“We don’t lift weights in order to look hot, especially for the likes of men like that. What makes them think that we even WANT them to find us attractive? If you do, thanks very much, we’re flattered. But if you don’t, why do you really need to voice this opinion in the first place, and what makes you think we actually give a toss that you, personally, do not find us attractive? What do you want us to do? Shall we stop weightlifting, amend our diet in order to completely get rid of our ‘manly’ muscles, and become housewives in the sheer hope that one day you will look more favourably upon us and we might actually have a shot with you?! Cause you are clearly the kindest, most attractive type of man to grace the earth with your presence.”—
Zoe Smith, 18 year old weightlifter currently representing Great Britain at the Olympics, responding to tweets labelling her muscles “unattractive” and “unfeminine”. (via ceedling)
“There are women who inspire you with the desire to conquer them and to take your pleasure of them; but this one fills you only with the desire to die slowly beneath her gaze.”—Charles Baudelaire (via itsherfactory)
M: Dull, dull and so dull. I am left with the stinking urge to tidy the place to clean up my insides, flush and flush and again all that I create is shit and again I say it over and over, constantly you leave me in walls that I must dust and fill again with dust to prove that I am alive. Oh the dull happiness that once shook my cells. Oh dull, dull, you spectrum. Why with time do you choose to melt and suckle on the black medicine that they deliver in trucks? I can’t seem to see things with clarity any longer. I can see you, and you me, but what of it? How do I feel about myself and politics? Personal politics? But where to start, and with which person, and why for hell’s sake why! But I must not go on. Because to go on is to go in circles always, always the same disappointment on the same curve and the comfort of narrative blasted away despite the fickle existence of the line that must always draw the circle, always around always my machine will turn and turn and my organs symptomatic of the disgust I feel for the other, the hell that comes here, shakes my bowels.
(Enter M, stage right, behind the lavatory. Sits down. Is not visible.)
M: You are too violent and I’m going to leave you.
“Maybe…you’ll fall in love with me all over again.”
“Hell,” I said, “I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?”
“Yes. I want to ruin you.”
“Good,” I said. “That’s what I want too.”—Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms (via gaws)
sometimes i want to be pretty (pretty for who? pretty for me? pretty for the mirror?? i am the mirror. i worship the mirror. i obsess over the mirror. i have nightmares about the mirror. most of my life is in relation to some form of mirror. i had to go to therapy for mirrors. mirrors: a life…
I hadn’t anticipated it, but the rain has made the summer sting. Every day I wake up to the burning light let in by my shrunken curtain corners, only to turn them back and see a grey world, grey clouds, grey water. The sunshine we hoped for has been reserved for a more passionate zeitgeist, and we leave the house in hopeful shirts only to later pull the cardigans from our bags. It drones onward and sinks its forehead into the doldrum of August without even a sigh to signify anoestic regret. The sounds reverberate from the walls but nothing else, penetrating every object that didn’t move to make the sun come out. The flowers stand completely silent in the parks. Dog barks break the stillness, but only to replace it with sonorous dirt that weaves into thin scratches on the ankles of passers-by. The desire to wash, to sweat or to be enveloped in some personal manner is felt but not acted upon, and the process being slowly ripped from the product we tear off the wrapper and read nothing. My eyes stare blankly and register only the changes in light: the blind leading the weather. Even the rain no longer wets us, because we have seen it coming. The dank, disintegrating benches succumb ever faster to the pull of gravity. Aporia ruling in irony.
Ebullient Shit of the Reflection You Were Meant to Serve - as promised, the creative writing section of my dissertation
‘But this is the opposite of understanding, which starts from not accepting the world as it looks. All possibility of understanding is rooted in the ability to say no.’
And in the beginning it always manifested itself as the same thing: a whore tries to speak. Simplistic. But the hands won’t budge on that one. Much as women’s time pushes its vertebrae against us. Pulchristinous in the back starting up the engine with wires from his crown as another wave laps the burnt rubber.
It was a hot night, and I could feel my limbs already buzzing with anticipation of what their interstices would experience. Change the world, open your legs.
You could see, I suppose, something in her trembling eyes. It was hard to look past her complete lack of aesthetic invitation. The scar on her cheek from the burning acid a patron had bestowed upon her, splashed from her belly whose Rorschach test was impassable. They all came out insane. Some strange fetish then inflicted on the rest of womankind. But she wasn’t a woman. She had another smell, a stench of another element. I don’t think she spoke English. My subsequent translations may be a little forward. The dirty feminazi crushing the balls of the circumcised men, whimpering and choking in clouds of her cigarette smoke.
