Posted on September 18, 2005 at 00:11:17.
mon*stros*i*ty 40
By M Satai
Gate 7: where does the bus go to that leaves from there?
Oh wait, I know, I’m on it.
The willing victim who, at the penultimate moment, expresses doubt and trembling panic at the impending orgasm of overwhelming violence; the catastrophic sacrifice underway and the dawning realization that it is already too late to stop or to change one’s mind about participating…that moment of abandonment to terror and humiliation on the face of the one who up to this point has been only a “volunteer,” the expression which says oh my god I cannot go back-- that is the rape-within-consent that characterizes the “perfect” victim and, therefore, most highly-prized desire-object of all.
“The absence of otherness secretes another, intangible otherness: the absolute otherness of the virus.” –Jean Baudrillard
That face that haunts me in the mirror…who is he? I must kill him: that’s me.
Suicide machine: a bottle of xanax, 120 pills, 1mg each, a flask of whiskey, a black Hyundai Eleantra with all the windows rolled down, a secluded mountain overlook on a subzero winter night.
The rape of everyone, that is what comes to mind when looking at a hillside covered as far as the eye can see with white tombstones.
“Whatever pain acheives, it achieves in part through its unshareability, and it ensures this unshareability through its resistance to language…Prolonged pain does not simply resist language but actively destroys it, bringing about an immediate reversion to a state anterior to language, to the sounds and cries a human being makes before language is learned.” –Elaine Scarry
Art is an animal-cry with no answer, a war-cry with no compromise, a sick-bed moan of isolation and pain, or an assassin’s shout as he squeezes the trigger to assassinate life. Art is not communication—just the opposite, it’s the despair of any possibility of communication whatsoever.
Art is like a suicide note: it’s always misinterpreted. It is always irrelevant what the “other” thinks.
There are no “others.”
People, being mainly morons, need a story.
“For weeks, he spoon-feeds me babyfood and fruit sauces heavily laced with powerful laxatives until I really do become incontinent, unable to go out anywhere without wearing a diaper, pale, weak, trembly all over…” –The Subtraction of Sissy Mandee
She waits, less and less patiently, as he bleeds to death, naked and on his knees, into the bathtub. She takes her shoes off—it’s easier, she says, to wash her bare feet if they are splattered by his blood and piss than to wash her black velvet pump sandals.
She asks,Do you want to see my pretty toes one last time before you die?
What would happen, let’s say, if a naked woman on a bicycle were to pedal as fast as she could through a car-wash of whirring blades?
Here’s a story:
John woke up. He went to work. He came back home and went to sleep.
What a story is, ordinarily, is the act of putting a microscope to the minutae of the little twists and turns of events that allow John to return—or not to return—home to bed at night.
In a car, a small, possibly yellow, convertible, I’m talking to the widow of Georges Bataille. But I don’t remember anything she says, if she says anything worth remembering…
Its raining…
Who I am, as if I were a radio, or antennae, or radar dish is unimportant and uninteresting: what I think, what I broadcast, what signals I relay, pick-up, from wherever…that is unimportant and uninteresting, too.
“A world purged of the old forms of infection, a world ‘ideal’ from the clinical point of view, offers a perfect field of operations for the impalpable and implacable pathology which arises from the sterilisation itself.” –Jean Baudrillard
What is it, what apocalyptic disgust with the world, that causes me to dream of one day getting in a car and driving west with no destination, simply heading in the direction of the sunset, and following it until I vanish entirely somewhere short of the end of the earth?
“If, the anti-humanists argued, ‘we’ accept humanism’s claim that ‘we’ are naturally inclined to think, organise, and act in certain ways, it is difficult to believe that human society and behaviour could ever be other than they are now. Humanism was therefore to be opposed if radical change, the thinking of difference, was to become a possibility. The future would begin with the end of man.” –Neil Badmington
“Writing is always writing for animals, that is not to them, but in their place, doing what animals can’t, writing, freeing life from prisons that humans have created and that’s what resistance is. That’s obviously what artists do.” –Gilles Deleuze