Birhday Bash, by KH

Every situation requires context, but I think it’s a lot funnier to void it instead, thus, the function begins. whirlwind day with some whirlwind effort and I’m breaking necks to get the party vibe popping off ex: arrive home, chug large coffee, buy molly, and get the band back together so that when we get rolling I’ll be in the middle of an eight song set with some radical energy. Of course accompanied by the everlasting anxieties of any and everyone, “Do host good? Do the party happen? Do the neighbors hate? Do care if punch a cop tonight? Do guests get drunk too?” I fret most of all that perhaps the esteemed guests of my birthday party might instead opt to do something cooler, couldn’t blame them.

Every fear resides when my homie Blind Boy struts in with the strength of the Irish (he’s West Virginian) and pounds my hand with a bottle of bright blue Gin, a Townes cassette, and a denim jacket. I almost kissed the man on the spot I was so delighted, his actions spoke louder than the ocean to the syphilis ridden Captain Ahab and I knew he was right: We can always just drown.

However, every death heightens in the company of strangers, and so the guests poured in with their bolo ties and trinkets hanging off the cuffs and we prepared to rock ourselves into a State of Uncertainty.  Everytime I perform I black out, but the solid bits I do recollect involve a constant meowing in my throat; similar to how a doctor might invade your sound canal with their devices, but a lot more tangible.  Some other action involving me violently shaking a newborn babe as he walked in, bright eyed bushy tailed and with wholesomeness fully abandoned at the door, the final song in the set plastered my memory’s drywall with his likeness.

Next occured the real coup de gravy baby, the circumspected what the hell, the straw that broke my camel back and bade me to remove all limitations on my night’s interactions. I drank two cups of water. THERE! HEALTH! Tomorrow takes care of itself and now I’ve aided it.  So onto brew! The sweetest elixir to help every bitterly hopeful encounter with good friends and their friends with whom history remains unspoken and thus you stay in a teeter totter bondage binding molded by instability and a leash that pulls you ever closer as you embrace the void until it actually stares back.

“What is fearful is to be cast from the hands of a living God” - Pauline Reage, Story of O (1954)

“My fans need new addictions” - Jpegmafia, “Beta Male Strategies” off album All My Heroes are Cornballs (2019)   

I’m going inside and outside thoroughly carousing the crowds with a pint of poppers, engaging in bits that batter the brain (i.e. Pretty Girl like you Shouldn’t Light Their Own Cigarette to 3 people in rapid succession as I light their irons), and laughing haphazardly at almost every utterance to promote other’s confidence.  I’m caulking up gaps in conversation with my own little indentations and trying desperately to look cool as ice through the heated sweat of a molly roll.  When the gracious invitation for shots hits the mind’s eye via my friend Swell Boy who has just learned of a vodka x pickle-juice (pj) treasure trove in the lovely Julia’s room.

As if struck by a cattle prod I took my chance to exit the outside of my home and embrace alone time with the dear swell boy, but we are swiftly intercepted by a marvelous broad with a tongue of constant quixotic certitudes telling us how to live, perhaps the only philosopher of our time.  She expressed feverishly how it was my responsibility to take twenty-two picklebacks in tandem; else my new year would find itself cursed.  I of course obliged, throughout the experience banking away her statements about how if she didn’t have a boyfriend we’d have been fucking at the very moment, but we of course could always platonically makeout (this never came to fruition due to others coming in and out, but I later heard this was a frequent request of hers).  This not to mention her notch up experiment of asking me and another visitor, as we all congradulated each other on not being cursed with ugliness, to engage in a ‘friendly’ threesome.

I hit shot # eighteen and it’s all pretty hazy from then on out, mostly recollected through videos cursed to ruin/improve my future election cycles when I grow immune to fucking my own life in the ass and need to try it with others.  Immediately after the 18th shot, Swell Boy burst into the room full of vigor not unlike that of a blood-thristy gladiator, though only one of these descriptors holds true, and proffered a birthday chaos ritual involving the drinking of one another’s sanguine goop.  Not without our critics (one being the aforementioned philosopher) we set about slicing our fingers open rhymitcally and into a nicely prepped plastic bowl.  Now the best chaos ritual recipe i’d say, is 1 tablespoon of blood to every shot of vodka, and a good wish to wash it down.  The philosopher thought to truncate my digit for me by tying a tourniquet around my finger and leaving it through the night, but this eventually returned itself to normalcy with China’s help as I lay sleeping.  I did a bump of coke at this point to keep me going. 