“The other girl is a drug to drink to your whealthy head, now.” 
‘The floors are slippery with blood: the world gyrates, too.’
“Spermicide is sewercide in the deepest recesses of the mind. He’s my father, the schizophrenic Jew-nose bastard, loved him in a sick motion of empathy I guess.” Grazing the gaze from one side to another, she looks into the camera and does not return our glance, although she appears to. It has disappeared, but what to do with the theoretically disappeared and physically present and resonant? S. mused. In all honesty, he had not found anyone so promising in months. “Fool, S., fool…” he murmured under his breath “too mechanical…” There is something unmistakably twisted and technical about a man who refers to himself by only his initial.
He tapped her open, the cap flicked, poured petrol in and careful not to drop his cigarette on the forecourt, he twisted it into her quaking, etiolated breast. It hissed less violently than he’d hoped. Said it was the last time on earth. “This,” he spoke pedagogically, “is the deficit. And this,” he picked up a jar containing sickly pale yellow liquid, unscrewed the lid and let it slop onto her flat stomach, viscous lumps gathering at her navel, “is Brian Jones.”
The yellow holocaust started to burn her skin; it turned deep scarlet.
S. had allowed himself a little gasp to fill up the sweating afternoon, bleeding and coughing into dusk. “Spoon it into your black mouth.” And even an asymmetrical cross-thread couldn’t wake you from your downer coma now.
It concertinas, signifying nothing. The void is a commodity. God is clean. God is empty. A study discovered that a woman who feels she is being ‘objectified’: subjected to the male gaze and desired, gives lower scores in verbal and non-verbal tests than a woman who has not an instant previous been subjected to this.
Dr. Sallarde. He reached around the concrete pillar and crushed her hipbone beneath his swarthy paw. The countryside had turned him ferocious, and it had been a swift change from the Southern soil to the suits and white glints of the Milano metropolis. Her body, clad in denim slithers that pressed into her flesh, white frays snaking out to meet with moles, scars, punctures, burns. Her face told the tale of prostitution with eloquent disdain. He sought to flaunt and disobey the reflections the academics had irked from him in his silent life alone with the sprawling bathos of the internet. To express in fetish metaphor the political hatred he felt welling. Man as beast or social creature had bearing on both ends of the scale. We reach Leviathan in silence, without passivity or action but through the fracture of reality, through a complete confusion. Which is sex.
Are you unaware that we are currently in a minefield? Feeling around for the clitoris here will find you armless in a minute or two. Seeking to find identity in sexuality is twofold, and that number can be painful. You decide to, you don’t. You are, you aren’t. I can’t remember where this particular narrative voice sprang from but, as is usually the case, it’s an amalgamation of all of the people that I have ever slept with. It sounds oppressive, but in reality it is I who have appropriated them, and they would never say the things I do with their discourses. The decidedly deceptive reputation of the woman answers to the paradox. The revelation that there is nothing in this world that does not eventually come full circle and that probability is key: it shall happen. And ‘when’ can only be a futile question, except for the knowledge that humanity as we know it shall one day run dry. The cocks cowering beneath the C. O. W. But to our minds, what does it matter? Except for those on the masculine redemptive social mission that excuses them forcing their biological imperative on us. Womb envy is not uncommon in the post-apocalyptic man.
Her face wasn’t a classical one, considering that the cavernous city she inhabited almost begged it of her. Anita Ekberg looks like a cane toad these days, after all. She’d made a movie earlier that morning and was gazing at it on her mobile phone, glasses propped on her forehead. She did have a name, once. Not Cherry Lux, Kitty Thumper, Suzy Suck. Pseudonyms for the lost object girl child she’d strewn with mistreatment and tossed away, composting in the dark recesses of her frontal lobe.
Let me explain first and foremost that I do not embark upon this mission in order to alleviate. This is not a metaphor. This is not a simile, because I do not enjoy wallowing in the youth culture’s appropriation of ‘like’, although it was an extremely discerning and tactical move on their part. This sex is confusion. This is the last time on earth. But not in the literal sense, you understand.
