kagablog

October 31, 2017

The Sacred Conspiracy

Filed under: acéphale,Georges Bataille — ABRAXAS @ 2:16 pm

0

September 20, 2016

war

Filed under: Georges Bataille — ABRAXAS @ 6:45 pm

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December 11, 2014

georges bataille on the impersonal fullness of life itself

Filed under: art,Georges Bataille,nicola deane,philosophy — ABRAXAS @ 9:03 am

“The blood and the organs brimful of life were not what modern anatomy would see, the feeling of the men of old can only be recaptured by an inner experience, not by science. We may presume that they saw in the fullness of the blood-swollen organs, the impersonal fullness of life itself.”

Georges Bataille
Erotism: Death and Sensuality

May 14, 2012

source material for the dead man 2: return of the dead man

more info is here: http://www.vice.com/read/cliterature-georges-bataille

February 29, 2012

on enchantment

Filed under: acéphale,Georges Bataille,literature — ABRAXAS @ 3:52 pm

“The road to the kingdom of childhood, governed by ingenuousness and innocence, is thus regained in the horror of atonement. The purity of love is regained in its intimate truth which, as I said, is that of death. Death and the instant of divine intoxication merge when they both oppose those intentions of Good which are based on rational calculation. And death indicates the instant which, in so far as it is instantaneous, renounces the calculated quest for survival. The instant of the new individual being depended on the death of other beings. Had they not died there would have been no room for new ones. Reproduction and death condition the immortal renewal of life; they condition the instant which is always new. That is why we can only have a tragic view of the enchantment of life, but that is also why tragedy is the symbol of enchantment.”

― Georges Bataille, Literature and Evil

November 30, 2011

dirty

Filed under: acéphale,Georges Bataille,philosophy,sex — ABRAXAS @ 11:36 am

“To others, the universe seems decent because decent people have gelded eyes. That is why they fear lewdness…”

“But as of then, no doubt existed for me: I did not care for what is known as “pleasures of the flesh”, because they are really insipid. I cared only for what is classified as “dirty”. On the other hand, I was not even satisfied with the usual debauchery, because the only thing it dirties is debauchery itself, while, in some way or the other, anything sublime and perfectly pure is left intact by it.”

georges bataille
the story of the eye

November 27, 2011

on the great contempt

Filed under: acéphale,art,Georges Bataille,philosophy — ABRAXAS @ 5:44 pm

I want to travel further and suffer more. I undertake nothing that I do not take to the impossible, and everything seems to me to be conditioned in such a way that we know only its ridiculous aspects as long as we have not seen that on one point it touches on an aspect of ‘what is’ which can neither be seized nor not seized; neither known nor no known; and which confines us.

If I talk about a painter people are amazed when, before even saying anything about him, I place everything in question. This state of mind reigns uncontested in its immense scorn for anyone who is a painter – but not only a painter, of course: for a writer, a minister or a juggler . . ., the complete personnel of a large house. I do not believe it is wrong to be scornful of functions and services, and consequently of those who are charged with them. To put oneself in service is to be servile. In a world where everyone has their own service to perform, there reigns – necessarily – a great contempt for all.

Georges Bataille
André Masson, 1946

November 21, 2011

on what is revealed in sensuality

Filed under: acéphale,Georges Bataille,literature,philosophy,sex — ABRAXAS @ 12:29 pm

It is no longer a question of knowing.

To know to what vault the idea of God provided the key was to offer oneself the possibility of sleep, while Sade’s negation leaves the spirit faced with a truth which is neither of nature nor of the universe, nor of anything, but the absolute negation of nature and the universe, as if there were in nature – and in the universe – an ultimate possibility, at the extreme a possible transcendence, in the dissatisfaction of being, in the obsession with a passage from being to non-being. Perhaps this is not necessarily transcendence: being emerges from itself only on condition of no longer being, but desires as a possibility, an impossible transcendence. At this point of the explanation, understanding evaporates all of a sudden, the irreducible is here, such that a poetic – or negative – expression has had the immediate power to reveal its presence in sensuality.

georges bataille
happiness, eroticism and literature
1948

on sadeian ‘apathy’

Filed under: acéphale,Georges Bataille,literature,philosophy,sex — ABRAXAS @ 12:22 pm

‘The nucleus of the sadeian world’, is, according to Maurice Blanchot, ‘the demand for sovereignty affirmed through an immense negation’. Here the essential good which man generally serves is revealed (and witholds the strength to reach the place where his sovereignty would be accomplished). The essence of the sexual world is not simply the expenditure of energy, but negation taken to the extreme – or, if you prefer, the expenditure of energy is itself necessarily this negation. Sade calls this supreme moment ‘apathy’.

‘Apathy’, says Maurice Blanchot, ‘is the spirit of negation applied to the man who has chosen to be sovereign. It is, in some way, the cause and principle of energy. Sade’s argument appears to be something like this: today the individual embodies a certain quantity of strength. Most of the time he wastes his strength by transferring it to benefit those simulacra called others, God or the absolute; by such a dispersion, he wrongly exhausts his possibilities by squandering them; but even more, he founds his behaviour on impotence, for if he expends his energy on others it is because he feels that he may need their support himself. This is a fatal failure, because he thereby enfeebles himself in a useless expenditure, and he wastes his strength because he believes he is weak. But the true man knows that he is alone, and accepts the fact; he denies everything within himself, the heritage of seventeen centuries of cowardice, which relates to others rather than to himself; feelings like pity, gratitude and love. He destroys such feelings, and as he destroys them he regains all the strength he would have needed to devote to such debilitating urges, and – even more important – he extracts from this work of destruction the beginning of a true energy. It must be clearly understood that in fact apathy does not consist merely in destroying ‘parasitic’ affections; equally, it is opposed to the spontaneity of any passion. The depraved man who immediately plunges into his vice is simply a freak who will lose himself. Even the great profligates, perfectly endowed with the talent required to be monsters, are destined for disaster if they are content to follow their inclinations. Sade insists that if passion is to become energy it must be compressed, and mediated through an essential moment of insensibility; only then will its potential be realized. Early in her career Juliette is ceaselessly criticized by Clairwill because she commits crime only through enthusiasm; she lights the torch of crime only from the torch of passions, and places profligacy and the effervescence of pleasure above everything. Dangerous indulgences. Crime is more important than profligacy; ‘cold-blooded’ crime is greater than crime carried out in the fervour of passion, but crime ‘committed in the hardening of the sensitive part’, crime that is dark and secret, matters more than anything else, because it is the act of a soul which, having destroyed everything within itself, has accumulated an immense strength, which will be identified completely with the acts of total destruction being planned. All those great libertines, who live only for pleasure, owe their greatness to the fact that they have annihilated all capacity for pleasure within themselves. This is why they carry out such frightful abominations, otherwise the mediocrity of ordinary sensuality would be enough for them. But they have made themsevles insensitive: they intend to use their insensitivity (which they have crushed and denied within themselves) to experience pleasure to the full and they have become ‘ferocious’. Cruelty is merely the negation of the self, carried so far that it is transformed into a destructive explosion. Insensibility causes a quivering through the whole being, says Sade: ‘the soul ascends to a type of apathy which is soon metamorphosed into pleasures a thousand times more divine than those that their weakness procures for them.’

Maurice Blanchot, Lautréamont et Sade
quoted in
Georges Bataille
Happiness, Eroticism and Literature
1948

on the ridiculous erotic

Filed under: acéphale,Georges Bataille,literature,philosophy,sex — ABRAXAS @ 11:33 am

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In the most general way, sexual behaviour is opposed to everyday behaviour as expenditure is to saving.

If we behave in accordance with reason, we acquire all sorts of goods, we work to augment our resources or our learning, and strive in various ways to acquire more.

As a rule, such conduct determines our sense of ourselves in social life.

But at the moment of sexual fever we behave in a completely different way: we expend our energy without restraint., and squander a considerable amount of our vitality violently and with no profit to ourselves.

Sexual pleasure has so much in common with destruction that we have named the moment of its paroxysm the ‘little death’.

In consequence, the objects suggesting sexual activity to us are always connected to some disorder.

Thus nudity is the collapse, even the betrayal, of the aspect of ourselves given to us through our clothes.

But in this respect much is required to satisfy us.

In general, passionate destruction and reckless betrayal alone have the power to cause us to enter into the world of sex.

To nudity is added the peculiarity of half-naked bodies which artfully give the suggestion of being all the more naked.

Suffering and sadistically inflicted death defer the moment of collapse; by no means do they run counter to it.

In the same way prostitution, erotic vocabulary, the inevitable connection between sexuality and excretion, contribute to make the world of the senses a world of loss and destruction.

