— This article had a lot of things in it that bothered me and this article sort of helped me articulate what those things were. I don’t agree with either 100%, but there’s something in the simple-mindedness of the way Haig states his arguments that rubs me the wrong way. People should read what makes them happy, without question; people should also try to grow and learn and challenge themselves. For some reason that idea seems to take a lot of heat.
This is the piece of writing I had exhibited at the Journeyed Many Miles show last night. The spacing is a little fucked up in a couple of parts for some reason and Tumblr won’t let me fix it, which I apologize for.
I don’t know what’s happened to all of you down at central command-it’s been months since I’ve received a transmission from Abe-but I think that we can safely call the Aquarius project an insoluble failure. I’ve been lost out here since June, what would have been June back on Earth. I have no idea where I am. I never did, really: who could know exactly where one is in the middle of space, in the thick of all this emptiness? I guess what I mean to say is that now not even the computer knows where I am.
I’m sorry if this is rambling. I know we’re supposed to keep these transmissions short but I don’t think any of you are reading this anyway, and seeing as how I plan to kill myself as soon as I’m done writing it I’m going to indulge myself a little bit on this one. The 250 character limit is, unfortunately, somewhat unconducive towards crafting a respectable suicide note-I shudder to think of my last words as being received in the manner of a woebegone sequence of Tweets. At least there will soon be little reason to worry about it.
I’ll be honest with you, I’m sick as a bitch of outer space. We speak ceaselessly of the perfect beauty of creation but God is not an architect, He is a packrat and a slob. You cannot begin to imagine the sheer unthinkable number of functionless things out here, the nothing dividing nothing dividing big hunks of iron ore which then divide more nothing. Space is an art gallery without any paintings of note and the one or two acceptable pieces are by artists who clearly never learned how to draw feet.
I wasn’t able to express this when it happened since I still wanted to respect the “keep it short” rule for these things, God knows why, but I never appreciated that there wasn’t some kind of crematory or anything on board. I had to jettison Jake’s corpse out with the garbage. He was buried in space, embalmed in salmon juice. The finest explorer the world has ever known was received by Heaven like a stray dog choked by a plastic bag. I don’t know why it didn’t cross the mind of any of the geniuses that built this thing that should one of us die out here he might want to pass over with a semblance of dignity.
I must admit that I have no legitimate claim to outrage, however. That’s one of the reasons I took this job to begin with, after all-I wanted to be far away from the ways of men, far away from anything resembling a normal human obligation. And that’s certainly what a funeral is; it’s an inescapable part of the human tradition and the fact that that wasn’t even factored into this trip isn’t something that should have bothered me as much as it did. It should have made me a little happy, even. But I supposed what I realized, watching Jake’s carcass wash away into the ether, is that I am and will unto death be tethered to humanity. I’m still eating food. I’m sitting in a chair someone built as I write this. I’m still working a job, earning a paycheck (well, I would be if I were coming back to Earth, anyway, which I’m not). I’m still thinking about Melissa. Everything still matters, all these parts of being a person. I’m just not as close to them as I used to be. I’m as far from them as anyone in history’s ever been, as a matter of fact. And still they follow me; still they define me.
I wanted so badly for this to work. You’ll never understand how badly I wanted this to work. I wanted me and Jake to be the first guys to talk to space men, or the first to walk on a planet with running rivers and soft grass. But there’s nothing out here like that; you wouldn’t find it if you searched for 100,000 years and gazed from the perch of heaven itself. I lost what I wanted before I got what I needed, and now I am going to die. I know that seems backwards, but if there is one thing I have learned out here it is that necessity is supplicant to desire. Meeting an alien matters a more than eating. Telling Melissa I love her matters more than waking up. A building doesn’t need plumbing or tables or people inside of it to call itself a building, but that’s a building that only the rats would find a use for. There’s a word for those kinds of buildings, as a matter of fact, and that word is “derelict.” That’s what you are without the things you want. That’s what I am.
I can’t blame the hollow of space for my present condition. Space had nothing to do with me being like this. There’s no fixing me, no salvation for me in either the womb of the cosmos or the therapist’s arm chair. I have this recurring fantasy that this whole project was concocted by a secret committee just to get me the hell away from everyone else. “This guy’s a real asshole, how can we get him to quit pissing everyone off once and for all without going to jail?” “Well, Bill, there’s this neat little rocket I’ve been tinkering with, you see…”
I miss Melissa, but she was gone from my life before I came up here. Melissa is not what is at issue. There is not one thing that is at issue. It is all at issue. Indigestion is at issue. The price of gas in India is at issue. My skin is at issue. The facts override my desires in the grand scheme of cosmic importance, perhaps, but my thoughts count for as much as my actions, always. Truth counts for nothing in life. Your government, your teachers, your parents, your friends and your lovers tell that to you every day.