Afterwards, the cake!

I of course was knocked out, my eyes now blood-shot, and so my dear love Rissa Rush rag dolled me face first into a solid bite of tranquilizing icing, boom, park me at the toilet.  Luckily I’m surrounded immediately by a gaggle of helpful gals, so I vomit to the beat of “Come On Up to the House” by Tom Waits in an intensely dramatic fashion (I like attention), and aided fervently through Julia’s fingers thrusting deep inside my throathole to solicit a bit more feel better tomorrow juice into a somehow crystalline blue toilet oasis, not unlike those found on Florida Keys. 

Then Blind Boy and the Pirate Queen carried me off to bed and so goodnight.

              

     

Delirium (Trying to get turned on by Molly), by Blind Boy

I should do less drugs
The blood won’t come off her floor
Their blood is the same now
Mine is diluted
I have a sickness in my stomach and a worm in my brain
Altered building blocks
Lead to a crooked foundation
This house is falling
This house can never stop breathing
Will she stop crying?
Over the finger yes
Over her life
Only maybe
Translucent red sits waiting in the bowl
I missed my cue and fumbled the goodbye
“he talks about me?”
why is he shocked
what else do you expect?
Look at us

The Joker's N-Word: A Critique

“Nigger.” --Not The Joker

“There is, in all those late eras that allow themselves to be proud of human-ness itself, so much fear, so much fearful superstition regarding the ‘wild savage animals’ of earlier times--above which that so human era is so proud to have become master--that even the most obvious, most easily graspable truths go unexpressed for hundreds of years, as though by unanimous agreement, because these truths seem as though they might resurrect those much-feared, finally killed-off ‘wild savage animals.’” --Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, #229

“Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself.” --Hermione Granger

***

In 2018, a study found that liberals--particularly white liberals--significantly simplify and friendlify their speech when talking to black people. Much of the discourse surrounding the study has labeled this “patronizing” behavior as racist, but what if the opposite is true? What if such apparently “patronizing” speech is actually just friendliness, an attempt to assert a shared in-group membership, expressed within a society that holds complexity of speech to be directly proportional to pretentiousness?

***

If we think of humans ecologically, we come to a complication that, so far as I know, is unprecedented: The herd’s most fearsome threat is not an easily-recognizable predator species but, rather, other members of the same species. The human ecological network as a body which produces its own fatal disease: Paranoia arises as the inevitable autoimmune disorder of a body under constant threat of civil war, or in which civil war may always have already begun.

Social space must therefore be permeated with tripwires: Taboo functions, in this analogy, as an antibody, as an inborn vaccine which, like any vaccine, is only useful if ubiquitous. The regime of signs in which the taboo is defined must therefore also be ubiquitously upheld.

Denial of a generally accepted taboo becomes undoubtable alliance with a fatal disease. 

***

Each taboo is therefore coupled to a particular feared pathogen. The taboo against the word, “nigger,” is of course coupled to the fear of racism. The word is, indeed, violent: It provokes an autoimmune response: It is violent both against the individual hearer, as it forces this hearer to react against it like a good leukocyte, else the hearer also be deemed pathological, such that the word itself reassembles the conditions of slavery which are held to be its origin; and against the herd, for it asserts that the herd is discontinuous, that it failed to recognize a pathogen before it became violent, so that, each time the word is used, the herd’s paranoia must intensify--it registers signs which often appear with the word as new taboos, the social space fills with ever more and ever more esoteric tripwires...until either speech takes on a constant, irrevocable quality of fear; or we assert the inevitable progress to absurdity of verbal taboos.

