Lusting For Eternity

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Oftentimes, when people cannot help but feel they are always drowning in the sea — which is their mental makeup of reality — more often than not informed epigenetically by the traumatic makeup of their lives, they begin to live with only one purpose in mind. Which is to fall in love with their experience of everything.

Allowing them to live in whatever world it is, they are led to believe they have chosen to create e.g. this is the first pornographic icon that I sent in — as Mary Magdalene in ideation, to whom I’d like to call Lord Henry.

But this same sentiment of an all-inclusive love can be unpacked into more meaning, however, than the mere rhetorical reflections we are so used to often hearing: perpetually circling around in this day and age — of late stage, modern-day capitalism i.e. it is what it is; we will see when we see etc. Rather, this purpose is more religious in its meaning and tone, and more similar to lines engraved within the commonly known, Gloria, Glory be to the Father poem i.e. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

Meaning — when one cannot break free from the economic chains of, their own reality —  clasped around their wrists, to supposedly tell the time — they will sever themselves free — and serenely, by surrendering themselves to a solipsistic sense of divinity: serendipitously smiling back at them, wherever they have decided to have been chosen to be seen. So that they can kneel in heaven’s flames: with rapture inviting across their face — having discovered the secret, to a holy infernal love, and sense of spirituality: unfolding within everything.

The shrine above: stretched of course, so I could display larger the result being made when Art stretches past the point of a body’s breaking — its resolution that is. Because after the Lord had spoken to me about my pet name Lucy May being too sweet to be sullied by being listened to, (by which he meant, feminine) I told him I would prefer to go by then the name I would carve into my left thigh three days later: which was Dorian Grey.  Which now shines whiter and brighter than I ever did, when I am cold.

Unfurling as if they were petals: the thin silver blades the world had gifted me, from the hotel razor I had crushed under my feet — thus transforming my self-harm into a child’s game i.e. He loves me, He loves me not, He loves me! (This nice of complimentary, was as new to me as the DoubleTree chocolate chip cookies, served warm in the soon to be crumpled white bags in the hotel’s lobby like living room — as was later allowing the Lord to use an identical shaver, where the light had never been seen). But the other reason I went to New York needs to come into play before I can lose myself while playing with myself in this story that I cannot let die (because it leaves inside of me).

And the reason is the Lord. Because he provided me the structure from which I was able to understand: what happened to me in New York and Amsterdam, and why it took me seven months, multiple and conflicting health diagnoses, a rejection and an acceptance of modern-day pharmacology, and a pilgrimage to Peru — to lose everything I once thought I had needed, in order to be happy — and the next year, to learn how to pick it all back up again.

“Economics cannot be considered a science. It is a technology whose aim is the transformation of time into labor, and labor-time into value, and the transformation of our relationship with nature into of scarcity, need, and consumption” Berardi, The Uprising, 76

I have added above: below my body’s libation — and what is now, this story’s only quotation (for in the first draft, lived Heidegger in his perpetual pondering of Essence, Bataille and his comparison of ritual sacrifice, with divine love, and David Foster Wallace: whose essay entitled Big Red Son was what gave me the courage to seek out the love I still so ardently seek) another photograph, of everything I honestly and accidentally snuck through the airport on my first trip to New York City. Where it all became like an ouroboros — or a prayer, as when I smoked that third night what I had confidently bought on the street, it made the shower dreamier and dreamier as I continued to bare my soul to reap. The cold metal hearts on my phallic like Osiris pipe spelling: I, Love, and [blank]: faded by my thumbs always frantic haste).

It is important to note however, that Berardi’s concern in his book The Uprising: On Poetry and Finance is less the European collapse than its cause — which he refers to as semio-capitalism: that is, social production predicated on the production of signs — which are symbols once more removed, from our already referential economy. He begins by introducing the idea of “Deregulation”: an idea first conceived by Rimbaud in his pursuit of a new poetic language — where words can escape their usual meanings — and mean whatever you want them to; meaning, that reality is to be created by your impressions of — rather than from any real connection to e.g. the word “love” can mean whatever you want it too (or, debt).