You know the Hindu concept of Kali Yuga, right, the notion that we’re living in the final age, the age of corruption and decay? Do you think it’s any kind of coincidence that according to scripture the age of Kali Yuga happened to start right at the beginning of civilization, about 3500 years ago? Ancient minds believed that we were living in the worst of times, the rotting times, before they even had any other era to compare them to. We have always in our bones carried with us the understanding that atrophy is the only force in the universe. Hope itself could be said to be the rapid dissolution of despair.
I’m not explaining this well, am I? I’m reminded of a quote from Tropic of Capricorn: “I say I am thinking of her but the truth is that I am dying a stellar death. I am lying there like a sick star, waiting for the light to go out.” I am not thinking only of Melissa when I say that I miss her. I am thinking of all of them, all through life. I am thinking of the Dominican teller at my local bank as much as I am thinking of the little girl who sat a row behind me at my father’s second wedding, back when I was eight years old. I am thinking of both of these women and what they represent to me at least as much as I am thinking of Melissa; I have simply attached Melissa’s name to the space they occupy in my mind. They are legion now; they form a presence far stronger than myself. The things that matter succumbs to the things that don’t and then they all fall away to nothing, they all take residence in the same void. Addition by subtraction by negation, forever.
I think maybe there has been some radio interference from all the way out here in the dead of space and that is why you have not been receiving my transmissions. I think it is equally likely that none of you like me and haven’t been replying at all out of resentment, or that the whole earth is dead and your burning bodies haven’t the life in them to type out a response. I have no way of ever knowing. What I die thinking is going to become the truth, if only for an instant, if only through the eyes of one man. In this sense you could say that I am finally, ultimately, triumphing over nature’s uncaring. I do not even think I will decompose as my corpse lingers in the cosmos. They will get nothing from me. I am going to slip through God’s fingers and there is not going to be anything He can do about it.
This will be the last you hear of me, if it goes through, if you’re still there. I’m sending you my love, if you want it. If you don’t, it dies with me. In any case, if you ever feel hopeless or alone, don’t look to the sky for comfort, for I am sealed there behind it, and I have nothing more to say to you.
And she had a vision, a vision of evil. Or not strictly a vision. She became aware of evil, evil, evil, rolling in great waves over the earth. Always she had thought there was no such thing—only a mere negation of good. Now, like an ocean to whose surface she had risen, she saw the dark-grey waves of evil rearing in a great tide.
And it had swept mankind away without mankind’s knowing. It had caught up the nations as the rising ocean might lift the fishes, and was sweeping them on in a great tide of evil. They did not know. The people did not know. They did not even wish it. They wanted to be good and to have everything joyful and enjoyable. Everything joyful and enjoyable: for everybody. This was what they wanted, if you asked them.
But at the same time, they had fallen under the spell of evil. It was a soft, subtle thing, soft as water, and its motion was soft and imperceptible, as the running of a tide is invisible to one who is out on the ocean. And they were all out on the ocean, being borne along in the current of the mysterious evil, creatures of the evil principle, as fishes are creatures of the sea.
There was no relief. The whole world was enveloped in one great flood. All the nations, the white, the brown, the black, the yellow, all were immersed, in the strange tide of evil that was subtly, irresistibly rising. No one, perhaps, deliberately wished it. Nearly every individual wanted peace and a good time all round: everybody to have a good time.
But some strange thing had happened, and the vast mysterious force of positive evil was let loose. She felt that from the core of Asia the evil welled up, as from some strange pole, and slowly was drowning earth.
It was something horrifying, something you could not escape from. It had come to her as in a vision, when she saw the pale gold belly of the stallion upturned, the hoofs working wildly, the wicked curved hams of the horse, and then the evil straining of that arched, fish-like neck, with the dilated eyes of the head. Thrown backwards, and working its hoofs in the air. Reversed, and purely evil.
She saw the same in people. They were thrown backwards, and writhing with evil. And the rider, crushed, was still reining them down.
What did it mean? Evil, evil, and a rapid return to the sordid chaos. Which was wrong, the horse or the rider? Or both?
She thought with horror of St. Mawr, and of the look on his face. But she thought with horror, a colder horror, of Rico’s face as he snarled “Fool!” His fear, his impotence as a master, as a rider, his presumption. And she thought with horror of those other people, so glib, so glibly evil.
What did they want to do, those Manby girls? Undermine, undermine, undermine. They wanted to undermine Rico, just as that fair young man would have liked to undermine her. Believe in nothing, care about nothing: but keep the surface easy, and have a good time. Let us undermine one another. There is nothing to believe in, so let us undermine everything. But look out! No scenes, no spoiling the game. Stick to the rules of the game. Be sporting, and don’t do anything that would make a commotion. Keep the game going smooth and jolly, and bear your bit like a sport. Never, by any chance, injure your fellow-man openly. But always injure him secretly. Make a fool of him, and undermine his nature. Break him up by undermining him, if you can. It’s good sport.