***

The absurdity of verbal taboo among a species which is its own biggest threat: The taboo is just as easily understood by the pathogens as by the antibodies. To assume that a taboo will retain its herd-defensive function over time is as silly as expecting antibiotics to work in fifty years. Even now, one may not reasonably expect a dangerous racist to say “nigger” within earshot of antibodies: They keep it to 4chan or to face-to-face talks with other racists.

The function of the taboo has become illusory: It identifies only the idiot racists or else the non-racists who simply do not ascribe to the regime of signs in which the word is taboo, for there are such non-racists, such perpetual others, outsiders who are not necessarily pathogenic but who are nevertheless other, against all axioms of the herd’s constitution, and are therefore always held, in the knee-jerk reaction of the herd, to be pathogenic.

***

So we come to the old tired subject of intent, a subject fundamentally dangerous to any herd animal as herd animal, for to accept the value of intent is to undermine the script in which the herd operates--that is, to challenge the very identity of the herd animal as such by challenging the necessity of the herd as a communication-enabling medium. Like asserting a non-contiguous body, a body constituted mainly by difference rather than unity, a body in which the cells themselves are primary.

When the intent behind a taboo utterance becomes the focus of the taboo, there can no longer be any taboo, and threats must be recognized as threats rather than as the signs which surround them: Rather than looking at the edge, one must actually stand there and look down into the pit. A more accurate view of danger, clearly, but one reserved only for those who believe in their own ability to face danger. That is, reserved only for the strong, if, after all, such a descriptor is still admissible…

***

What of the Joker’s particular usage of “nigger”? It is simultaneously the weakest, most herd-affirming, and the most pathological type. Weak because the Joker posts so much about the permissions given by black folks for his usage of the word; pathological for the very same reason. Does not the idea that any black person can give one permission to say “nigger” reinforce the exact dehumanization that the word supposedly represents? Does it not clearly assert that one black person can speak for all others--that is, that the will of each individual black person is subjugated to a common racial will? Is it not clearly, unquestionably racist as fuck? Exactly as it attempts to assert its non-racism, to endear itself to the herd?

Perhaps the herd’s most dedicated members--those most “oversocialized”--are exactly as dangerous to it--to themselves--as those they consider pathological. They are, after all, the components of an autoimmune disorder.

***

But then, the Joker has done something admirable: He has, at the very least, divided the herd with its own logic of cohesion. Comment threads for the countdown (I’ll link it again) consist almost entirely of two comment types: The first, “Do it.” The second, “Don’t do it.”

But then, a third type: “Will he do it?” This is most interesting: If the Joker had only divided the herd, he would have given it no way out of the circular logic that has built “nigger” into the N-word--i.e. it’s taboo because it’s violent, and it’s violent precisely because it’s taboo. But this third type of comments points to confusions of the script itself, more specifically of its normal separation of all humans into two characters: The herd members and the pathological (the violent, the dangerous, the cancelled, etc.). There is no consensus as to whether, if he says it, he will be exiled (and this, I must say, is the genius in his getting permission beforehand, even if such permission is fundamentally more racist than the word itself). 

Most importantly, there is no consensus as to whether even an actual murderer will say the word. There is no way to compare, in the paranoia of the herd, one breakage of taboo to another: Each implies the same difference. 

There are only judgements of the scale of punishment deserved. But then, elementary schools will still play music by the Beach Boys, though some of their songs were written by Charles Manson, while many schools will not allow the reading of even an excerpt from Huck Finn…likewise, leftists much more often pillory Trump for his racist words than for the fact that he almost certainly has sex with kids.

***

Should not all the oversocialized anxiously await the day when “nigger” may be said openly, with a hard -r, for that day will mark the time when the racism associated with the word has ceased to be a threat? 

What, though, if that time has already come? As I said, the only racists who would openly use the word must be the non-threats, the idiots, or else those so far away from the herd in which the word is taboo that they cannot touch it.

***

Imagine that a white man has self-identified as a “nigger”: Is he still a pathology to the herd? Or has he simply opted out of the regime in which the taboo against that word is set? He has certainly used it in a way that directly contradicts its taboo form.

