the emotional report of an academic seminar

my head is in pressure, as if against the wall or with an iron heavy object on top of it. I feel slightly on the edge of crying, of exhaustion, even though I don’t feel that tired, even though I’m pretty tough, I feel a special weight, atmospheric weight.

I will cry at some point, smoothly to decompress. I’d go swim, but it had to be summer and really hot, I’d let myself go with the heat.

My work broke and with it so did I, a little, right before mentioning Sarah Ahmed and the fragile connections of things deemed breakable, before Halberstam and the queer ethics of clumsiness.

One of my tutors is a monotone patriarch who fills the space with his intellectual cords, his knowledge is vast and his delivery irritating like a kid who knows it all. He provides unwanted guidance, unnecessary moderating skills and has a worthless commitment to (also) control time. He has a stupid crystalline alarm, like cartoon sparkles from Cinderella, when she puts her silly glass shoes or invites all the animals in with her singing. He’s using the same strategies as Disney, to fool you with stereotyped harmony. I would respond much better to an actual alarm, as if the room was on fire. As I would respond better to his pedantic interventions if they weren’t said in such an educated breath of voice. The alarm sounds 10 minutes before the end and then again to announce it, and after that his face expression will range from distracted to anxious, like a blown up fish. What an asshole.

How unneeded it is to deal with his presence in this situation. On the other hand, I’m the first to defend how useful it is to be exposed to a “bad crowd”, to train yourself. I’m an advocate of putting yourself into certain hard situations, just to learn how to deal with them, in case one day they appear by surprise.

To be fair, my colleagues are generous, intelligent, attentive, interested and ultimately very nice. I’m aware of how hard it is to be honest and outspoken in such a sterile environment. The academia system most definitely thinks we should be put through these situations. But you see, that’s not the same, because I put my own self in it, I wouldn’t force it on others. But that’s not really why I’m here.

My machine broke before and after, my dear friend drop it on the floor. What a horrible feeling to break someone else’s jewels! But by doing that she added a new line in my diagram of affects and emotions. Now my discomfort has spread. I like to think that, it gives it purpose. We shouldn’t just spread love, as those loose quotes tell you.

I’m back at the source with a broken machine and a broken soul, that magma inside of me. That magma I wanted to share. I’m so drained.

This is an emotional tutorial report, the other kind, not the one I’ll print at the end of the term. Or maybe I’ll add it as apendix.

My head is still heavy, stuck tears maybe? But I feel like I have to stay tough, at least for now. As another friend says, they don’t train you for this really, we artists are so fucking tough! There’s a lot of crying in grad school, she also told me.


5 hours later, I wrote a fb post:

Today I presented my ongoing research; I talked about fragility and queer clumsiness 5 minutes after my work broke, and so did I, a little. Then I mentioned intimacy, darkness, utopias and sex, and in the end the work broke again, a little bit more. I am quite tough so I did my best to deal with it. I also dealt with a monotone patriarch tutor who asks gratuitously provocative questions with a condescending cynical smile. This lead to an amazing conversation with my dear mind-alike friend, because things like that make you want to destroy and eat the world at the same time. Then later I come home and my girlfriend tells me a post she wrote on FB cinema group “shooting people” has been eliminated because she was looking for “queer producers” and many straight men complained, cus “you shouldn’t only hire people based on their sexuality because we are a totally inclusive group.” . When Lola too kindly explains, the moderator replies that “the term queer has absolutely no political affiliations whatsoever”.

I mean… you read the posts, you listen to the stories, but they keep fucking repeating themselves.

Off to a big chill now.


six stories from instagram

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On today’s #selfie episode “Mariana suspects she has a witch on her hands when the cheerleading squad falls victim to sudden blindness and spontaneous combustion” .
#breakfast #scifi #usagirl

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Mister Man is waiting downstairs, she’s gonna take me for a #ride in the #desert, at night 🌌⚡️

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I’m wearing #lipstick and #lesbian


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We are such an #exotic bed
#tropical #threesome #twolatinasoneparrot

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I make posters of my girlfriend and hang them around the house
#dissidentromanticlove 🌴💕

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closer and monumental

“so my little show is about the beauty and the struggle of human connection. And what happens in those moments when we get closer to someone else or further removed from ourselves. And you know, often the change is slow and subtle, but sometimes it is sudden and monumental.”