It appears that our only true happiness is to spend vainly, and we always want to be sure of the uselessness of our expenditure; we want to feel as far away as possible from the responsible world in which augmentation of resources is the rule.

But we could go further, since we would like to oppose it, and commonly in eroticism there is an impulse towards aggressive hatred, an impulse towards betrayal.

This is why distress is connected to it, and why, in counterpart, if the hatred is powerless, and the betrayal involuntary, the erotic element becomes ridiculous.

georges bataille
happiness, eroticism and literature
1948

November 20, 2011

the only possible explanation for my silence

Filed under: acéphale,aphorisibles,Georges Bataille,paradoxism — ABRAXAS @ 9:09 pm

“I must affirm myself with silence, not with explanations. For by seeking to explain, I would serve what I speak about, instead of being it.”

Georges Bataille
André Masson, 1946

November 17, 2011

on those who judge

Filed under: acéphale,aphorisibles,Georges Bataille,paradoxism,philosophy — ABRAXAS @ 7:27 pm

“the person whose life is mediocre is unable to judge anything; he thinks he is judging life, but he is really judging only his own inadequacy.’

georges bataille
surrealism from day to day

August 20, 2011

The Duplication of Time: Time, Sacrifice and the Inception of History

Filed under: Georges Bataille,james curcio,philosophy — ABRAXAS @ 8:33 pm

By Prof. Rowan

The experience and concept of time/temporality has not always been what it is for us today. Time has, as it were, a history extending long before the emergence of historical time and consciousness. This history is attested to and recorded by traces preserved in the words each language uses to designate time. In the Indo-European family of languages and the systems of thought which developed within each milieu, we note a widespread incidence – a nearly universal presence – of at least two conceptually distinct words for time: linguistic and conceptual doublets such as kairos and chronos can be found in all Indo-European languages from the Sanskrit “Rtú, ‘proper time [for a ritual action], allotted or regulated span of time’”[1] and kāla, “a fixed or right point of time, a space of time, time… destiny, fate… death,”[2] to the distinction between divisible and indivisible time in Avestan and Zoroastrianism, and continuing in the oppositions of sacred and profane, human and cosmic, historical and experiential time.

Pure time – a temporality without qualities, immeasurable and non-directional, all following from the fact that time in its pure form would be pre-dimensional [3] – pure time would be the time of the Aion, a timeless time, amounting to nothing less than the much debated khora of the Timaeus – the place and pure possibility of happening.

It was humanity’s attainment of the capacity to experience anxiety, becoming able to preemptively react to a future event (which, according to Hans Blumenberg [4] is a quintessentially human development), taken together with the emergence of story-telling, oral culture and the most rudimentary cultures and collective memories, that first doubled the experience, concept and words for time and made time thinkable in terms of spatial metaphor.

In the temporality of myth which thereby began, Kronos/Chronos [5] emerged as the Janus faces of Mythical Time, time set in motion, experienced as circular but not yet directional; for the time of the mythical world was not yet irreversible (the time of experience will retain some degree of reversibility, albeit on the level of interpretation); time became dimensional – homogeneous conceivable in spatial terms. Kairos, while designating the heterogeneous, qualitatively distinct moment, still partakes of this first spatialization: for a moment to be qualitatively and intensively distinct, it must occupy a finite span or a point inscribed in the circular movement of chronos. It is at this point that sacrifice, after the fashion of the sacrifice of Kronos by Dais, must take place and introduce the partitive principle into time. Dividing time into a before and after, and a present moment marking a clear division in time, takes place when,

Dais conquers Kronos… the prototypical image of the mental structure overcoming the mythical. This is indicated by the form of sacrifice. It is not a genuine sacrifice… Dais, symbol of the partitive principle, imitates in one sense Kronos, representative of the circular principle, while she destroys at the same time the power of the Kronos principle by virtue of the strength of her dividing. [6]

Already, in the earliest sacrifice, substitution and the symbolic dimension have transformed exuberant loss into a ransom or bribe. If it is true that the inaugural sacrifice of history differed from sacrifice in mythic times, then it is indisputable that if “sacrifice will illuminate the conclusion of history as it clarified its dawn… sacrifice cannot be for us what it was at the beginning of ‘time.’ We make the experience of appeasement impossible. Lucid sanctity recognizes in itself the necessity of destruction, the necessity of a tragic outcome.” [7]

The division of time into before and after, past, present and future, occurred at the same time that humans first transformed their experiences of the past from memory into history – by writing chronologies and memorializing events, and by inventing stories to narrate, unify and render events of the past meaningful: where once mythology stood, history had begun taking place. Time became both divisor and divisible, dimensional, while the division between before and after made it possible for us to think of and experience time as having a direction, flowing inexorably toward the future. This gives rise to an experience of time that is divisible, fully dimensional, directional and by turns extensive measure and intensive quality, and most importantly finite. Experiential, existential or subjective time becomes distinct from historical, inter-subjective, or objective/cosmic time, and these temporalities need not remain synchronized – and the possibility of a non-synchronic relationship between the time of the speaking/writing subject and the time of the world makes possible many narrative modes and conventions (cutting to the chase, for example), more broadly, the birth of history and experiential time is a necessary condition for the development of literature, history and even philosophy.

Simultaneously, eschatology begins. Eschatology and the many pathologies of our temporal experience arise out of the anxiety concerning time that flashes up the instant we become aware of the finite time allotted to us. Anxiety over time is pathological to the extent that the response is to devalue and subordinate existence in the present moment to concern for the future, or to cling neurotically to a past never to be recovered. “Our anxiety about time… manifests itself in various ways, such as in our addiction to time… to ‘gain time’ …to ‘fill time’ …in our haste and rush, and by our constant reiteration, ‘I have no time.’ …Contemporary man looks for time… despite, or indeed because of his lack of time: and this is precisely his tragedy, that he spatializes time and seeks to locate it ‘somewhere.’”[8] Eschatology is at once a manifestation of the desire to abolish time and the burning desire for the moment, that moment in which the revolt against the world of oppression comes to fruition in the kairos of final justice and retribution: the krisis after which all pass from time into eternity.

[1] Georges Dumézil, Archaic Roman Religion, Volume One, Trans. Philip Krapp (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970), 80

[2] Monier Monier-Williams, A Sanskrit-English Dictionary: Etymologically and Philologically Arranged with Special Reference to Cognate Indo-European languages (Oxford: Clarendon, 1964).

[3] Jean Gebser, The Ever-Present Origin, Trans. Noel Barstad with Algis Mickunas (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 1985), 177.

[4] See Hans Blumenberg, Work on Myth, Trans. Robert M. Wallace (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1985), 3-9.

[5] I do not mean to imply that this phenomenon of temporal doubling and spatialization was unique to the Greek language, culture and mythology. Here, kronos and kairos designate the aspects of mythological temporality corresponding to their conceptual and linguistic opposition.

[6] Jean Gebser, The Ever-Present Origin, 175.

[7] Georges Bataille, Guilty, Trans. Stuart Kendall (Albany: SUNY Press, 2011), 45.

[8] Jean Gebser, The Ever-Present Origin, 22-3.

this article first published here: http://www.modernmythology.net/2011/07/duplication-of-time-time-sacrifice-and.html

May 15, 2011

Qualis Artifex Pereo

Filed under: bo cavefors,Georges Bataille,kaganof short films — ABRAXAS @ 9:30 pm

Bo I. Cavefors

Georges Bataille is the mystic of eroticism and faith.

Bataille never speaks of sainthood as a righteous way for those who want to preach the message of good. Instead Bataille analyses mankind’s inner silence. In Being’s meaninglessness he sees an exhortation not to despair and resign; his inheritance is Laughter.

Bataille doesn’t recommend therapy, no hedonistic cock-worshipping-cult, no ars erotica; Bataille invites the initiated into a friendship with a well-preserved individual sovereignty. Ecstasy is not a means to individual liberation, according to Bataille; there is anxiety in ecstasy. Pleasure and anxiety wash over humanity when, confronted by terror, it loses its ego. Ernst Jünger’s In Stahlgewittern also deals with this subject matter. The fascination for death signifies the increased potency of the Ego when man loses the ground beneath his feet and enters the horizontal world. Man is born into a world of subject and object, the continuity of the Being reaches beyond life into the kingdom of the dead. The orgasm of the transition is simultaneously an erotic and mystic-religious intoxication.

Bataille rejects all engagement literature because it leads to the abuse of the author as well as the literature by powers that betray humanity, the arts and ecstasy – the innermost being. Man who wants to preserve his intrinsic value is reduced to a mere piece in a jigsaw puzzle. Happiness and liberation are only made possible if the author, philosopher, artist or average man avows to the freedom of God, which he lodges within himself. When the author guides his readers towards politics, social, religious and scientific goals, he reduces literature to authenticity, a loss of sovereignty.

