calling out the proper name

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so central and all-qualifying.
the giver of all accounts and form.
the proper name is the linguistic site of a formidable yet necessary lack, pointing sporadically and always towards the unconvincing fiction of everyday life.

people
vermin so unimaginatively accepting of this violence disgust me.

the proper name is a reminder of the violence that is the condition of possibility of being.

we all would rather just remain adjectives, evading random checkpoints and pat-downs.

beautiful dazzling sour sharp bitter red

Called upon, I shudder.

in a moment a name strips one of all relation.
a weapon like no other on the lips of the other;
in one moment of utter banality, boxed up and defined.

searing, heavy.

the proper name is the instance and instant of our fall.
forever babylonian. forever non-relatable.

“The subject, as much as he is a slave to language, is he not even more so that of a discourse in a universal movement of which his place is already inscribed at birth in the form of his name?” (Lacan, Écrits: A Selection 2002[1957], p.140).

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Musing on The Wall and Beyond–Part One

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I stood at the landing, my heart beating viciously in my chest. This was it. I knocked on his door. The door opened ghostly and a humid stench welcomed me before he appeared from behind the door, standing arrogantly, wearing sun glasses and lowering his head to look at me without tinting my image with the shades. Vanity

“She abides,” he says, as if talking to someone hidden inside the house.

“Does the dude abide?” I respond with a Lebowski reference which he does not recognize, but he laughs and that is all that matters. He’s not as much an asshole as he first appears to be.

It’s only midday, but in this time of the year, every second of the day counts as much as every second of the night counts for nocturnal vampires. He motions to me to follow him and I do so. I walk behind him into his room which flaunts a window revealing a view of the big wide sea. Music plays from two speakers, each at opposite ends of the room. A cloistering ambience of musical instruments traps me and I realize immediately that I’m already swept away, as people would phrase it.

I sit on his bed as he decides to change the music from the drum-dominant metal to the guitar oriented folk music. The atmosphere becomes much more soothing. He sits next to me and brings me closer to him. We spend half an hour on the bed, being lovey dovey, but we only do this so that what comes after it seems necessary and belonging to a continuous flow. We kiss and events follow: A tumultuous experience in which the sound of our bodies and the heaviness of our breaths become the ambience; after we’re done, it seems as though the sun shining on the bed, on us, didn’t exist prior to us. We face the dread of our existence in the moment of climax, and slowly the sun starts to set, and it’s time for me to head back home.

It is time. We sit around the dining table; Father, Mother, my two sisters and my brother. I’m the last one to sit down. We all drink a cup of water before having some soup. A family of six sitting around a dining table, eating together; serves as a pretty picture, a generic one nonetheless. A lie.

Almost three minutes after we sit down, the mosque’s amplified prayer ends, allowing the Islamic nasheed on the TV to stand out as the only coherent sound alongside the amusical clatter of the silver cutlery on porcelain plates. The best for the favourite month of Ramadan. I look out the window. Through the little crack between the cramped buildings I imagine that I can see the sea, extending as far as possible, and I travel with it, and I can almost join the setting sun, but my imagination hits a wall, engrossed in the deepest levels of the sea. This vision that fled through the window, through the crack between the closely knit buildings, and across kilometres of land and sea, hits a wall which cloisters imagination and traps me in a living room turned to a dining room.

I can still feel my cunt pulsate as I swallow each gulp of lentil soup.

A light bulb pops above the table, and that is all it takes. It’s dimmer now and suitable for what’s to follow. Father crashes his silver spoon on the porcelain plate, looks at all of us, disappointment on his face, silently blaming us for the current dim light. I keep on sipping lentil soup from the side of the spoon, looking at its brown hue and trying hard not to slurp. Father bangs the table with his two hands, a bit of soup drips from the small bowl onto the under-plate.

“What are you waiting for? Go get a bulb. Now!” Father shouts across the table at Shadi, my brother, who is sitting next to me. I keep on eating. I look at my two twin sisters, sitting across the table from me. They are both frightened, too young to understand what’s going on, why Father is angry. They look at him with eyes not knowing how to hide trepidation, waiting for their undue punishment. And I know that it will come. It will come for all of us.

Shadi comes back. He looks at Father, waiting for his next order.

“What are you looking at me for?” Father speaks, “Go on, climb on your chair and fix it.”