He had rented a laboratory for the purpose of continuing what he believed to be the methodical reflection and excretion of De Sade in a chemical medium. The wires took over the room, twisting back and forth, garish and clashing. There is no integration with modern technology except when carefully engineered. And the wires had been set up in haste. The presence of schizophrenia in our narrative is restrained only through necessity. We must remain to some extent on your level. Palindromic. And so forth.
Sallarde had always felt disoriented when attempting empathy. He’d considered the possibility of becoming a psychopath due to his willing adherence to suggested pathological need, but he found her compelling and was willing to let bygones be bygones in terms of social expectations in order to explore her more fervently. He squinted through the sun glare at her face: a perfect shattered mirror, lines and fractures creating static unrest on the lunar surface of her visage.
“Nothing to stop time to mean nothing to go nowhere and she reached into her pocket for a ballpoint pen in the films there ran in front of her cornea the image the insertion to jugular but his hand was firm bulging veins against brittle wrist never before been so fragile not been raised that way no queer state of mind batted off butterflies batten on cold white ceramics too class conscious, the hands that wouldn’t move. Secular question of forgotten reasons to digest, exit taken from the left exactly turn and face me, into yourself you’re not doing as you’re told you’re not- where am I?”
Just a selection. We have already made you far too aware, the information that you have already gleaned from us stinks of risk and danger, and you would do well to stop, directly. For our sake, we continue. An ancient method, you might say coyly flicking forwards, but we will only laugh when you too contract the Valentine’s Day, the empty loss after the very first deep and substantiated belief has been drawn out through any orifice it could escape from in the light of the approaching dichotomy, catastrophe, crash, chasm. Lite philosophy reaching your synapse as an object to block it forever. But don’t we know that we’re valid. Oh, don’t we. Registered, your highness. Onwards.
‘I try as hard as I can not to focus on the fact that I have an illness. That’s hard to do, I think, especially with schizophrenia because schizophrenia affects your thoughts and with me it affects my moods, too.’ She adjusted her sunglasses and slumped backwards into the plastic chair, cutting shallow shapes into the back of her drooping thighs. She felt another vocalic presence coursing through her skull, and she tried to suppress it. Not voices, just a narrative of romantic love that had been pressed into her consciousness, her own mind unable to evade it entirely. Visions of dripping Disney goddesses, vicious fathers, faded and misshapen cotton underwear flipping over the washing line in the breeze. O J Simpson, a parade float, trapped alone in the carnival.
The fair-haired boy had split his lip. No older than seven, he was a delicate, puerile skeleton, translucent skin and pale, swimming eyes reflecting his not so distant days in amniotic fluid. Having abused her body beyond repair, she had been unable to have children and for a moment she felt a stiff buzz of anxiety. A miniature stain of red was diffusing onto his tiny mouth, his face screwed in tearful symmetry. She took him by the hand and, surprised by the strength of his grip, led him to the bathroom, where she tore some tissue and dampened it, croaking in what she hoped was a reassuring tone, “Oh, don’t cry, you’ll be alright, brave boy.” When she turned around the little wet face was bewildered and blank. “You stopped crying.” She said.
“You told me to.” He replied.
She had been mutating periodically over the past weeks while she had been held in the lab. He’d locked them both in once the equipment had been set up, and the hope was that death would strike when neither of them expected it. Spontaneous. He’d been hoping to find her by chance; had been to see You’ll Never Know at the Hayward Gallery and opened up a universe of splatters and equations. He thought they were very edgy. He had bought a Jackson Pollock print last year: Number 8, 1949. Bought because he’d seen someone ejaculate over it in a film showing at a club. He’d thought the joke was wonderful, because it reflected beautifully his own misdirected postmodern cynicism masquerading as liberalism. He had heard Patti Smith’s opinion of Pollock and although he felt offended, especially since jokes about his Sicilian grandmother had escalated since the release of True Romance in which Dennis Hopper taunted Christopher Walken by suggesting that ‘Sicilians were spawned by niggers.’ Jackson Pollock was certainly white. He was confused. What right did Patti Smith have anyway, he thought- her best song in his opinion was Because the Night, a catchy, emotive tune and an immediate relative hit for her at number thirteen, co-written by The Boss himself. Sallarde liked to imagine his life narrated by The Boss, sometimes. And who could forget the record cover on the single. Patti Smith, in his opinion, had never been beautiful like she was on that cover. Mapplethorpe couldn’t milk her the way that mid-range photographer had: those come-to-bed eyes, strap sliding off her shoulder, mouth set in pout. Somehow it felt genuine, these signals superimposed onto her unlikely frame. The performance of a porn star from an unconventionally attractive woman. He liked that. It felt natural and ‘raw’. Not like those black and white photographs of things that made him feel an inherent sickness, crawling skin, a foray into a world he’d never known: that of his own sex.
