Or if you prefer hardcover,
THE APOTHEOSIS OF MY RELIGIOUS ADVENTURE: THE READING. NOW ENCODED, LIKE A ROSETTA STONE, AND AVAILABLE AT LULU.
Like the Friends of Design albums, something spiritual I’m proud of having participated in.
Constellations over a billion universes, each star a role played
And you, Sally:
Your inner eye, behind each star, behind each role played
Behind every motive, every complex of light, every darkness negated
Behind every tear I shed, each vanity I indulge,
And every act of anxiety most profane
And every momentary lapse into supreme peace
It is you, Sally, you:
Your inner eye, your maternal depth, your virgin wants, your holy scent,
Your drunken love,
Your yogic privilege,
Though constellations emerge and fade, across a billion births and a billion deaths,
Between the atoms of each ego puzzle,
Between the children we make, between the adults we become,
Reality over illusion,
Sadness, darkened doubt,
Truth stands over the city’s lie,
Because you graced me with truth,
And I remember every word you uttered
I now cling to your existence, your possibility, your reality
The purest daughter of the absent holy,
My sacred, sacred mourning,
Grace me with the truth of the city,
Grace me again.
God departs, and it feels like the world,
He contracts, and it feels like the city,
I’m annulled because it feels like the people we know,
The journeys we take, the lies we speak, the incoherence of our deeds.
God’s left, leaving nothing of himself,
But for the reality we inhabit,
But for the blindness of our wandering.
Yet within that reality, there’s broken me,
And there are sweet instances,
Truth in the companion,
Remembered like a prayer,
The remembered companion,
The remembered instances,
That comprise a divine life.
Rainbow envelope, crying soul, smile, smile … face the camera, perfect, yes, you’re perfect again, launched immediately into cididelic deception, fully equipped with her ambiguities, with her codes so casted, with her racial rulings so ruthless, and so easily, cinematically, the alien falls. Salary man and the ghetto beauty, down at the meat packing district.
- This your first hook up in the city?
- my first on this trip?
- ha, that’s what he says? Like that, huh?
There she leads him, sensitive to his needs, the complete experience.
Oh but she’s no good at reading older men, she’s out of her depth. Look here, now he’s curled up in fetal position, he’s freaking out and overdosed on his own poisonous religion.
- they checked him out, for irregularities. but he was clean. It was the stress that did it. fuck, it could have been me. Oh fuck, It could have been me.
Waaah! Boo hoo! Oh the existential indignity of it all!
- let it all out, you’ll feel better.
- fuck, I’m sorry.
Consolation after his wrists are slit. Consolation after all is said and done: jerking off to that amazing body, writhing, shaking that ass like a mother fucker whoo! Consolation after his wrists are slit. Look at em titties bounce.
- juicy clit.
- imma dominant.
- I’m so into you.
She leaves. Leaves me to take that final, faceless leap.
With his mind thus annulled, loving, lustful and lost, I’m still so into you. But this isn’t doing me any good. It’s not.
to engage your empathy
just close the door to love
lost cause from up above
each memory of you
stay calm discordant view
from blackness we are made
and touches fade away
by the horizon
by the boundary
by the street and by the sound
my path is coming down
my path is coming down
oedipus/mother/father is a negative upper sephirotic trinity. speech about freedom — followed by the high religious messianic fantasy, spoken by chorus in sophocles.
disruption virus notes
the oedipus complex, the psychoanalytic complex, is as much a drama as the sophocles text, and vice versa. it’s the movements named by the complex that are significant: each movement a symbolic function that predicates the unfolding of human consciousness.
1) control. the mind is control. the father and mother are imaginary.
2) reading. control and the city — emerges/returns the priest/oracle function. the prophetic text is a disruption virus: the oracle injects a disruption virus into the mind’s textual stream.
3) paranoia of the text/complex. the prophecy/disruption virus is the complex itself: self-referenced. the agents within the complex therefore become gradually aware of their embedding within the complex, as the disruption virus unfolds. the prophecy/virus/complex itself is not some spiritual metaphor (e.g., that the city of consciousness needs to be cleansed of the ego-as-filth) — the complex is a confrontation/threat function, wherein the raw, physical, biological Real is faced.
(when i myself read religious prophecies, it irritated me that there were many prophecies that didn’t speak in abstract, general spiritual terms, but rather in very specific, individual, physical and personal modes, from the perspective of the prophet: god, not speaking about the nature of enlightenment, but instead speaking specifically about the prophet’s political or domestic problems, or about basic biological sexual/dietary/hygiene tips. i’d attempt to translate these into metaphors — existentials into universals. this is because the prophecy was really about one man’s body, not about humanity: this threatened me like the complex threatens, threatening me with the real, biological, pleasure/pain, shit-and-cum essence of things.)
in this way, the complex as a virus instigates a shift from the imaginary mother and father to the symbolic mother and father. note that these are tangible, but are not proxies for the Real mother and father.
the symbolic father and mother are not symbolic of their Real counterparts. they are symbols without referents, symbolic functions that predicate over symbology, not over Reality. the symbols written and recited by the performance of sophocles play, by the subject’s reading of freud’s text. yet their threat, as a disruption virus, is very much Real, and is felt as much by them as it is by the Reading Oedipus.
the text’s father/phallus is not the one who threatens as the archetype of patricide, but the text/complex-as-phallus is what threatens as
…. ah okay, i’ve lost my chain of thought. publish.
“The electric stupidity of my ego flow isn’t something I’m enough of a writer to inject into narrative. The reality of my position – this blunt, naked reality – I’m a clumsy filmmaker, can’t grasp the awful selfishness of its cinematography.
“If you were to recite the true tafsir of my false doctrine, you’d apostatize yourself from me right away. It hits you like a Freudian brick to the face, this penultimate existence: creepy, needy, grasping, greedy, slimy, sleezy, aggressive, tired and cynical, nothing-better-to-say, fat and old … Moi!”
Pub then m and s 13 year onna tube back home
It’s comfort: comfort baby.
Shame and triumph understand wired prerogative you gnosis shit why you love me? Years ago and middle age and middle age …
It’s a comfort: comfort bitch
Capital I detonated I and fucked and loose canon I India shit whereas the m and s I a 13 year slowed, deadened, self-deprecating I, palliacio I, dead inside I somnambulant monster …
Show me. Show me.
You vile thing. Such a vile thing. Oooh, such a vile thing.