The evil! The mysterious potency of evil. She could see it all the time, in individuals, in society, in the press. There it was in socialism and Bolshevism: the same evil. But Bolshevism made a mess of the outside of life, so turn it down. Try fascism. Fascism would keep the surface of life intact, and carry on the undermining business all the better. All the better sport. Never draw blood. Keep the hemorrhage internal, invisible.
And as soon as fascism makes a break—which it is bound to, because all evil works up to a break—then turn it down. With gusto, turn it down.
Mankind, like a horse, ridden by a stranger, smooth-faced, evil rider. Evil himself, smooth-faced and pseudo-handsome, riding mankind past the dead snake, to the last break.
Mankind no longer its own master. Ridden by this pseudo-handsome ghoul of outward loyalty, inward treachery, in a game of betrayal, betrayal, betrayal. The last of the gods of our era, Judas supreme!
People performing outward acts of loyalty, piety, self-sacrifice. But inwardly bent on undermining, betraying. Directing all their subtle evil will against any positive living thing. Masquerading as the ideal, in order to poison the real.
Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death, multiply itself million upon million, rear up city upon city, save every parasite alive, until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror. But go on saving life, the ghastly salvation army of ideal mankind. At the same time secretly, viciously, potently undermine the natural creation, betray it with kiss after kiss, destroy it from the inside, till you have the swollen rottenness of our teeming existences. But keep the game going. Nobody’s going to make another bad break, such as Germany and Russia made.
Two bad breaks the secret evil has made: in Germany and in Russia. Watch it! Let evil keep a policeman’s eye on evil! The surface of life must remain unruptured. Production must be heaped upon production. And the natural creation must be betrayed by many more kisses, yet. Judas is the last God, and, by heaven, the most potent.
But even Judas made a break: hanged himself, and his bowels gushed out. Not long after his triumph.
Man must destroy as he goes, as trees fall for trees to rise. The accumulation of life and things means rottenness. Life must destroy life, in the unfolding of creation. We save up life at the expense of the unfolding, till all is full of rottenness. Then at last we make a break.
What’s to be done? Generally speaking, nothing. The dead will have to bury their dead, while the earth stinks of corpses. The individual can but depart from the mass, and try to cleanse himself. Try to hold fast to the living thing, which destroys as it goes, but remains sweet. And in his soul fight, fight, fight to preserve that which is life in him from the ghastly kisses and poison-bites of the myriad evil ones. Retreat to the desert, and fight. But in his soul adhere to that which is life itself, creatively destroying as it goes: destroying the stiff old thing to let the new bud come through. The one passionate principle of creative being, which recognises the natural good, and has a sword for the swarms of evil. Fights, fights, fights to protect itself. But with itself, is strong and at peace."
— D.H. Lawrence, St. Mawr
Porn is about male fantasy. The fantasy is that women like everything you do to them, as man.
So how does this translate into real life? Women spend a lot of time and energy trying to please men. We learn early on that we are being looked at – that we are to be looked at. That we are performers. It took years before I actually started enjoying sex. YEARS. I think what I enjoyed most about sex, when I was younger, was the feeling of being desired. The actual sex part was super boring for the first while.
We learn, as girls and women, that the performance is more important than the actual feeling."
goddamn this is the truth.
so accurate, goddamnit.
Certainly women bare the brunt of social sexual politics, but I don’t think a lot of this article applies only to women, and would say that a lot of these feelings of inadequacy are rampant across both sexes. That last sentence in particular strikes me as being as gender-neutral as they come when it comes to generational bedroom problems. I’ve experienced that feeling myself and talked to a few guys (the few I’m comfortable talking in-depth to about their sex lives) who’ve gone through exactly the same thing. Also, while people are certainly influenced by pornography in the bedroom and will do things out of an obligation to “sexiness” all too frequently, I don’t think anyone actually comes around to enjoying a particular sexual act just because they saw a lot of it in porn; in that regard the author is misguided in her critique of that “my orgasms are a politics-free zone” statement. There are valuable things to think about here but none of them seem terribly well realized.
I know how obnoxious it is to have some yahoo going BUT WHAT ABOUT THE MEN when articles like these are circulated but I think that this issue, in particular, is one that needs to be recognized and attacked in both genders if it’s going to be put to rest.
As an aside, I hate how every article being these days is written in Tumblr-Speak, even at places like The Atlantic. I understand that you’re trying to relate to your audience but…try a little harder. You can do better than writing statements in all-caps and adding “guys” to the end of your sentences.
