We’re putting the next series together from our most recent Ageless Sexuality: Libidinal Innocence and Wisdom call for submissions.
Next Friday, October 3, we’ll announce the new LE Authors lineup. Take a peak here on LEM in a week.
And, on Wednesday, October 1, a new call for submissions about the chaos of sexuality both personally and collectively begins:
READ the CALL: Figuring Feral: The Great Ephemeral Skin
“That is, to be ourselves causes us to be exiled by many others, and yet to comply with what others want causes us to be exiled from ourselves.” – Clarissa Pinkola Estes
“Sex is kicking death in the ass while singing.” – Charles Bukowski
“Open the so-called body and spread out all its surfaces: not only the skin with each of its folds, wrinkles, scars, with its great velvety planes.” – Jean-Francois Lyotard
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Limit Experience Magazine grew out of a deep frustration: I watched too many powerful stories silenced, too many writers forced to shrink their brilliance to fit gatekeepers’ rules. I knew there had to be a space that honored the courage of authentic, challenging, beautiful work — a space that made creative freedom feel possible again.
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Recently, I went to a screening of the movie, Dune 2. I had an opportunity to attend when Javier Bardem would be there have a conversation after we’d seen it. Without his presence I wouldn’t have been interested in getting myself together early on a Sunday morning even for an epic film in a state of the art theater.
As often happens, the reason I thought I was there, to get some insight about the craft of acting from someone I’ve considered a master at it since his appearance in the Coen Brothers’, No Country for Old Men, 2007. Bardem’s portrayal of the psychopath, Anton Chigurh didn’t just scare me, the character’s implacable machine like propensity to kill rattled primal fear. The movie itself won best picture that year and put the Spain born Bardem on the map as an actor in English language cinema.
Unfortunately, Dune 2’s overblown sense of importance which is magnified by extremely loud bass augmented sound design forgets what Bardem told us yesterday in his talk. Bardem is adept at capturing nuances of evil as witnessed in his work with the Coen Brothers and that same capacity can safely be extended to his 2012, Skyfall portrayal of the madman, Raoul Silva.
In an answer to an audience member’s question he amicably referenced a collaborative effort with Dune director, Denis Villeneuve, to capture the human propensity for humor in dark situations. Bardem can be counted on to use his considerable wit deftly in his work but to trigger that subtle sensorial tickle in the chest that occurs when a dangerous situation is imbued with an actor’s considerable intellect and skill.
However, when Bardem’s character, Stilgar, attempts to insert a moment of transcendence into yet another thundering worm eliciting rhythm to the perpetual wars his people are enduring the tension that surrounds him and is reflected on the faces of much of the rest of the cast constricts instead of amplifies the tone which Stilgar’s supporting cast bounce into the focus of the camera lens. A good laugh breaks into darkness with the power to erase a stilted reality with common sense.
Dune 2 with all it’s seriousness about the life giving essence of water which is so rare as to necessitate certain tribal members appointment as tribal extractors of a the precious substance using tubular objects and needles that they insert in the bodies of living enemies and cadavers alike.
In fact, the overarching theme of Dune 2’s year 10191 plot evolves around the element we take in the 2000s for granted, water. Since scientists have begun to attach a fourth power to H2O by the year of the movie’s release, 2024, what the plot of Dune might have added to Hebert’s story was the fascinatingly mysterious way that water is emerging as a truly mysterious shape-shifting source of contention among theorists and researchers. In a nutshell the fourth power of water transcendes the three we learned about in elementary school. Solid, liquid and gaseous states are familiar and taken for granted. As such the preciousness that water is given in the Dune plot would be much more cogent and effective if this new power, the ability to tunnel through small spaces, very small spaces, with its EZ status, the exclusion state.
Since the Dune universe exists insidie the epitome of grandeur as size the macro aspect of the centerpiece the seemingly endless desert sand dunes of Arrakis which house humongous worms entreated with chariot like service to the tribal lords would give a strong counterpoint to this emerging theory about water’s micro abilities. The contrast might have made the elusiveness of water that the movie struggle to transcribe from the novel to the screen could have been strengthened and made Villaneurve’s remake more engaging because no matter what planet humans inhabi, subliminally we know we need the substance of water. Thus, the world of Dune 2 might have provided Bardem’s talent as well as the rest of the cast with fodder on which to land humor, a much needed fifth element to story, direction, sound design, and cinematography in this two hour and two minute epic.
“The trip shifts into periods of introspection, and when that vast awareness is suddenly switched inward, some may not have the mental or emotional capabilities to deal with their shadows.” – GM
In your essay,100 Words / 12 Hits / Gravity, you write from a transgressive space punctuated by the speed of an actual and metaphorical ride through the libidinal realm of union. It feels like the cerebrally exploited appendage of sex acts as a metaphysical portal to the ephemeral side of intimacy. The couple seems by the end of the ride to open to a paradoxical lack of connection. How did you identify and develop the mapping of the narrator’s drug induced confrontation with the masculine/feminine axis of desire amidst an edge of what leads unexpectedly to subtextual longing?
GM While this essay reads as though it was written in a transient state, time was my true companion. Enrolled in a Travel Writing class during the pandemic provided an interesting obstacle – writing about travel without traveling. I chose to write of a trip I’d taken the previous summer with my boyfriend, and in doing so, gave myself the chance to play around in this Creative Nonfiction Travel Writing genre. Each week my professor, Marc Neison, assigned one word to use in the telling of a 100-word short story. Marc didn’t expect us to weave a narrative, but I appreciated the challenge.
