the autogeography of a no/body

Oct 12


Silence doesn’t exist.  Everything just keeps happening, in my head, in my body, all around me.  It’s so noisy here.  I’m a victim of my own consciousness, or inconsequentialness, or, or, or … the words have already gone.  My brain is intransigent.  My thoughts are fugitives.  My ideas suffer from chronic erosion.  I’m working at the rock face but there are no gems.

My head, my thinks, they’re fissured, constantly deteriorating, or petrifying (I’m petrified, like stone, like a kid in a corner when there’s nowhere left to go), or liquefying (like a photoshop effect, or garbage kept too long), or coagulating (like an unwelcome menstruation that starts when I’m sleeping and crusts itself around my sex).  Words rot.  Meat.  Bad meat.  Love.  Bad love.  Trash everywhere.

‘The real pain,’ he said, he said from his bed, which wasn’t so far from her grave, ‘Is to feel one’s thoughts shift within oneself’.  He didn’t mean change and move and develop.  No.  He was talking about the ravaging stupor, when words become knives, or falsettos that reach a clamouring pitch, until intuition itself is convulsed and frothing.

I can’t posses them, thoughts, words, they’re elusively inchoate, mortarhate, more to hate … Knowledge must explode in the reader’s mind.  I have a recipe for a car bomb.  Knowledge must violate the self protective distance between reader and text.  Has anyone got a gun?  Do you ever think the unthinkable?

He said, that time I saw him, puking and shivering, ‘We are born, we live, we die in an environment of lies’.  I want to rebel.  I cannot stand these lacerated perceptions, these scrapings of my soul.  How do you do this?  How do you fabricate and elucidate and communicate?  I can’t do this.

My conscious aggregate is broken.  There is no cast, there are no pins, no analgesic, nothing that can eviscerate or repair.  I’m stuck here, with my sandy thoughts and vacuous words, inhabited by incomplete abortions, strangulated by the tight bands of ‘Yes’, ‘No’, or ‘Don’t know’. 

I wish to be a dissident, from my madness, from my work, in my madness, in my work, but madness, suffering and silence evade co-option – what does that even mean?  That doesn’t make sense.  Is that necessary?  Sense and Sensibility.  Damn you Jane Austen.  Name dropping, not good.

‘I have decided,’ said the woman with the coffee coloured hair and the coffee coloured skin and the coffee smelling breath, ‘That I shall not be performing this evening.’  Who the hell are you?  Fuck off.

I was bent on my knees, and I thought he would turn to face me, but instead he presented his arse.  Goldfish.  Go away.  Go Away.  GO AWAY.

‘A true man has no sex,’ he’s looking at me over his shoulder, his testicles are swinging like a mountain goat’s, ‘He ignores this hideousness, this stupefying sin’.  If he farted now I could see the wrinkle of his anus project a word. 
‘You’re talking through your arse again.’
‘And you’re listening.’

Riviere talks about ‘The blessed opacity of experience,’ how lovely.  I wonder if he could strike me blind.  ‘Hello, I’m eyeless in Gaza,’ but that’s all some great analogy for something I’ve never read and probably wouldn’t understand.

Fuck, I love this lash of madness.  We’re the heroes you know, the blind and insane.  We’re the martyrs of thought, stranded at the point of extreme social distinction.  We know so much truth that society takes its revenge on us …

I don’t know what else to say.  I’m going to get stinking drunk and piss in the garden.