YOUR LIFE CUNT ABOVE CUNT HERE CUNT DO YOU LOVE ME.
There was no death here until birth. She had chosen him. But with our knowledge of the fickle deviance of the feminine wiles, it may as well have been by chance. He believed all are innocent. She believed they are all guilty, fucked on a long string of viscous insect larvae. She’d been strung out in a bar on the Via Merulana, too upmarket for her status but when one is buying in such large quantities one must save up and she had ended up here due to a lapse in society’s conditioning. She lay back into the squashed velvet chair. It had been a menstrual study, struggle, all day. The downers had left her unable to write, except a sentence repeated like a passionless thrust: ‘Women waste blood.’
As a child she’d hated cuts and felt like she was losing part of herself; she’d made that unique portion of liquid, those pretty red dashes. Upon every injury she’d lick herself clean. But at the age of thirteen in the bathroom alone, she’d been unable to stretch down, for her obstructive ribs. And this was for no sexual purpose, although she’d known for a long time what it meant. She’d made herself into a transitional object for the purpose of growing up unscathed by the world of sex. Her second first time reeked of disappointment and internalised hope, shattered. The distance between objectifying oneself in the name of identity and the objectification of oneself by others as a sex object is often overlooked. She’d evolved to find herself objectively free from the restraints others imposed upon their orifices, appearances, desires. Utopia was not the word with which to describe it, but its ambivalence is also not to be baulked at. Nature is beautiful because it is nothing, nothing at all.
The possibility of dislocating an entire ribcage seemed slim. But Sallarde was resourceful.
There are no dead celebrities, only gods. There are no empty cunts, only complete women. There are no complete works of art. There is no art. There are no women. But men exist.
A heart, a flower, pudenda.
We’ve been missing you in the shape of a…
The epidemic has been overlooked because the act of intercourse has been normalised. We must dislocate meaning into sex. We must dislocate the body into sex. We must mutilate torture into life. We must live sex into the torture of the body. We must torture utopia.
“Women waste their blood. Blood falling from the veins the mycanthropic misanthropic endometrium that drips red into the pit. She always told you to wear red, perhaps it reminds them that you are in control, to stay the fuck away from your cunt in your mensuel season of disgust that reaps the monsoon harvest and slathers its flavour on your chin. Kali skullfucks you, peels back the lid, snatches the balls and inserts her elongated clitoris in, to reach the optic nerve, the main offender. Wrenching cries of blind white agony. She doesn’t seem to mind the blood. Squishy sensations of the heady entrails, putrid punch of vitriolic humour never before felt scientific.”
Surveys have shown that ‘cute’ websites with pictures of animals such as puppies and kittens have replaced pornography for female internet users. As a result, men have concluded that women do not enjoy sex.
She asked quietly, leaning into her cheek and thin lips, ‘Why is it,’ her breath tickled the peach, who drew air through her teeth, hurting the sections where enamel had been scraped through diligent Nixonial regard for dental hygiene, ‘that I loathe any man who loves his mother?’
‘I try to take things as slowly as I possibly can, which can be hard. Another way that I cope is I make sure that I do not hide. Especially by sleeping, which is one thing that I used to do.’ I find I can become addicted to other people and trying to get by using them. The elegant chasm in the chest the night after her first woman, the soft suggestions of her scent loitering on the bedclothes. The kiss she blew as she turned away from the tattered front door and skipped through the dust back into her own world. Sometimes we cannot afford to take up our fetish fantasies.
He leant down but her perfume stung his teeth, electric sparks flicking, buzzing against his enamel, tiny jabs and daggers. He pulled back. The wires around her were still not connected to her body, but she was evidently disappearing from view. His mind had not the time to imprint her image with all the third person complexities onto his cerebellum before she slipped into nothingness. A zip drawn through her central nervous system. He sighed dejectedly, and slumped onto the slab, head in his hands.
She screamed with acute immediacy. She had not, as he had assumed, left. Rather, she was simply not visible. The viewing of oneself as invisible to the naked vision, naked radar, is indispensable in a world where we decorate every corner, become pieces. A centrepiece, a corner piece, mantelpiece. The fragments.
