I feel Dora this morning not Freud’s question mark closed parenthetical but my Dora my own scowl. See? I don’t hate people, I hate the politically allocated fictions that suffocate. I’m not a woman. I’m not American, but hear me talk about Iowa. I am not bipolar or chronically depressed, but feel the plastic conversation of state-issued pills in my pocket. I’m not, and that’s how Romanticism started, Blake and Sidney lying around and writing poems with their cocks. Bodies do write poems. I’ve written them myself. The “I am not this” of Romanticism is not so powerful a premise. It’s blank.
