Trisha Low

Trisha Low está comprometida a utilizar un collar de adiestramiento canino porque tiene demasiados sentimientos. Los controles remotos están disponibles en Gauss PDF, Against Expression: Una Antología de Escritura Conceptual, TROLL THREAD y otros. Su primer libro, The Compleat Purge, será publicado durante el 2013 por Kenning Editions. Trisha vive en Nueva York.

Trisha Low is committed to wearing a shock collar because she has so many feelings. Remote controls are available at Gauss PDF, Against Expression: An Anthology of Conceptual Writing, TROLL THREAD and others. Her first book, The Compleat Purge is forthcoming from Kenning Editions (2013). She lives in New York City.

After Tiqqun’s Theory of a Young Girl, I think Poetry thinks of teenage girls the way some magazine editor looks at a contact sheet, selecting the spectacle and then pulling it up on the screen for the airbrusher going “INFLATE HER HAIR SO WE CAN SEE THAT FRAGILE VACUITY. I WANT TO SEE THOSE CAPITALISTIC PROCESSES NOT THAT CELLULITE. HAVE THIS SHIT ON MY DESK BY 2.” It’s apt that when I sit down to write this statement of poetics, it’s 5.51 pm, I’m listening to slowcore and unwrapping a new tattoo, one that I acquired because of a certain amount of emotional distress, leaking blood and ink while I’m looking at the ‘real’ image reflected in my computer screen of me writing about ‘real emotional’ teenage girls, because what I’m really interested in is the cultural demarcation of the confessional genre. The tension between our structures of feeling (ie. the artificial way in which these feelings will be aestheticised or they will be bullshit) and the socially unfit waste of the feminine, the excess that is created in tandem with these scripted confessions. I have no patience with looking for a sufficiently ethical poetic representation but I’m interested in how your ‘ethical’ poetic representation is just a fantasy of reparation. As Mary Jacobus writes on Klein: “to make reparation would be such an all-consuming task that an unending, fake analysis is preferable to ‘cure’.” How is Poetry complicit in the urge to falsely ‘heal’ societal wounds into the silent fixity of It Gets Better? What better place to look than the teen girl, whose cut wrist is an abject fuck-you; whose cute Band-Aid and its artificial ‘healing’ is really just your sentimental fantasy? Real women have angles. Hundreds and hundreds of stacked up angles. Current mood: manic infinity of recuperables. An accumulation of palatable narrative object that could maybe become your worst nightmare. This is also how I do kissing nbd.

http://electiveaffinitiesusa.blogspot.com/2012/01/trisha-low.html

http://trollthread.tumblr.com/post/30701693829/trisha-low-purge-vol-1-the-last-will

From PURGE: Volume III
DO YOU FEEL BETTER YET?