He could taste the rising stink of her eyeballs, gelatinous bulbs melting into the back of the brain, where memory is futile and the foetus is king. Blank gaze. Sallarde was afraid that he, too, would lose his mind. The chronology was lost, that was certain. But he strained to seek the intimacy that must have been, had to have been; how else were they trapped in this room?
Nobody sees it the way I do. These tiny pieces, everywhere, and incomplete but broken further by anaemic members of the same society, elongated and horrific, stretched. Sat across from me on the train, an obese man in a blue polo shirt reaches into a tube of crisps, sad hollow stick, his tiny pig eyes planted close together, leaning into one another, conspiring in the layers of fat, hoping to escape. ‘Excuse me.’ Silence. Nobody lifts a finger. ‘Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me.’ I thought for the longest time in my dire monogamy that this man represented my hatred for everyone, except my lover.
I threw away my junk, last night.
‘Her mouth slowly subsides leaving me limp, just like a man.’
The problem with kitsch is that a falsification of sentiment can only get you two places, and the second is a little dull.
I said I see it, but I feel nothing. Glanced up at the holocaust and batted both eyelids without a glimmer of moisture. Took him weeks before the strobe lights wore off, the thousand flashing greens took hold on the back wall and displayed their symbols seductively. Elongated finger, greased, and it ached to break the tendons necessary to reach them. But beyond the wall, beyond- the colours wear off as day breaks. I left him behind the door.
The invisible woman wandered through the laboratory. Sallarde was stunned, silent, and had slumped into his crossed arms on the slab that she had now vacated. It was as if he could no longer distinguish her voice from those that usually plagued him, whispering through paper cups and string into his ever-gaping aural orifice. Noise slut, cad of crackles and gurgles.
“My name is Amanda.”
He had never heard her speak. The waterfall cacophony of different syllables, tones and notes overwhelmed his head. The whispers of the demons seemed to subside in reverence to the beautifully disintegrating whore mouth, crusted lips with cracks showing the depth of the dermis, pale tongue, buttercup teeth as fragile as petals. Halitosis rising to greet the bland air above, mingling and merging with it, the third image, the Genesis P-Orridge. The whole world on the avocado skin.
The dirty buzzing imbroglio of childhood abuse reverberates in the skull. The reminders of the patriarch are all around, and still it is inflicted on boys and girls alike without an eyelid moved, the emaciated children murdered on the motorways begging for tar. The Nazi buried her stiletto in his rib cage, to prevent the vicious circle, self-perpetuating omniscient god of child fuck, who knows nothing but anger and repetition.
Repetition, in many cases, is fetishisation. To be subjected to the subject perpetually, the mind must justify it and render it manageable. Fetish is the ultimate Apollo to prevent the tumescent void from consuming us whole, the Japanese oracle eats us and we clink against the sides of the tube. We would like to consume it. And for a lower price than we deserve. Exchange value cloaking use value, if it ever existed. Prospero, meet me outside in five minutes.
Mr. Crisp would inform us that tolerance arises only out of boredom. Out of a repetition so relentless that we shun it, tell it to pull out and wipe up and fuck off even if it is three in the morning what do I care, you’re just not it. If I fall into those dark brown eyes once more I’ll never come out, I’ll look like you. I want to look like myself…
“I want to look like myself.”
His ears twitched, and he could feel the blood pulsing in his eyelids. Tears fell unannounced onto his crisp cotton shirt, making tiny dark stains. He felt a welling of sadness that he couldn’t explain.
I walked back into the room and the foil on the bedside table glinted, knowingly. His head lolled. My space, his things piled up in the corner. The dragon is my tale to tell, is what I know, and is still something that I can have no true knowledge of: not the knowledge of an addict. Not like he did. I was melodramatic. But I felt it just the same. He’d tell me I can’t have been doing it right, because I didn’t get that feeling- to me it wasn’t better than an orgasm. I still had the remnants in my head of my first fuck with something that I felt, really felt, that one irretrievable moment as it, he, slid into me and the almost unbearable momentary shiver. No orgasm. Just that moment. Never again. Autistic boy, lay in his bed and told me he hated me. Handed me over to the junkie I now stared at. A series of vicissitudes because I wanted the trauma I’d read about. And here it was. The violence that keeps us from fucking.
To play you out, ladies and gentlemen, the truth. Fuck it, let’s do it live.