***

To hold that the hard -r is more racist than the form “nigga” is itself a form of race-realism, in which the hard -r is supposed to be the inherently white pronunciation and is therefore more racist. Again we find that the forms of logic necessary to uphold the taboo as it currently exists imply exactly the type of racism for which the word “nigger” was exiled from polite vocabulary.

***

One may counter, “But the N-word inextricably carries with it a legacy of slavery!”

So does the word “iPhone,” but there is no similar taboo against Apple.

“But the N-word inextricably carries with it a legacy of slavery!” means, when said by an unapologetic smartphone owner or clothes wearer, “The forms of slavery which have been institutionally denounced are terrible, but the other types are fine.”

That “life is suffering” is cliché. The equally true statement that life is making others suffer is much more poignant.

***

If usage of the word “nigger” will be immediately punished by those who live primarily as herd members, it is to the advantage of all strong wills who would like to be surrounded by other strong wills to say the word whenever they enter a new social group, then to befriend whomever is not appalled. 

If one gets permission from a black person first, though, one has simply shown oneself to be another of the herd-racists, for the herd is, as a rule, thoroughly racist, as demonstrated earlier.

To restate: The black race as seen by the herd: A headless body onto which any sufficiently dark/sufficiently gened person may place their head and thereby speak for the whole. This monstrous figure, which underlies the notion of the “N-word pass,” is dehumanizing, silencing, minimizing, oppressive, and oh-so-very racist.

***

So, then, in the end, what of the Joker? A decent thought experiment, but one which does nothing to break the fundamentally racist forms in which the taboo against the N-word is rooted. 

***

And what, in the end, of the Eunuch? Oh, they aspire to be like the word “nigger”: That everyone who associates with them will immediately appear to have broken from the herd; that their presence will render questionable the very sphere of the possible (“Will he say it?”); that they will experience the world as it is, with that oft-misunderstood “scientific” mind of which Nietzsche talks so much, that is, that they will experience the world with immediacy and intensity and, as far as possible, directly, and not as a series of slavish reactions to masks and imprecise hints; that they will stare, that is, not at the edge of the pit, and tremble, but that they will lean over it, stare straight down into it, perhaps even spelunk, map its bowels...for who knows where the word “nigger” has been, into what caves it is forced, to what heights such an unquestionably powerful expression may climb when untethered to a racism that does not necessarily accompany it, but which certainly accompanies its taboo; that they will be hidden and transported in myriad minds like a magnet, either to attract or to repel but always with intense strength; that they should be immediately rejected by all herd animals of their species, oh, that social life should be so easy to navigate!; yes, finally, that they should be considered the most pathological of their kind by those who consider any difference and any unpredictability pathological!

***

For the curious: I’m white.

Tinder Night! At the Bar! by Jean-Paul Fatre

A conclusive bandito

with claspes of liver affectionate

I make my way for door 

do a matter of fact

One holds a hand to his temple

plays the game

I keep the yellow one

make me frenzied

Everyone here has advice 

to a girl in a shirt of residence

“That will stain your washer”

competitive teeth born friends

———————————————

Mark of the fisherman

two approach

Dressed down in memorial 

The Approach finish

“Would you rather summon 

infinite puppies or one dog that 

can talk” I READ THE SOLEMN 

PROCLAMATION A NEW MESSAGE

Down to do a merger

the coral reefs bottle top

I wear a crystal thorn

Not Christ get away (Ford vs Ferrari)

—————————————————-

Jameson curved concave to flat

when the time comes for a MONOPOLY

as in I pull it all out

she smiles and Laughs “You

A dinner guest for sheep”

bowing turntable

FIRE FIRE THE SAME

the Uber brack it G105

When I get home I"ve felt the

curve of his distinct 

a link to the Executive 

A good time THIS good night

——————————————-

Penance we mentored 

“Picture of liturgy”

Crest a deep

My son is not alright he has left

Don’t do it don’t do it consult 

Where carvings make it again

pickle back crochet back

Swallow me great writing

On a couch again with my 

dog on my stomach he yawns

Chaos of the red bean

Monarchy of lesson