OUR LONG COMPLETE STORY

And so, here is a long compete novel, the kind of up-to-date novel many readers enjoy especially if they are not pretty, and are reconciled to their sad fates. This is a story thrilling with sensation. Its suspense is entirely fascinating and is merciless in its cruel triumph – it will lead you, its One Darling, by the hand. Inside of the dearest lady inhabiting this fiction we understand that to-day is for new love, new life, new hopes and new understandings, all of which are whispered low in our ears, slow in passing. A universal favourite, it is rich in cream. A real life holiday romance, from almost the opening lines she is held in its grip and – well, you may read this very surprising and very appealing little rumour for yourself to heal any form of heart-break. The material dramatised in this story may meet with some disbelief. Such a lot of interesting letters have come in on this subject and some don’t believe in luck at all, and yet have said very plainly that we have transformed treacherous feelings of woe into glad confessions of gleeful hearts going round and round, circling each other like a noisy bumping wheel. These stories are undoubtedly factual in origin. These things happen. We already know this. By the power of this novel one could be lying hurt and helpless with voices shrieking in one’s head until the first words of this magnificent story calm you by being so beautiful and genuine and sweet as though twinkles repeated by little gnome echoes that seem to be lurking within the bright pretty walls of a seaside house. One should not be a little lady all-all-alone, rather one’s resting state should be to be deep, deep in love as though one had never been in love before, and ‘Come at once’, is what the story says, no Nurse’s interference is required. Listen! Remember that we all started with nothing, and know that everything we see, we created ourselves. We can all lose our feelings of self-worth, especially when something goes wrong in our world. The truth is that if you have done it before, you can do it again – no matter what. This novel is so flexible it may be cut to size and easily applied to painful lives for comfort and protection. Our author, that sweet little raven, has drawn some of the material from personal experience during the course of her own practice. Some arise out of anecdotes kindly supplied by colleagues. Some are taken from instances recorded in newspapers and magazines. In any case she has disguised and camouflaged all actual identities and localities. Although, of course, we are interested in who did what to whom and where and how, we are also mostly interested in romantic patterns of action and behaviour, which are, by their very natures desirable and lovable whirlwinds. When it has once been begun, few people will set it down until the last line has been read. And so instead of the constant cries of ‘Poor old Eve, poor old Eve! How like her to fly to others to beg, borrow or steal the glory of a happy star!’ – old prophecies begin to be fulfilled – of a lover bending over one’s stepped-upon emotions, of chances charming and complete, even despite the occurrence of an unfortunate pair of green shoes. On this table in front of you is this one Good Book, to go to in your distress and search for guidance. O, this story has magical healing powers made all the more true with the gleam of fanaticism. O, gay deceiver it will halt you from worrying yourself into salt-cellars and cease blue circles forming under those baby blue eyes.

~*~

ONE MOONLIT NIGHT

TRISHA LOW lay in her white bed and rested her pretty pale cheek on her left hand, because there was a diamond ring shining on its third finger and she was so very very very happy in her new love dream. She had become a soul searcher in her own body and in her head. It was not easy, but Reader, we must believe her.

“Of course, the fallacy of any inhibiting form can be easily discovered by any female who is wiling to objectively experiment with conduct.” she smiled serenely at herself. “In the promised view of my emotional autopilot’s reality, it is the man who carefully plans his campaign to snare to woman of his choice and when that woman finally responds to his maneuvers, his ego will not let him readily discard that for which he has so strenuously laboured.” But after all, she thought, “A woman who thinks she will easily lose a man whom she has inspired to pursue her will actually know that she has to work at rejecting him, more often than not. As the prized object, it is better to treat him and his formal maneuvers as though one would a worm, although of course this method is flexible in its application.”

“But does he love me? Do I ask? It’s lovely to know these things, or maybe lovelier not knowing. Oh, I must love not knowing, mysteries, dark corners, hidden in houses! It will be okay in the end. He loves me.” Her innocent heart thrilled once more with thankfulness for that the crowning mercy of a good man’s love, which is indeed the greatest blessing Heaven has in its power to bestow. She felt better.

But suddenly out of the night there came a hearse cry, a dreadful cry, the cry of a man’s voice raised in anguish, and to her strained ears, that cry had formed the name of her lover.

“By his automobile you shall know him.” that dreadful voice had said. “”Charles,” relative to a diversity of nicknames such as “Charlie”, “Chuck”, “Chick”, “Chazz” or a foreign variant that has been bestowed by parents.”

And then again.

“Twelve o’clock!” It screeched. “Car guaranteed to stand out, whether through size or luxury, so long as there is a look of importance. “Karl”, “Carl”, “Carlos”, “Karel” will be wealthy, serious and elaborate”.

TRISHA LOW sprang up, trembling through every limb, and slipped into a warm dressing-gown. By all rights she would have remained in her own room, it was not like her to go wandering through the house in dead of night, such a young girl, so unknowing but it was as if some terror beyond all words held her in its grip, and she acted against her will. And against her will, she, the gilded youth suddenly felt a slight pricking in her thumbs.