I never saw him inject. The worst moments were before I tried it myself. The black tar streaming downwards, billowing smoke, sucking it up. The other woman was inanimate except when he burned her from beneath. She expelled only smoke. And then I stole her. I mean, really stole her. In the final days I ransacked his bedroom and took the last rock, squirreled it back to the countryside and surreptitiously smoked it alone. Revelling in the comfort. Satisfaction. The repetition I’d never tire of.
Except that slowly, I was dying. My cells changed, becoming just echoing structures, scaffolds of the desire for the next hit. Sex wore off. I’d rub my clit raw in desperation for orgasm through a haze of illicit anaesthetic. The beauty of the drug is that it won’t tell you so. Like love it colours the world with the shadow of beauty, an equally dangerous enemy to make, and distracts you from your gentle suicide. The senses, the body, is not to be relied upon. Do not write the body. It will consume you.
My desire for myself is a desire to remove myself from the repetition, the addiction, the monogamy, the cage that I made for myself. The cage that kept me from me.
 An ingenious and innovative conversion and inversion of Jenny Holzer’s aphorism, taken from eds. Mark Sladen and Ariella Yedgar, Panic Attack! Art in the Punk Years, United Kingdom: Merrell Publishers Limited in association with Barbican Art Gallery, 2007, p. 61.
 Susan Sontag, On Photography, Great Britain: Penguin Books, 2008, p. 23.
 Julia Kristeva, Women’s Time, vol. 7, no. 1, trans. Alice Jardine and Harry Blake, Signs, United States: The University of Chicago Press, Autumn 1981, pp. 13-35.
 This fiction has quotations from various academic and creative sources embedded. I have used the following conventions to distinguish these quotations from dialogue: ‘’ denotes a quotation, “” denotes speech.
 Ed. George Walter, The Penguin Book of First World War Poetry, United Kingdom: Penguin Books, 2006, p. 193.
La dolce vita, dir. Federico Fellini, Pathé Consortium Cinéma, 1960.
I'm writing a play! I have never done this before. I don't have a title yet.
(M is stationary on lavatory, stage right. Lavatory is white. Stage is dark. There is a window to his left with a white, semi-opaque curtain covering it. The side nearest M is lifted slightly, allowing a shaft of light to penetrate the dinge. Enter A.)
M: Ah, love is a precipice; torn away from the landmass it wreaks havoc on the heavens and looms upon the ‘neath. It sways and quivers and yet has no discernable edge from which to tumble, a neat point both hazardous in height and comforting in its connections with the earth.
A: Do stop shitting and get off the pot, you two-tongued fool.
M: I believe the saying goes, ‘Shit or get off the pot.’ Therefore, as per you, it is my God-given right, nay, my idiomatic right, nay, my very humanely bestowed traditional duty to continue as I flow. How dare you impeach me!
A: I merely cut your flow, dissect and slice it as the case may be, you Freudian simpleton. In fact, through my cleaving of your shit in twain, I may well have sparked a creation hitherto unimagined by your serpent brain.
M: Well, I say, two-tongued serpent. And do you say that my tongue is cloven in twain in equal measure to the shit that you vicariously sliced through the spasms in my sphincter when I hear the grating shards of your tweeting tones?
A: I say that. That is what I say.
M: Well then you compare two orifices quite unlike one another, and hence you are the idiomatic idiot. Such symbolism, indeed- how shameful. (Exerts a sonorous bowel movement)
“To me, sex positivity means recognizing “difference” as the norm. Sex positivity not only embraces a wide diversity of sexual orientations gender expressions, desires, and bodies, but also embraces sexual fluidity. By validating experiences, desires, and normalizing traditionally marginalized sexualities, sex positive work can undo structural violence caused by issues of racism, sexism, transphobia, etc.”—
Gopika, CSPH Website Content and Management Intern Summer 2012
[Part of our weekly Sex Positive Saturday series! Visit http://thecsph.tumblr.com for more, or to submit your own definitions.]
“Do not think that one has to be sad in order to be militant, even though the thing one is fighting is abominable. It is the connection of desire to reality (and not its retreat into the forms of representation) that possesses revolutionary force.”—
Michael Foucault, Preface to Anti-Oedipus
I would just EAT this book if it wouldn’t impede my reading of it.
