of those they called the Saracens, which is to say, a comestible as synecdoche or effigy— depending— for a repressed, feared, or otherwise inassimilable alterity that a certain people tames— likewise domesticates; incorporates— by eating it for breakfast
or in the case of lithuania, by eating it at any hour, and washing it down with excellent beer
i only spent about three hours in russia. at the moscow airport, where i was too delirious to walk around going “edward snowden i presume”; though i think by the time i got there his whereabouts had become somewhat muddled. i saw pretty much nothing at the moscow airport. i ate a salad served with a straight mayonnaise garnish, ate it dutifully, far beyond “the pale” of any capacity to apprehend any thing as good or bad, thinking black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening, thinking whatever i was thinking still drunk, still writing in my head the poem i’d been too scared for days to write on paper. my great-uncle escaped the nazis by running away, at 16, to swerdlosk by way of lvov. black caviar, black oil, whale oil, black eyes, lady macbeth of mtensk, a hero of our time, i thought. black north. at the moscow airport all i could see that wasn’t the moscow airport was thick black spruces seeming endless and glowering at its perimeter, as though the runways had been shaved into some old giant’s beard, or carved into the haunch of a bear. yeah a bear i thought. i should probably boycott russia given everything, i thought. i was so tired. if i had a family anymore, where would we live, i thought, meaning where should we; if migration were still what it used to be, if there were an idea of a homeland even inside me and i don’t think there is, if there were a we then upon what shared memories, thru which senses harmonized to sense together, would we forge a future; a culture, even if only only for ourselves?