[I’ve been ranting too much about sex articles recently]
I mean if you suck at making comics, yeah, I can totally see that
In the canonical bible the apostle Judas betrays Jesus in exchange for money by using a kiss to identify him leading to Jesus’ arrest. This apocryphal tale explains that the reason Judas used a kiss, specifically, is because Jesus had the ability to change shape. “Then the Jews said to Judas: How shall we arrest him [Jesus], for he does not have a single shape but his appearance changes. Sometimes he is ruddy, sometimes he is white, sometimes he is red, sometimes he is wheat coloured, sometimes he is pallid like ascetics, sometimes he is a youth, sometimes an old man…” This leads Judas to suggest using a kiss as a means to identify him. If Judas had given the arresters a description of Jesus he could have changed shape. By kissing Jesus, Judas tells the people exactly who he is.
This understanding of Judas’ kiss goes way back. “This explanation of Judas’ kiss is first found in Origen [a theologian who lived A.D. 185-254],” van den Broek writes. In his work, Contra Celsum, the ancient writer Origen stated that “to those who saw him [Jesus] he did not appear alike to all.”"
#holographic christmatrix #shapeshifting ancient astronauts
The Passion Considered as an Uphill Bicycle Race
by Alfred Jarry (1896)
Barabbas, slated to race, was scratched.
Pilate, the starter, pulling out his clepsydra or water clock, an operation which wet his hands unless he had merely spit on them — Pilate gave the send-off.
Jesus got away to a good start.
In those days, according to the excellent sports commentator St Mathew, it was customary to flagellate the sprinters at the start the way a coachman whips his horses. The whip both stimulates and gives a hygienic massage. Jesus, then, got off in good form, but he had a flat right away. A bed of thorns punctured the whole circumference of his front tyre.
Today in the shop windows of bicycle dealers you see a reproduction of this veritable crown of thorns as an ad for puncture-proof tyres. But Jesus’s was an ordinary single-tube racing tyre.
The two thieves, obviously in cahoots and therefore ‘thick as thieves’, took the lead.
It is not true that there were any nails. The three objects usually shown in the ads belong to a rapid-change tyre tool called the ‘Jiffy’.
We had better begin by telling about the spills; but before that the machine itself must be described.
The bicycle frame in use today is of relatively recent invention. It appeared around 1890. Previous to that time the body of the machine was constructed of two tubes soldered together at right angles. It was generally called the right-angle or cross bicycle. Jesus, after his puncture, climbed the slope on foot, carrying on his shoulder the bike frame, or, if you will, the cross.
Contemporary engravings reproduce this scene from photographs. But it appears that the sport of cycling, as a result of the well-known accident which put a grievous end to the Passion race and which was brought up to date almost on its anniversary by the similar accident of Count Zborowski on the Turbie slope — the sport of cycling was for a time prohibited by state ordinance. That explains why the illustrated magazines, in reproducing this celebrated scene, show bicycles of a rather imaginary design. They confuse the machine’s cross frame with that other cross, the straight handlebar. They represent Jesus with his hands spread on the handlebars, and it is worth mentioning in this connection that Jesus rode lying flat on his back in order to reduce his air resistance.
Note also that the frame or cross was made of wood, just as wheels are to this day.
A few people have insinuated falsely that Jesus’s machine was a draisienne, an unlikely mount for a hill-climbing contest. According to the old cyclophile hagiographers, St. Briget, St. Gregory of Tours, and St. Irene, the cross was equipped with a device which they name suppendaneum. There is no need to be a great scholar to translate this as ‘pedal’.
Lipsius, Justinian, Bosius, and Erycius Puteanus describe another accessory which one still finds, according to Cornelius Curtius in 1643, on Japanese crosses; a protuberance of leather or wood on the shaft which the rider sits astride — manifestly the seat or saddle.
This general description, furthermore, suits the definition of a bicycle current among the Chinese: “A little mule which is led by the ears and urged along by showering it with kicks.”
We shall abridge the story of the race itself, for it has been narrated in detail by specialized works and illustrated by sculpture and painting visible in monuments built to house such art.
There are fourteen turns in the difficult Golgotha course. Jesus took his first spill at the third turn. His mother, who was in the stands, became alarmed.
His excellent trainer, Simon the Cyrenian, who but for the thorn accident would have been riding out in front to cut the wind, carried the machine. Jesus, though carrying nothing, perspired heavily.
It is not certain whether a female spectator wiped his brown, but we know that Veronica, a girl reporter, got a good shot of him with her Kodak.
The second spill came at the seventh turn on some slippery pavement. Jesus went down for the third time at the eleventh turn, skidding on a rail. The Israelite deminondaines waved their handkerchiefs at the eighth.
The deplorable accident familiar to us all took place at the twelfth turn. Jesus was in a dead heat at the time with the thieves.
We know that he continued the race airborne — but that is another story.