“…any possible self—or relative isolation—is only ever precipitated as a precarious digression within a general economy, perpetually renegotiated across the scale of energy flows. The relative autonomy of the organism is not an ontological given but a material achievement which—even at its apex—remains quite incommensurable with the notion of an individual soul or personality.” (Nick Land The Thirst For Annihalation, p. 45)
“The formless. [Bataille] argues, is not to be found in a sense deriving from “a non-form” or “nothing at all” but in a certain painful and yet fertile effort that we could describe as giving birth, a death rattle-tearing and a cruel suffering…” (Francois-Xavier Gleyzon “Lynch, Bacon and The Formless”)
I cracked the sky with an involuntary yet necessary shudder, and slowly, like water staining paper, the crack expanded. But its presence did not emanate from a centre, but from the ever-expanding boundaries. It is from boundaries that presence begins, not from a centre.
I sat on my chair and I knew that the androgynous creature behind me was staring at the keyhole of my skull, enraged.
“I am androgynous,” it said, “I do not and will not perform part in your reality. You will only perform one in mine. This is the only way, or there will inevitably be a fissure.”
So I nodded and looked away. There is no point in seeing an androgynous. A salient noise is all that is needed to mistake it for the voice of a friend.
When I turned, I didn’t find it behind me, it had disappeared. And still, the cracking sky was still expanding, opening up the void into which everything was going to be sucked in; a vertical anti-gravity drainage system. Annihilating, aborting, obtrusively abolishing. De-centred by explosive boundaries. And soon, including everything, spreading from wall to wall, end to end; Ouroboros. Cannibalism without reserve.
I craved without seeking. I closed my eyes to shut down the most distant of senses. I did not want to seek truth anymore, for all that has seemed true turned out to be contingent, at best. I renamed transcendence as discontinuity, and immanence as continuity, but with no revolutionary vigour. This simple inversion I crave with an aversion as intense as God’s longing for Easter or the phoenix’s longing for its own pyre. So I close my eyes, and crave without seeking, simple dreaming, becoming larval again, and even more minute, smaller than an atom, formless energy.
I flowed like a constantly repeated mantra, no end, no beginning; Infinite and out of the labyrinth of vision without and outside of Being. No mediation, the open wound of unconscious primitiveness spilling forth unintelligibly, gushing through like the slit throat of an eleven year old male who was willing to blossom, and yet prematurely violated, ended, opened, cut, annihilated by the sacred monster known as Gilles de Rais. I am him at his utmost moment of ecstasy. The apex of aversion. And it’s joyously horrible.
There is an eventful connection, a mode of communication which no Enochian or lesser language can enunciate. A renunciation of life, this is a bridging which dissolves me and everything else.
But the fangs of time clawed at the drum of my ear; the sands of the hourglass rumbled against each other in ultimate fury. A negligible snap forced me to take an all-too-human form again. I am Saint Theresa with eyes closed at the advent of orgasm, then suddenly coming back to life, dismally.
I beheld the distance of vision like a labourer beholds his tool as a source of discontinuity and recalled Blake: If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is: infinite.
The androgynous, an Andy Warhol look-alike, appeared in front of me, thin, flat, disgusting.
“I am your friend,” it said with a vile high-noted voice.
“And I am your corpse,” I replied knowing fully well that this is a culminating existential disaster. I have been through this before. The hourglass of time has been flipped.
“This is the way it should be,” it smiled at me with sadistic eyes.
That’s the only way it works.
“In a sense, the world is still, in a fundamental manner, immanence without clear limit (indistinct flowing of being into being, I dream of the unstable presence of waters interior to water)” (Georges Bataille).