He goes on to explain that after Nixon freed the dollar from the gold standard, the USA began to embark upon some never fixed and “aleatory” [random] economic poetry; for after any possibility of measurement ended, even being able to determine the average amount of time necessary — to produce a human good, human desire and the economy made love to create a child thus called, and not ironically — your lifetime: in which all of your time has to be connected to, (even if it’s in the rejection of — as recreation is a necessary reprieve for the sake of finance) financial endeavors. For the economy has replaced human desire as if it were a changeling — intending to colonize our world into fantasy, by transforming our bodies first into Fantasia.

Because the only way to determine value, once we have literally signed away our ability to do so — with our lives, and even encouraged others to do so — as I did do, when I urged another newbie in the adult industry, to sign all of the paperwork he was shaking when he signed, because as I told him: he’s never had anything to worry about in his entire life really — because he wasn’t even real: eyes twinkling, ending in a drum roll cascading into bombastic confetti, when I said and I quote:“ it will become but waterlogged paper soon: unfurling what was first folded into those paper flowers, by some much too young baldheaded heart of gold, in a hospital somewhere for the dying dude,” there is only one more thing we can do in the real interest in making our lives more meaningful — which is to use violence, to give us more time.

Like a cauterizer sealing the distinction between our biological referent: à la our physical flesh and blood, life-giving body, and the mask of our career like metaphors for self: which once was, what once upon a time we used to call our working time, and or, our art. Merge the two, and you will never be unhappy I told myself. For whenever a world is broken apart — or sealed, it cannot help but to create something new.

When I ask myself, whether I was hurting myself because I needed to recalibrate my brain, to find the anagram of pleasure within pain, that that hurt had been intended to produce — which felt worse, than death marauding through the heavens inside — which was what happened, when my life the world will call an engagement with my girlfriend — did die — or whether the cell phone photo I had taken of my left leg: celestially shaking in the warm shower — in which in only it, felt cleansed — was all for the sake of a story, I no longer have a choice in whether or not to write — in order to make my soul screaming, sound like beauty healing, I do not have the answer, as I still turn the red pool into what rains pretty like pain: covering everything like a spider web caught, in mourning’s opalescence like dew.

And that is the tragedy from which this comedy of errors can thus be allowed to continue. Because I can only spill laughter, where I have so often cried — if I ever want to be someone whose life’s sole purpose isn’t to heal every day: where he once broke up with himself inside — leaving himself alone, and so terrified.

Because after I had been fondled and fluffed, and had what felt like my heart injected with a hardening serum: more than once, and was forced to watch another cast member’s boyfriend attempt to do, what I had already given up hope on — which was finding any residue of life — left inside me, there was only one thing the Lord decided that could be done, after I spent over an hour locked inside a bathroom no longer dreaming; for the raincloud like showerhead’s reservoir of life-affirming water, had been drained completely too — by which I mean warm, as the cold always wakes us up considerably to what we refer to as, reality.

I was sitting down: longingly looking out at the window as the Hudson River sluiced while snowflakes of melting snow sliced into it, when I felt myself be turned around by a gentle but powerful hold on my right shoulder, so that I could turn to face the man who had come to teach me: what only love, can truly make possible — him: wearing my European brown unfurling like a flower turtleneck I had worn for the photo shoot beforehand, in which I was robed in only his raiment: too bright to perceive — or for him to expose (because my clothes were once again, yes: something reminiscent of what we mentally derive from our experiences of, tenderness).

And when the Lord kissed me; bit me; put his entire mouth within mine really — like the heart of a hot cherry tart wiggling, and curled his claws around my face: slowly, like only a lover should — and looked into my eyes, deeply — so as to create that sense of infinity: like only a lover could, I began to push him away — which seemed to hurt his face, until I saw the light emerge from within his own eyes reflecting back from mine, which held onto my heart — and allowed him thus to continue.