Georges Bataille – The Sacred Conspiracy: Man has escaped from his head just as the condemned man has escaped from his prison. He has found beyond himself not God, who is the prohibition against crime, but a being who is unaware of prohibition. Beyond what I am, I meet a being who makes me laugh because he is headless; this fills me with dread because he is made of innocence and of crime; he holds a steel weapon in his left hand, flames like those of a Sacred Heart in his right. He reunites in the same eruption Birth and Death. He is not a man. He is not a god either. He is not me but he is more than me: his stomach is the labyrinth in which he has lost himself, loses me with him, and in which I discover myself as him, in other words, as a monster.

Bataille, Blanchot, Jünger and André Malraux, perceive happiness in excess; even Nietzsche, Genet, Gide, Cocteau, T.E.Lawrence, Green, Pasolini, Gombrowicz, Klaus Mann and many others know how to appreciate the apocalyptic intoxication in the moment of death, when erotic and mystic ecstasy creates the experience of total isolation – the joy of death. To omit oneself, to step outside oneself is always akin to the death of the Ego, the life-giving sperm from the exploding cock’s entry into Nirvana.

For German romantics like Novalis and von Kleist, and for Nietzsche, the peak of pain are identical with the summit of pleasure when the Ego dies and the human that is against annihilation is annihilated.

Michel Surya – Georges Bataille, An Intellectual Biography: Death is linked to the earth, only to the earth (and not to the heavens), to rotting, decomposition, to the buried body turning into a cadaver. The body is root, teeming beneath the skin of the forest, or a volcano swarming with entrails. Acéphale was this recognition: a community of seers, eyes wide open on the stupefying work of death. We are reminded of The Solar Anus. The sun as a corpse at the bottom of a well, with the sky upturned. We are reminded of everything most violently anti-idealist in Bataille’s writings, as a way of gaining an approximate idea of the disruptive meaning Acéphale’s orgies were meant to have.

To exceed oneself, to reach beyond what is referred to as the unreachable and thereby surpass oneself, to soil and to sacrifice oneself, that is what it means to be united with God, according to many mystics. Not to Bataille. Bataille finds nothing or very little beyond the here and now, and dismisses ascetic ways as non-sovereign ways to ecstasy. Transcendence can only be reached by means that demand the definite transgression of all boundaries, all inhibitions must be cast aside.

According to Bataille the eroticism is equivalent to a mysticism of the genitals during man’s preparations for death, he loves death unconditionally and ruthlessly, the Being rejoices during the transgression.

Bataille frequently takes the Nietzschean pilgrimage to Taormina. Battaile sees the holy and the sovereign and the meaningful Dionysian ego-rejection as mankind’s struggle towards the totality of the Ego, identity and perfection. Bataille is an exceptional analyst and commentator on Nietzsche. To rightfully understand Nietzsche the disciple has to be Nietzsche.

What is it like to be Nietzsche?

More than anything else it is (in the absence of the actual possibility to physically move backwards in time) to travel to the city of Taormina on the slope of Monte Tauros through the German photographer Wilhelm von Gloeden’s photographs of naked Sicilian boys.

When the philosopher grows tired of the Basel bourgeois’s tittle-tattle he starts cruising for archaic, bronze-gleaming naked bodies, suckable cocks and the rounded arses of boys in Taormina. Here Nietzsche finds his Zarathustra. In a boy the masochist discovers his Superhuman. When Nietzsche speaks about the impossibility to separate the body from the soul he sets out from the experiences of being queer.

The current age’s problem with Nietzsche is that the recluse never committed himself to any concrete mission. He never joins any processions for a better world or the emancipation of women. This sovereignty implicates a non serviam, the dissociation of every profitable act or generous favour which doesn’t stand in a masochistic relation to sadism. This saves Nietzsche from becoming a slave, a servile.

The worries of the future are the foundation of every moralistic value, every discipline and every effort to tear humanity away from the insight that the individual’s sovereignty consists of knowing where it is and not where it is going.

In contrast to the opponent Sartre, Bataille rejects the social focal points of his time. The friendship with Blanchot becomes significant after his friend has urged him to live as if he was Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, the last man, who is also the most beautiful man. For Blanchot the inner experiences are the answer that awaits mankind when it finally decides to only ask questions, only to perceive the riddle’s answer. The not-knowing leads humanity into the night of emptiness and nothingness, into the erotic and mystic ecstasy of non-existents.

Bataille seeks the spiritual dissolution of the soul, the annihilation of the validity of every “truth”, the abolition of all authorised philosophies.

Being as Time. The Time is now. In the present, Nietzsche wants to rescue and heal the human being which has been fragmented and butchered by humanitarian psychoanalysts. If he survives it is only because he is able to separate his true identity from the conception of the philistine bourgeois’s utility.

Man is a fool, his own god, a lunatic, a Dostoevskyan idiot. In the reality of Nietzsche and in Bataille’s recreation of the Nietzschean reality man is the universal fool, a divine insane Dionysian and holy creature who exists to the full only after he has overcome Being. Then he is free, a slave only to himself, a Superhuman.

André Masson quoted in Critique, 1956: I saw him immediately as headless, as becomes him, but what to do with this cumbersome and doubting head? – Irresistibly it finds itself displaced to the sex, which it masks with a “death’s head.” Now, the arms? Automatically one hand (the left!) flourishes a dagger; while the other kneads a blazing heart (a heart that does not belong to the Crucified, but to our master Dionysus). (…) The pectorals starred according to whim. Well, fine so far, but what to make of the stomach? That empty container will be receptacle for the Labyrinth that elsewhere had become our rallying sign. This drawing, made on the spot, under the eyes of Georges Bataille, had the good luck to please him. Absolutely.

The essence of Nietzsche’s philosophy is ecstasy, the orgy of man’s possibilities on a road to total freedom. William Blake speaks about the marriage of heaven and hell, freedom is the practise of evil; Bataille interprets Nietzsche’s will to power as the will towards evil. Nietzsche’s eternal return doesn’t imply a constant monotonous recurrence, but is an attempt to always remain within oneself – one’s inner core. The return is in the moment of ecstasy within itself the implement to reach the goal, the power over oneself through an ecstatic orgasm; the moment when life and death connects, when good and evil melts together.

Clark V. Poling – André Masson and the Surrealist Self: Allusions to death and rebirth abound in Masson’s images of Dionysus, as in the scenes opposing destructive violence to sexual orgy. The god’s decapitation and gushing wound in the first drawing, Dionysus, suggest Nietzsche’s declaration: “While the sun is obscured by stormy skies in the first two drawings, reinforcing the idea of cataclysm, its rays nevertheless pierce the clouds in the first, promising a re-emergence, and it shines fully in the third. Fires appear as agents of both destruction and transformation. Grape-laden vines in all three drawings, signs of Dionysius and the loss of the self in the inebriation he offers, further contribute to the idea of rebirth following annihilation, as does the positioning and huge scale of the central mythical figure, which arises from the midst of destruction.

Bataille doesn’t perceive the libertine’s way as constant repetition of the trauma of the passion (which separates him from de Sade and Genet). The philosopher’s goal is not a generous annihilating ecstasy. Bataille’s mysticism is no inner meditation or reclusion but deep open communication and confrontation. Pure black energy is incarnated within the sun.

Bataille’s language is pure and clean. Bataille writes about sexuality, sadomasochism, voyeurism, exhibitionism and oral-anal games without the use of obscenity at the same time as the sharp black arrows of his heart, brain and cock discharge; the precision of language hammers down upon the cultivated bourgeois society which Bataille’s exquisite evil renounces.

Bataille writes about Lust, about Cock and Cunt. Bataille hates consumption hedonism and interest promiscuity – he speaks of a piercing, all-consuming, passion. Bataille arouses the lust for ecstasy and holy whoring within the reader’s body and soul. The language of his novels is angelic and pure but it leads the reader straight into the sovereign voluptuous obscenity of death which doesn’t have anything to do with Kierkegaard’s pale death, with Heidegger’s intellectualism or the Freudian death-wish. Bataille polishes hard marble cocks, not with words but through the Word; he allows man to enjoy the martyrdom of the orgasm through the final moment of death.

Patrick Waldberg – Acéphalogramme: The war had burst upon us, Acéphale vacillated, undermined by internal dissensions, its conscience shattered perhaps by its obvious incongruity in the face of world-wide disaster. At the last meeting in the heart of the forest, there were only four of us and Bataille solemnly requested whether one of the three others would assent to being put to death, since this sacrifice would be the foundation of a myth, and ensure the survival of the community. This favour was refused him. Some months later the war was unleashed in earnest, sweeping away what hope remained.

