[r e vel a t io n ar y ant i b od y]

||nsfw|| ritual fragments // ekphrastic writing // dream diary // selfies // experiments in sound & film // process notes // wips     

[r3volutionaryb0dy]

Here in this city, I have searched a teacher. To learn to fish and Reformulate my anger. Teach me structures so that these avenues and streets haven’t any blockade by my own chaos. What unfounded Knowledge wept in the arms of my own idealism, can say when on the page. What can be said of it now? To what end is there purpose in doing so. Writing to Home is it? When violence prevails there is no false equivalency to be found. All we have to work with is insurrection at best the reactionary. Then why work at all? How is this plantation any better than the other? So we have just said, “fuck the masters tools all together and in fact fuck the masters house”. Burn it to the ground. I am not going to state the obvious here unless I have to injure some presumptions about what side is right. But here I am alive to say “We are not the same”. Yet everyone today is trying to have me fold. Believe they fight for my cause in as much as they claim to protect me from my own blackness. I think here is what makes me a Midwesterner. The only motif I have left. And they pull me back and forth, a sword at his side, the other a torch and burned effigies. Is this shit supposed to mean things to me? The commissar took my brother away and now the secret police set their sights on my oldest friend. How many kings of the blade can we contend? I wonder which does our father love the most? The misgiving to be friend and traitor in the same breath. You’d think the 60s missed a reconstruction after we burned Sodom and Gomorrah down the first time. I don’t know much of Santa Monica, what I know is in books. The brick, the club, the bat, ignition and tear gassed. Shook a spread looming behind complexions in midnight. Plus commissions. Is anytime ever the right time to die at all? Hedge oneself against the time they live. I never needed to listen to a talking head, even if it were Dr.West, to know where I stand in this country. I was born into this shit. And there are no intentions left in trying to remember how Vulnerable we are. Sorry Judith. So why Dear Brother, would you leave an invitation for me to destroy my own city?Even if it was the place I hated the most. It’s all we have. It’s all any of us had to run away from.

[suziedowninthequiet]

Theses on Monsters by China Mieville

from here.

1. The history of all hitherto-existing societies is the history of monsters. Homo sapiens is a bringer-forth of monsters as reason’s dream. They are not pathologies but symptoms, diagnoses, glories, games, and terrors.  2.  To insist that an element of the impossible and fantastic is a sine qua non of monstrousness is not mere nerd hankering (though it is that too). Monsters must be creature forms and corpuscles of the unknowable, the bad numinous. A monster is somaticized sublime, delegate from a baleful pleroma. The telos of monstrous quiddity is godhead.  3.  There is a countervailing tendency in the monstrous corpus. It is evident in Pokémon’s injunction to “catch ’em all,” in the Monster Manual’s exhaustive taxonomies, in Hollywood’s fetishized “Monster Shot.” A thing so evasive of categories provokes—and surrenders to—ravenous desire for specificity, for an itemization of its impossible body, for a genealogy, for an illustration. The telos of monstrous quiddity is specimen.  4.  Ghosts are not monsters.  5.  It is pointed out, regularly and endlessly, that the word “monster” shares roots with “monstrum,” “monstrare,” “monere“—”that which teaches,” “to show,” “to warn.” This is true but no longer of any help at all, if it ever was.  6.  Epochs throw up the monsters they need. History can be written of monsters, and in them. We experience the conjunctions of certain werewolves and crisis-gnawed feudalism, of Cthulhu and rupturing modernity, of Frankenstein’s and Moreau’s made things and a variably troubled Enlightenment, of vampires and tediously everything, of zombies and mummies and aliens and golems/robots/clockwork constructs and their own anxieties. We pass also through the endless shifts of such monstrous germs and antigens into new wounds. All our moments are monstrous moments.  7.  Monsters demand decoding, but to be worthy of their own monstrosity, they avoid final capitulation to that demand. Monsters mean something, and/but they mean everything, and/but they are themselves and irreducible. They are too concretely fanged, toothed, scaled, fire-breathing, on the one hand, and too doorlike, polysemic, fecund, rebuking of closure, on the other, merely to signify, let alone to signify one thing.  Any bugbear that can be completely parsed was never a monster, but some rubber-mask-wearing Scooby-Doo villain, a semiotic banality in fatuous disguise. It is a solution without a problem.  8.  Our sympathy for the monster is notorious. We weep for King Kong and the Creature from the Black Lagoon, no matter what they’ve done. We root for Lucifer and ache for Grendel.  It is a trace of skepticism that the given order is a desideratum that lies behind our tears for its antagonists, our troubled empathy with the invader of Hrothgar’s hall.  9.  Such sympathy for the monster is a known factor, a small problem, a minor complication for those who, in drab reaction, deploy an accusation of monstrousness against designated social enemies.  10.  When those same powers who enmonster their scapegoats reach a tipping point, a critical mass, of political ire, they abruptly and with bullying swagger enmonster themselves. The shock troops of reaction embrace their own supposed monstrousness. (From this investment emerged, for example, the Nazi Werwolf program.) Such are by far more dreadful than any monster because, their own aggrandizements notwithstanding, they are not monsters. They are more banal and more evil.  11.  The saw that We Have Seen the Real Monsters and They Are Us is neither revelation, nor clever, nor interesting, nor true. It is a betrayal of the monstrous, and of humanity. 