By the end of the semester, I had 16 100-word segments prompted with words such as home, water, sunscreen, currency. These words became the landmarks to map “Gravity.” This piece wasn’t written in order, instead driven by these words set along emotional markers on the timeline of the trip. In my initial composition, the idea of balancing connection with disconnection was involuntary, but with each passing week, I noticed the theme and wrote with this harmonization of movement in mind.
Writing about drugs – psychedelics specifically – creates portals for nonfiction writing which allow space for fantastical elements, but more-so, make room for garishness, for those carnal moments to transpire. This drug-induced state erases any filter, and that can only transfer to the writing, allowing the narrator a sort of jester-like persona. With LSD the true nature of the partaker is unabashedly revealed. The connection between all who indulge together is forged by the efforts of the drug, by the shifts of frequency, and in such a way a different friendship forms as the user’s consciousness expands to a greater understanding of the persona they’re tripping alongside. The interconnectedness on such a deep level prompts new levels of intimacy, a compulsory truthfulness occurs, and the user can’t help but show their true nature.
The reason some swear against acid is because the come down requires self-work. The trip shifts into periods of introspection, and when that vast awareness is suddenly switched inward, some may not have the mental or emotional capabilities to deal with their shadows. The thing about LSD is it’s a truth serum some just aren’t ready to taste. Those, like me, who have used the drug with the objective of mine expansion instead of simply getting super trippy, tap into the superpowers we all possess – the superpower of intuition. Expressing how these characters opened themselves to the vulnerability of each other, I was able to set their motorcycle along this paradoxical axis of drug addiction that parallels their relationship, displaying how cocaine shuts out the universe while psychedelics open one’s mind to it.
It’s a perilous balancing act – not the motorcycle – but drug use in a union, because the moment one person tunes themselves to a different level – a different frequency – the whole relationship disassembles, and while both remain on an unbalanced precipice of addiction, the universe’s pressure will increase on the couple until their only chance is to split or to conform fully around each other and their chosen substances.
“In the most literal way, Like Oxygen, was born at the end of a love affair.” SL
(photo credit: Suzanne Lea)
LEMagazine asked author Suzanne Lea to explore her creative process as a poet. She’s been previously published in the earlier iteration on this platform, the literary journal, LEJ. You can read her essay, The Specificity of Desire here.
Surprisingly her second submission, a couple years later as we were transitioning from the literary platform of the journal to the more expansive nature of the magazine format, was poetry and not essay. We wanted to ask her about the differences she experiences as an essay writer and as a poet.
LE Your poetry collection, Like Oxygen, reaches outside the theoretical container of Limit-Experience and pulls to it the libidinal space in a very visceral way? How did you arrive at this space and how did the process differ from your encounter with your essay, Specificity?
SL When you think about it, writing is a strange thing. We pluck words from our lexicon and place them in such a way that the reader understands both the meaning and the intention. Creative writing is even more interesting – creating a path using words in the wild, words strung together for the first time, creating something altogether new. I write because I have a love affair with language. I write because I love finding new ways to tell universal stories.
I love the taste of new words meeting for the first time. Words just introduced, taking their first steps off the tongue and in the world. I love big, fat, juicy words. Little, tine, bony words. Dirty word. Holy words Dark threatening, stormy words. I love long, complicated, ego-stroking words and fanciful words that exist only to serve the needs of children and lovers. My favorite, though, is the discovery of a word whose materiality is so organic that a gentle nudge can send it floating like a dandelion on the current of a conversation. These words, when placed together properly, are so sweet as to be missed the instant they are spoken.
In the most literal way, Like Oxygen, was born at the end of a love affair. I find that to be true of much of my writing. Most of my poetry is written after-the-fact. Although every ending is not tragic, often grief allows for a very specific kind of hindsight. A perspective not found in the midst of an experience. While we are pushing and pulling, touching and pressing, we only feel our own skin. We only know whether we’ve been kissed or kicked. Afterwards, we often find a sort of aerial view. We become the topographers of our own country.
Writing poetry is the place where I have the most fun with words who were once strangers. Tucked away inside my poem, Like Oxygen, there is something more. Inside what appears to be a song about the libidinal desires, I have secreted away a prayer. Please kiss me properly. Kiss me like oxygen. Kiss me as if you were certain. Kiss me as though you have abandoned yourself to the experience. I ask for these things because I know the tepid tongue of endings – when the lights come up and everyone leaves.
In my experience, non-fiction storytelling is different. There is a linear quality to creative non-fiction. There is usually a beginning, a middle, and an end. Non-fiction storytelling is experienced as fact. (Or as factual as we are able as fallible humans.) The Specificity of Desire is my attempt at telling the story of my Limit Experience. There is no pleading for more. There is no longing for less. My Limit Experience is measured by a before and after. My experience created a moment when I jumped from who I thought I was and what I was capable of, to the very edge of propriety and then a step further.
My Limit Experience was life altering. I am not the same person that I was before the events of Specificity. I barely remember the girl who lived in this body without that experience. That can also be said for Like Oxygen. Although the details are drastically different, the same ‘before and after’ exist. Similarly, the act of storytelling closely resembles this dynamic. I pull from my love of language to tell a story. I try to set the stage for what comes after. Both experiences create a longing for something more. Both experiences beg me to step outside the safety of storytelling and run my fingers along the rough edges and smooth surfaces of life.
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