Red pill, redemption

“Claude Lanzmann, the director of the epic documentary film Shoah…argues that his own approach to recording the experience of survivors—through direct testimony—is the only legitimate method, and that art and imagination can have no part in such an endeavor.” (The Paris Review)

The wounds of horror flew deep into the flesh. But art cannot be still, so it lends itself an air of skepticism in the face of yearning for redemption, of yearning for an imagined reason untainted by power, for the restoration of beauty into the world – as Leo Bersani put it, “Art as a correction for life.” Redeemed from our actions, our thoughts, our own death, even. Some, including visual artists such as Jean Debuffet, found these dogmatic notions disgusting, rejecting the very constructs that create such a wonderland: “I believe very much in the values of savagery,” he said, “Instinct, passion, mood, violence, madness.”

No. Humanity had hoisted itself upon a cross. Humanity as it was known had suffered, then died. Resurrection would come later (redemption, perhaps never) out of the bones of the soil, turned anew. The psychology of practice, as much as the concession of impotence, would become central to everything that followed it.


I saw butterfly, I see baby wolf

This is childish. It is spring and I saw a little wolfish dog ambling around aimlessly, then a butterfly flew into my face. Then again I prefer to talk about the modern menace and the inevitability of omnicide, which is such folly to worry about. That little dog is oblivious, and certainly not unique in that respect. Lucky him, e?

baby sure is a useful word, she mused in false irony

Undazed we drove to work
and hung the crags and
begs of the little town

we pet a baby wolf
…a baby wolf

Baby wolf
I see you walking
pissin on a pile of straw

sniff the air:
ne’er a fire burnt
by the wheel

to the left it blew the
billoween starling-wraith
magnetic fold in-oh

you meet obtuse
your shadow grew as
spired light fades and dies.

One day soon the world will end,
for you (/kaboom) baby
But this is the legacy of god.

I witness skin begin to stir
in curtain come translucent light

truth: no love but mess and
blood is the legacy of god.

Don’t ask me what I want
I don’t want anything.

What’s so special about my birth and death baby?
it happens to us all.

What are trees made of?

biscuit worlds and biro smell

I am in a town called Linda. The sky is the same colour as the ground and the roofs. The man sitting opposite me ate too much at lunch. I am guessing this is the reason that he has unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his fly right there in front of me. We are driving through the countryside, cutting across the dense trees pinned to the ground like a mass of quills on the back of a porcupine.

I hate to be cliché, but I can’t help it. I am a teenager in a woman’s body, and the cliché of being cliché stifles me like a wet sponge. You write a metaphor sometimes, and it is dead on the page like an image of a corpse. When I say a tree is like a quill, or sometimes a trumpet, or sometimes a crooked old man bent double by time, or sometimes whiskers or foxes’ or rabbits’ tails, or a stripper’s legs, or a dense funereal entourage following the coffin of someone well-loved, or a buzzcut, or a billowing petticoated skirt, or a peacock’s tail, or zebra’s legs, or a lollipop, or fine rain, or tangled hair, or thrashing octopus arms, or a church spire, or a bearded face, or a silent winter, how can that be so evocative? Surely the closest thing to a tree is a tree, not a quill or a trumpet or a man bent double.

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