Shadi does as he’s told. He adjusts the chair and ascends. I look at his feet and I push my chair away from the table. This has happened before. The table cloth moves with an instant powerful pull from Father. The tureens, the plates, the forks, the spoons, the glass cups, the bowls and the pans all go sliding towards Father as if he’s a newly formed Sun. They crash on the floor, exploding with a high pitched bang, food spilling and glasses shattering. My sisters let out helpless cries as Father, indifferent to the mess he has done, shouts his way to Shadi, who’s standing on the chair now, not daring to move, trembling, fear running through his veins like a stupefying narcotic. I stand up, my back to Father and motion to Shadi, telling him to get down. Father gets by me and by the time Shadi’s left foot is on the ground, Father manages to grab him and drag him to the room. In the background, the anasheed are still being sung, the daff now giving it rhythm as it bangs bangs bangs.

I go to my sisters and lead them to the balcony, the farthest place possible. I hold them close and tight, both young and feeble, and I try to sing, tightening my whimpering voice as hard as I can. The sky gets darker by the second and the little girls between my arms cling tighter and tighter, as if afraid to fall. Their cries have faded but their hearts still beat very fast. I can hear the distant cry of my brother, his screeching nasal voice being forced to bellow in the room, behind a closed door.

My sisters calm down and I allow myself to go to the living room again. The door of the room is still closed, but no sounds emanate from behind it. I pick up the shards of porcelain on the ground, worrying about the stains later. Moments after, my sisters come and help me. I tell them to be careful as they pick broken glass and porcelain.

I am in the living room, picking up the last of the pans and tureens from the floor when the door opens. Father emerges like a rapist who knows no wrong nor right. He walks towards the living room, but doesn’t speak. I avoid his face and ignore his ginormous presence. He sits on the couch and I feel him watch me and form the tip of my eye I see red eyes that would crave nothing more than for me to falter. But I do not. I clean everything up, and when all is clean, when the table is back in its place and the living becomes a living room again, I go to Mother unawares and snatch the empty plate from her oblivious zombie-like hand, and as if that was its cue, the mosque begins the evening prayer.

I crash on the bed. The taste of the lentil still on my tongue; it dominates my mouth and makes me crave for more food. I stuff my head in the pillow to try to stop myself from crying, but there’s no use. I let go and submit to the tears in my eyes and my imminent fall.

thedream-p-r-o

The Arrival of the Sun (The Departure of Shame)

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I’m crawling. I’m sidelined, but I need no sympathy. Fear takes precedence over the minds of the weak ones. And will they ever see the sun?

The sun, its terror is so great; we feel it without looking at it. The darkness is full of memories. You only know that a spirit of a person is dead when all you have is memories. Remembrance is the most tacit form of mourning.

I saw her in the dark after she had left me, and she was walking towards me, ignorant of the fact that I’m facing her, that she’s walking back into my arms. She kept on walking until the sun rose up, and she saw me waiting, humble and weak. I did not ask for respect, but for the violent impulse which speeds the inertia which pushes her to me, and maybe that violent impulse will kill us both.  I kept myself in the dark all through the night so that I become a taboo in her mind. The truth is one, once the taboo faces you, you leap onto it in an animalistic violent sexual frenzy, but the erotic leap in itself makes us human, a leap with no calculation, forgetting the past, and refraining from enslaving the present to the future; this is as close as we can die without ceasing to live, it is living equally with death. The sun is transgression.

Will they ever see the sun?

I cannot keep on walking through this discontinuous cycle born out of fear and restraint. It all feels the same. The same fears, the same inhibitions, the same irrationality, the same impersonality, the same sidelining, the same unimportance. I realize that it is an epidemic. It’s religion, but misunderstood; it’s monotheistic and it commits people to a human life of work with no animal respite. Alienation made divine. What happens when the fear is gone? When God dies? Irresponsible, undisciplined degradation in a dark abyss.

I am not comfortable writing this. I will be the victim, the words act as torturer.

As civilized as I try to be, my silence always comes out as violent, but I dare not speak, and now Language, my tool, betrays me, and treason tastes bitter when I realize that I’m the executioner as well.

I cannot project a complete corporeal image on anything around me. I am finding trouble defining my spirit in this place, among these people of constant deficit change. Will they ever know that their ways are faulty and their thoughts are part of a dictated narrative existing and feeding on differences. They live on negative definitions, and negatively, they try to find a purpose by looking at origins from the past, and passively they die in the darkness of history.

