teardrop

 [from Marcuse__]

__The New Forms of Control

A comfortable, smooth, reasonable, democratic unfreedom prevails in advanced industrial civilzation,a token of technical progress. Indeed what could be more rational than the supression of individuality in the mechanisation of socially necessary but painful performances;

If the individual were no longer compelled to prove [her]self on the market, as an [un]free economic subject, the disappearance of this kind of ‘freedom’ would be one of the greatest achievements of civilization.

For “totalitarianism” is not only a terroristic political coordination of society, but also a non-terroristic economic-mechanical coordination which operates through the manipulation of needs by vested interests. It thus precludes the emergence of an effective opposition against the whole. FOR THIS BEAUTY INDUSTRY THESIS THE WHOLE IS LOVE, THE ECONOMY OF OUR HEARTS; TO MOUNT AN OPPOSITION IS TO THREATEN ROMANCE AND DREAMS OF THE HEART BUT ALSO OF COURSE THE ECONOMIC SURVIVAL OF SO MANY WOMEN (AND THEIR CHILDREN!) STILL AT THE MERCY OF MEN’S DISPROPORTIONATE ECONOMIC ADVANTAGES. ALSO, OF COURSE, AS I HAVE UNDERSTOOD IT IN LIVES OF PROSTITUTION AND ALL THAT I CARRIED INTO THIS LIFE FROM THOSE, THE MAINTENENCE OF MY ‘BEAUTY’ ALONG NARROW TOTALITARIAN STANDARDS IS THE FRACTION OF MALE POWER I AM AFFORDED. LOVE OR POWER. I SACRIFICE MY SACRED LOVE AND LOVING (SELF-LOVING) IN ORDER TO PLACE MYSELF ON THE MARKET OF (FALSE!) POWER. WHAT A RISK, WHEN I CAN ALWAYS BE (AND I THINK INEVITABLY WILL BE, IN THIS GAMBLE, THIS ROULETTE) TROUNCED, SILENCED, SHAMED, ERASED, RENDERED EASILY POWERLESS BY/WITH THE WAR TACTICS OF PHYSICAL, EMOTIONAL AND SEXUAL VIOLENCE, RAISED UP AND TORN DOWN. THIS FALL OFTEN COMES AFTER THE REVELATION OF THE FEMININE—FOR, THIS PERFORMANCE OF ‘IDEAL’ FEMININE BEAUTY DRAWN BY AND FOR MEN (FOR THE MARKET) IS IN THE SPIRITUAL AND MATERIAL (HYPER MATERIAL) ENERGETIC PARADISGM OF THE MASCULINE, ALL DISCIPLINE AND BOUNDARIES AND ATTACK—WHEN THE FEMININE PERFORMER REVEALS HER VULNERABILITY (LOVE) OR HER INSATIABLILITY/SACRED BOUNDLESSNESS (LOSTNESS IN/WITH DESIRE AND LOVE), AN ETERNAL AND DARK FEMININE SACRED PRINCIPLE AS OPPOSED TO A SOLAR/KNOWABLE/CONTAINED MASCULINE SACRED PRINCIPLE (OR OF COURSE IN THIS CAPITALIST, STRIDENTLY PROFANE PARADIGM, RLLY ANY KIND OF ALLEIGANCE TO THE SACRED OF WHICHEVER POLE). THIS IS HOW EMPTY AND BROKEN THE ‘CELEBRATION’ OF THE FEMININE IS, A BRITTLE OBJECT MOLDED FROM THE CLAY OF MALE DESIRE/MARKET DESIRE/MACHINE DESIRE, ONLY TO BE PUNITIVELY CAST DOWN AND SHATTERED FOR EXPRESSING ITSELF AS SOMETHING OTHER THAN MALE/MARKET OR PLIANT TO MALE/MARKET CONCEPTUALIZATION, NOT IF BUT WHEN, SHE/IT WILL ALWAYS ALWAYS BE SMASHED. I ADDED PLIANT JUST NOW BECAUSE LIP SERVICE IS PLAYED (INCLUDING BY FEMINISTS) TO A CELEBRATION OF (RLLY TACIT ACCEPTANCE, SOMETHING LIKE TOLERATION OF) A VERSION OF THE FEMININE THAT SERVES THE MAN, IS MOTHERING, AS THIS VIRGIN BACHELORETTE SAYS ‘LOOKING FOR A FAITH LEADER’ IN HER HUSBAND, BUT THIS MYTHOLOGY IS MOSTLY FALSE, SOME OF THE CRUELEST AND MOST FALSE. SHE IS NOT SAFE; SHE WILL BE CRUSHED. SHE WILL BE CRUSHED FOR LOVING. AND IF SHE LOVES NO ONE? THAT IS A WAY TO CRUSH YOURSELF, AN INSIDE JOB. YOU WILL BE SHAMED FOR CHOOSING LOVE OVER POWER; YOU WILL BE SHAMED TOO ULTIMATELY FOR CHOOSING POWER, ‘TAKING POWER’ FROM A MAN, FOR THE POWER PARADIGM IS ALLLL SCARCITY AND LACK. ONLY LOVE IS ETERNAL. EVEN LOVE IS APPROPRIATED IN THIS PARADIGM AS POWER, AS A LIMITED RESOURCE, ONE MEANT TO PIT US AGAINST OUR FELLOW WOMEN AND OURSELVES, BODY AND SOUL. bottom line:it is a losing game; there is no woman who will not be crushed.

