Unfilmabl*s. (via Bookninja)
(via //p.vtourust dot com)
I bite the screwtop top of a
bottle of naivete steady in my
teeth and slowly, by
rotating the bottle's body in
my hands, open it.
Christian crap, jewish junk,
moslem muck, buddhist bullshit,
the days all begin and end.
Pain is the absence of repetition.
Eventually the soles of the feet
will infect the palms of the hands
with their hiddenness.
I remain a door-deep animal,
embracing every room
shy of welcome."
It might be helpful to give a name to two aspects, two movements in the life of the Symbolic. One, for the moment when "play" becomes "real," as Vuelta. The other, for the pressure, under forced modernization, for the symbolic to be threatened with extinction: as Kenosis. Thus, what postmodern neobarbarian masses express, in their violent self-assertions, is not so much the desire to preserve their sense of "having a soul," and sacredness, as it is an exasperated expression of resistance to Kenosis. It is the flattened response of one who has been abjectly deprived of the symbolic realm.
(To call it, as in its twencen manifestations, "fascism," reduces it to mere political terms, as just another team. But what kind of team wants to clear the field of all its opponents? Fascism more closely resembles a disease of the imagination. When fascism triumphs, it's not a political debacle. It's a Zombie Apocalypse.)
"And I've been watching how they've been combating this, and as far as I know it's gonna be Michelle Malkin's winged monkeys going out to find this person."