kagablog

June 22, 2008

“qualis artifex pereo”

Filed under: bo cavefors,Georges Bataille,kaganof short films — ABRAXAS @ 7:05 pm

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african noise foundation

in association with

grymhetens teater dekadens

present

“qualis artifex pereo”

(“oh what an artist the world loses in me” emperor nero’s dying words upon committing suicide)

an acéphale performance

by

bo i. cavefors, johanna rosenqvist, erica li lundqvist & martin bladh

text by Georges Bataille and Martin Bladh

music composed by martin bladh

sound engineer mikael oretofts

film aryan kaganof

(40min, HDV, Sweden, june 2008)

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When my face is flushed with blood, it becomes red and obscene. It betrays at the same time, through morbid reflexes, a bloody erection and a demanding thirst for indecency and criminal debauchery. For that reason I am not afraid to affirm that my face is a scandal and that my passions are expressed only by the JESUVE.

The terrestrial globe is covered with volcanoes, which serve as its anus. Although this globe eats nothing, it often violently ejects the contents of its entrails. Those contents shoot out with a racket and fall back, streaming down the sides of the Jesuve, spreading death and terror everywhere.

Animal life comes entirely from the movement of the seas and, inside bodies, life continues to come from salt water. The sea, then, has played the female organ that liquefies under the excitation of the penis. The sea continuously jerks off.

Solid elements, contained and brewed in water animated by erotic movement, shoot out in the form of flying fish. The erection and the sun scandalize, in the same way as the cadaver and the darkness of cellars.

Vegetation is uniformly directed towards the sun; human beings, on the other hand, even though phalloid like trees, in opposition to the other animals, necessarily avert their eyes.
Human eyes tolerate neither sun, coitus, cadavers, nor obscurity, but with different reactions.

To be conscious of the world; the organic rhythm between limbs. Always present in the flesh: blood, marrow, phlegm. The belly down; thrash of naked earth. Back and target left out, at your mercy: jackals, vultures.

MOTHERVULTURE
MOTHERJACKAL

Your cruelty nourished me: fruit of Thy womb.
What’s on trial in front of me; my flesh and life-work?
Your faeces?
Fruit of the womb?
The war of free limbs;
the anarchy of the organs – the roar for retribution to ejaculate?

MOTHERVULTURE
MOTHERJACKAL

I’m holding the edges.
I point them at you.
I’m forcing them back up through you.
I meet the resistance inside you,
back through the cruelty;
the plague that nourished me.

The sun, situated at the bottom of the sky like a cadaver at the bottom of a pit, answers this inhuman cry with the spectral attraction of decomposition. Immense nature breaks its chain and collapses into the limitless void. A severed penis, soft and bloody, is substituted for the habitual order of things. In its folds, where painful jaws still bite, pus, spittle, and larva accumulate, deposited by enormous flies: fecal like the eye painted at the bottom of a vase, this Sun, now borrowing its brilliance from death, has buried existence in the stench of the night.

The terrestrial globe has retained its enormity like a bald head, in the middle of which the eye that opens on the void is both volcanic and lacustrine. It extends its disastrous countryside into the deep folds of hairy flesh, and the hairs that form its bush are inundated with tears. But the troubled feelings of a degradation even stranger than death do not have their source in a typical brain: heavy intestines alone press under this nude flesh, as charged with obscenity as a rear end – one that is just as satanic as the equally nude bottom a young sorceress raises to the black sky at the moment her fundament opens, to admit a flaming torch.

The love-cry torn from this comic crater is a feverish sob and a rattling blast of thunder.
The fecal eye of the sun has also torn itself from these volcanic entrails, and the pain of man who tears out his own eyes with his fingers is no more absurd than this anal maternity of the sun.

Love, then screams in my own throat; I am the Jesuve, the filthy parody of the torrid and blinding sun. I want to have my throat slashed while violating the girl to whom I will have been able to say: you are the night. The Sun exclusively loves the Night and directs its luminous violence, its ignoble shaft, towards the earth, but it finds itself incapable of reaching the gaze or the night, even though the nocturnal terrestrial expanses head continuously toward the indecency of the solar ray.