The result then is euphoria in unhappiness.

Whether or not the possibility of doing or leaving,enjoying or destroying, possessing or rejecting something is siezed as a need depends on whether or not it can be seen as desireable and necessary for the prevailing societal institutions and interests.

I thot.

I thot I was precious.

I waited for you to make me precious.

When I was learning to channel the dead, I found I had a talent for channelling the living, fragments of living souls, desperate pieces, night tremor pieces, errant dreamers, those others sleeping in this street, but also Kylie Jenner, Roger Stone, come into my apartment, in and out, in and out, buzzing through a faulty receiver. The girl in the basement whose boyfriend sold pills and sometimes her body, who had a Lexus coupe but no bed of his own, she came frequently. And I had to tell her to leave, had to be frank about why and how she came to me. I was involved—

Wait,

are you dead?

Are you dead yet?

Is that why I feel your hands on me?

All day—a current of electricity, the faintest pressure, ghost of pleasure, and menace 

for good measure.

Here we go again.

I’m on your dick again,

and you want to know

where I’ve been.

And have I given in?

Did I get tired of waiting?

And did you know them?

Were they black? Were they spanish?

You can’t fucking stand it.

I can’t fucking stand it.

Were they black? Were they spanish?

You can’t fucking stand it.

I can’t fucking stand it.

—I tell you there were two, one white, one arab. All while you’re inside me; you want me to tell you now, like this. And you say, “thank you for being honest.” You never believe me, not really. And I don’t tell you, that I’m scared of the one; how could I? His name is Mohammed and he’s just a few years older than you. I met him on the street like you. Still eaten with love of you. And I am as scared that you will find out who he is, as I am of him, mincing, circling, calling me from strange numbers, threatening to tell them about me, them in the basement. He’s at war with the pill dealer pimp; he says he’s going to slash his face in July, here in this basement. He showers me with praise, of a type. “You could be a porn star; you could be a stripper; you’re so fucking beautiful; you’re tight like a virgin; you’re not like other women.” 

The theme this summer is

*last seen wearing*

What was she last seen wearing,

in the last scene?

What if I was blonde with small titties?

What if I was blonde with fake titties?

What if I was blonde?

What if

What if I never pay this bond?

What if I never pay your bond?

How are you gonna pay?

How are you gonna pay anyway?

How are you gonna pay without a club number?

You make me think,

it’s easy to die;

isn’t that the trick?

I’m dressed.

I’m dressed

like my character might get killed off,

like I’m murdered in the next scene.

It’s about a boy I like.

It’s about the one I love.

You look exactly like him.

Is this another sign?

It’s kind of beautiful

there,

that band of young trees,

where they found my body.

Bring her up.

Dust her off.

Who is she?

None of them know me.

None of you know me.

Honor among thieves,

honor among men.

To dishonor a woman

does not matter much to you,

but I think it does.

In the winter, on a Tuesday, walking home past my window,

and you think,

you've been thinking,

how I honored you

like no one knew,

on my knees

giving you my breath until I was blue,

crowning you with every part of my body.

What would happen if I continue to live

only inside

only inside your erotic imagination

I shudder to think

I shudder,

you blink

I shudder

you blink

And I’m dead.

Berrak—her name means clarity. Not verity, but clarity. She despises verity, whiteness, blankness, minimalism, virginity, this country. She despises vulgarity too, and work. She loves the harem; the languid, clever world of women, the screens; it is the men who are captive. Don’t you understand? They are. At least as much as we are. They could never live like we do. They cannot collapse space and time. They master a low realm; they kill, and think that is the end of it. 

Berrak—and she looks like me; it is up to her how she looks, speaks, what form she takes. This is how it needs to be; she knows. 

dream from this morning:

communal living

my room is a garden level townhouse space

but the whole feels like an old andover dorm

feeling very unsettled

find the bunch of roses i bought this week cut at the top

screen doors are open to the backyard from vinton ave

someone has come in and cut the blooms off the roses (the bloom is off the rose!)

however i can see them, ghosts of the blooms tuning in and out like a fuzzy channel

the soul/frequency of them remains

i go upstairs and tell my parents and kylie jenner ... they don’t listen but she does

then im in an empty school gym 

scattered with toy luxury cars

i see a small private plane skim the tops of several buildings before it crashes sort of quietly onto ours

i can’t move

i brace for impact but there isnt any

then im fucking roger stone in a dorm single

in essentially a professional capacity

sucking his (nice, big) dick

and balls (botoxed? ... very youthful)

he tells me take it all and that hes about to cum

but i ask him if he wants to cum in my mouth or my pussy

he says pussy

i tell him to fuck me from behind

it wont slide in

(i wonder ‘is my pussy sideways ... wheres my cervix?’)

then someone walks in

scared it might be my parents

they can’t kno that im fucking roger

but its kylie

we have a convo about the efficacy of *not* discussing politics as more planes dip and explode outside along the skyline

roger recedes/disappears

and kylie and i are in my bk kitchen

i worry im being too bold but i broach gossip the jordyn woods and travis cheating situations

i say its about the money

the money will only isolate her

carry her further away from everything she truly desires

love acceptance safety friendship true love and freedom

it was never ever bloodless

there was always blood let

in passing or in ceremony

or both

i am between worlds

not yet out of my body

there is so much blood

and u will bear it

bear it down

bare

bare it all

bare yr teeth

i am with child

i might die

and i might as well