He is ten years old. One of the young men, who also travel with the same train as his stepfather every day between work and the summerhouse, hooks up with him from the station, puts his arm over his shoulder and strokes his neck. They walk a detour across the dunes, and by the pier the young man unzips his pants, he knells in front of him and takes his cock in his mouth. The procedure is repeated several times during that summer. He thinks it feels good and he feels secure when the young man grabs his buttocks with his warm hands. He becomes aware of his power over his lover, to have a grown man lying at his feet.

When the boy in the Greek masterpiece the Iliad says to his lover, a grown man: “I am the flesh, you are the knife”, he depicts the same experience I had as an eleven-year-old of being fucked for the first time. It felt as if a knife separated my body into two halves. But isn’t this just how sadomasochism matures? The pain soon transfers into pleasure and then into exhibitionism. And then one wants to share this pleasure: to give and take.

Teresa of Avila: I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron’s point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it…

Teresa of Avila’s documented experience of severe penetration is similar to what I and the boy in the Iliad perceived. Sadomasochism is a way to – voluntarily or involuntarily – transcendence; to transform oneself or let oneself be transformed into an absolute and totally sexual creature – an ascendance which transgresses the limits into an experience outside of the intellectual range. This is why sadomasochism also can be a part of a religious experience.

Saint Sebastian represents the sadomasochistic culture and the continuity of the Catholic Church through the centuries. Saint Sebastian is the patriot saint of queers and soldiers, but he has also had an influence on painters and authors. The depiction of Sebastian by Guido Reni which Oscar Wild sees in Palazzo Rosso in Genua 1877, has of course been reproduced in various art books. And in his father’s library Yukio Mishima finds such a book with this one picture of Sebastian. Mishima experiences his first ejaculation while dreaming of Sebastian. He writes: ”The arrows have eaten into the tense, fragrant, youthful flesh and are about to consume his body from within with flames of supreme agony and ecstasy”. Mishima’s description of this “jerk-off”, which he experiences as an intercourse, are quiet similar to the statement from the Iliad: “I am the flesh, you are the knife”. Mishima develops into a sadomasochistic fag. In 1966 he is the subject of an arranged photo session in which he personifies the role of Saint Sebastian. And the final enactment of his death by seppuku in 1970 is by all rights the perfect sadomasochistic suicide and most brilliantly planned performance piece of all time.

John Nathan – Mishima, a Biography: In mid-September Mishima posed for the young photographer Kishin Shinoyama for the first of a series of photographs called Death of a Man. The series was Mishima’s inspiration and Mishima designed the scenes. They included Mishima drowning in mud, Mishima with a hatchet in his brain, Mishima beneath the wheels of a cement truck, and of course Mishima as Saint Sebastian, arms roped above his head to a tree branch and arrows burning deliciously into his armpit and flank. The photographs were intended for publication in a magazine called Blood and Roses, but when Mishima died, Shinoyama could not bring himself to release them. The photograph that most unnerved him was one he had taken in jest; Mishima sits naked on the floor with a short sword buried in his abdomen, and standing behind him, with a long sword raised waiting to behead him on his signal, is Shinoyama. What can Mishima have been thinking? Were these moments when stage blood and the real thing came confused in his mind and he looked forward to his actual death as simply another more sensational pose? In all the hours of talk about each scene while it was being planed and photographed, Shinoyama’s only impression was that Mishima was intensely serious about the project, “the most demanding and the most cooperative” model he had ever had.

Jean Genet’s severe sadomasochistic experiences from the time spent in prison are well-known, as is the continuation of his praxis outside the prison walls. But even a boy with a very different childhood, of a very different social belonging can develop according to the same sadomasochistic praxis as Genet engenders. In the book Zöglingschaft der Jean Genet the Austrian author Josef Winkler, born in 1970s, depicts how the environment of his hometown Kärnten, Austria, literally smothers him to death. How he is mentally castrated. Winkler’s only way out of this hellish existence is by descending into homosexual sadomasochism. Winkler enacts the Saint Sebastian-role and becomes liberated. He leaves behind all the disgust he has felt in the past, and he focuses all his love and tenderness on the dead Genet, by trying to imitate the same sexual liberation as his hero once did. What was considered indecent and unwanted in Kärnten, Winkler insists has a worth of its own, the gay-life contains a great poetic beauty. Reality is, like William Burroughs says, not what it seems to be. Jean-Paul Sartre maintained that Genet always remained faithful to the morality of the reformatories of his childhood; because of the “crises of childhood” he learned to know himself. Winlker reaches this state of maturity when he drapes himself in the master’s cloak, when he learns to understand Genet’s morality, when he dares to touch another boy’s naked body, when he dares to caress it and whip it.

Of course sadomasochism between men doesn’t need to involve whipping or tying each other up. Pier Paolo Pasolini was a master also when it came to depict this non-violent sadomasochism (even though the accounts of the activities in the city of Salò are very physically violent). But Pasolini’s death, even if it was not as rigorously planned as Mishima’s seppuku, was in its own subtle way prepared in advance by himself (even if the murder turned out to be an inside job carried out by political enemies from the right or left). Pasolini spoke openly about his homosexuality, and especially of his love of young boys. He couldn’t be unaware that the life he led would sooner or later lead to his doom. The death of Pasolini became a sacrificial death in the catholic sense of the word, a kind of flagellation.

Gideon Bachmann – Pasolini and the Marquis de Sade: It is the classic scene of every pornographic novel, with or without literary pretensions, the first moment of the manifestation of supremacy of one being over another. Since the film is to be made without emotion, I find it hard to understand the willingness, even complicity, with which these boys, even as film actors, expose themselves to the camera’s anatomical panning and tilting. There is joggling for position, pride of the chosen, sly jockeying and competition. For a moment, the film scene and the reality of its filming seem one. These boys are proud of their bodies in front of Pasolini as they might have been, in their innocence, in de Sade’s castle in Switzerland two hundred years ago. When they were picked for the film, they were not told about the script. There might be some nudity, they knew, seeing that it was a Pasolini film. But none were aware of the portent of what they were involved with. And yet, so strong is the career strife, so important the parts in a Pasolini film for their financial future, that none rebels.

It is worth mentioning that in general, there are Catholics who depict queer-sadomasochism through text and image. In the world of Pasolini this praxis is carried out defencelessly; the total submission to boys’ and men’s demand for sex. In the novel Petrolio he exposes himself in all his nakedness to such degree that all aesthetic boundaries are transgressed. Lights and colours, landscapes and portraits are subordinated to the intensity of the naked main character Pier Paolo Pasolini when he sucks the sperm of his subjugators, when he kneels before twenty young men who demands that he will suck, fuck and clean twenty cocks of various length and thickness on the meadow at Casilina in the outskirts of Rome. Sandro, Sergio, Claudio, Gianfranco and the other sixteen bodies smells of flour and motor oil, of dried sperm and sweat; Pasolini’s alter ego, Carlo, “kneels in eternal tenderness, yes with delicacy, in front of their cocks”; and “hardly dares to touch them with his hands, hence he approaches them with his lips”. The grass smells of dry hay when Carlo lies with Claudius’ cock in his ass this night of love when “the moon is high” and moonlight is “different, brighter, purer” than sunlight.

Suetonius – The Life of Nero: He so prostituted his own chastity that after defiling almost every part of his body, he at last devised a kind of game, in which, covered with the skin of some wild animal, he was let loose from a cage and attacked the private parts of men and women, who were bound to stakes, and when he had sated his mad lust, was dispatched by his freedman Doryphorus; for he was even married to this man in the same way that he himself had married Sporus, going so far as to imitate the cries and lamentations of a maiden being deflowered. I have heard from some men that it was his unshaken conviction that no man was chaste or pure in any part of his body, but that most of them concealed their vices and cleverly drew a veil over them; and that therefore he pardoned all other faults in those who confessed to him their lewdness.

When I left Malmö for London and later, when I was home back in Malmö during the school holidays, and in Kungsparken and Slottsparken, behind the birdcages, offered myself to men, it was according to my own premises. The boys longing after grown men might have several reasons. I was the one seducing, not the one being seduced. This wasn’t without risk. Senior police officers with peaked caps and fast bicycles were patrolling the park. When they suspected that I or any of the other boys where hiding in the bushes, they came running and when we fled they shouted threats “I know who you are, I will call your mother and father”. But nobody ever called. I did the same thing as my poor, shabbily dressed, almost starving classmates did at the Honour of Work-statue on Möllevångstorget, but I never charged money for my services, I was free, it didn’t disgust me, I enjoyed it.

