I or F or C
The metal stairways between both blocks lead to an apartment wherein Svankmajer films are filmed and soil pats turn wet. Offenbach’s Barcarolle bubbles through these pats while the dark Satie’s can be heard through the above boards.
D and A
The children of the Ghetto Utopia rub chalk on their hands, printing the court in pink and the black-brick in white. The End is a gift for the Jews. They, what little is left of them, have plenty of choice of street, and they move and move.
Baba Yaga’s House
H and I and H
Brother took the photographs. Although the film was black and white, it’s brown where I creep. It’s not about to snow, but it is red. Yes, the October Bomb is approaching. Then I’m removed, and the October Bomb is approaching.
I continue to suffer the threat which young girls in music videos pose to dreams, dreading what intensive recovery will be required upon my waking, having believed in the companionship the dream had cruelly staged. There is no combatant prescribed for this violence; I can only hope the effects are not too severe.
The opportunity for the common introduction has expired, and I have obscured as a result; my perversions are becoming noticeable; I’m now prone to bouts of pathetic self-expression. (Incompetence hardens into shame-rich gallstones.) Possessing neither beauty nor tenderness, I cannot qualify for a ‘pity job’. At best, I’d be taken as a gag, which I’d accept as an achievement regardless.
I have this particular fantasy, an edit of my own pubescence, wherein I share intimacy with a schoolgirl once more. I’m sat with her on a corduroy couch inside a vacant house. She is pale. Her hair smells of strawberries. She wears a velvet choker. Her trousers are purposely cut a length too short. I have set the thermostat to the lowest extreme so as to benefit our touching. We both lock hands, caress ears, press navels, smooth inner-thighs, remove socks and pet feet. She shudders a little, and I dampen; restraint is upheld, however: pubescent pleasure perfected.
This fantasy concludes with her distressing; I do not help. She grows like Alice, and I become all phallus, strobing as she exceeds the house’s interior.
My parents dismiss my plea. “No son, you must be confused,” they say. “It cannot be real,” they say. “You don’t have claws, you never roar at night, and when you beat yourself up, you mime.” Since the great and influential foundations were laid, enough to cover the humors of a life, every moment thereafter became nostalgic. They cannot imagine how bitterly imperfect my undeath is, and how important it is for it to stop. (I don’t have the capacity to be an adult.)
“That which is mediocre is stagnant and carries within itself the greatest sense of death.”
“The mediocre is that which should have ceased but instead defied painfully, undeserving of commendation.”
“Sometimes the mediocre form collectives which they burden with a title.”
“The mediocre compulsively share their poverty with others through domain names and pixelated business cards.”
* * *
Although my duty has reduced me to a crutch, I am not regretful, remaining dedicated to the report and absorption of the mediocre’s blight. Infection has spread, however. Each mouth gasps and coughs and weeps a discharge that demands scrim bandages. For the pain, I mix a remedy containing fat, crushed almonds, honeycomb and egg yolk, which I apply in masses to each mouth. A full body brace encloses the stench.
The Second is a desperate act, motivated to disprove the miracle of the First whose creation sits isolated in its uniqueness. With the Second, the First’s success is both imitated and avoided. Most intimate with the somatic void, the Second causes contortions: choking loses its ability to satisfy; no amount of bloating or masturbation can calm. And soon the affinity with wood begins; the knock which wood emits parallels the same grief consequently experienced by the act. Rolling pins, spoons, chopping boards, and pencils, are collected then swallowed, where they remain for days inside the gullet of the acting absentee.
The Second is always darker and misshapen. The Third is yellow, too thin, shivering. The Fourth is forgotten. But by the Fifth, what was unique to the First has been reclaimed and matured. Production continues in monochrome until the Twentieth where rigidity is inevitable, indicating a necessary conclusion: a set has been achieved.
In times of further desperation, the set’s success inspires a sequel. But the set’s style was developed through a partnership with a particular content whose urgency no longer exists, and the improper resurrection of this style would only defile its quaint legacy.
If a deity revealed itself and taunted me with the presence of a hell, I’m ashamed to admit that I would, out of fear, become its most loyal acolyte.
WHAT ANNOYS YOU THE MOST IN OTHERS?
Within the moment of provocation, the other becomes object to him, and he will respond with disgust if this object does not comply with his quixotic criteria. An object of infinite construction, capable of pleasing his varying and developing tastes, would be his ultimate object of sexuality. However, the existence of this extremity alone, considering the function it serves, forfeits the possibility of it having subjectivity.
Sexuality haunts him, but without the haunting none of his particular sublimation effects would have existed, which he values, believing to have profited from them.
WHAT DOES THIS SCHOOL NEED? THIS ROOM? YOU? THIS CITY? THIS COUNTRY?
School cannot guarantee the desired career, so free resources are most reasonable. This room requires the commitment of a friend. I need the confidence to decide. This city should remain hinting at filth. This country should host more Beckett plays.
WHO IS ROOSEVELT?
The witty answer would be Robin Williams who played Teddy Roosevelt in the Night at the Museum franchise of movies.
WHAT SHOULD THE STUDENT LOUNGE LOOK LIKE? WHERE?
Like some seedy Amsterdam neon café with leather booths, underground.
“Samuel Beckett (along with Robbe Grillet and the nouveaux romanciers) was one of the primary influences on conceptual and minimalist art in the 1960s, modeling anti-symbolic and impersonal compositions of minimal statements in maximum elaboration. The famous “sucking stones” sequence from Molloy (New York: Grove, 1955) is an obsessive transcription of body movements and inanimate objects into mathematical logic. Although the first person singular I is invoked, it reveals nothing of the narrator’s subjectivity or emotion, nothing of the impact of the action on the human. Rather, the body is reduced to another cog in a machine.
The apparent purposelessness of such an activity underscores Beckett’s emphasis on formal linguistic sequence supplanting literature’s more traditional transparent delivery of pathos (though the sequence is still undoubtedly riddled with pathos, a testament to how hard it is to actually rid language of metaphor and emotion). Beckett’s passage opens up writing to the influence of formal mathematical theory as praxis, in hindsight putting to the test Ludwig Wittgenstein’s proposed language games as works of poetry.”
– Craig Dworkin and Kenneth Goldsmith, Against Expression: An Anthology of Conceptual Writing