Chief of Police: You liar. You’ve got secret peep-holes in every wall. Every partition, every mirror, is rigged. In one place, you can hear the sighs, and another the echo of the moans. You don’t need me to tell you that brothel tricks are mainly mirror tricks… But I’ll make my image detach itself from me. I’ll make it penetrate into your studios, force its way in, reflect, and multiply itself. Irma, my function weighs me down. Here, it will appear to me in the blazing light of pleasure and death. (Musingly) Of death.
Irma: you must keep killing, my dear George.
The Chief of Police: I do what I can, I assure you people fear me more and more.
Irma: not enough. You must plunge into darkness, into shit and blood. (With sudden anguish) And must kill whatever remains of our love.
Chief of Police: (curtly) Everything’s dead.
Irma: that’s a fine victory. So you’ve got to kill what’s around you.
Chief of Police (very irritated): I repeat: I do what I can to prove to the nation that I am a leader, a lawgiver, a builder…
Irma (uneasily): your raving. Or else you really do expect to build an empire. In which case you’re raving.
Chief of Police (with conviction): when the rebellion’s been put down, and put down by me, when I have the Nation behind me and been appealed to by The Queen, nothing can stop me. Then, and only then, will you see who I now am! (musingly) Yes, my dear, I want to build an empire… So that the empire will, in exchange, build me…
Irma:… A tomb.
#jeangenet #genet
In a dream I had recently I could see Tilde just as she was, not draped weightless upon an ICU bed, but here still, living below, just as hardy and hoary as ever, drawing sustenance from the underworld. Gnawing tubers, tapping roots for their sugared water, light channeled down through the filaments of her groove, the python-patterned trunks of her miraculous trees.
That’s not quite true, about it coming in a dream. It’s an image summoned up in broad daylight-lucid, sober-and seeming no more implausible than anything else.
I could come right out and ask her, ask Tilde:
Are we in the Before or the After?
“Is it possible that we thought we had to retrieve what happened before we were born? Is it possible that every one of us would have to be reminded that he had his origin in all who have gone before, that consequently he contains this past and has nothing to learn from those who assert that their knowledge is greater?”
#rilke #rainiermariarilke #maltelauridsbrigge
“Sometimes she was seized with hallucinations and thought she was buried in some vault together with a lot of pop it like corpses, which nodded their heads and move their legs and arms when you pulled the strings.”
#emilezola
The wonderful and industrious @beckylaverty made a fancy zine with its heart in the underground. I wrote a poem inside…here is a bit of it. The zine is packed full of great things by great people. Get one at @slowpokeonline
“There’s a place beyond words where experience first occurs to which I always want to return. I suspect that whenever I articulate my thoughts or translate my impulses into words, I am betraying the real thoughts and impulses which remain hidden.”
#thepaintedbird #jerzykosinski
“It is strange that we had to wait for the dreams of colonized people in order to see that, on the vertices of the pseudo triangle, mommy was dancing with the missionary, daddy was being fucked by the tax collector, while the self was being beaten by a white man. It is precisely this pairing of the parental figures with agents of another nature, they’re locking embrace similar to that of wrestlers, that keeps the triangle from closing up again, from being valid in itself, and from claiming to express or represent this different nature of the agents that are in question in the unconscious itself. When Frantz Fanon encounters a case of persecution psychosis linked to the death of the mother, he first asks himself if he has “to deal with an unconscious guilt complex following the death of the mother, as Freud had described in the Morning and Melancholia.” But he soon learns that the mother has been killed by a French soldier, and that the subject himself has murdered the wife of a colonist whose disemboweled ghost perpetually appears before him, carrying along with it and tearing apart the memory of the mother. It could always be said that these extreme situations of war trauma, of colonization, of dire poverty, and so on, are unfavorable to the construction of the Oedipal apparatus- and that it is precisely because of this that these situations favor a psychotic development or explosion – but we have a strong feeling that the problem lies elsewhere. Apart from the fact that a certain degree of comfort found in the bourgeoisie family is admittedly necessary to turn out oedipalized subjects, the question of knowing what is actually invested in the comfortable conditions of a supposedly normal or normative Oedipus is pushed still further into the background.”
#antioedipus #deleuze #deleuzeandguattari #guattari
Only he whose bright lyre
has sounded in shadows
may, looking onward, restore
his infinite praise.
Only he who has eaten
poppies with the dead
will not lose ever again
the gentle chord.
Though the image upon the pool
often grows dim:
Know and be still.
Inside the Double World
all voices become
eternally mild.
Threadsuns is playing a show tomorrow night (Wednesday) with @swamp.cow and @__undulation__ at @babayagaseattle
It’s hosted by the wonderful folks at @nwterrorfest@hierophant_booking and @fireinthemountains
I’ve been meticulously rehearsing one song and plan to record it in the days following. I’m hoping it can capture and somehow convey the irrationality of a dream into a linear, somewhat rational storyline. Please come to see if I can pull it off!
