(pssst; you can BUY MY BOOK here and here and here. it has been a sloooooooooooow start)
so yeah, 2019 was another Dollar Tree Parking Lot Grease Fire of a year... mongoloid ugly and bewilderingly idiotic on a sub-molecular level. to avoid being cannon fodder in the great chicken sandwich turf wars, i mostly stayed in, sending out SOSs to my marginal consumerist overlords in the hope that they would provide a psychic balm for my tenderized faculties. here they are;
HELIOGABALUS OR, THE CROWNED ANARCHIST by Antonin Artaud (translated by Alexis Lykiard). Infinity Land Press
"if a revolving phallus, swathed in innumerable robes, stands for whatever is dark about the occult, the bustling storeys that took the notion of the sun far underground physically enacted through their snares and their sharp-edged spells, a world of infinitely grim imaginings, whose more ordinary sexual narratives are merely their external garb.
"those ideas which the sun cult practiced at Emesa codified, touched upon the cosmic malice of a principle in which the error periodically committed by adherents was to procure the detestable outcome of events, all the while revering in that principle's darkness."
- from 1. Cradle of Sperm, pg. 59.
WOUNDS: STORIES FROM THE BORDER OF HELL by Nathan Ballingrund, Saga Press
"something struggled into the light. Will felt the presence of it before he could see it. he felt an answer to the long ache. he leaned over Eric's shuddering body, brought his face close. he opened his mouth over the wound, touched his lips to its ragged edges. fix me, he thought. please. make me whole. he closed his eyes, felt the billowing heat of it. something moved against his tongue and he sobbed with a terrified gratitude as it probed the roof of his mouth, his teeth, and his cheeks. filling his mouth. he opened wider and gulped it all in, blood leaking from the seal of his lips. Eric began to shriek, repeatedly and in escalating volume, and a host of startled cockroaches scrambled from their lairs, climbing up the walls and rising into the air with their dark, humming wings, a swarm of Christ-bound spirits."
- from "The Visible Filth", pg. 177
NAROK: VISIONS OF HELL IN THE KINGDOM OF SIAM by Stephan Bessac, Timeless
"while the traditional manuscripts and designs are used as a blueprint, the abbot of the temple has often his own idea and concepts of how everything should look like and the result is sometimes pretty astonishing! in some places for example, some statues would almost be sexless while in others, huge penises and enhanced breasts would adorned the sinners giving to the acts of displayed a definite ero-guro feel. the same for the amount of blood and gore, some temples were very tame while others are a visual feast of viscera, eyes getting gouged out, emasculation, mutilation etc... straight out of a Lucio Fulci / Ruggero Deodato movie."
- from "Through Hells and Back", page 4.
THE DARK SIDES OF EMPATHY by Fritz Breithaupt, Cornell University Press
"perhaps the most radical and discomforting form of this thesis can be found in the figure of the empathetic rapist. The idea - which we might rightly recoil - is that a rapist could commit his crime not because he (and in this case, i will forego gender-neutral language given that the overwhelming percentage of those who commit rape, whether against women or men, are men) lacks empathy but because he has it or wishes to feel it. his goal is to understand his victim, in the midst of the victim's torment, in order to connect to them empathetically. this thought contradicts the common conception of rapists as monsters without feeling. in no way does this excuse or lessen the horror of the act of rape. on the contrary, this would make the culprit more blameworthy, because an empathetic perpetrator understands the pain he is causing quite well. a rapist who coexperiences the pain of his victim is still a rapist. however, my analysis here is not a moral or legal investigation but a more complex understanding of the culprit and his motivation to act."
- from Chapter 4: Empathetic Sadism, pg. 162.
"'thank you' she muttered, before she performed fellatio on Kelly, occasionally shooting glances at the camera. the video cut out again, then came back as she danced for him in and atop the ledge of the hot tub, following his directions - 'dance faster, baby' - now naked except for the big silver cross around her neck. at his prompting, she urinated on the floor outside the hot tub, then straddled him as he sat on the bench and they had intercourse. seemingly double her size, he called her 'Shona,' and she called him 'Daddy'.
"'Daddy fuck you?' he asked. 'yes, Daddy', she said. the girl's eyes had a vacant, disembodied look as she robotically followed Kelly's commands, and her expression showed no signs of pleasure, or any emotion at all.
"the tape cut out again before it returned with the girl lying on the bench next to the hot tub, performing fellatio again, then opening her mouth as Kelly urinated in it and over her breasts and stomach before fondling himself and ejaculating. there the video ended."
