Reading: Foucault, "Of Other Spaces."

Why this obsession of mine with space--especially women's space and sacred space? Topsy-turvy, flipside, carnival, festival, utopia. The ideal and real coexisting in the womb of chaos. One more idea to add to the mix. One more confusion of self. Am I chaos? Am I the text outside of context? The center outside the structure? I am contrary. I fight my way through essential experience, through profalactic theory. I don't want people to think they are safe behind their metaphysics and analytics. I want people to understand the precarious position of human-ness perched on the verge of abyss. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Chaos to Abyss.