Trawling through 16 hours of Balkan war footage on LSD… I don’t know… is this normal? Yeah, sure… why not?
Somehow this all connects to christian camp. Fuck knows how that connects, but it does. It connects to christian camp, and it connects to something much deeper. Something that’s been there since before I came.
Essentially I’m a blueprint. That’s the gag. Structure governs response. How do I deal with the influx of sensation. Well, you see, for it is, or it is not. You can tell as much in what is said as you can in what is not said. There’s only me. How you feel about this, well, this is you.
So there’s me. This cunt. I’d stand before you if I weren’t over here, typing this. So I’ll draft you an outline. You fill in the blanks. I’d prefer it that way. I’m less complete than an abstract concept. The single most governing factor in that concept is the sign beneath which I was born. Deep red and black, it was. It’s always been there – looming like a strangler. As just as nature. Can you guess where I sit in the major arcana? I needn’t be first. That’s something I’m never afraid to reveal. Behind the banner it’s wet. I’m off in the head. My responses to stimulus and the avenues I’ve sought are uniquely my own. I’ve given up attempting to find these traits in others… relating has become irrelevant. When all is said and done it is I who must relate to myself. It’s a tall order, but I’ll fit the bill. I’ll leave a deposit.
So there I am, watching rotting bodies exhumed from mass graves deep in the heart of the badlands, struggling to make the pieces fit as the poor quality rip erupts in a mosaic of fleshy cubes… a fountain of human flesh all tumbling before me… when all of a sudden, I begin my regression into the obscure beginnings of this fascination.
It was the desperation of my unorthodox sources of entertainment – the sickness for kicks – that got me interested in the fountain. I could see something horrendous growing in the shadows if I weren’t to seek understanding. A suicide. I killing. A fatal accident. Never close your eyes unless you’re stitching them shut with syringes. You’ll never be safe under the bed. You’ll become the monster. If you can’t see that you’ve read too far. There’s a children’s book out there for you. Read it. Be safe. Be catholic. Be gone.
I’ve seen the Devil. Armoured smoke and festering pustules lurking in unknowable darkness. A calloused throat… hot weighty breaths… wreaths of bug life chattering their weird voodoo chant. Invertebrates hemming the perimeter of shadow. Yes, I’ve seen the Devil. I’ve seen the Madonna too. I’ve seen the polarity of my god as children in skins not dissimilar to mine.
In my mind I’ve seen the polyhedron skull panel dripping with digital slime. Shutters of surgical steal stylised in the instruments of medieval torture. A practitioner’s kit held in a place between times… they latch closed like an irised guillotine. The slick chink of slipping razors. These things are in my mind.
Much of my life I’ve been thoroughly depressed. I’ve always loved the bleak. A part of my soul dwells in the taiga. There’s a fragment left long buried in an unmarked grave that nobody will ever find. I hid my heart in a secret place. It’s cradle – a hole. A hole that aches like a cunt.
Sometimes I grow excessively happy. I suppose you’d call that bipolar if you worked in medicine… if you’re projecting. The reason I say this is because we’re all bipolar. I can’t blame brain chemistry for my sorrow. I would more likely blame altered body chemistry. Measures have been taken.
Shit… I’ve always lived with a chronic fear. I cultivated it. Plowed it lovingly… turned it… seeded it and reaped. I’m just a wicked gardener. Invariably I assault my progression if I begin manifesting any destiny other than the leaf-trap of misery to which I’ve formed an attachment. This garden flourishes – watered in piss. Writing these things is my way of being naked in public. Is this me?
My parents owned a video shop when I was young. They purchased Kapiti Video when I was 4. I used to stand in the horror/adult section looking at the covers. Skeletal remains… maimed humans… charred bodies… a moustached man eating whipped cream off a woman’s shaven mound. Parodies, and then later, harsh and obsessive anal violence. Polarity flipped. Sex went sour – disdainful at the latch… selfish… hedonistic. Our domestic violence filtered down into a damaged whirlpool of deranged drainage. It’s flowing rapid still.
Jesus christ did the joy run dry. Horror and porno switched. These days if I want to frighten myself I’ll beat off. Horror films are mother’s milk. The rabbit hole has become a rape museum. Hollywood shuns the manipulator yet fosters the demon. All men are equal in guilt as the broad stroke of stereotype slits us in two. Slutted. Reason is dead. This is an all-against-all.
Death is sweetness. Humans aren’t kind. They’re terrified. There’s no applauding the dissolution of boundaries – not on any real scale. What happened to asking the tough questions? When did it all become so easy?