And the rest of the scene I cannot even call history; for in war, veterans will be the first to tell you that reality is the first thing that loses its seams — before it becomes but nightmare: interlaced with only madness singing.

But because I was graduating University with an English degree, when it was as possible to separate your life from reality — as it was your desires and what the market has convinced you, that you are — this fear coinciding, and perhaps even encouraging with what was already a lack of a biologically stable personality, my own attempt to make waves as I attempted to make my own way into this world, I was far too familiar with the likes of philosophers like Berardi: who was paid to play with words while they created worlds, that I could never fully trust —because they never had been tested, and been experimented upon. Which was what I then set out to do for my senior thesis entitled Morality and Aesthetic, in which I aimed to remove the boundaries of what had always and honestly been, really a relationship between the two — a passionate love affair, really.

But while his already published words, filled my writing for the sake of grabbing onto already established approval — they began to echo in my ears, like a prayer said throughout my years in Catholic School, as they then took on a life of their own and became the perfect soundtrack for what I had already decided upon, had always been in the process of being made into art — by consciousness itself, always making an internal map of the reality by which it first navigates what it feels to be true, residing within our hearts.

But what I loathe the most, about what comes next — isn’t even the absolute illegality of the situation (in more ways than one); or how the Lord’s love was transposed by me, towards someone I still love; rather, it was the detail that I couldn’t help but to notice as I tore up inside, when I watched myself watch — what everyone else in the room had also stopped to see, which was what the Lord had not yet attempted to do that day with anyone else — that was sincerely and technically, working — because it did work, while I was consumed by the light so bright it was blinding towards what created my new definition of love: which was lit up in the fluorescence like glory — like a dandy lion seeking the sun, so that I could come out on the other side ready to finish the experiment, that I could not finish — until it was as it was in the beginning, when life had officially begun.

All I can remember is playing with my body as if it was a marionette, in a cave full of perpetual darkness — lit only by a weak flame, which was my heart’s once frantic pace: having serenely slowed. My soul’s strings became tangled, when I tried to make the imitation of my body dance — while sitting down, and I was never able to unwind the mangled strings as I continued to use them — to drag my body ‘round upon the stage made into sheets: which felt so soft and so cool, against my knees brushed red by the heat.

Sticky serum was thrown upon my chest like holy water — paper flowers: blooming into memories of my Father do the same, but only on holy days: of obligation — because the only liquid left inside of me — was made up of salt, and had already turned my bronzed face into a ruddy countenance of fallen dreams. My fingernails left love across my palms, because they couldn’t break the Turin sheets — no matter how hard they tried, and because I had trusted my brain now kneeling in the hands of fate well equipped — there was only one thing left I could do — so as to prevent the pain that causes an eternal breaking, from erupting anymore inside.

So I snuffed out the light from within my chest, and as the audience of myself exclaimed in the darkness: well, that is when I learned how to fly — so as to take to the sky — from where I couldn’t feel love again, for a very long time. Which is that which gives us the want to illuminate, our most beloved of forking like paths — within our chancel lamp’s eternal like flame (that can never really be an appropriate metaphor for our brain) in the art of, mentally engraved: spiritual ergonomics— and thereby, that which composes everything — and or, the economy.

Our scene bled into the men’s imitating angels in perpetual watch, and they were forced to use artificial light within the hotel room, we were forced to sneak into — because there was not enough natural light left, when I had left — completely dismissing the Jimmy Johns styled catering on the table I had been longing for, the whole day. Because I had been encouraged — never forced, not to anything (both verbally, and by the enemas clearly displayed. Which I wish I didn’t have to tell you, was a penetration my body didn’t need in what had already become its refrain).

I left my belongings upstairs too, which forced an entourage to come and conceal me — because I had already forgotten the number of room, while my body still barely hanging onto its skin: made its way back up again — where I could no longer watch, what was taking place — as I could no longer discern the moans from my own body’s screaming and celestial’s writhing grace.