But a purpose does not imply an origin. An origin does not imply purpose. Knowledge was made not for understanding, but for cutting, an anatomical cut which opens up gaps and formidable abysses.

She is thirsty still and confused. She will always think of herself as incomplete, missing, lacking. She will never be satisfied because a part of her has been cut, but not anatomically, disfiguringly, and knowledge has been lost, growth has been impeded; a mind has been scarred, and a soul has been amputated.

I sense a desire in her, a desire for uninhibited freedom which scares me. This city does not help. This city will not let you stand tall if you are not submitting to its shallow routine. This city will not let you stand proud if you ignore its calls for lavish spending and religious devotion. So how can one not lose his way in this city of religious fear? The rotten morning breath of fear stinks up the empty streets at dawn, intoxicates the population in their sleep, that great punisher who will lynch them in their slumber, choke them for a misdeed. Fear replaces everything: duty, responsibility, morality, care, respect, compassion, aspiration, freedom, sex. Fear becomes a belief based on deceit.

The more I know her, the less I can contain and understand the various impulses that control her. I wish I can cut through her, correctly, to open her up before my eyes and gaze at everything in her, everything which makes her a complete whole. I cannot trust her until I know the truth which lurks inside of her.

But we revel in discontinuity, and suspicion will remain a monster which tears me with its million claws and deafens me with its thunderous roar.

For now, I’ll allow my silence to take the form of violence, and my language to be dubbed as civilized, even though I’ll know that the violence is silenced, and it is not the silence in itself which is violent. I want no sympathy. I know what is needed and I know how to get it, but now is not the time. I can’t force the sun, the creator and destructor, that great eye in the sky which will shine and finally we will all be able to defecate comfortably without shame and reach a sacred continuity.

Lavish Spending

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The burden of living a luxurious life within the confines of morality is such great a burden that often the most cold-blooded serial killers come from such refined stature, as I do. Everything I need, I take for granted; everything I want, I have. Life is not exactly as doleful as that statement would imply. Life is not perfect either. Life is lacking an excess. Transcendence calls for me from beyond the border of control, and I look at the border with contempt at the way it mocks my current impotence and immobility.

Control and Patience; my father told me that those two things were the most important characteristics in a man. My mother hated him. My mother, the prostitute who would have told me all about the profane world which feels unknown to me, if only she is still alive today. My father told me of another pillar: experience.

Women, the prostitutes of our world. Not necessarily because they sell themselves, but because they seduce me so easily, and when they do, a violent impulse beats with my heart, coming from my aroused dick. They seduce, the take the first step, and then recede; they tease. Hallowed women. Images of rape and murder and pain come to me whenever vibrant flesh comes into sight. That hot alien body, thumping beneath me as its blood gushes on me, as its arms try to cast me off, as its screams and howls reverberate through my licentious world. But I compress and repress my urges and keep it all inside.

Maybe today I just couldn’t take it anymore. A hot summer day, she passed in front of the car, wearing a short blue dress wrapping tightly around her thighs, making them seem like highways for wandering hands. Her feet flapped against her flip-flops, her French pedicure and manicure glistened under the sun; the image was completed by violent fantasies of possessive force, the anguish growing more intense as I thrust myself inside her like an animal, befouling the beauty of her face, the tender cheeks and the petite nose, the small puppy eyes and the plucked eyebrows, but most of all, those luscious lips which open like a wet kiss, to smile, to seduce, to promise what is found in nakedness and beyond, the great jubilation after immense anguish. Pain imagined created enough desire for forceful love. Control and patience gave way to the complete experience of the taboo through the act of transgression.

It happened in a blackout. I lost myself in the act, as cliché as that sounds, but my blank memory can testify to that. Now she’s in front me, her love-pouch torn, blood, mixed with drips of cum, stain her thighs and legs. The ugliness of her torn animal femininity is contrasted by the pitiful, beautiful face. In a last rush of rage I smudge her body with the cum-blood mixture between her legs, painting her with the blood of the sacrificed. My dick relaxed, my heartbeat slowly recedes back to normal. I feel human again. She is dead between my feet, her face so solemn, so beautiful, like a consecrated statue of the martyr which sacrificed herself for my freedom.