Gerard de Nerval – To Alexander Dumas: Was this young Nero, the idol of Rome, the handsome athlete, the dancer, the poet whose only wish was to please the populace? Is this what history and the conceptions of our poets have left of him? Ah, give me his fury to interpret; his power I would fear to accept. Nero! I have comprehended thee, not alas! according to Racine, but according to my own heart, torn with agony whenever I have ventured to impersonate thee! Yes, thou wast a god, thou who wouldst have burned Rome. Thou wast right, perhaps, since Rome had insulted thee!

+ + +

INFO:
Bo I. Cavefors – Martin Bladh
QUALIS ARTIFEX PEREO &
QUALIS ARTIFEX PEREO – FINIS
A book and dvd later published by Styx Publisher, Stockholm

QUALIS ARTIFEX PEREOActors: Bo I. Cavefors, Martin Bladh, Erica Li Lundqvist, Johanna Rosenqvist
Film: Aryan Kaganof
African Noise Foundation in association with Grymhetens Teater Dekadens
Music: Martin Bladh
Sound engineer: Mikael Oretoft
 
QUALIS ARTIFEX PEREO – FINIS
Performed and filmed in Norrköping, 12th of June 2009
Actors: Bo I. Cavefors, Martin Bladh, Johan Adolphi, Mikael Oretoft
Film: Peter Andersson, Lars Bosma
Music: Martin Bladh

CONTENTS (the book)
Manifest
Qualis Artifex Pereo : Bo I. CaveforsCavefors on Cavefors. T
Qualis Artifex Pereo : Martin Bladh
Bladh on Bladh. This interview with Martin Bladh was conducted by Peter Sotos during the autumn of 2006.
Qualis Artifex Pereo: Georges Battaile & Martin Bladhhis interview with Bo Cavefors was conducted by Johannes FlinkMartin Bladh and Bo I. Cavefors. QUALIS ARTIFEX PEREO. ORIGINAL ACTION SCOREMartin Bladh and Bo I. Cavefors. QUALIS ARTIFEX PEREO – FINIS. ORIGINAL ACTION SCORE Injury

first published here: http://nyasvartafanor-sistaupplagan.blogspot.com/

February 7, 2011

on time

Filed under: Georges Bataille,philosophy — ABRAXAS @ 9:30 am

“Time is not the synthesis of being and nothingness if being or nothingness are only found in time and are only arbitrarily separated notions. There is, in fact, neither isolated being nor isolated nothingness; there is time. But to affirm the existence of time is an empty assertion in the sense that it gives less the vague attribute of existence to time than the nature of time to existence; in other words, it empties the notion of existence of its vague and limitless content, and at the same time it infinitely empties it of all content.

The existence of time does not even require the objective position of time as such; this existence, posed in ecstacy, means only the flight and the collapse of any object that understanding sought to give itself both as a value and as a fixed object. The existence of time projected arbitrarily into an objective region is only the ecstatic vision of a catastrophe destroying that which founds this region. Not because the region of objects is necessarily, like the me, infinitely destroyed by time itself, but because existence founded in the me suddenly looms there, destroyed, and because the existence of things is impoverished in comparison with that of the me.

The existence of things, assuming the value for me – projecting an absurd shadow – of the preparations for an execution, cannot enclose the death it brings, but is itself projected into this death, which encloses it.

To affirm the illusory existence of the me and of time (which is not only the structure of the me but the object of its erotic ecstacy) does not therefore mean that the illusion must be subjected to the judgement of things whose existence is profound, but that profound existence must be projected into the illusion that encloses it.”

Georges Bataille
Sacrifices

September 24, 2010

1974. simona. patrick longchamps

Filed under: Georges Bataille,murder mystery top 50 movies — ABRAXAS @ 9:33 am

Based on Bataille’s Story of the Eye, this resembles the spirit and tone of the author’s writing a thousand times more than the XXX Story of the Eye.

Made in 1975 befure Antonelli was a household name in Italy, the film follows the adventures of Simone and her friend George who, in a warped coming of age tale, partake in lurid sexual acts together. Along the way, they meet a young girl named Marcelle whom they drive to the brink of madness with their actions.

for great photos from this film see here

December 20, 2009

to the great night…

Filed under: Georges Bataille,philosophy,politics — ABRAXAS @ 12:35 pm

One notes that in primitive societies, where the exploitation of man by man is still fairly weak, the products of human activity not only flow in great quantities to rich men because of the protection or social leadership services these men supposedly provide, but also because of the spectacular collective expenditures for which they must pay.

In so-called civilized societies, the fundamental obligation of wealth disappeared only in a fairly recent period […] Everything that was generous, orgiastic, and excessive has disappeared; the themes of rivalry upon which individual activity still depends develop in obscurity, and are as shameful as belching.

The representatives of the bourgeoisie have adopted an effaced manner; wealth is now displayed behind closed doors, in accordance with depressing and boring conventions […] Such trickery has become the principle reason for living, working, and suffering for those who lack the courage to condemn this moldy society to revolutionary destruction […]

As the class that possesses the wealth — having received with wealth the obligation of functional expenditure — the modern bourgeoisie is characterized by the refusal in principle of this obligation. It has distinguished itself from the aristocracy through the fact that it has consented only to spend for itself, and within itself — in other words, by hiding its expenditures as much as possible from the other classes […]

In opposition, the people’s consciousness is reduced to maintaining profoundly the principle of expenditure by representing bourgeois existence as the shame of man and as a sinister cancellation […] As for the masters and exploiters, whose function is to create the contemptuous forms that exclude human nature — causing this nature to exist at the limits of the earth, in other words in mud — a simple law of reciprocity requires that they be condemned to fear, to the great night when their beautiful phrases will be drowned out by death screams in riots.

Georges Bataille
1933

December 12, 2009

Georges Bataille is the mystic of eroticism and faith. an article by bo cavefors accompanying the dvd of Qualis Artifex Pereo: a film by aryan kaganof of a performance by acéphale featuring martin bladh, erica li lindqvist and bo cavefors

Filed under: acéphale,bo cavefors,Georges Bataille,philosophy,sex — ABRAXAS @ 10:53 am

Bataille never speaks of sainthood as a righteous way for those who want to preach the message of good. Instead Bataille analyses mankind’s inner silence. In Being’s meaninglessness he sees an exhortation not to despair and resign; his inheritance is Laughter.

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Bataille doesn’t recommend therapy, no hedonistic cock-worshipping-cult, no ars erotica; Bataille invites the initiated into a friendship with a well-preserved individual sovereignty. Ecstasy is not a means to individual liberation, according to Bataille; there is anxiety in ecstasy. Pleasure and anxiety wash over humanity when, confronted by terror, it loses its ego. Ernst Jünger’s In Stahlgewittern also deals with this subject matter. The fascination for death signifies the increased potency of the Ego when man loses the ground beneath his feet and enters the horizontal world. Man is born into a world of subject and object, the continuity of the Being reaches beyond life into the kingdom of the dead. The orgasm of the transition is simultaneously an erotic and mystic-religious intoxication.

Bataille rejects all engagement literature because it leads to the abuse of the author as well as the literature by powers that betray humanity, the arts and ecstasy – the innermost being. Man who wants to preserve his intrinsic value is reduced to a mere piece in a jigsaw puzzle. Happiness and liberation are only made possible if the author, philosopher, artist or average man avows to the freedom of God, which he lodges within himself. When the author guides his readers towards politics, social, religious and scientific goals, he reduces literature to authenticity, a loss of sovereignty.

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Georges Bataille – The Sacred Conspiracy: Man has escaped from his head just as the condemned man has escaped from his prison. He has found beyond himself not God, who is the prohibition against crime, but a being who is unaware of prohibition. Beyond what I am, I meet a being who makes me laugh because he is headless; this fills me with dread because he is made of innocence and of crime; he holds a steel weapon in his left hand, flames like those of a Sacred Heart in his right. He reunites in the same eruption Birth and Death. He is not a man. He is not a god either. He is not me but he is more than me: his stomach is the labyrinth in which he has lost himself, loses me with him, and in which I discover myself as him, in other words, as a monster.

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Bataille, Blanchot, Jünger and André Malraux, perceive happiness in excess; even Nietzsche, Genet, Gide, Cocteau, T.E.Lawrence, Green, Pasolini, Gombrowicz, Klaus Mann and many others know how to appreciate the apocalyptic intoxication in the moment of death, when erotic and mystic ecstasy creates the experience of total isolation – the joy of death. To omit oneself, to step outside oneself is always akin to the death of the Ego, the life-giving sperm from the exploding cock’s entry into Nirvana.

For German romantics like Novalis and von Kleist, and for Nietzsche, the peak of pain are identical with the summit of pleasure when the Ego dies and the human that is against annihilation is annihilated.