So my medial prefrontal cortex and my anterior cingulate cortex — with my amygdala no longer tagging along, up and flew away, so as to avoid the descent inlaid within another stairway, making my already narcoleptic knees — buckle, oh so wrong — from whence I fumbled down and shattered my mind for enough time, to seriously consider suicide — but by some divine and undeserved act, of love grace and fortitude, it was given back its favorite ability to create — and thus has emerged even greater — with a vengeance for only forgiveness, and has allowed me to sing one of my favorite stories, like Assia Djebar writing in the language of her oppressor, in her Algerian Cavalcade.

I, like probably you, did not heed the urgings within Berardi’s words. Rather, I found it more fun to contradict them — as any artist should, by trying to find the humanity within a man whose home office was adorned within his living room, by many a glass crevice of orchid drowned, working men, naked men imprisoned within paint, and a statue of King Solomon — on whose neck dangled a shark tooth: dangling above his seraphic seal —and who had been placed in such a way, that his placement imitated Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia: in that, when the sun rose diffused throughout the window: wafting in like an early morning ghost, and past the three maple trees whose interiors were singing in front of the church bells ringing outside, it cast over his entire body: a blanket of spangling fire — but briefly resembling butterflies, before it passed over him completely, and covered the ceiling in dawn fawning gold.

Rather, I said like Samson — that they could cut my hair — and do with my body whatever that needed to be done.

Which did include: a furious brushing of dead skin from my lips with a toothbrush to complete the metamorphosis I had always dreamed of, into someone who was finding a metaphorical style of life, in which they could stay forever connected to the world — so as to be able to fund a lifestyle of art, they would never then be able to stop making.

The thought that I wouldn’t have to become but a fighting roach was really a Lolita Beetle, wouldn’t come until much later when I paid more attention to the detail, rather than affection feigned and put on for. Which is why I carry that author around with me everywhere — as if his words were holy, sliding snugly into my self-made inside leather bound pocket, after snapping open.

I sent incriminating emails concerning the Lord the next day, because the morning after I had told him I was worried that I didn’t feel well and that I had just wanted to go home, he had one of his employees print off for me what would have been equivalent to my plane ticket, had it not been already paid for — not that I ever actually asked what the payment would be — I had always been doing it for the sake of, my life’s story. We fought verbal battles with proxy lawyers who never actually met; I threatened to end him whose name is May Lucius; he said he was recording everything, etcetera, and when the news that my flight was snowed in, along with the airport not providing accommodation, the souls reflected from my favorite musicians: Ludovici Einaudi and Zoe Keating saved me from a complete breakdown — because I was leaving, still connected to where I had landed.

So I texted a man whom I had already texted when I had first arrived, who had always been my backup plan — should I be unable to successfully write, and who was honestly what I had thought was the only source of redemption in this story, until that very night — when he had insisted with much sincerity, and an offering forth of much kindness: to please, just take off all of my clothes, so he could help soothe with his hands: what his heart never could never fail to disclose: which was technically true — that is, what he did and didn’t do (on a side note, but an important side note me thinks; when he picked me up in a taxi all we talked about on the way to Manhattan, was about how cab drivers make such a desperately lonely living, that getting off on strangers’ stories — is, of course, their most favorite thing to do; and that you can never quite get them to quote-unquote, just shut up, while he played with my fingers like how you would pet a pet mouse — the driver I swear I could hear whimpering, but it could have just been the wipers — for it was raining, while he very slowly closed the screen.

But he would also read me The Alchemist when I couldn’t fall asleep — crying within the city frozen that also couldn’t weep. And when I was perusing through his bathroom, with floors that he had mentioned would someday be heated underneath: like those Stucco Marl Porcelain tiles, imitating concrete — that would be so much more beautiful, however, if they were inlaid with stained glass — so that the heat coming from underneath: could illuminate through in its reassurance of heat, whilst covering the ceiling and its walls in reflections of shards of, this celestial masterpiece, he noticed me noticing the walls broken down in shambles, and just waiting to be restored, by any ferocious darling who he said and I quote, could just get a job walking dogs down the street, as a barista or an anything really — so long as they could clean, there was only one detail I would hold onto: which was a small wooden plaque of Catherine of Siena that said, “Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.” I do regret having to tell you, however — to make this confession complete, that I told him I thought I was the most beautiful person that I had ever seen.