The news is horror. I dream of the patriarch of suffering. He’s in that section with the locked door. Deep down in there his VHS crawls like liquid flesh. Green and pink. He’s draped in rags – an amalgamation of grainy images on the back of sticky video cases layered with the grease of half the neighbourhood. There’s no rating on this tape. Banned in all countries. Utterly forbidden. Beyond horror… beyond desire… beyond even murder. It’s far, far worse.
You wanna see someone kill? Some kids getting farther than thrills. Its awkward – their killing. They’re new to this.
Someone in a mask likes to watch. A phantom with a black hat. His cover is different. You can rent it. You’re allowed his movie. His movie is on TV. Spiders crawling out of the mouths of the dead. Something hidden… breeding in your guts. What’s rated R is often not as bad as the TV news. A war in the Balkan. A war in the desert. Somebody tries to drown me at the public swimming pool. My neighbour tries to trap me in an old fire pit – tells me Santa lives in there. He chases me with an axe. Humiliation. Then drugs and deeper darkness buried in childhood – this time more vibrant. My eyes turn black and I lose the bad guy. He walks straight in.
I’m regressing into passed lives. I’ve lost my entire family. I’m being strangled in a grass hut somewhere in the darkness of the African continent. 500 years ago. I’m losing a grip on my head. I’m tasting my essence. It doesn’t matter what the old rules state. I’m not waiting out in the cold. I’m walking in. I’m doing everything in spite of what they tried to teach me. A head full of misguidance. Well they can all eat shit.
Slowly but surely it all catches up. Only took 33 years. The gateway is hidden. I’m alone in hell with my best friends in the world. I live in a place of perpetual murder. I’m being strangled sick by my lover. I’m holding you up and placing you around my neck. I’m dangling from a tree. I’m hung like meat on a hook with a stone in my chest and acid in my gut all burning and churning. You want to know depression? Yeah, you know it. I’m driving hoping for a crash. I’m looking for a cataclysm. I’m looking to lacerate myself. I’m dead. The world makes me sick so I want to die. Then even death is selfish. The selfless spike drinks and rape the good. Now we have utter division. Your world is unknowable. Unity is divided. Trust no one. The signal is digital. The mind-clamp is electric – so is your meat. Show me solace. I held it once.
That’s where a landslide down memory lane leaves my body. Where do I go from here? Is there anybody out there? Fuck, what potential. This is grief bottled up and shaken. No idea where it came from.
I went to a christian camp once. I was 9. My parents weren’t christian, nor did they particularly condone it, but I wanted to go to camp. Now, I know what you’re thinking and no, nobody fucked me. Nobody manipulated me into sucking their catholic cock. That’s why they hated me.
Body intact, though not the mind. It was adulterated in a terrible way. They got to me. They installed the seed of fear, and that seed germinated and grew into a demon flower, thus shaping the man I am today.
I fucking hated those cunts. It was pure instinct. I was born with a highly refined bullshit detector… and shit I did smell.
“You can feel evil.” That’s what they told me. They told me that evil is all around me, so when I returned from camp and watched a horror move called ‘The Burning’ – a film in which the lead character is horrifically burnt in a summer camp prank gone wrong – I interpreted the sense of dread that film instilled in me to be that unholy evil they preached. I didn’t sleep that night. I trembled with fear. All through the next day I was scared to lay down in my room. I felt that evil all around me – demons in the periphery.
Over the following weeks I rationalised that sense of evil and moved on, but henceforth sought that thrill if terror. The culture grew. Next came ‘Faces of Death’ – ‘The Killing of America’. I’d live with those videos in my bedroom hidden in boxes for months – years – before I ever found the courage to watch them.
Hey Legs. I found you in here. Should I follow you up, or will you press that high heel to my throat. Either way, I’m always just behind you strumming the tendons.
You know what it feels like to be resented simply for being as you are? Yeah, sure you do. How do you feel about that? Does it drive you forward? It’s a sick challenge… a mired and recessive kind of growth. It doesn’t make you stronger. That’s a fallacy. It makes you tired… embittered. Try a passionate creative addiction. Try filling the hole within. Whip the scab and let it bleed. People will throw less trash in. Never swallow. Spill your guts.
There’s a charred wound that never stops aching inside me. You should hear its voice. Frantic and serrated and black. The howl of a great beast at a world repressed. Spill hell at your feet. It’s still better than taking their word for it.