Deviantovi fragmenti so tokrat razmetani med Anatomy of Hell (Catherine Breillat) in kink/sm obredi. Vse skozi običajno iskanje lepljive mračne sanjskosti s pomočjo doma vzgojenih strojev in zvočnih predelav. Muzika je deviatorjeva.
Deviantovi fragmenti so tokrat razmetani med Anatomy of Hell (Catherine Breillat) in kink/sm obredi. Vse skozi običajno iskanje lepljive mračne sanjskosti s pomočjo doma vzgojenih strojev in zvočnih predelav. Muzika je deviatorjeva.
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transkripcija francoskega teksta:
The fragility of female flesh inspires disgust or brutality. Women depend on one or the other. What should we fear more? Nothingness... or brutality? It takes ages between the offer and the demand. Between the offer and when it's taken up. That's what we call the first deception. Thereafter, nothing flows, it's all fake... Artificial catching up, the clumsiness of hasty brutality...
You talk too much. Your words are inept reproaches.
Should I have shaved my armpits?
It would still show... However much women shave. Even if you removed the hair from your crack, you wouldn't be rid of your obscene nature, on the contrary. The skin stays lumpy like the neck of a plucked chicken. Every pore exudes the irritation of pulled hairs like microscopic sexual swellings.
So we can't do a thing about it?
No, you can't. It's the depth of this obscenity, its feminine depth, that men who don't like women envy in you, and that those who like you, hate you for.
It's not what we see, though when you spread your legs, we're revolted, by the overly bright color, the sloppy, shapeless aspect of your hidden lips... the thinness of their skin, though... here and there, it's lumpy, a skin that sweats, that oozes, a pestilential skin, like the skin of frogs. Frogs, at least, have the decency of being green, but their thighs, symbolically, can be spread as wide as yours. It's not what we see: Your denial of the obscenity is what frightens us most.
Keep going...
So I wonder if what first turned me off women wasn't the deep violence they provoke from their slumbering depths.
So far, I'd been honest. But you must have an inkling of what I inevitably recall, because thoughts tend to wander... And you can't channel them forever in a course that isn't theirs. You can't deny what those black tufts remind you of, with their shiny putrid hairiness? A just-hatched bird, still wet from the egg, so touching in its newborn weakness.
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I was learning what I knew, but refused to hear: That the body of women calls for mutilation. And yet no part of it is excessive. Men rant against something that's invisible. -
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The elastic resistance of a boy's anus doesn't lie about the tightness of his lower intestine. The lie about the softness of women is hateful... the malevolent triviality, that turns them into a trap.
The horror of Nothingness that is the imprescriptible All.
I'm sick of your dallying! You've hardly looked at me. Look at me when I can't see myself. Look at me when I can't see myself!
The ocean, despite its misleading male image, rolled in the darkness like a bitch in heat. This ocean, like a woman, could engulf you and make you vanish into its loins.
So I felt trapped by a kind of sorcery of the signs and obscene sounds of nature. Surrounded by the pleading moans of the weak, only I was strong...
Helpless against the whole world.
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Last night you wanted to kill me. You fought that urge a long time.
How do you know?
It's an urge all men have, that's how they are. That's why they lie beside us. The veils they adorn us with ritually, anticipate our shrouds. But you're not part of that. You know nothing of it. You don't know the harm you could do.
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Anyone could have come in. Or anything.
That's what men can't stand. It's why they've tried to lock women up, in all eras, all places, under every latitude. To protect us from ourselves, they say. To break the spell of women.
In fact... they're afraid women don't belong to them. They don't believe in basic freedom. They threaten us with belts, padlocks, their concept of chastity, their foolish morals, since they always need reassurances. Yet they know one can't ask for proof. Or else love has no meaning.
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It's beautiful, you look like you're bleeding. You're afraid because you think you're bleeding, even though you know you're not. This hemorrhage is from the fertile blood of women. You worry that I may have cursed you, ruined your penis for life.
Right...
When you stick it into a man, sometimes it must come out soiled. You're not angry at them, you're not sad or afraid. Sometimes it happens. But fecal matter is inert. It has been through the life-cycle. In that, it's like human nature. Man can't give life. He takes it.
He gives death.
And so gives eternal life.
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I refused to believe that what she gave me, was mine now, and I could draw on it for my existence. I wanted to start all over again, from the very beginning. This time fully aware of what I was doing. I didn't want to admit that life isn't like that. That nothing can be done all over again.
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