But I have always equated beauty with death, and with death, evolution — and the only meaning I have ever found in life, in in the constant rewriting of their evolution. (More of that story can be read in my messages, alongside various emails and WhatsApp conversations, which I sincerely wish I didn’t have to share with you).

After I had gotten back from New York City, I almost missed my graduation; for the night before I had been crying through the streets of Saint Paul, while on a frantic phone call to my brother — to whom I had confessed, I was pacing back and forth on the highest bridge in the beloved city of my birth, in winds that made the bridge’s hinges groan in what I could only describe at the time, as the most beautiful sounding of hymns — within the city’s like Phantom symphony: that was calling to me — to where the pain could finally stop, and where it wouldn’t even matter if my feelings ever returned — because they and everyone else along with them — who had ever hurt me: including me, and even the closest friends in my friend family — and my family too, would be forever gone, forever and ever too.

So I told him I let fall: as I looked incessantly for a parking spot I could never find, everything that I had ever cared for, from my backpack which felt like my soul upturned inside: i.e. the first Bible I had ever received, the first draft of my heart’s healing I could no longer finish, and the pillow strings I still kept from our private engagement, from a frozen beach on the North Shore. The little streams of saltwater: flowing through my hand’s folding: urging them to float, was the very same water in which they would drown before they became even softer. That is before they became words.

Love. Love is what I had said the Lord had come to teach me. Love is the only word left I really ever care to talk about anymore — for it is concealed by death, concealed herein by change too. For when I first arrived, I was told we would all be tested — which in my wild imagination, meant like, by a doctor tested. Rather, we all given a form to sign when we first arrived — Scout’s Honor, and an OraQuick: the very brand telling anyone to be seen by a doctor or clinical staff if we wanted the accuracy of medical results — oh, and the Lord’s speech on HIV prep that him and his partner whom he hadn’t neglected to share was indeed HIV positive, did use.

But since I have been a child, I have only had one question. Which has always been: why would the Lord risk untold of suffering, onto the lives of performers onto whom he has created? That question has always remained unanswered until I looked in the mirror when I arrived home. For a mirror reflects that which two can only create. But I wasn’t satisfied with the parallels that I could find between myself and any other person; I wanted to experience fully, and experience with intimacy: what was behind those worlds, which refracted all of my different reflections. So I climbed inside the looking glass, and therein I found my answer. And I haven’t been able to look at the world, without love, ever since.

For it was the same reason, I would risk the life of the girl I was currently seeing: who had always counseled me, whenever I needed my tears to be tapped through the telephone — unto whom, I had proclaimed yes — when she asked me if I was sure that I was safe, in all forms of health. For if she were inextricably wound by a wound, which couldn’t help but to ensure our together — she would learn how to love, truly: the darkest side of me: which was how much I loved my life, and then everything I was willing to do to create an eternal debt called death — that only love can forgive, within it residing.

She would become the first person then — aside from myself, who would come to know and love all of the hairs on my body too. Especially if it meant, that wound would lead us into a lusting for eternity, far too soon — so we wouldn’t ever have to be alone, when we were consumed by the ocean like waves by the light which makes up everything — and were thus allowed the sacred opportunity afforded to everyone: to briefly and intimately understand, the divine plan masquerading as form within this world — which once upon a time, had been my absolutely favorite thing. Until I came to the conclusion the writer was a shaman — whose kindest act is commercialization, and that I would have to return to the rainforest someday, so that I could be reunited with my Father, and not just forgive him — but make love to him for what he has made. For when a crowd greets the gladiator, everything stops, and all you can hear is the sounds of an alleluia: roaring awake.

For we are all now celebrities onto the audience of ourselves — and have been, and always will be: a world without end. Amen.

Lusting For Eternity was last modified: October 27th, 2017 by LucyMay

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