- from Chapter 7: Go To Your Mailbox, pgs 115-116
"ever betwixt and between, ever a fish out of water, ever a cunt, i moved from the small town of Dalkeith into the city of Edinburgh at seventeen and experienced a sort of culture shock. people were overwhelmingly charismatic, and daily social interaction was like an art form compared with the provincial manners of the periphery in all their suspicion and joyless hostility. just even the vocabulary and phrases used by people impressed me, the idioms they possessed, which were so playfully confident and singular, so funny and effortless. then there was culture. whole new worlds of books, films, and above all, music. it was completely intoxicating and my hunger for it knew no limits and was not discerning. i was awkward and retarded, a rube, unable to express myself with confidence. neither my domestic English personality nor my Scottish mining community one with their respective accents were comfortable, so i was quiet much of the time. drugs were my social trump card, again. soon enough i could see that protestant character and other shrill sensibilities were alive and just as well in city folk. the one genuinely noble quality working-class social life had taught me - loyalty - wasn't worth shit to these people. society piled up around me like a 360 painting in layered panels and my sense of self and individual agency were reduced to a baseline feeling of being constantly betrayed."
- from Chapter 5: North, pg. 140.
"i can compare my life to my toilet. it recently stopped working. and i couldn't shit in it. it was horrible. when i had to shit i either had to hold it in or run across the street. eventually i just said fuck it and i started shitting in the broken toilet. and then it started piling up. really high. and then it started smelling. really bad. and then one day it got so bad that i had to go downstairs to the dollar store and purchase those yellow rubber gloves and a ladle and scoop it out. and then instead of trying to find a plumber to fix it again, i just started shitting in it. and emptying it out by hand. i did this for six months. i would let the shit pile up so high until the entire house smelled like there was a shit sandwich right in front of my face, and then i'd scoop it up. that's the best metaphor for my life i can come up with."
- from pg. 27.
"throughout history, most corporate initiatives have shared the assumption that employee discontent is a subjective condition. the locus of change is the individual, who is expected to adjust to corporate conditions, with occasional concessions. complaints are sometimes psychologized out of existence. in the 1920s and 1930s, Harvard psychiatrist Elton Mayo was hired by the Western Electric Company to make sense of experimental data at the Hawthorne plant on Chicago's West Side. Mayo interpreted discontent with poor working conditions and low wages as "emotional reactions" that shouldn't be taken seriously, especially when coming from women. in many of Mayo's writings, the worker is viewed as irrational, pathological, and lacking in self-control - but no evidence is given for such scientific claims. modern social scientists have since dismissed Mayo's studies, calling his pro-management bias "cow sociology". this alludes to the way that contented cows provide more milk, implying that "happy" employees are more productive.
"these attempts to manipulate workers - promoting acceptance of exploitative conditions, suppressing and denying conflict, and obfuscating differences in power and interests - have echoes in corporate mindfulness."
- from Chapter Eight: Mindful Employees, section titled "Another Corporate Fad", pgs. 144-145.
"there will be men, women, children, and even pets in states of confusion, pain, fear, stress, anger, embarrassment, sorrow, depression, and frustration. there'll be headaches, upset stomachs, storms, earthquakes, fires, floods, vehicular collisions, weight issues, drugs, suicide, murder, execution & punishment, atomic bombs, unemployment, riots, injuries, falls, fist fights, tantrums, and silent, nocturnal shame of bed wetting. i'm including accessories (syringes, knives, pills, crutches, splints, etc.) and imminent unhappiness (e.g. roller skates on stairs and overloaded electrical sockets). from the tearful sting of a scrapped knee to the ominous shadow of interplanetary doom, you can expect a rich tapestry of trouble."
- from the Introduction, pg. 2
"maybe it's time to open up my own restaurant in New York City. i'd follow Prune's lead and pick a name that is vaguely foodie-unpopular. like Salt in Baltimore, another good restaurant that unfortunately is no longer. How about Fat? no, too obvious. Liver... funny but too specific. Calories. not bad. i know! Gristle. perfect. Gristle would be located on the only bad street left in Manhattan. if there is one. if Gavin Brown hasn't already beaten everyone to the punch as he always does by opening an art gallery there first. we'd be the snootiest foodie-in-reverse eatery in town. "Dare to Dine Here!" would be our motto. and then the stampede would begin.
"the exterior of Gristle would be purposely misleading to the uninitiated. faux boarded-up windows and doors. just walking by you'd think the building were abandoned until you saw the half-broken-on-purpose small neon sign with the tubes blinking in highly stylized dysfunction. the G in Gristle would be throat-like in design, and the gaseous color chemicals inside would rise up, gag, and begin to vomit out in three animated stages before swallowing and starting all over again."
- from "Gristle", pg. 176.
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