I feel isolated. I feel almost at ease with my own sense of isolation. I have this urge to get up and leave and not return. I don't have a destination.

My destination: the dreamed version of where I am, that resonates in a way that the real does not. How can a dream seem more vivid and vibrant and vital than a reality?

Rollo.

"Sexual radicalism was defined in classically male terms: number of partners, frequency of sex, varieties of sex (for instance, group sex), eagerness to engage in sex. It was all supposed to be essentially the same for boys and girls: two, three, or however many long-haired persons communing. It was especially the lessening of gender polarity that kept the girls entranced, even after the fuck had revealed the boys to be men after all. Forced sex occurred--it occurred often; but the dream lived on. Lesbianism was never accepted as lovemaking on its own terms but rather as a kinky occasion for male voyeurism and the eventual fucking of two wet women; still, the dream lived on. Male homosexuality was toyed with, vaguely tolerated, but largely despised and feared because heterosexual men however bedecked with flowers could not bear to be fucked "like women"; but the dream lived on. And the dream for the girls at base was a dream of a sexual and social empathy that negated the strictures of gender, a dream of sexual equality based on what men and women had in common, what the adults tried to kill in you as they made you grow up. It was a desire for a sexual community more like childhood--before girls were crushed under and segregated. It was a dream of sexual transcendence: transcending the absolutely dichotomized male-female world of the adults who made war not love. It was--for the girls--a dream of being less female in a world less male; an eroticization of sibling equality, not the traditional male dominance." Andrea Dworkin.

"Once you want to be together in Northern Europe it is the same all over. There is nowhere to go. In the South there are beaches and old ruins. Boys sneak girls somewhere, some flat place, and other boys hide behind rocks or pieces of ancient walls and watch. In the North it is cold. There are the streets, too civilized for sex. There are no rooms, no apartments, even adult men live with their parents. One is sneaked into a tiny bedroom in the parents' house: hands are held over one's mouth: no noise can be made: and sneaked out before dawn, giggling silently and left in the cold, unless one's lover is sentimental: then he covers you in his coat and buries you in his arms and you wait for dawn together. In Northern European cities, dawn comes late but parents wake up early. The young men have no privacy: they stay strange little bad boys who get taller and older. They get married too young. They sneak forever." Andrea Dworkin.

Saturday May 24th: Fridge {Poetry} 1pm - 9pm The Mekano Set + Pester & Mortal.

May 01. 2003: Milan GTi Post-Fashion Symposium. "A glorified fashion show funded and devised by a conceptual musicologist? An ironic gesture staged by a group of notoriously semiprecious, irrational artists that confound definitions? A wilful act of self indulgence? Branching out? Selling out?" Rollo Kim investigates.

Rollo.