Scribbling On Foucault’s Walls: Bullet

Posted: November 29, 2010 in Foucault, Uncategorized, Writing

They are in the midst of a discussion about the ‘clone’ identity that emerged in Sanfrancisco in the 1970s. Colette had read somewhere, she forgets where now, how those moustached guys in their leather and their caps, with the hair from their chests poking out from their shirts, probably invented themselves to kill the myth that all gay men are effeminate queens. They were the real men they had been looking for all their lives. But, Mike suggests, getting excited and animated by his own idea, wasn’t the clone identity really just another form of dominant masculinity and maybe not quite as radical as it seemed at the time? Because those macho macho men were making women out of other men. Not in sex he adds, hastily, those dudes can fuck each other as ‘real’ men all they like, but in discourse. Sexual difference has to exist in discourse. Somebody has to be the fairy!.  He gulps his wine in triumph and wonders if it would be too pretentious to stop the conversation and write that down. He also wonders, less triumphantly, if Luce Iragary hasn’t said that very same thing before him. Just in her usual, incomprehensible, cloyingly feminine way. For a split, heartbreaking, Freudian, terrifying second he reminds Colette completely and utterly of her father. But she feels so comfortable, and relaxed by the wine, that she doesn’t let the similarity take hold in her mind. Her subconscious has other ideas however. It joins the dots and jumps to the conclusion and interrupts him and uses Colette’s voice to ask,

‘So are you gay?’

She always expects the intelligent ones, the articulate ones, the ones who can deliver a line, the ones with the tight asses that wiggle so well in their jeans, the ones she falls in love with, to be gay.

‘No!’ he replies, laughing. ‘What made you say that? Just because I am into Foucault?’

‘No not really. More that you seem to know so much about the gay scene and, about, er, about gender’.

‘Ah, gender’. He nods and strokes his chin, in a mock-intellectual way.

‘No I am not gay. I am just not a typical ‘dude’ as they might say. I’m not even a typical untypical dude if you see what I mean.’

‘You mean you are a freak?’

‘That is correct’.

‘I don’t really bother with sexual identity, anyway, it just seems one surefire way of closing down your options. And honey, I need all the options I can get!’

‘Good answer’.

And then he gets really serious. He isn’t stroking his chin now, but looking straight at her, so she can’t escape. Colette has learned over the years to duck out of the way of positive attention the way someone else might dodge a bullet. This time she is too slow and the shot reaches its target.

‘I am into Foucault though. He is one of my favourite untypical dudes’. He pauses, for dramatic effect, and because he is suddenly struck by the blackness of her eyes, in contrast to the paleness of her skin and hair, ‘But I am into Foucault’s daughter more’.


‘Yes. Oh’.

Colette sips her wine in silence. Mike continues to ponder on the blackness of her eyes. And the bullet, the bullet makes itself comfortable, lodging itself deep under her skin, somewhere that it will not be found. Not until it is too late, when the wound has spread and infected her blood, when the words have long since been forgotten, but their shadow has remained hanging over her all this time.

  1. Foucault’s Daughter does remember where she read about the clones in the 1970s, and how they were the ‘rmen they were looking for’ really. and she will cite her sources in her final manuscript. she knows you know she knows where she came from.

  2. […] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Elly and Marc Horne, Elly . Elly said: this is a bit of my #nanowrimo see I wrote words. […]

    • popupsncockups says:

      Keep hearing this guys name. So thought read a bit about him, to be honest, fucking off his head wanker, I could not take him seriously, the explanationsm and use of words put together are just meaningless, all I can see is some tit of a guy who had rambling ideas on everything, but understood nothing. I woulldnt entertain him he will only take you down the path of the craziness in his head, don’t waste time with him you are much better at understanding the workings of things than him. Sometimes the sound of goodbye is louder than any drumbeat.

      • the only reason I understand anything is because of Foucault.

      • popupsncockups says:

        From my background it’s rare to take anyones word 100% it’s one persons opinion, i always thought it was common sense to question any and everyones opinions, and if you follow blind your fucking crazy, my own mind is usually a good guide, working class is taught self expression (car modding) whereas middle class is conforming, two very different angles, use your own mind, other peoples are only information, you need to free your mind from social restraints, dont think within set rules or boundries, the guy is off his head, dont follow anyone follow your inner self, its there.

  3. hmm says:

    I know it’s only a relationship of similarity but if I could just add something dumb, this illustrates the point amusingly,
    bath house -ism and all

    • rustyscruff says:

      I don’t get it. Do you like this film? To be honest, I’ve never seen it. I would hope that ‘D&D’ was actually clever and more complex than first appears. However, it being an American film, I suppose it caters to the lowest common denominator. Popular American culture is not something I’m that interested in. On the whole, I find it crass, shallow and simplistic. I can’t stand Lady fucking GaGa either. Like she invented pop music and peddles a pale imitation. Cheeky bitch.

  4. @popupncockups

    I do question foucault. But I am also influenced by him. I am also middle class which I don’t apologise for. Its just part of who I am!

    • popupsncockups says:

      Excactly, same here, but imagine not being taken seriously at every turn, purely because your class no matter how much you demostrate otherwise, even targeted as figures of hate, pure prejudice, so yes just imagine it, have a look at anti chav sites, the hate is actually quite fucking scary, chav is working class reclassified, its alien to me, put yourself in my shoes’s i will never win, you didn’t even realise your prejudice on our discussion on mark simpsons blog, middle class, feminism and gay have banded together to hate me and mine, we have to fight 10 times harder, education wise, despite whats said we cant get it, the talent in my class in so rich cultural and wealth of imagination, your class is in the process of wiping us out, your willingness to conform is frightning, ours is not to conform, we essentially are free, you are not 1 reason you dont understand, its all there in front of you, this is my gripe never ending debate, why? where has it got ya, some things no brainer and others just do. your class scares the fucking shit out of me.

  5. […] This piece from the novel in progress by Quiet Riot Girl originally appeared on her blog. […]

  6. some working class people are conformist. some middle class people arent.

    the ‘chav’ websites and hatred of working class people is shit I agree.

    I probably hate feminism as much as you if not more.

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