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Michel Surya – Georges Bataille, An Intellectual Biography: Death is linked to the earth, only to the earth (and not to the heavens), to rotting, decomposition, to the buried body turning into a cadaver. The body is root, teeming beneath the skin of the forest, or a volcano swarming with entrails. Acéphale was this recognition: a community of seers, eyes wide open on the stupefying work of death. We are reminded of The Solar Anus. The sun as a corpse at the bottom of a well, with the sky upturned. We are reminded of everything most violently anti-idealist in Bataille’s writings, as a way of gaining an approximate idea of the disruptive meaning Acéphale’s orgies were meant to have.

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To exceed oneself, to reach beyond what is referred to as the unreachable and thereby surpass oneself, to soil and to sacrifice oneself, that is what it means to be united with God, according to many mystics. Not to Bataille. Bataille finds nothing or very little beyond the here and now, and dismisses ascetic ways as non-sovereign ways to ecstasy. Transcendence can only be reached by means that demand the definite transgression of all boundaries, all inhibitions must be cast aside.

According to Bataille the eroticism is equivalent to a mysticism of the genitals during man’s preparations for death, he loves death unconditionally and ruthlessly, the Being rejoices during the transgression.

Bataille frequently takes the Nietzschean pilgrimage to Taormina. Battaile sees the holy and the sovereign and the meaningful Dionysian ego-rejection as mankind’s struggle towards the totality of the Ego, identity and perfection. Bataille is an exceptional analyst and commentator on Nietzsche. To rightfully understand Nietzsche the disciple has to be Nietzsche.

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What is it like to be Nietzsche?

More than anything else it is (in the absence of the actual possibility to physically move backwards in time) to travel to the city of Taormina on the slope of Monte Tauros through the German photographer Wilhelm von Gloeden’s photographs of naked Sicilian boys.
When the philosopher grows tired of the Basel bourgeois’s tittle-tattle he starts cruising for archaic, bronze-gleaming naked bodies, suckable cocks and the rounded arses of boys in Taormina. Here Nietzsche finds his Zarathustra. In a boy the masochist discovers his Superhuman. When Nietzsche speaks about the impossibility to separate the body from the soul he sets out from the experiences of being queer.

The current age’s problem with Nietzsche is that the recluse never committed himself to any concrete mission. He never joins any processions for a better world or the emancipation of women. This sovereignty implicates a non serviam, the dissociation of every profitable act or generous favour which doesn’t stand in a masochistic relation to sadism. This saves Nietzsche from becoming a slave, a servile.

The worries of the future are the foundation of every moralistic value, every discipline and every effort to tear humanity away from the insight that the individual’s sovereignty consists of knowing where it is and not where it is going.

In contrast to the opponent Sartre, Bataille rejects the social focal points of his time. The friendship with Blanchot becomes significant after his friend has urged him to live as if he was Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, the last man, who is also the most beautiful man. For Blanchot the inner experiences are the answer that awaits mankind when it finally decides to only ask questions, only to perceive the riddle’s answer. The not-knowing leads humanity into the night of emptiness and nothingness, into the erotic and mystic ecstasy of non-existents.

Bataille seeks the spiritual dissolution of the soul, the annihilation of the validity of every “truth”, the abolition of all authorised philosophies.

Being as Time. The Time is now. In the present, Nietzsche wants to rescue and heal the human being which has been fragmented and butchered by humanitarian psychoanalysts. If he survives it is only because he is able to separate his true identity from the conception of the philistine bourgeois’s utility.

Man is a fool, his own god, a lunatic, a Dostoevskyan idiot. In the reality of Nietzsche and in Bataille’s recreation of the Nietzschean reality man is the universal fool, a divine insane Dionysian and holy creature who exists to the full only after he has overcome Being. Then he is free, a slave only to himself, a Superhuman.

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André Masson quoted in Critique, 1956: I saw him immediately as headless, as becomes him, but what to do with this cumbersome and doubting head? – Irresistibly it finds itself displaced to the sex, which it masks with a “death’s head.” Now, the arms? Automatically one hand (the left!) flourishes a dagger; while the other kneads a blazing heart (a heart that does not belong to the Crucified, but to our master Dionysus). (…) The pectorals starred according to whim. Well, fine so far, but what to make of the stomach? That empty container will be receptacle for the Labyrinth that elsewhere had become our rallying sign. This drawing, made on the spot, under the eyes of Georges Bataille, had the good luck to please him. Absolutely.

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The essence of Nietzsche’s philosophy is ecstasy, the orgy of man’s possibilities on a road to total freedom. William Blake speaks about the marriage of heaven and hell, freedom is the practise of evil; Bataille interprets Nietzsche’s will to power as the will towards evil. Nietzsche’s eternal return doesn’t imply a constant monotonous recurrence, but is an attempt to always remain within oneself – one’s inner core. The return is in the moment of ecstasy within itself the implement to reach the goal, the power over oneself through an ecstatic orgasm; the moment when life and death connects, when good and evil melts together.

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Clark V. Poling – André Masson and the Surrealist Self: Allusions to death and rebirth abound in Masson’s images of Dionysus, as in the scenes opposing destructive violence to sexual orgy. The god’s decapitation and gushing wound in the first drawing, Dionysus, suggest Nietzsche’s declaration: “While the sun is obscured by stormy skies in the first two drawings, reinforcing the idea of cataclysm, its rays nevertheless pierce the clouds in the first, promising a re-emergence, and it shines fully in the third. Fires appear as agents of both destruction and transformation. Grape-laden vines in all three drawings, signs of Dionysius and the loss of the self in the inebriation he offers, further contribute to the idea of rebirth following annihilation, as does the positioning and huge scale of the central mythical figure, which arises from the midst of destruction.

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Bataille doesn’t perceive the libertine’s way as constant repetition of the trauma of the passion (which separates him from de Sade and Genet). The philosopher’s goal is not a generous annihilating ecstasy. Bataille’s mysticism is no inner meditation or reclusion but deep open communication and confrontation. Pure black energy is incarnated within the sun.

Bataille’s language is pure and clean. Bataille writes about sexuality, sadomasochism, voyeurism, exhibitionism and oral-anal games without the use of obscenity at the same time as the sharp black arrows of his heart, brain and cock discharge; the precision of language hammers down upon the cultivated bourgeois society which Bataille’s exquisite evil renounces.

Bataille writes about Lust, about Cock and Cunt. Bataille hates consumption hedonism and interest promiscuity – he speaks of a piercing, all-consuming, passion. Bataille arouses the lust for ecstasy and holy whoring within the reader’s body and soul. The language of his novels is angelic and pure but it leads the reader straight into the sovereign voluptuous obscenity of death which doesn’t have anything to do with Kierkegaard’s pale death, with Heidegger’s intellectualism or the Freudian death-wish. Bataille polishes hard marble cocks, not with words but through the Word; he allows man to enjoy the martyrdom of the orgasm through the final moment of death.

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Patrick Waldberg – Acéphalogramme: The war had burst upon us, Acéphale vacillated, undermined by internal dissensions, its conscience shattered perhaps by its obvious incongruity in the face of world-wide disaster. At the last meeting in the heart of the forest, there were only four of us and Bataille solemnly requested whether one of the three others would assent to being put to death, since this sacrifice would be the foundation of a myth, and ensure the survival of the community. This favour was refused him. Some months later the war was unleashed in earnest, sweeping away what hope remained.

He is ten years old. One of the young men, who also travel with the same train as his stepfather every day between work and the summerhouse, hooks up with him from the station, puts his arm over his shoulder and strokes his neck. They walk a detour across the dunes, and by the pier the young man unzips his pants, he knells in front of him and takes his cock in his mouth. The procedure is repeated several times during that summer. He thinks it feels good and he feels secure when the young man grabs his buttocks with his warm hands. He becomes aware of his power over his lover, to have a grown man lying at his feet.

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When the boy in the Greek masterpiece the Iliad says to his lover, a grown man: “I am the flesh, you are the knife”, he depicts the same experience I had as an eleven-year-old of being fucked for the first time. It felt as if a knife separated my body into two halves. But isn’t this just how sadomasochism matures? The pain soon transfers into pleasure and then into exhibitionism. And then one wants to share this pleasure: to give and take.

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Teresa of Avila: I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron’s point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it…

Teresa of Avila’s documented experience of severe penetration is similar to what I and the boy in the Iliad perceived. Sadomasochism is a way to – voluntarily or involuntarily – transcendence; to transform oneself or let oneself be transformed into an absolute and totally sexual creature – an ascendance which transgresses the limits into an experience outside of the intellectual range. This is why sadomasochism also can be a part of a religious experience.