She pressed her palm against her abdomen as to staunch the spread of feeling. Surely there was no overt crook in this deal she had brokered with her fiancé CHIP. E. MACGUFFIN. With him, the yield was sure to be good and he had the money and an inexact sense of values. So she, in her youth, had agreed. And youth is mystified; feels it is somehow consigned to someone short of weight. Youth feels she has somehow strayed into a black list or perplexity and suspicion. But who was she to argue, she thought, all she wanted to do was to kiss CHIP E. MACGUFFIN’s eyelids, all she wanted was for his regal scorn to beat down on her like a vertical sun. Placing a hand on her breast, she felt better. Indeed, she did. Youth leaves it at that.

Barefooted as TRISHA LOW was, with her long hair loose about her shoulders, she opened the door of her room and slipped along the corridor, then down the great staircase to the hall.

The front door was shut and barred; she knew that if she tried to open it that she would probably rouse the house, so she turned to a side door at the back and opened that, standing on the step and looking out into the moonlit night. There was only silence around her, a strange brooding silence that seemed all the more terrible because it followed that hoarse cry. Her face whitened.

“Is the kind of situation that is engendered when we are embarrassed and subsequently blush the very factor that will produce a total reversal of the supercharging of adrenaline that at times of shock and emotional stress will cause my face to become whiter?” she asked herself, and then shook her head. “Of course, I am visually presenting an image that will artificially do my projecting for me. My appearance will serve as the out-going force that will snare my quarry, as an angler throws his bait. The self-consciousness of my pallor will reel in my line. This is how it should be, obviously, of course.” she thought.

Her face, usually as placid and unruffled as a tea-cosy was rumpled and twisted into little lines of worry like miniature tram line. She frowned “It doesn’t matter whether I’m on my head or on my heels”. She paused for breath and then flung out two pink palms dramatically. “This will not be an absolute frost. My face is illuminated and he couldn’t possibly trace my thought, it is so noiseless and smooth like a polished radiator. I’m as blank as a white ribbon road – I have never been any other woman in my life.” It would be all right, she thought, it was what was meant to be. There was no reason whatsoever for any upset. She was exemplary and whole, her illusion would not evaporate – she was fine, O, she felt better, yes, she did.

TRISHA LOW reminded herself of the lusts that should fill the man who was represented in her mind’s eye. The things she should make him want to do to her with the exaggerated state of his member and the consuming desire of heat from loins and groin that must merge with the glowing coals of romance.

“Of course, I live in a town where there are methodical risks and guidelines for both headhunters and seductive female bait. So if I run into him again at present, perhaps it would be worth telling him that I didn’t receive a thing in the way of vibrations. However, suggesting that maybe if he tried some more, or harder, that he might improve could inspire real change. More importantly, his meaningful search for my hidden secrets must be exposed as a sham”, she told herself. “Any real emotion he offers at this moment must immediately be murdered. If one imagines an emotion as a small, living creature, when presented with one, one should snap its neck and disfigure the body until it is no longer recognisable as anything that once lived. I must make him wear the putrid rotting thing on his back like a cross. He cannot be so offended, of course. He must know what I am doing is girlishly valid and should credit me with knowing my trade. Of course, he must at least know that.”

Steeling herself, she went in again and shut the door. This exposure was getting to be too much, although her explication helped to indispose her to know it – everything went pointed toward the contrast between her own fate and that of its distant and unknown controllers. But she remembered in this modern war, the right place for anything, any kind of satisfaction had been pushed farther and farther away. She reminded herself that she did, she really must love CHIP E. MACGUFFIN with a love passing even the love of the first ever woman in his life or in the world. It was her purpose. She must speak to her dear man, must tie herself to his staff and embrace the base with a wailing ache of desire, as horses whinny for a friend. “Would I were with him, wheresoever he is either in heaven or in hell’, she muttered. It was a storied antique, this utterance and in its calming effects unscathed and still living, weathered mellow with centuries of sunshine and tranquility. Filling her mind with it, she was straight with poignant loveliness, she was better than better, she was fine.