Every once in a while, as I slog through my assigned readings and coursework, I come across something magical. Some piece of theory or line of argument, some train of thought or particular turn of phrase that makes me fall in love. It’s actually not all that uncommon for me; it probably happens once every few months.
But sometimes, I find something that takes me way past love. I find something so amazingly intelligent, so sparklingly brilliant that I want to mate with the author’s brain and have their intellectual babies. That reaction, in all it’s extremity, is thankfully rare, not in the least because it earns me some very weird looks.
Right now, though? I’m reading through Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, and I’ve fallen cortex-over-brainstem in love. I will fight for the right to be first in line to bear her intellectual offspring. I’m developing a case of heart-eyes at the very thought. (Here, because I can’t not share obsessions of this magnitude: ❤ Click the little red heart, and join me!)
Before this, the last time I had a reaction this strong was to Gloria Anzaldúa’s Borderlands/La Frontera. Other notable mentions include Allen Ginsberg and Alfred Tennyson.
And now I’m horrified at the thought of “what if I had to choose between them?” Thank God brains aren’t like genitals — there’s absolutely zero expectation of fidelity. My grey matter can mate with and bear the babies of as many magical beings as it finds. Another perk would be the lack of visible stretch marks — neural networks don’t have to fit aesthetic conventions, so mine can totally “let itself go” in the pursuit of incubating the next generation of brilliance.
I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.