Smoke up my pointe shoes

Un sauter sur K-punk's latest post on destroying fascist chic with

Soviet Goth, I dug up my favourite Wouter Deruytter photograph above,

"Trasgenderism; Jem Jender, N.Y.C." and know instantly for sure that

tutus, stockings, feathers and lace cannot be more delightfully at

odds with, as K-punk fashionably puts it, "contemporary culture's

hiphop dominated sportswear brutilitarianism."

One wishes to irreversibly unlearn the word "comfort", when one's feet

is made to do pirouettes and infinite courus in a pair of pale pink,

satin sashaying pointe shoes whose inner linings are constructed out

of pure wood while looking seemingly effortless.

 

Believe it that pink-ness has never gotten so cruel. After all, we

know that the Swan Princess is always already the Ice Queen ("Kiss at

the hem of my skirt, read, my wired tutu).

 

But let me move away from "the-story-of-shao's-lack" (and desire,

which, as we always remember from Lacan, is always the lack; or from

Lacan, the eternally inhuman partner) because this is meant to

replicate (the Gothic has always been about replication and not

reproduction) here just how much I enjoy (yet another) of K-punk's on

Siouxsie and the Banshee's Hauteur-Couture of Goth. Female goth contra

male glam, now we are talking.

 

Whoever knows my rather submissive and anachronistic affairs with

whatever can be called under the mammoth chimera of popular culture,

knows that my belated entry cannot be dissassociated from anything

that is suspicious of asserting an illusory "authentic subjectivity."

The often misunderstood (read, read!) forays to link me with

postmodernism aside, I know too little to abide with the extreme of

"embracing objectality", though a baby step may be to further my

seriousness for frivolity and frivolity for seriousness:

 

Which is why looking at Siouxsie at times make me wanna shop, though

that is not permitted right now due to debit ceiling, but it does

taunt me to at least wear black heels dancing for the coming Subvert

session this Saturday. Which is why Mayee entered my

office-under-transgression yesterday only to see a desk spillover of

used tissue papers and the love story of J.D.'s postcards between

Socrates and Plato, Freud and beyond, and your most humble reader to

S.p. back.

The corridor gets longer, and the world may just need less sex, but

more sexiness.

Done