Sunday, October 25, 2015

the bodies lost to militarization/a yoke-mate.

mass graves have been unearthed from hills in mexico- the dangerous parts you hear so much about, of course.
militarized authoritarians are believed to have handed themselves protesting-people, thereafter- rumor has it- passing these protesting-people over to "organized criminals". these organized criminals- off the record- killed them, perhaps for game, and buried them in these hills- probably. also on the news today: "we'll provide you with new reasons to worry about what you're doing."

parallel universe-scope: someone called nobody a nobody from nobody (in a persecuting tone) who just happened to live in a body which was more like a machine than a body so perhaps they were a no-body.

tetsuo:
don't like sharks. sharks live in families. families kill other people with each other. you think they're listening to you. they aren't listening to you- they're calculating their priorities which are priorities you wouldn't prioritize. they don't know you all that well, though you'd like to consider them friends of yours. they hardly know you at all.
sharks are born with remarkable drive to be very famous. "make me a star," they say, "make me a star," they repeat themselves. they write the studios. they doze off. they make it to the dream sequence.

i am a shark, tetsuo says. i am a shark whose face was eaten by a faceless shark. he was a shark envious of those with faces so he ate their faces.
i am a shark. i will bite your head off, said the faceless shark who ate my face.
parden moi? i replied, a little distracted, by...by what, i don't remember. something i took for granted is what i was a little distracted by while i replied to the faceless shark, i'm sure.
he bit my face off.

i think i've acclimated to living on land- where the other faceless ones live- but in order to do so, i had to become a machine. my skin is silver and hot to the touch. it is also overheated. i guess also i have to have a fever at all times.

before i left the water for the land, i was forced to swim in spit. it sounds like limbo, but it wasn't.
my mother had kicked me out of the ocean because it was time for me to separate from my mother. i was eighteen years old. she did this because it's a rule.
i might as well not have been swimming in spit. though, i don't know, for certain, if i was swimming in spit- because i couldn't see. i wouldn't have known i was swimming in spit if i wasn't told i was (is trust an indulgence?). but spit is okay to swim in. it has nutrients in it.

there is somebody in my jaws who i care for. i read her diary.

"dear diary, i just have been wanting to say all day, that i feel terrified...i want to cry it to somebody. i feel terrified! i also want to tell them that this doesn't really go away, and this meeting of the minds i'm picturing, i'd add, is how i think people really are with each other deep down inside. i want to cry all day to someone without them freaking out on me or me freaking out on them.
but picturing this...this meeting of the minds: my head looks enormous. it's all i can see- "my head". my head appears to be all there is and all i can be within."

this excerpt was from the diary of the nymph who discovered my fountain of spit which i grew legs in and ran out of and away from. she looks seaward for shark fins. the following is from my journal:

HOME.

home.
home.
i have never left my home before. it provides
comforts i reject
the sentiments of.
sentiments.
sentiments.
everywhere

home is where i am
wild, because it is
a dream of mine. i am home.
home. home.
i think of other people with homes and i
think of people without homes.
bad.
bad.
i feel bad.
i feel my badness.
i come my badness.
this is bad.
bad.
bad.

there is a heart somewhere in my home. it is
beyond the resentments which interfere
with the process of direct-touch. the heart

is the key to getting me out of my home. home.
because i have not found it, i am still home.
that being said, i am dead without the key
to leaving my home.
reason i am home.
reason i am home.
that being said, i want to be somewhere that isn't home, but
i don't know where to.
i think i love home, but
i think if i left it, i'd learn
i never learned what love exactly is
in the first place.
love.
love.
love seems vague.
love.
love.

love even seems a bit vain. it seems a  bit vain
as i write this.
love.
love.

home.
home.
i have no place else to go. this is
my home.

better. better.
i need to get better.
i need to get better
at home.
home.