The solar annulus is the intact anus of her body at eighteen years to which nothing sufficiently blinding can be compared except the sun, even though the anus is the night.

I soil myself in the sun tomorrow – naked with regret.
Then futility, further loos – triumph or despair?
Is this what it all comes down to;
negation? inversion? fascination? terror? delight and torture?
A guilty economy?
Profit/loss?
Spending/receiving?
Charge/discharge?
Why are these photographs and videotapes my mirror?
Why these glossy cover; intact wall of flesh and words?
Broken vessels, unfinished sentences still visible beneath the skin surface.
So what make these words come true?
So what exactly is sensation?
An altar; edifice of death raised in my bathroom?
A hidden compartment behind my living room bookshelf?
The outlines of my face, thighs, hands and groin?
On the fringe of…burn out, disintegrate the same way these photographs were conceived.
On the fringe of…fade out, live these words; take them upon me, literarily.
What I do is final; a stumbling block; a private implosion of surplus words, of repeated images.

The sun vomited like a sick drunk above the mouths full of cosmic screams, in the void of an absurd sky… And thus an unparalleled heat and stupor formed an alliance – as excessive as torture: like a severed nose, like a torn-out tongue – and celebrated a wedding (celebrated it with the blade of a razor on petty, insolent rear ends), the little copulation of the stinking hole with the sun…

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Like predators you rip my exposed muscles to shreds,
grind them between your razor teeth,
suck nutritive from marrow and blood,
to finally swallow me down into your jagging innards.

Open your universe of red implosions,
malign underwater tumours,
let them swell and propagate in the fertile mould.
I, your undeveloped foetus.
I, your crippled entity.
I, that partially escaped the jaws of the progenitor.

Let me dissolve slowly in your gigantic machinery.
Let me be caressed by the movements of your bowels.
On my way towards the final destination.
On my way towards the end of the world.

Let the outer surface fade away
The link: the resurrected one
Emerges from his predestined trial
The sword, the limb, the arm
I force you back into the swelling meat-gardens of creation.

The eye, at the summit of the skull, opening on the incandescent sun in order to contemplate it in a sinister solitude, is not a product of understanding, but is instead an immediate existence; it opens and blinds itself like a conflagration, or like a fever that eats the being, or more exactly, the head. This great burning head is the image and the disagreeable light of the notion of expenditure, beyond the still empty notion as it is elaborated on the basis of methodical analysis. Starting from the being who bore it, it is not at all an external product, but the form that this being takes in his lubricious avatars, in the ecstatic gift he makes of himself as obscene and nude victim – and a victim not before an obscure and immaterial force, but before great howls of prostitutes´ laughter.

Existence no longer resembles a neatly defined itinerary from one practical sign to another, but a sickly incandescence, a durable orgasm.

All the plants of the earth are raised to the sky, and they continuously throw myriads of brilliant multicoloured jets of spittle at the sun, in the form of flowers, and there is only an obscene Van Gogh, surrounded by madmen, to throw at this same sun the phallic spit of his eyes. The other human creatures miserably drag themselves around like giant impotent and correct phalluses, their eyes riveted on soporific surroundings.

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The bald summit of the anus has become the centre, blackened with bushes, of the narrow ravine cleaning the buttocks. The spectral image of this change of sign is represented by a strange human nudity – now obscene – that is substituted for the hairy body of animals, and in particular by the pubescent hairs that appear exactly where the ape was glabrous; surrounded by a halo of death, a creature who is too pale and too large stands up, a creature who, under a sick sun, is nothing other than the celestial eye it lacks.

As the centre of the universe my flesh will be feast upon by your hunger,
Fathers, mothers, sons, daughters.
I’m limitless.
I’m here for all of you.
Black and lifeless; my eyes looks down upon you from the sanctified space above the altarpiece.

My call, the meaning of my deeds and everyday actions.

One flesh unbound – of expressions and possibilities.
How I found myself – the link: Logos.
How you heard the call, took me in your arms.
Carried me to the altar and erected my podium.
All of it, now written in stone.

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