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Saint Sebastian represents the sadomasochistic culture and the continuity of the Catholic Church through the centuries. Saint Sebastian is the patriot saint of queers and soldiers, but he has also had an influence on painters and authors. The depiction of Sebastian by Guido Reni which Oscar Wild sees in Palazzo Rosso in Genua 1877, has of course been reproduced in various art books. And in his father’s library Yukio Mishima finds such a book with this one picture of Sebastian. Mishima experiences his first ejaculation while dreaming of Sebastian. He writes: ”The arrows have eaten into the tense, fragrant, youthful flesh and are about to consume his body from within with flames of supreme agony and ecstasy”. Mishima’s description of this “jerk-off”, which he experiences as an intercourse, are quiet similar to the statement from the Iliad: “I am the flesh, you are the knife”. Mishima develops into a sadomasochistic fag. In 1966 he is the subject of an arranged photo session in which he personifies the role of Saint Sebastian. And the final enactment of his death by seppuku in 1970 is by all rights the perfect sadomasochistic suicide and most brilliantly planned performance piece of all time.

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John Nathan – Mishima, a Biography: In mid-September Mishima posed for the young photographer Kishin Shinoyama for the first of a series of photographs called Death of a Man. The series was Mishima’s inspiration and Mishima designed the scenes. They included Mishima drowning in mud, Mishima with a hatchet in his brain, Mishima beneath the wheels of a cement truck, and of course Mishima as Saint Sebastian, arms roped above his head to a tree branch and arrows burning deliciously into his armpit and flank. The photographs were intended for publication in a magazine called Blood and Roses, but when Mishima died, Shinoyama could not bring himself to release them. The photograph that most unnerved him was one he had taken in jest; Mishima sits naked on the floor with a short sword buried in his abdomen, and standing behind him, with a long sword raised waiting to behead him on his signal, is Shinoyama. What can Mishima have been thinking? Were these moments when stage blood and the real thing came confused in his mind and he looked forward to his actual death as simply another more sensational pose? In all the hours of talk about each scene while it was being planed and photographed, Shinoyama’s only impression was that Mishima was intensely serious about the project, “the most demanding and the most cooperative” model he had ever had.

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Jean Genet’s severe sadomasochistic experiences from the time spent in prison are well-known, as is the continuation of his praxis outside the prison walls. But even a boy with a very different childhood, of a very different social belonging can develop according to the same sadomasochistic praxis as Genet engenders. In the book Zöglingschaft der Jean Genet the Austrian author Josef Winkler, born in 1970s, depicts how the environment of his hometown Kärnten, Austria, literally smothers him to death. How he is mentally castrated. Winkler’s only way out of this hellish existence is by descending into homosexual sadomasochism. Winkler enacts the Saint Sebastian-role and becomes liberated. He leaves behind all the disgust he has felt in the past, and he focuses all his love and tenderness on the dead Genet, by trying to imitate the same sexual liberation as his hero once did. What was considered indecent and unwanted in Kärnten, Winkler insists has a worth of its own, the gay-life contains a great poetic beauty. Reality is, like William Burroughs says, not what it seems to be. Jean-Paul Sartre maintained that Genet always remained faithful to the morality of the reformatories of his childhood; because of the “crises of childhood” he learned to know himself. Winlker reaches this state of maturity when he drapes himself in the master’s cloak, when he learns to understand Genet’s morality, when he dares to touch another boy’s naked body, when he dares to caress it and whip it.

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Of course sadomasochism between men doesn’t need to involve whipping or tying each other up. Pier Paolo Pasolini was a master also when it came to depict this non-violent sadomasochism (even though the accounts of the activities in the city of Salò are very physically violent). But Pasolini’s death, even if it was not as rigorously planned as Mishima’s seppuku, was in its own subtle way prepared in advance by himself (even if the murder turned out to be an inside job carried out by political enemies from the right or left). Pasolini spoke openly about his homosexuality, and especially of his love of young boys. He couldn’t be unaware that the life he led would sooner or later lead to his doom. The death of Pasolini became a sacrificial death in the catholic sense of the word, a kind of flagellation.

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Gideon Bachmann – Pasolini and the Marquis de Sade: It is the classic scene of every pornographic novel, with or without literary pretensions, the first moment of the manifestation of supremacy of one being over another. Since the film is to be made without emotion, I find it hard to understand the willingness, even complicity, with which these boys, even as film actors, expose themselves to the camera’s anatomical panning and tilting. There is joggling for position, pride of the chosen, sly jockeying and competition. For a moment, the film scene and the reality of its filming seem one. These boys are proud of their bodies in front of Pasolini as they might have been, in their innocence, in de Sade’s castle in Switzerland two hundred years ago. When they were picked for the film, they were not told about the script. There might be some nudity, they knew, seeing that it was a Pasolini film. But none were aware of the portent of what they were involved with. And yet, so strong is the career strife, so important the parts in a Pasolini film for their financial future, that none rebels.

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It is worth mentioning that in general, there are Catholics who depict queer-sadomasochism through text and image. In the world of Pasolini this praxis is carried out defencelessly; the total submission to boys’ and men’s demand for sex. In the novel Petrolio he exposes himself in all his nakedness to such degree that all aesthetic boundaries are transgressed. Lights and colours, landscapes and portraits are subordinated to the intensity of the naked main character Pier Paolo Pasolini when he sucks the sperm of his subjugators, when he kneels before twenty young men who demands that he will suck, fuck and clean twenty cocks of various length and thickness on the meadow at Casilina in the outskirts of Rome. Sandro, Sergio, Claudio, Gianfranco and the other sixteen bodies smells of flour and motor oil, of dried sperm and sweat; Pasolini’s alter ego, Carlo, “kneels in eternal tenderness, yes with delicacy, in front of their cocks”; and “hardly dares to touch them with his hands, hence he approaches them with his lips”. The grass smells of dry hay when Carlo lies with Claudius’ cock in his ass this night of love when “the moon is high” and moonlight is “different, brighter, purer” than sunlight.

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Suetonius – The Life of Nero: He so prostituted his own chastity that after defiling almost every part of his body, he at last devised a kind of game, in which, covered with the skin of some wild animal, he was let loose from a cage and attacked the private parts of men and women, who were bound to stakes, and when he had sated his mad lust, was dispatched by his freedman Doryphorus; for he was even married to this man in the same way that he himself had married Sporus, going so far as to imitate the cries and lamentations of a maiden being deflowered. I have heard from some men that it was his unshaken conviction that no man was chaste or pure in any part of his body, but that most of them concealed their vices and cleverly drew a veil over them; and that therefore he pardoned all other faults in those who confessed to him their lewdness.

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When I left Malmö for London and later, when I was home back in Malmö during the school holidays, and in Kungsparken and Slottsparken, behind the birdcages, offered myself to men, it was according to my own premises. The boys longing after grown men might have several reasons. I was the one seducing, not the one being seduced. This wasn’t without risk. Senior police officers with peaked caps and fast bicycles were patrolling the park. When they suspected that I or any of the other boys where hiding in the bushes, they came running and when we fled they shouted threats “I know who you are, I will call your mother and father”. But nobody ever called. I did the same thing as my poor, shabbily dressed, almost starving classmates did at the Honour of Work-statue on Möllevångstorget, but I never charged money for my services, I was free, it didn’t disgust me, I enjoyed it.

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Gerard de Nerval – To Alexander Dumas: Was this young Nero, the idol of Rome, the handsome athlete, the dancer, the poet whose only wish was to please the populace? Is this what history and the conceptions of our poets have left of him? Ah, give me his fury to interpret; his power I would fear to accept. Nero! I have comprehended thee, not alas! according to Racine, but according to my own heart, torn with agony whenever I have ventured to impersonate thee! Yes, thou wast a god, thou who wouldst have burned Rome. Thou wast right, perhaps, since Rome had insulted thee!