Mergale is half hard again- another taste, further down
Mergale breathed out as she closed the door behind her. She wasn’t his usual type of woman- his usual type, we have observed, would be the BBC weather girl with perhaps a slightly shorter skirt- but her soft and subservient demeanour was appealing. He knew so little about her that he was able to construct her background through projections. Her chiffon blouse allowing a glimpse of skin beneath made him fantasise about her home; it would be a terraced house, perhaps South of the river, a neutral kitchen of course but her bedroom would be bathed in pale blue, translucent curtains shivering if she left the window open at night. Perhaps she wore a slip to bed, but a black one, and she’d stand out against her gentle décor: a femme fatale without the peur du morte. Perfect. Interior design had always been a passion of Mergale’s. That and cowardice.
Oh, something. I don't know, what are you even doing here? Go away. Go on, fuck off. That's right.
Took me five minutes to break through the door. I’ve got sharp elbows. Thought about grabbing the critter as I was hoping at some point to take measures against my crippling allergy to cat. Can’t fulfil all my stereotypes. Not one for a long introduction, but I can tell you my life story. Take about three doors, I guess. Dark kitchen, blood rushing through my fingers, touching the glinting crockery in the moonlight dulled by cloud cover. Stunned that I got back in, after a year. The arrangement of the room is still familiar to me, I realise. The kettle has moved. Table cluttered. Perhaps the tiles are the same colour, perhaps not. The damage I did has long since been covered up. I watched as they sanded and repainted the door. Replaced the ceramics. They got someone in to do the oven. He’s probably asleep upstairs. Probably still thinks about it from time to time. I walk uneasily to a glass-fronted cabinet and retrieve a mug with cartoon mice on it. I fill it from the tap. Sip at the edge, then gulp. It’s been a long walk. Few bouts of running to still the adrenaline. I feel high, self-aware; my hands are sweating, gripping too hard, trying to feel everything. It’s tempting to go into the rest of the house. But I don’t want to spread myself too thinly. It’s my first try. I sit in one of the wooden chairs and gaze out of the window, through the climbing plants and over their fence. Such a lovely house, and garden. I remember lying on the kitchen floor here, last year. Idolatry is a sin. The cat is in the corner, I can see a shadow of its fur jagged against the floor. I become obsessed by the idea that if I can just assimilate it then perhaps my allergy will be cured. Just as I stand up to attempt this, I hear a creak from above. I freeze. Someone is awake. Perhaps they heard me. Perhaps they can hear me now.
I can’t express the torture of the word. The awful wrenching of the gut as another line of communication is severed before it is even created. The narrative is almost dead. We have seen to it. But it lingers of course in its old form, licking the eyeballs of the dulled. And I am not insulting them, because I am dulled, but I am guilty, I feel the guilt, the incorrect, the Bible’s pain. You can see it in the dust jackets, peeling and tearing at the edges, the environment desperate to the merge with the inside. At the end of the corridor in the library is a steaming puddle of excrement, vomit. I threw up and out. Tear out all the books and they’ll make more. Burn all the books and their minds will rot. Write more and their minds will fester, construct, construct- build, order, put it in the right order, introduction content conclusion, starve to death. The worst thing is that some of it is seen as irrelevant. But even that has been seen to. Even the filthiest paradox has been dragged into the narrative. Nothing left beyond the spectacle, and if it is, well, we expect it. We can see both ends of every binary, everything a great big circle in the pulsating mass of time and narrative, time and narrative over and over without exception or escape except the experience itself, which will forever mean we are in pain. No way to represent, and even the word itself is sheer blasphemy, even to the lowest expression: I want. I hurt. I shall, do, will, am. Only that words will once every so often create an experience or a riot. A vote. To make sense, to exclude, to babble; what can these things mean, now? Sense being only assumed, at best. Exclusion being only performed, at best. Babbling being only a sign of life, at best. Just this. And the problem with the public ongoing, of course, because it comes down to politics in the end. Personal. So why not nonsense?
What is the longest piece of fiction that you've written?
Well, I’m not really one for writing huge tomes- my longest completed fiction to date as far as I can remember is 4000 words- it’s a pornography in the etymological sense, I’ll post it soon. I have one in the works that’s coming up to 6000 but it’s very, very fragmented and even looking at it at the moment makes me tired..! I’m currently working on one that’s about 2000 words long, not sure how long it will become but I do try to keep things short at the moment- being aware that I’m an inexperienced writer and in need of practise, I like writing short things so I can evolve more quickly. Or at least hop off the metaphorical bus before it careens into the metaphorical swamp, if you catch my metaphorical drift. Thank you for asking!