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Quote by Hendrith Vanlon Smith Jr

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Principles of a Permaculture Economy

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Hendrith Vanlon Smith Jr

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“Hoy la situación parece mucho más compleja: el cuerpo individual funciona como una extensión de las tecnologías globales de comunicación. Dicho con la feminista americana Donna Haraway, el cuerpo del siglo XXI es una plataforma tecnoviva, el resultado de una implosión irreversible de sujeto y objeto, de lo natural y lo artificial. De ahí que la noción misma de «vida» resulte arcaica para identificar los actores de esta nueva tecnoecología. Por ello, Donna Haraway prefiere la noción de «tecnobiopoder» a la foucaultiana de «biopoder», puesto que va no se trata de poder sobre la vida, de poder de gestionar y maximizar la vida, como quería Foucault, sino de poder y control sobre un todo tecnovivo conectado.”

FeminismoFoucaultHarawayBiopoderTecnobiopoderTecnovivo
Book:Testo Junkie: Sex, Drugs, and Biopolitics in the Pharmacopornographic Era
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“...although the death of an old friend was agonizing, it could not compare to the pain of an old friend irrevocably changed. When he thought of how this person yet remained on the earth but could never return to the past; of how their deep emotion had decayed, how their shared path had split into two unlike roads, how his beloved had become his enemy -- that was a suffering that brought agony with each breath,”

LovePainDeathTimeChangeLossDistanceBetrayal
Book:Remnants of Filth: Yuwu (Novel) Vol. 3
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“He turned to root through the refrigerator, and the tight globes of his spectacular bubble butt strained against worn jeans. Silently, he set a bottle of cream down, then reached up to the hanging pot rack for a saucier, exposing a sliver of toned abs as he did. Sweet mercy, but I might truly orgasm watching this man work his kitchen. I didn't even know it was my kink. Maybe Lucian made it so. When he proceeded to separate an egg with an efficient snap of his wrist, I knew it was him. He was my kink. Damn it all.”

Sexual AttractionKinkIn The Kitchen
Book:Make It Sweet
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“Scents waft from the kitchen, dancing around the halls to find me and tickle my nose. Warm and comforting and mouthwatering. "Come closer," those scents seem to say. "Come see what we have for you." Come. How can I ignore that? So I don't. I follow the siren's call and find the siren herself at the very center of activity. Delilah moves with utter confidence in her kitchen--- because it is unequivocally hers now. This is a prima ballerina performing a solo. Not a fast-paced, frantic dance, but slow and easy, controlled power in motion. Knowing that she hasn't yet noticed me, I simply watch her work, admiring the curves of her body as she reaches for a spoon to taste a sauce. The pink tip of her tongue flashes as she licks her lush top lip. Something hot and tight clenches low in my gut at the sight. Then she's moving again, adding a spice to her sauce; a flick of her wrist controls the temperature on the stove. My body remembers the feel of hers, the way she cuddled up in my lap for those few mindless minutes. I was surprised enough that she did it. I simply held her, afraid to make any move that might startle her away. She was warm and soft, her tan skin smelling of butter and cinnamon sugar. I wanted to sit there all night and breathe her in. I wanted to let my hands roam over those plump curves and learn each one. It was an act of careful coordination to keep her from noticing just how much she affected me. It was worth the painful dick and the aching gut of lust because in that moment, she felt perfect. She turns back to the center island and the cutting board there and sees me. The loose-limbed ease of her body dies. She's all twitchy now, eyeing me like a feral barn cat as if I might try to lash out and catch her. Tempting.”

TemptingSexual DesireDelilahIn The Kitchen
Book:Dear Enemy
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“Kitchens have their seasons. And in this subterranean world, hidden from rainstorms and eager winds, is a world of wheat, wine and herbs. Always herbs. Herbs with balm in their leaves and flavor in their throats. A harvest of herbs on the windowsill. Parsley, coriander, tarragon. Basil, of different varieties, Greek with its anise-clove flavor and 'Sweet Genovese' with its jumbo cinnamon leaves. By the stove, I am chopping mint, coriander, tarragon, basil and parsley. The leaves and stems will go into a soup inspired by a region that taught me just what can be done with herbs, the South Caucasus--- that is Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia. From springtime until winter, whole bouquets of herbs arrive ceremoniously to the table, sometimes so fresh that clumps of earth still cling to their pale whiskery roots. Vital as bread, drawing eyes and senses forward, they are the centerpiece of the table. Intensely fresh and fragrant, unbruised and unwilted, they are a meal, a feast. Vitamins after a long winter. Never an afterthought, a mere sprinkling, or worse, 'a pinch'. At breakfast, oozing omelettes filled with molten white cheese and blades of tarragon. At lunch, bulgur salad, always more leaf than wheat. Ice cream is mint, sorbet is basil, soda is tarragon. In warmer months, they are refreshing, health-giving and sanity-saving as the sun starts hammering down. So today, in this kitchen of a hundred crossroads, to welcome the beginning of spring, I will bless this soup with a crop of fresh herbs.”

HerbsSpringtimeIn The Kitchen
Book:Cold Kitchen: A Year of Culinary Travels
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