(kcrw strangers “falling slowly”)

my blog my blog my blog

I used to write a lot on this blog, in fact I’ve had marianissimaairlines for more than 10 years now. In the beginning I would pour out everything that was happening in my life since I’d left home. I remember a friend saying “you have a very interesting life, you should have a blog”. I think I’ve always been very personal on my blog-writing style, specially during a certain phase of my life. For a few years my posts were full of confessions about love and sex, filled with pictures from orgies and parties and after-parties and after all the parties when the excitement was coming down, really down, and I would write about those feeling of confusion and loneliness and my friends back home would be worried and my mom would tell me “I stopped reading your blog because it’s too hard for me, I don’t understand it”, I guess the s&m was a bit too much for her, seeing her daughter being spanked and full of bruises. I was happy, though, in a conflicted way, experimenting and pushing myself into find where the limits were. Then one day I got tired of everything, because that’s how I do it, like listening to the same track over and over again during a whole day until I can’t stand it, to the point of anger. I wish I could handle better some of my own personal features. “Think about those sayings about having the power to control your own mind”, but it’s not easy at all and some behaviours seem to live in the house of the irrational, beyond understanding and proper management. So I decided I was done with the blog. I know a lot of people was reading me at the time, some curious people from the town I grew up who wouldn’t talk to me when they’d see me in person; some curious people from the city I was living in who admired my brilliant friends and probably me as we were so outspoken and active in our crowd (community just sounds too organized and established). People would call me Marianissima instead of Mariana, they would come up to me asking if I was her. I deleted everything. I was quite sure I had saved some texts but I could never found them, lost in some old hard drive, lost in a CD, burned of old digital age. My new blog was white, the other one was black. My texts were shorter and shorter. For a while I did a lot of collages with self-portraits included. I’d spend much of my time inside my room, my new room which I had for 2 years or so before changing countries again. It was big and modernist from 1860 with a lot of light and a balcony, not like the previous basement in an artist studio with a stupid macho Argentinian painter and a crazy woman who was obsessed with me and would get into my bed in the middle of the night and then kicked me out because I was rude to her annoying son. It wasn’t like that other interior room with a window to the lift and a landlady who forced me to clean the oven I never used the day on I left on my knees in front of her while her boyfriend who cried silently at the door because he kind of liked me. One day I had such a horrible come down of speed I feared I would jump out of the balcony which led to a pool of rubbish and hard concrete, it was a terrible place that house. Inside my new big room I’d take pictures of myself with the timer and then put my body in all sorts of landscapes with added elements, very camp and fun and melancholic. There’s always some sadness in the work but if I think about it, in all the works, there’s always some loneliness in trying to figure out the personal, even when it’s made public. And then what happen? The new city had totally different rules, the time was brutally different and so was the sky and the air, so heavy. I guess I was so turned up inside I didn’t manage to reach the keyboard, I lost the words for a while. Then got them back again, but the time and the sky and the air were still the same, different. So I don’t know, between there and here and my new airs I sort of lost touch with it. This year I made a facebook again, tried one back in 2008 and didn’t like it so deleted it. Last month I got an instagram, really like it. I also have a tumblr for photos and videos where nothing happens and another for references but only the ones I can reblog from other accounts, never the content I find myself. Because otherwise what does stay private? I do have that fear of exposure, not as strong as to not use the internet, not as strong as to create an account with a different name and never tell anyone, but still present. I wonder where to put what and when and how to manage it. What is each account for? But this blog, oh this blog inspires me such tenderness! It has seen so much, felt so much. It feels cosy and I’m pretty sure by now I lost all the readers I ever had and that feels so calming, like when you can come back home again because the after party at your house is over and they all left because it’s already sunday night but good for you you’re not having a come down from speed, you’re alright and it’s all magically clean, no cups no bottles no smoke, just a few details here and there, like little memories. It’s not false modesty, I lack of that, I really have practically no readers now, I only know of a friend (hi klau) who was following me, now you can follow me and see when I put things, but when I started and had readers that wasn’t an option so maybe by now they all forgot. In light of that empty cosy house I came back tonight which in fact a sunday night and because I’m going through some insecurities I thought, and my girlfriend said, write about it, “be secure about your insecurities”. I’m not talking about those specific troubles now, they are work related and I obsess over them, another behaviour from the house of the irrational. I press new post and I write, I’m fucking spitting it out free from anyone looking at me, free from a paper from school, training this bravery of exposure to be thicker. I’m not correcting it, not going back and forward, I don’t want to care about my imperfect English right now, lack of articulation and not so wide range of words, fuck it. I’m not even pausing to think, just did it now a little because I don’t know how to finish this. Well who cares.