She no longer exists, but I continue to exist. She is sacred, I am profane. I continue to exist as a separate being after the blackout which fused me with everything surrounding me, with the victim-turned-martyr, with the sacred. What if, for her, the act reached completion through death? Does not a religious life, the life of a prostitute, culminate in the inevitable death of the individual?

Life is not boring, only lacking, lacking in the leisure of spending the excessive force which I compress inside the borders of morality. It is no enigma that the most cold-blooded serial killers come from such refined stature; they feel the excess energy which I feel, which can only be wasted, lavishly spent through violence, through the transgression of the taboo and the transcendence of separateness. Rape and Murder become religious acts of transcendence, festivities for the people living in complete abundance.

My prostitute mother would be proud, and for her, I denounce my father. I am Dionysus, son of Semele, the infamous seductress of Zeus. My mother, the priestess prostitute for whom the sacred is a common thing.

The Last Locus of the Real

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Prepare for corporate Valentine’s Day you whiny maggots.
Prepare for a day of mourning and black clothing. Valentine’s Day. Love commercialized and sold. Love unfelt yet diluting mediums of exchange. Every valentine, more alienation of man from his Self, from the other, from nature, and from love

Valentine’s Day, the multi-million dollar spendfest; the productive business. Gift Shops: readymade “love letters”; readymade “love” gifts: heart-shaped pillows, heart-shaped boxes, love cards, dildos, a pack of condoms and massage oil, heart-shaped everything, chocolate; the consumer conformist way of late capitalism.

Valentine’s Day, the day of mourning. Black clothes: a moment in time belonging to the past to which they cling to so very tightly, afraid it’ll slip away, leaving them without glory, without a fight, without a story.

Valentine’s Day: No Love. No Glory.

Do you sit on the hood of a car and map the stars and make out in Dbayyeh? Or is that too cheap for you? Are you too chic for it? Would you prefer the white teddy bear, the love sonnet, the red rose, the scented candle, the seductive, eye-popping underwear, the book, the notebook with first-draft of previous love letters; the archive of your SMS messages; a painting; a stereo; a TV; a couch; a baby?

Do you sit at home, trying to figure out a way for your Self and for you community, your society, at least only your own social circle to be better? Do you think of improvement? Of how the other side thinks and acts so you can try to understand where they come from? Or do you just hope that there will be a million people filling the streets, gaining a quantitative majority which amounts to nothing in effect? Do you feel patriotic? Do you feel worthy of living, breathing, of saying that you helped? In what? Did you hold someone between your arms as you shouted in harmony vulgar phrases and dead mottos? Did you remove a brick, a stone, a wall that was burying someone alive beneath the ground? Did you stay up all night, worrying that your effort is not enough? Did you do anything to make your life a tinge better?

Food for thought: for every deliberate death, there are a thousand indeliberate births. You can kill yourself without thinking twice.

You will meet on Valentine’s day in Martyr’s Square (or as you call it: Freedom Square [Sa7at al 7orriya]), you will cry and you will shout, not to express your freedom, but to make your enslavement official. Your faith is your oppressor; your oppressor will lead you to violence.

Love? It has died. Martyrdom? It is not real. Jihad is false, and crusades are false. No one is a martyr and the martyr does not live through you when you chant his name, hurt yourself in his name, or die in his name. Jesus is not in you and nor is any other fucking dead person. And is that love?

The “thoughtful” gift precedes the emotion and the idea. The idea of Valentine’s Day precedes the emotion of love. Do you feel pressured to be with someone? Feel it. Submit it to it blindly, ignorantly. Walk on like the one of many sheep you are; your shepherd is money; your shepherd is consumerism.

The idea of dying precedes the act of martyrdom. The idea of glory precedes the glorious act. Dreams dictate reality. The language of death cults dictate our lives. Left; Right. Heaven; Hell; Lake of Fire; Bottomless Pit; Clouds of Cigarette Smoke. Huh?

The map precedes the territory. The signified precedes the signifier.

