Some people’s Tumblrs feel like garbage cans. Is that supposed to be the point? Does anyone talk about all the hoarding that goes on online? Posting everything, posting all the time, is another kind of binge eating, hoarding, gluttony, trigger happiness, clutter consumption. If you post all day long, even if the posts are interesting, I will unfollow you. I don’t want to take it all in just because you do. I don’t want to be your garbage can or your filter. I know it’s not personal. That is the point and the problem. Besides, when it’s that much, when it’s constant, when it’s so indiscriminating, when it piles up in a newsfeed, when it streams with no break, no one is taking anything in. It’s drive by. It’s content tourism.
“More watching than touching and as much mourning as loving, Love Dog is about love but because of that it is about everything…The changes brought about by internet and digital technologies are not often directly discussed in Love Dog but their role in its making is foregrounded by Tupitsyn’s sophisticated use of the digital form. It is there, implicit. Time and memory, the power of media nostalgia, the way in which time affects media, what is remembered and what is lost, these concerns hover in every post. Tupitsyn does not attempt to mimic academic writing here and perhaps due to the live, diaristic qualities of the text, ideas and conclusions are not arrived at linearly as they might be in a text planned to progress rhetorically from beginning to middle to end, but emerge associatively through repetition and bricolage. In the face of (interfaced with?) the multi-media imageries of her everyday existence, past and present Tupitsyn uses feminism and queer theory’s radical love like teenagers use selfies and memes, collages of quotes and references and musings to enable the continued imagining of themselves, others and their relations, she makes sense of her self, of ‘X’ and of their relations and she opens them out from the personal to the political.”—
There is always the sense that men can transgress (onscreen and on the page and in life) with their passion and desire and women cannot. That she is easily insane or pathetic for transgressing and he is easily romantic and brave.
My new book, Like Someone In Love: An Addendum to Love Dog, published by Penny-Ante Editions, is available to download HERE
Essay (PDF), 65pp, 6x7 inches
“…To bear the deception of this dream.” — JACQUES RANCIÈRE
In Girls, Visions, and Everything, the novelist Sarah Schulman writes, “Remember, when your heart is breaking, write it down. When a relationship is over, what do you have? You have nothing. But if you write it down, you have material. That’s the best a girl can hope for in these troubled times.”
A modern-day fin’amor, Like Someone in Love is Masha Tupitsyn’s addendum to her multi-media love manifesto, Love Dog (Penny-Ante Editions, 2013). Written during the summer of 2013, and set in the French countryside, the origin of courtly love, Tupitsyn’s visual hybrid essay borrows from the Medieval troubadours to create a modern-day digital-compendium of text, image, and sound that explores feminine identity, erotics, chivalry, emotional excess, and crisis masculinity.
“You don’t know
until you’re all alone"
-Frank Ocean,” Crack Rock
How to live with what doesn’t last. When it doesn’t last and you wanted it to last. You needed it to last because so much hasn’t lasted. How to not feel the not-lasting makes it nothing. Makes you nothing. One way, of course, is to write about it. Today I came across a Gillian Rose passage that I quote in Love Dog. It is from Rose’s book, Love’s Work. The book she wrote while she was dying, before she died. So that she wouldn’t die.
“Night time is psyche time…To spend the whole night with someone is agape: it is ethical…It may not be marriage, but it will be sacramental even without the benefit of sacraments.”
I want to be ethical. I want someone to be ethical to me. At the farm of old family friends two weekends ago, my mom and I sit on V’s porch and talk. V asks me about my love life. She doesn’t know much about it (she’s met a few boyfriends over the years), but has known me since I was 13. I hate these impossible-to-answer catch-up questions. So I utter a few laconic words evasively. My mom laughs that I always leave the room when people start asking me about my work, what I do, who I’m with. My default move is to make jokes. Humor is a precious thing when you’re a woman. Another way to be intelligent, armored. But with what little information I give her, V has the perfect response.
