Stronger Loving World

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Friday, September 19, 2003


Is oral sex the pre-game show, or is it the total, explosive space-collapsing finale? There is something metaphysical about "going down", isn't there? Isn't the fun always downtown? Downtown the architecture is different, the smell is different, the food is more authentic and dissolves faster between your gums. Downtown is more condensed, fruitful, dissolving into itself; a slow motion implosion. It's like the predicate of the sentence-highly charged by overturned modifier after modifier, the sexy last breathe of residue setting the breath all a quiver: "Melodically, Mercilessly, Melifluously, the marionettes swung hunked like trumpets slumped heavy on the lungs." The space between your legs forms the acute angle inside an "A", at the edge I palate my valatal and vowelize:AAAAAA, an infinitely violent,valenced hum. The A breaks into itself and rarefies like the Greek Alpha, collapsing the end into the beginning into the end.

Oral sex is linguistic, semiotic, architectural, and insofar as it implicitly functions through subvocalization and the tensing of speech muscles, it is part of and only functional through spoken language. And what else is an orgasm, but the brain's acceptance of a long and complex work of physical storytelling? The excretion of hormones and glandular secretions, poisons and signals exchanging over beneath and through the skin. The cadence of the body, flesh sliding out over and into flesh. The narrative of human desire works through models and shared truths. It's the same explosion of meanings with exchanging and displacing referents and interpretations as textual narrative-but it exists inside the intimate,phrasal, irreducible space of the phoneme. The condensation of meaning into a moment, the infinite replay of language trapped inside of a hum.

Wednesday, September 17, 2003


Everyone, go read this article:

See, this is what I'm talking about people. A lot of people rank on the role of the culture critic in today's media; the overdone marxist social critique of the whateveritisthisweek-industrial complex understandably provokes eyerolls, and the enthusiasm and technoutopianism in much of the 90's has died into a back-catalogued digitized folk music landscape that's more disorienting than it is definitive. But Dery, who trafficks in zeitgeist both stylistically and through his content, has taken up the role of the hallucinogen-stamped, intoxicated Jester in the court of King Lear. Dery's piece is incredibly funny because it's intensely absurd, but it's also TRUE and that makes it dizzying as well. It's the type of absurdist culture criticism that veers towards satire, but it isn't-it's just exagerrative and cartoonish and shows how a strange cultural situation can implicate a lot more than you might notice initially. Grant Morrison's "The Smell of Reason" columns for Sleaze Nation were a lot like this. Only, obviously, Morrison being a comic book writer, an occultist and a whacko went way off the deep end with his shit and made up all of his quotes. The result was a lot more insane and funny but probably made less valid points.

What I'm trying to say that cultural criticism isn't about picking up 80 books of critical theory and rolling them in front of our eyes before landing on some rank cliche like "we're living in a society of immaterial signifiers" or "this is so postwhateverthefuck." The tour guide in a whirling, complex ,toxicolored society should be, are you ready for this, a "disorienteer"-

If The Twilight Zone were on television today, it would be a comedy, Straight up. Rod Serling would be a Jaques Tati figure, and the paranormal permanance of today's society would be akin to Tati flopping around like an incredibly mechanized but clumsy fish through the incongruent technologized suburban landscape of Mon Oncle.

No more point and click culture, no more wowie-gadget world headnods and fingerpointing. Underneath that cracked arctic ice shell of irony isn't some mythological narrative we've been calling "honesty" or "genuine emotions" or whatever you neo-humanists have been calling it: it's pure, toxic, filthy, highly charged, irradiated GodFunk; wholly new, imaginitive material from the neon psychedelic endpoints of our blunt trauma supressed imaginations. Wake up and let all the smarminess and sarcasm of the 90's come out in a clunky rash of morning sickness before your brain begins to glow like a phosphene drenched isotope for the first time since your mother sang you drug-induced folk songs as a kid. Shinemotherfuckershine.