Be weird because that is what they expect of you. Kill, be killed, and kill yourself because that is what they expect of you. That is what they sell you: false death, false love; falsity.  We live in a world where we will surely and most definitely feel fucked up, screwed over, fake like an actor, stiff like a hard impotent dick curving downwards in grief, if we open our eyes to the only truth that exists: there is no locus for the real, for authenticity, for originality. Instead, everything is dead, and death is the only reminder of that faded, unseen truth that has sunk beneath the horizon to never come up again. AIDS, Cancer, you name it. Everything is a design made especially for this age of death. Love? Martrydom? Go hide behind your broken cross and dim crescent on Valentine’s Day. Show your love and loyalty. Go spend money you worthless mindless stupid dick-smoking fucks. You will die for a flag (green, white, red, yellow, any colour you like), for a cross, for a crescent, for a six-pointed or five-pointed star, for a red cedar, for a hammer and a sickle, but you do not know that no conscious, evolved being has ever died for a flag. People die for freedom, it is that which you do not have; it is that which you think you have; it is that which you will never have because you are stupid ignorant fucks.

I’ll be waiting for the fucking thumbs of your mind to grow so that you can grasp the concept of freedom.  

Go fuck yourself in that one-day feast of love and mourning you call Valentine’s Day.

Red Rape

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I usually escape my house to go to my home: the abounding darkness of the streets. This day was just like any other day, full of frustration and anger. Blue waves of grief come and go, and that little friend called Joy becomes a foe who waltzes around me like the jester of an enemy. But I could not kill that jester, for I would be enticing the wrath of uncontrollable Woe.

The music stopped and it was my sign that I should leave. I packed my bag and left to meet my lover, the darkness; the mystery of gloomy alleys; the stories behind closed doors. All transpired as I walked through the streets, alone and unabated. It was that which I looked forward to so keenly, it was that feeling of uncertainty, of fright—the sort of fright you get when climbing up a staircase in the dark, feeling as if someone is just behind, feeling as if someone or something is waiting for you on the next level, waiting for you as if you were its prey—which kept me going, kept me breathing. This unknown gave me hope.

I took the first taxi I could find—it took me is a better phrasing of it. Silence; Tranquillity; Transcendentalism; Awakening, before the imminent death and the following rebirth. It all happens in a space of seconds, in the transition from light to dark. But the car stopped and I opened my closed eyes to see a road blocked. The taxi could go no further.

The venom of rage spurred from within me, filling my eyes with fierce red blood as I approached the blockade. I tried to pass, but I could not. Soldiers in dark blue uniforms carrying big loaded guns approached me vehemently. Dogs were on the ready, and I heard a rifle being cocked nearby. I want to pass, I said. I want to go that way, I said. Why is this road blocked, I asked.

No answer was given except the staunch orders to back away from the territory. I did as requested but looked forward towards the end of the street where I saw black cars with black tinted windows. Instantly I knew what was going on. Instantly I had an urge to kill who I did not know. Instantly, I held a huge vendetta to the person who sat inside the black tinted, heavily guarded car. Instantly I went from an unsuspected ignorant itinerant to a hateful, maddened, belligerent fucker who wanted to act as vigilante and saviour to his home and kill the faggot pussy attracting thousands of eyes with blackened windows and shiny, cocked machine guns.

The heavily armoured security forces gave me a reason, a need, a deep unwavering urge to kill the protected individual. I stopped in my ground, my feet parallel to each other and I looked the soldier in the eye. Mal intent showed in my eye and he hid behind his cocked gun. I laughed in his face, laughed madly and maniacally.

Excess of security breeds excess violence and crime. Excess protection breeds the need to be protected. The best way to be targeted is to make yourself a hard target. The easiest way to create suspects is to question everyone. The fastest way to be frightened by the people around you is to create a fear which does not exist.

He was afraid of hell, so he made an army of angels, and whence I saw his mighty army, I became HELL. He wanted to be worshiped and idolized, but he summoned his twilight when he showed himself as the light of day. I became the night.

The rage I suffer is my hell, but the hell I dwell in soon becomes a heaven when I voluptuously indulge in the frenzied slaughter.

I laughed at the adversary in front of me, but he took none of it. Non Serviam, I shouted, Non Serviam, as two soldiers held my body and threw me away. I fell on the ground and broke like a statue falling from the sky. I found myself scattered into a million little pieces on the ground. I lost hope of reformation, of peace of mind, of tranquillity, silence and transcendentalism. I bid hope farewell and with hope went fear. I ran into the closed off area, meeting my Fortune in the eye. Fortune I saw as a woman whom you cannot but rape in order to exist! Beautiful Fortune.

She told me to stand down, to cool off, to gather honourable equanimity. But nothing could pacify me. I killed the jester Joy and enticed the wrath of uncontrollable Woe. Fortune always has the upper hand.

The barricade created the criminal. But it was I who was the victim of red rape.