Friday, 6 February 2009

Journey in the Dark

An exercise in acting...

...which didn't lapse once...

Good heavens, these guys (and gals) were good. I mean really good. Is there a reason why bands like Delta 5 didn't make it big? Was it to preserve their genius? Was it to keep their special gift special? Was it because everyone in the world is a cunt?

Or is it because we men absolutely fucking hate any suggestion of female infidelity (which is not in fact suggested by this track, quite the opposite, but which *is* hinted by the music)? Yeah, damn straight it is. Girls like these were the object of crap songs, not the makers of piercing, modernistic love stories.

Fuck knows, but you know, I'd take Delta 5 over any mass production fucker any day - Elton John (hair transplanted) - fuck right off. Those girls were good. Really, fucking good.

Can you imagine Girls Aloud reinterpreting this? Fuck me, it would be all about how sex wasn't *quite* as good as the singer had hoped. About how his cock wasn't quite as hard as it should have been, and how he refused to fuck her in the back room (her "tutu" not quite to his liking, one imagines). knows nothing, one knows the truth...

and someone *always* knows the truth

Human relationships obtain, despite the media saturation of genital contact, the actual relationships still exist, they are still real. Despite the non-contact of cock and cunt, humans still relate. Love still exists, humans co-exist, they seek each other, in the dark and they don't seek cock, cunt or arse. They seek each other. They seek truth - namely, the other. The other is -1, the self is 1. Together they are 0. It doesn't matter, and it is the supreme human calculation. Together we make 0. We make nothing. We slide into non-existence together.

That's the point.

...four days together.... gives another backdrop....

We have spent a decade building backdrops to relationships: glamorous, clean, shaven, plastic, unreal decor of a square room; light, always light, lots of light.

We are the backdrop to our own lives.

Our lives and pornography have merged, in a not-very-felicitous-concert: no difference between the two now: the achievement of sexuality is all we cling to. The achievement of body - ours or the other's - and of touch, the most brutal touch (devoid of time) - even people born at the time of Cuba are stoking their bodies with plastic and oil to make someone else want to possess them and nothing else.

In this late-capitalist world, possession is nine tenths of the law; debt the other tenth.

Grown ups really think that others will love them, for wanting their body for a moment. They really believe that slaking desire will give them life. They really think that in forty years, someone will be there, still addicted to their body, still giving everything for that word, fuck. Fuck, it will be the conversation of the dying in thirty years' time, the last word on our lips - but he wanted to fuck me, I wanted to fuck her, we wanted to fuck. We fucked. And still, while we lie, cadaverous, our bodies eating themselves, still we will say it, and still it will give us that thrill.

No end of fucking. Not now. Not ever.

End of love. Always, under the duvet, always, end of love is there. In the cry, in the thought. It is the stolen object that induces panic in the dream; it is the fence underneath the snow; it is the person who stares at you, inexpressive, silent.

No end of fucking.



Anonymous said...
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The Tin Drummer said...

Well, Sweet Cheeks, I am delighted and indeed flattered by your attention.

#2 was meant as a reference to not-as-edgy-as-they-think UK girl band Girls Aloud, who made a single with the refrain "jumping on my tutu", which clearly did not mean a guy stomping on a type of tent.

#4 I say yes, you are completely right. I also say that life is a fucking disaster area, wherein orgasm (some kind of petty oblivion) is rated as something to achieve, and its absence a reason to betray. Not that i am against sex, I love it. But I love thought and love more. Big fat zeroes...we fall into soil as rounded, bloated things. Yes, that sounds about right.

And I am saying nothing about my personal situation here.

I think.


A bit... sort of.
#3 and your point is taken, but I am not the other, I am self. Hence I am 1. Whoever else there is, is therefore -1, especially the self that happens to join itself to me (and is therefore -1 by definition). Together we make 0. QED.

Anonymous said...
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The Tin Drummer said...

Ah, now I get you. I'm not quite sure Girls Aloud intended it to mean anal sex but frankly you never know.

I'm not uncomfortable with your masturbatory habits, just a little repressed. How Crushed can write all that stuff about sex I'll never know....

The Tin Drummer said...

By the way, to what does the "cheeks" of your name refer...?

Anonymous said...
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The Tin Drummer said...

Yes, go ahead. I don't write about sex because I don't know how. But feel free.

I like all cheeks too!

Is that what the problem is? Isn't this an ongoing thing?

Anonymous said...
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