September 23, 2009

georges bataille on why it is good for south african politicans to drive expensive cars

Filed under: Georges Bataille,philosophy,politics — ABRAXAS @ 4:54 am

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One notes that in primitive societies, where the exploitation of man by man is still fairly weak, the products of human activity not only flow in great quantities to rich men because of the protection or social leadership services these men supposedly provide, but also because of the spectacular collective expenditures for which they must pay. In so-called civilized societies, the fundamental obligation of wealth disappeared only in a fairly recent period […] Everything that was generous, orgiastic, and excessive has disappeared; the themes of rivalry upon which individual activity still depends develop in obscurity, and are as shameful as belching. The representatives of the bourgeoisie have adopted an effaced manner; wealth is now displayed behind closed doors, in accordance with depressing and boring conventions […] Such trickery has become the principle reason for living, working, and suffering for those who lack the courage to condemn this moldy society to revolutionary destruction […] As the class that possesses the wealth — having received with wealth the obligation of functional expenditure — the modern bourgeoisie is characterized by the refusal in principle of this obligation. It has distinguished itself from the aristocracy through the fact that it has consented only to spend for itself, and within itself — in other words, by hiding its expenditures as much as possible from the other classes […] In opposition, the people’s consciousness is reduced to maintaining profoundly the principle of expenditure by representing bourgeois existence as the shame of man and as a sinister cancellation […] As for the masters and exploiters, whose function is to create the contemptuous forms that exclude human nature — causing this nature to exist at the limits of the earth, in other words in mud — a simple law of reciprocity requires that they be condemned to fear, to the great night when their beautiful phrases will be drowned out by death screams in riots.

georges bataille
1933

July 9, 2008

neurosis

Filed under: Georges Bataille,i&I younity movement,philosophy — ABRAXAS @ 2:55 pm

Neurosis is the past hating the present. neurosis brings me to a halt – as it does it forces me beyond myself under a threat of going under. hence the humanness in neurosis, as transfigured in myth, poetry, and drama. neurosis makes us heroes and saints when not making us invalids. in heroism or holiness, the element of neurosis represents the past, intervening like a limit (constraint) within which life becomes “impossible”.

georges bataille
on nietzsche

June 24, 2008

The Solar Anus By Georges Bataille

Filed under: bo cavefors,Georges Bataille,philosophy,sex — ABRAXAS @ 10:30 pm

It is clear that the world is purely parodic, in other words, that each thing seen is the parody of another, or is the same thing in a deceptive form.

Ever since sentences started to circulate in brains devoted to reflection, an effort at total identification has been made, because with the aid of a copula each sentence ties one thing to another; all things would be visibly connected if one could discover at a single glance and in its totality the tracings of Ariadne’s thread leading thought into its own labyrinth.

But the copula of terms is no less irritating than the copulation of bodies. And when I scream I AM THE SUN an integral erection results, because the verb to be is the vehicle of amorous frenzy.

Everyone is aware that life is parodic and that it lacks an interpretation. Thus lead is the parody of gold. Air is the parody of water. The brain is the parody of the equator. Coitus is the parody of crime.

Gold, water, the equator, or crime can each be put forward as the principle of things.

And if the origin of things is not like the ground of the planet that seems to be the base, but like the circular movement that the planet describes around a mobile center, then a car a clock, or a sewing machine could equally be accepted as the generative principle.

The two primary motions are rotation and sexual movement, whose combination is expressed by the locomotive’s wheels and pistons.

These two motions are reciprocally transformed, the one into the other.

Thus one notes that the earth, by turning, makes animals and men have coitus, and (because the result is as much the cause as that which provokes it) that animals and men make the earth turn by having coitus.

It is the mechanical combination or transformation of these movements that the alchemists sought as the philosopher’s stone.

It is through the use of this magically valued combination that one can determine the present position of men in the midst of the elements.

An abandoned shoe, a rotten tooth, a snub nose, the cook spitting in the soup of his masters are to love what a battle flag is to nationality.

An umbrella, a sexagenarian, a seminarian, the smell of rotten eggs, the hollow eyes of judges are the roots that nourish love.

A dog devouring the stomach of a goose, a drunken vomiting woman, a slobbering accountant, a jar of mustard represent the confusion that serves as the vehicle of love.

A man who finds himself among others is irritated because he does not know why he is not one of the others.

In bed next to a girl he loves, he forgets that he does not know why he is himself instead of the body he touches.

Without knowing it, he suffers from the mental darkness that keeps him from screaming that he himself is the girl who forgets his presence while shuddering in his arms.

Love or infantile rage, or a provincial dowager’s vanity, or clerical pornography, or the diamond of a soprano bewilder individuals forgotten in dusty apartments.

They can very well try to find each other; they will never find anything but parodic images, and they will fall asleep as empty as mirrors.

The absent and inert girl hanging dreamless from my arms is no more foreign to me than the door or window through which I can look or pass.

I rediscover indifference (allowing her to leave me) when I fall asleep, through an inability to love what happens.

It is impossible for her to know whom she will discover when I hold her, because she obstinately attains a complete forgetting.

The planetary systems that turn in space like rapid disks, and whose centers also move, describing an infinitely larger circle, only move away continuously from their own position in order to return it, completing their rotation.

Movement is a figure of love, incapable of stopping at a particular being, and rapidly passing from one to another.

But the forgetting that determines it in this way is only a subterfuge of memory.

A man gets up as brusquely as a specter in a coffin and falls in the same way.

He gets up a few hours later and then he falls again, and the same thing happens every day; this great coitus with the celestial atmosphere is regulated by the terrestrial rotation around the sun.

Thus even though terrestrial life moves to the rhythm of this rotation, the image of this movement is not turning earth, but the male shaft penetrating the female and almost entirely emerging, in order to reenter.

Love and life appear to be separate only because everything on earth is broken apart by vibrations of various amplitudes and durations.

However, there are no vibrations that are not conjugated with a continuous circular movement; in the same way, a locomotive rolling on the surface of the earth is the image of continuous metamorphosis.

Beings only die to be born, in the manner of phalluses that leave bodies in order to enter them.

Plants rise in the direction of the sun and then collapse in the direction of the ground.

Trees bristle the ground with a vast quantity of flowered shafts raised up to the sun.

The trees that forcefully soar end up burned by lightning, chopped down, or uprooted. Returned to the ground, they come back up in another form.

But their polymorphous coitus is a function of uniform terrestrial rotation.

The simplest image of organic life united with rotation is the tide. From the movement of the sea, uniform coitus of the earth with the moon, comes the polymorphous and organic coitus of the earth with the sun.

But the first form of solar love is a cloud raised up over the liquid element. The erotic cloud sometimes becomes a storm and falls back to earth in the form of rain, while lightning staves in the layers of the atmosphere.

The rain is soon raised up again in the form of an immobile plant.

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 role of 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 other animals, necessarily avert their eyes.

Human eyes tolerate neither sun, coitus, cadavers, nor obscurity, but with different reactions.

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.

In fact, the erotic movements of the ground are not fertile like those of the water, but they are far more rapid.

The earth sometimes jerks off in a frenzy, and everything collapses on its surface.

The Jesuve is thus the image of an erotic movement that burglarizes the ideas contained in the mind, giving them the force a scandalous eruption.

This eruptive force accumulates in those who are necessarily situated below.

Communist workers appear to the bourgeois to be as ugly and dirty as hairy sexual organs, or lower parts; sooner or later there will be a scandalous eruption in the course of which the asexual noble heads of the bourgeois will be chopped off.

The erotic revolutionary and volcanic deflagrations antagonize the heavens.

As in the case of violent love, they take place beyond the constraints of fecundity.

In opposition to celestial fertility there are terrestrial disasters, the image of terrestrial love without condition, erection without escape and without rule, scandal, and terror.

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, toward the earth, but 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 night.

this translation first appeared on the web on greylodge.org

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.

a deepening wound

Filed under: Georges Bataille,philosophy,sasha grey,sex — ABRAXAS @ 10:13 am

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As pleasure ceases to be the response to the individual’s desire and excessively exceeds this desire, it simultaneously exceeds individual being and replaces it with a shifting – a kind of radiant, excessive suspense connected with a feeling of nakedness and entering into the open nakedness of the other person. such a state assumes nakedness as being present, as being absolutely there, and it does this by way of an innocent if skillful contact – although the skill i refer to doesn’t belong to hands or bodies. it seeks intimate knowledge of nakedness – knowledge of the wound of physical being – whose opening deepens with each contact.

georges bataille
on nietzsche

June 20, 2008

i’m the slime

Filed under: Georges Bataille,philosophy,sasha grey,sex — ABRAXAS @ 12:17 pm

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often a deranged beyond lacerates us while we’re apparently bent on lasciviousness. this is because a “beyond” begins with a feeling of nakedness. asexual nakedness is simply stupor taken to the limit. but as it awakens us to an awareness of physical touch (touch of bodies, hands, moist lips), it’s gentle, animal, and sacred.

since, once naked, we each open to more than what we are, and for the first time we obliterate ourselves in the absence of animal limits. we obliterate ourselves, spreading our legs, our legs opening as widely as possible, to what no longer is us but is something impersonal – a swampy existence of the flesh.

the communication of two individuals occurs when they lose themselves in sweet, shared slime.

georges bataille
on nietzsche

June 19, 2008

the high cost of loving you

Filed under: Georges Bataille,philosophy,sex — ABRAXAS @ 7:16 pm

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the chance belonging to lovers is lovers’ luck: the evil (disequilibirum) to which they’re driven in lovemaking compels them. they’re endlessly sentenced to destroy the harmony between themselves and at night to begin combat. these manoeuvres and wounds are the cost of their uniting.

georges bataille
on nietzsche

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