Friday, June 20, 2003

There is an argument raging over at the Stile Project Forum on the pussy ass whiny fuck topic of "why aren't there more great woman artists?"

Some stupid bitches argue that it is a problem of 'time', the years of oppression, and the idea-theivery of fathers, brothers, sons and husbands. Playing the victim (just like a stupid feeble bitch) and blaming the years of home-bound civil enslavement--wives, mothers, daughters, all nothing more than poor poor poor slaves to the grind.

Napoleon Bonaparte, that short, dastardly bastard, once said, "Women are nothing but machines for producing children."

He was not wrong.

Women are biologically rigged to be the great creators, channels of the universe, cum-catching, baby-making, earth populating vessels. Our primary purpose is to reproduce. Our immortality is assured as we breed. We are the vessel through which all hope for the species must pass. A most noble position. Most ancient civilization worshipped this role, and our singularity of significance was revered. And now...

We have feminism, equal rights...the great homogenization marches on. We all want to be the same, same, same...droning, moaning, replicable, replaceable, interchangable, clonable...boring boring boring. No diversity, no focus, blah blah blah. We are confused. We have no sense of purpose, function, or destiny. It is chaos. We are transforming, trangendering, transmogrifying, with no signs of sublimation. When a genetic line ceases to be interesting, it also ceases to be, period. Blandness is not tolerated by the universe. This is a scientific fact. (If there can be any "facts" in science--but that's for another discussion.)

What I meant to say is, women don't have to sweat the attainment of immortality via art and acheivement in the same way as men. Fuck that shit. Play your games, paint your paintings, write your novels, and cling to some hope of continuation in space and time through the memories of man and the mercy of temporary infamy. Believe in the illusion of this material plane whilst the women generously transmit all of their art, creativity, inspiration, and instinct into the young. Employed by the Great Creator in the service of the evolution of human consciousness, the mothers are the great artists, the children the great art work, the human psyche the most complex canvas to work upon.

In the meantime, let us pray...

Lord, make me a channel of Thy peace. That where there is hatred, I may bring love. That where there is injury, pardon. That where there is doubt, faith. Where there is darkness, light. Where there is sadness, joy.

Oh Divine Master, grant that I may not seek so much to be consoled, as to console. To be understood, as to understand. To be loved, as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to everlasting life.

Suffer the little children. It is the children that are going to suffer from our lack of contact. The lack of mental mating and project conception. The lack of random acts of creation due to the slovenly selfishness and possessiveness of the weak and the scared.

Anthony De Mello pointed out the root of all of our pain. As did Buddha. It is a simple and shining statement that glows as a beacon of our hope and ultimate demise: "Let go, fuckers." (this is God speaking now, speaking to ME) "Let the fuck go. Stop feeding yourself like a selfish pig, gobbling up gutter trash with one hand, trying to defend your little pile of shit with the other. You are ugly. You are a goon. You are rotting on the inside and your heart is drying up. You will disappear in a puff of smoke and leave behind no legacy, due to your utter selfishness. Your pathetic preventing of pain."

I hope you rot.

I hope it someday hurts bad enough.

Pain is the touchstone of growth.

I love you and I'll always love you.

(god slaps my face, spits on me and laughs, one of those good and firm fatherly laughs.... I do more push ups. I become stronger. I jack off in the corner and eat my own ejaculation. I am unstopped. Self-creating.)

What a bunch of whining fucks we are! God Bless Us Every One! There will never be enough love and attention and name and fame and immortal renown to satisfy us because we are greedy, frightened fuckers and we are suffering from what the illustrious faggot Carl Jung called a Spiritual Malady.

My Friend and Nemesis John Maus summed it up nicely this morning:

So you know what I want. Technology and wonder. Spiritual Experiences. Fancy places in Europe with cool stair cases. Nice suites, nice food, a beautiful intelligent loving inspiring courageous fanastic inspiring inspiring muse-of-my-life thunderbolts from hell caring parnter. Complexity. Simplicity (not meant to be poetic, sincerely). Video Equipment. Music Equipment (pianos, cellos, violins, Bassoons, weird percussion stuff from Indo-china). Pin ball machines... Black Knight 2000. Books on Relegion, Philosophy, Art, Critical Theory, New Music, Old Music, Critical Examinations of Pop music. A library of great music. A couple films I've made. A couple books I've written. A couple Albums of Pop. A couple Film Scores. A couple cannonized pieces of mind-expanding serious music I've written. Books on tape in my nice-but-modest new car. A bank account with more than 6 zeros in it (not including cents of course). Trips to Hawaii with my lover, lover, lover LOVER LOVER LOVER.... Unamuno... THe master of them all... Ths brilliant, brilliant, brilliant wonderful yet horrifyingly overlooked thinker, more-or-less-said (back me up on this George) it was all about the One... The Lover...

The Lover... The Lover...

I have much to say on the matter of The One. I have written songs and plays and novels and graffiti and love letters about The One. I am gangrened to the marrow of my bones by romanticism and it disgusts me. I am trapped by my own illusion of a soulmate and a someone who understands ME. I am a silly bitch.

I am the liar, the fool. The finger is pointing at me. I am a chicken-heart, a raisin. A shrivelled mass of fear and dried blood. There is no love.

The debate rages on about why, why, why aren't there any great women artist's. Who cares? Women aren't famous because they are silly bitches. Their voices whine and creak and everything they exude is contaminated by their unction and function, the vaginal imperative to absorbed, conceive, and breed. Men are famous because they are frightened impotent globe fuckers. They pull on their flabby growths until it toughens up into a blood-filled knob and then they spit, spew, stammer and stutter their viscous goop like some babies gurgling vomit. It is time for the great truth: we all suck ass. It is time for the unified theory of who gives a fuck.

This existence is an illusion, and we are all suffering from a disease of distorted perception. I blast contradictions and generalizations shamelessly out of my anus with no thought of the messes which ensue.

The slime, stench, and puss of my glowing adoration for mankind oozes through every word, betwixt the teeth, through the pores, oils the hairs, drips down the small of my back. I stand in a puddle of thick, aged love. I am just like you. We are all the same. It all means the same thing.

Anthony De Mello keeps chanting in my ear with his clanging dentures, rattling every word with the old breath of the aged and dying: Denial defines us. That which we reject binds us. Such is the way the pendulum swings.

Why can't I stand the sound of my own voice? Why am I consumed by an intense self hatred that is only counter balanced by a relentless egoism which decrees that I am in fact flawless and divine, whilst I live the life of a gutter rat, playing in my own feces?

It is a pickle. A fucking pickle.

p.s. I am not a lesbian, but I would gladly fuck your girlfriend silly just to spite you. I'm funny that way.

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