*
tetsuo ages into the role of a domesticated beast:

the role is clean to me. it is a creature. i don't know if my body is parasitic to the mind of if i am not very clever at working through relationships. i don't know if the body and the mind are separate from each other, but it's a convention to treat them like they are. so, i believe they are- though, not all of my brain believes they are- so, it is not the truth.
okay, look. that special somebody in my jaws that i care for whose diary i read? she's a young lady. she is seventeen years old right now. i am at least fifty. she will be eighteen-years-old within a few months.
surly-anne is the name of the young lady. she wears dumb-girl target-me pigtails. she lives next door in the museum; in the next exhibit. she knows what you are doing- that which you care about and that which you do not care about. i know this, because she said this to me:

"you care a lot about your feelings. i do too."

she has problems with her nose. she wants to get a nose job one day. she uses toilet
paper to blow her nose with. because you know so much about her, you no longer
care for her more than you would an old shoe. but goddamn, do you have some
emotional attachment to that shoe. in your head, you still polish it. you do that
to calm yourself down when you know that needs to be done.

"as a small child, i was abused."

do you honestly expect me to feel differently now that you tell me you were abused
as a child? do you think being abused makes you special? cruel thinking; rhetorical
questions...although i too have been

caught explaining my childhood. but my autobiography would have nothing to
do with feelings which are pseudosciences. it would have everything to do with
science. so, it is bearable to read to myself.

surly curly sits by my side, oils my joins, and pisses herself on the carpet.
if i had eyes, they'd be very far away. unreachable. perhaps, shocking blue.
the places where my eyes would be: they don't want to die, but they don't
care if anyone else dies.

hey, surly: my head is in deep shit.

hey, metal-head: mine too. but what else is happening right now? for me,
other parts of myself are in deep shit, too. i hate myself
because i've destroyed my self respect. i've lied a lot.

don't just lie there wounded, surly: do something
with your pigtails, surly.

what song was in your head when you woke up today, tetsuo?: what color
is your throat lubricated in right now?

you are a brave, brave, girl. surly: have sex with me. the last thing i fucked
was a bowl of stale chips the other day. i do it everyday. it's up to you
to break my habitual pattern. surly? the real thing...i'm shy, but honestly,
it's been a long time for me since i fucked last. this was a deliberate
commitment. but i'm telling you that i want to give up
my long lasting commitment for you.
i have been courting you, and silently, examining you, until it was, which is
now, the moment when i was to figure out
what it is i want from you. then, you become of-thingness. an object, that's
right. you fade into obscurity and i don't care.
it's calling baiting the hoe. bait and switch. some people are just programmed
that way. it's medical. still- i mean, yeah, be wary, and feel like they're total
a-holes, but like, treat 'em like they're retarded too, now that you know better.
(don't treat them any differently then how you'd like to be treated.)

HORMONES
hormones aren't emotional. hard facts aren't emotional. emotional
people live on the outskirts of culture. they're actually not supposed to be
there, but they're a friendly culture, so they're used.

they're a friendly culture of nomads who explore the deep seas of emotions. they,
themselves, would be wastes of life if they weren't a friendly culture. friendly
cultures prevent infections in my dog's ears.

i'd like for you to marry me. i'm not ready.
you're not ready. well, let's see. i'm not ready, either. it's a tale
of two not-readies. it was the ready of times. it was the
not-ready of times. ready + not ready = ready. let's get
ready now. we both
know- and we both know a lot- that this
is a stupid thing to do. but we'll do it together.
so, we'll figure it out. now we're married. the papers, the papers,
have you got the papers? we're going

to find the papers. we're going to save this marriage. it's
the right thing to do. we're not going to save this marriage.
it's a tale of two not-saving the marriage. it was the marriage not
of times. it was not the marriage of times. it not was the marriage
of times. it was the not marriage of times. it was the marriage of
not times. it was the marriage of times, not.

creative differences.

creative differences are the dedication to my cause. this one is
for creative differences. i do not know what a defect is. defects
are my next shout out. the next shout out are for my connections.