"You’ve changed men’s lives. Now you need someone to change yours."
Now I need someone to change mine. Yes. I can’t be what happens to someone anymore. I need them to want to happen to me.
Sometimes I am surprised by what people can know about people without being told.
Some days, everything brings you up. And you are literally everywhere, in every song, thought, deed. Tears abound. Sometimes you are a sudden ache because of it. I’m thinking I’m fine and then I am crying again. I remember something you did, said, and my body responds in kind to that hole you filled and then made bigger. You are like Cancer in Saturn, the softest thing (water, emotion ) wrapped in a ring of hard ice. Ancient, let’s call it the worst of what it means to be a “Man.” “Harshly placed,” an astrologer once told me about my Cancer in Saturn. Saturn has no mercy and the Cancer sign needs mercy. In my case, Cancer in Saturn has meant tough love, literally. No soft place to land. About you, when I remember some of your profound sensuality, which makes me wince like I am being struck, that stings and that is also deceptive, I think: You have no business acting the way you do given what you have inside. You are paying for that misuse. You will.
I love short things. Sometimes all you need is just over a minute. I always think of this kind of sound as 80s thinking music. Some character in a movie trying to figure things out as time passes. At the end of the song they will know what to do.
Since you always hide; since you only want to be with the people you choose; since you always want to be for your writing and in your writing — only; since you think this enough; since you do not want to perform or supplement the writing…
While my mother was recently in town for 12 days, working for MoMa, my mother and father, madly in love for 40 years and basically inseparable, emailed and Skyped constantly. In one email, my father, a great poet among other things, writes a poem for my mother. Their love always has that feeling of newness, like it’s still the beginning. I think they are just Twin Flames, plain and simple.
The subject line of his email is:
"to my favorite."
He is referring to my mother.
On another unrelated matter, my father signs his email:
I love you and will talk to you later.
The next day, my mother ends a message about work-related matters with (Ptichka means little bird in Russian and was consequently my first word as a child).
I will talk to her tomorrow. And will Skype you in the morning.
LOVE YOU ENDLESSLY!!! M
“Neon is no longer anxious: it’s shameless, it’s fearless, YOLO. It’s the death of alternative culture, in which youth adopts a pose of alienation from the market: these kids are happy conformists. They’re criminals, and they know it, and they sort of get away with it.”
“I’m an immensely spoiled person. When my book ATTA came out, I was disappointed that it hadn’t set the world on fire and caused the collapse of human civilization…In a brattish fit of pique, I decided that people were idiots without interest in anything except the filth of celebrity culture. So why not just give people what they want? Thus the title: ‘You don’t want to read. I don’t want to write. Here’s how we can still have books. Are you happy now? Or is this not enough?’”
“Women are supposed to be the ones on the balcony, not the ones down below professing their love. We don’t think the female romantic is romantic. We think she is a predator. We think she is desperate, unstable—Fatal Attraction, the cougar, the spinster, the troublemaker. But deep emotion in this age is a radical act.”—
I’ve been reflecting a lot on my own active principle, the ultra-romantic in me. When I was young, I wanted to be mysterious (I even wrote this as something of a goal when I was 11) - but I failed miserably at it. I was always pursuing. Trust me, this did not usually go so well. I was “too forward,” “too emotional,” “too much,” “too available.” It was probably terrifying to have a young girl be so in touch and also so openly desirous. The passivity required to wait for the pursuit to “be happening” to me is yawn-inducing, and I find myself checking the metaphoric time. Passivity is not my strong suit. It does not speak entirely to our make-up, as women, that because we are the receivers, ironic welcomers, we do not have the mechanics of active pursuit.
"Love needs witnesses (Old English witnes, “attestation of fact, event, etc., from personal knowledge”), as that is precisely one of the things that love is: seeing and being seen.” - Masha Tupitsyn, “Witness to Love” (2013)