[skinhorses]

connections between the humane, the monstrous, and the divine:

1. “Wanna make a monster? Take the parts of yourself that make you uncomfortable–your weaknesses, bad thoughts, vanities, and hungers–and pretend they’re across the room. It’s too ugly to be human. It’s too ugly to be you. Children are afraid of the dark because they have nothing real to work with. Adults are afraid of themselves.” (richard siken, from editor’s pages: black telephone)

2. “Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?” (clarice lispector, the hour of the star)

3. “This beast, this angel is both you and I.” (adrienne rich, from the complete poems: this beast, this angel)

4. “Frankenstein not only gives form to the dialetic of monstrosity itself and raises questions about the pleasures and dangers of textual production, it also demands a rethinking of the entire Gothic genre in terms of who rather than what is the object of terror. By focusing upon the body as the locus of fear, Shelley’s novel suggests that it is people (or at least bodies) who terrify people, not ghosts or gods, devils or monks, windswept castles or labyrinthine monasteries.” (j. halberstam, skin shows: gothic horror and the technology of monsters)

5. “Monsters exist because they are part of the divine plan, and in the horrible features of those same monsters the power of the creator is revealed.” (umberto eco, the name of the rose)

6. “But girls contain multitudes. We are made up of so many odd parts. The reason that the monster in Frankenstein is so memorable is that, when it opens its mouth, out comes the voice of an alienated teenage girl.” (heather o’neill, portrait of the artist as a young corpse)

7. “God should have made girls lethal when he made monsters of men.” (elisabeth hewer, wishing for birds)

8. “I think the devil doesn’t exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness.” (fyodor dostoevsky, the brothers karamazov)

[r3volutionaryb0dy]

I ran away from Home a week ago. I could feel it approaching. A miasma as naked as I came to be. Is this the time to raise children?

At times like this I think of Gurdjieff and the obvious. Geometry of ends and means to think perversely of the female figure. A sliver in thy palms for what I’ve done in mass inside this heart.This midwestern pleasantry and the taciturnity in alienation.

I’m not talking about the Book of Daniel, that clay pot, or even seals which bring about the self-righteous indignation of a God long forgotten. I speak to say that it’s time to get out while we can. But where to go?

I suppose I had better get to that piece of flesh in a box while I still can. A green hood before the time of Aries, the throb and pull from the horn in my side. I will let you comb my head—just leave my hair alone to your fingers. Survive this.

[r3volutionaryb0dy]

Happy Valentines day lover or would be lover Happy New year Happy congratulations on your book I remain your slave your wife your man your child antioedipus schizoanalysis your hair of the kiss that hit me one day we will meet our bodies collide like true songs our lips smashed up against each other then of a sudden our eyes you will go i too go saying saying we will go it's you after its you! omyg after all these years i love you it's been 3 yrs now or more i have not forgotten you are a great

our eyes

[r3volutionaryb0dy]

loved you since before time really started up, im like a bucaneer a bicycle at your feet

i submitmy will to you love love love all around t he world !

[r3volutionaryb0dy]

Perhaps that nigga Nietzsche was right to divulge himself of the “ought” in place of waters dealing with “is”. The cheap solipsism of which seems to ring true at ever-dawn in the fall. Still he casts his lantern away again. While Freud would equate to self understanding yet miss the mark completely. The point is that when flesh loves flesh and spins, it’s ok to disassociate and languish in ones pleasure even in the specters of ones memories. Then again I think I bleed my dreams better than you.

then again, i think i dream my blood better than you

[aqua-regia009]

The Passenger (Detail), 1964 - Leonor Fini

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Chelsea Wolfe in “Erde,” dir. by Virginie Khateeb

[preciousdeans]

Ave      Satanas

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

Giulietta degli spiriti (Federico Fellini, 1965)

[saintjoan]

“Romanticism is a grace, celestial or infernal, that bestows us eternal stigmata.”

— Charles Baudelaire, from ‘Le Salon de 1859′ (via malglories)

[lifeinpoetry]

I drenched my hair in gas. You wanted me to stay invisible with you. Instead I filled my pockets with rocks. I tried to burn my body like a poem.

Miranda Metelski, from “Post-Op: Mutilated Nudes,” Resisting the Book of a Woman Possessed (via lifeinpoetry)

[nemfrog]

“Description of the monsters.” The Babylonian epic of creation restored from the recently recovered tablets of Assur. 1923. 

Internet Archive

[nemfrog]

Sharp of tooth, they spare not the fang.

[soracities]

“May your body always be a beloved space for revelations.”

— Alejandra Pizarnik, from ‘Revelations’, Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972 (trans. Yvette Siegert)

[nemophilies-deactivated20190428]

What is the use of art? The answer to this question resides in a formula: “art is a prayer.” — Andrei Tarkovsky: Interviews, edited by John Gianvito Therein lies the enormous aid the work of art brings to the life of the one who must make it,—: that it is his epitome; the knot in the rosary at which his life recites a prayer, the ever-returning proof to himself of his unity and genuineness, which presents itself only to him while appearing anonymously to the outside, nameless, existing merely as necessity, as reality, as being— — Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters on Cézanne Art is a wound turned into light. — Georges Braque

[savagedefectives]