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July 6, 2003
Volume 28: Meanwhile, in Movie B
Deal with demons if you want, but remember they haven't any souls. They can be valuable, charming and delightful, and give you great power, but they are not human, and the moment you forget they have no soul they will try to sneak yours. William S. Burroughs said ten to fifteen percent of humans are unregenerately evil and should be shot as quickly as possible, without guilt or regret, to spare the rest of us. Those people are not demons; I note only because I am in favour of shooting people. (You can't shoot a demon. It won't let you.)
I am not human myself, and neither is Auntie, but I'm not a demon, and neither is she. Some would disagree-- but let them get their own columns. Whatever moral incontinence Auntie manifests is not due to lack of a soul. (Aristotle would say it's involuntary, therefore absolvable.) Mine derives from having a soul (despite being inhuman) far too complicated for my infuratingly ill-wired nerves, misshapen and malfunctioning reproductive system, pitted digestive tract, misaligned kneecaps and arsenic frosted liver. Like the universe, if I were constructed with a hair's different hair I would be a spinning lifeless ball of ice-- and perhaps I am.
Don't think, by the way, that because I'm using Judeo-Christian terms like 'soul' and 'demon' that I subscribe to the trinity and a panoply of saints or the cranky micromanaging ubergod. My culture is primarily Judeo-Christian and I am not a feminist, so I use the terminology that's convenient and which pleases me. If I grew up in Egypt I might say ka (of which I have fourteen and all of them are male) instead of soul-- but I didn't, so go fuck yourself-- whatever you thought and whomever you are and even if you love me I just don't care, I don't care, I don't care. It's been too fucking long since I told the collective you to go fuck yourselves and I bet you've done something that merits it. I need to tell you to go fuck yourself so hopelessly many times before I will be again as clean and pure as a drain hot with vinegar and bicarb.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck-- so much loathing, so much hatred, tangled up the hillside covered in drying chaparral all wrapped around my thumping-thumping veins striping too small, too fragile a body. The seal is cracked and I am leaking. I am oozing antisocial steel. It takes two to reason and there are barely two of us reasonable people to rub together! Shut up! I don't care who you are. I hate you. You've got something I don't and I want it so I hate you. Time is rotting all around me. Hate is all that keeps me going-- hate and fucking, and when you're as unfashionably delicate as I am fucking is more an ideal than an event. I don't care if I ever fuck again. Shut up! I don't care who you are. I don't care if I fucked you or not. I never want to fuck you again, or you, or you, and especially not you--
--and I don't want to talk about it! I don't care what you have to say. My ears are full of ideal fucking and there's no room. You can send me letters, postcards, video tapes from the Subtitled Movie Channel, paper airplanes, buffaloes written on the side in their own shit, zeppelins, billboards, diplomats with seals, hit men with my name on their bullets, lawyers in embroidered briefs, guns, money, bombs, dictionaries, plaster casts, bottles with messages in them, clay tablets, or even Leonard Shelby, though he will have forgot why by the time he arrives. Just leave my ears alone. Nobody is fucking my ears today but me.
Posted by cd at July 6, 2003 10:12 PM
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