XII.

"Wer geteilt ist hat nicht mitzuteilen" - echoes of inhabited space. Why is it that the spaces we leave behind us is not simply still there as an absence? We move on, we grow, we die...we stray from the places we though we belonged, but others inhabit it, make it their own. Sometimes out of nostalgia we search through our memories and scrapbooks, but the past spaces are lost forever. We have stepped out of the frame, out of line. We would so like to think that we leave parts of ourselves behind to be remembered by, but we don't - we leave holes for others to fill.

But still these echoes of inhabited space haunt us; we can no longer reach them, but their ghosts speak to us, inviting us to spend a lifetime searching for them. Maybe this is the reason why some people want the freudian explanation: Not to be free from the grip of the past, but to be affirmed in its continued hold on our present reality. What joy to fall into these open graves! The words of the sermon at last giving an irrevocable meaning to the act. It is not pride that comes before the fall; much more mundane, it is only boredom.

So others fill our graves and take our spaces as their own, and even the hope of being fulfilled in death, of being finally immortalized in fragments, disappear as the marks of our steps on the pavement is being shaped and re-shaped by others we know not of. Even in waking and undying life we are again and again surprised that the residue of our presence lasts exactly as long as it takes for us to abandon it - not even an imprint is left over in its assimilation. 

The memories collide violently, giving rise to monsters; the impossibility of achieving any unity of identity is made all too clear by the discrepancies between the images of the individual left behind in the minds of the bereaved. The most we can hope for is resemblance in some form or another, but that will never give us more than a shadow of one we thought we knew. Thus we are twice bereaved. There is no legacy, only forgetfulness - and that, I suppose, is as much as we can hope for. Perhaps only by dying can we finally be split into a plurality of existence; but only as long as we face the fact that nothing of us will remain in this fragmentation. Just a name will tie them together - and what's in a name?

XI.

It’s a shame that the Shakespearean Fool has been completely swallowed up by the machinery of Walt Disney (Beauty & The Beast, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Lion King...the list goes on ad infinitum). Once upon a time (to stay in the lingo of the fairytale) the Fool presented us with a hole within our discourse; the continued presence of reversal. How could a system of power exist without being constantly reminded of its own nature as a construct? Something from the outside could not satisfy this - that would just reflect that-which-is-not-us. But the Fool! The Fool speaks within our own discourse, but in a language blurred and distorted...reminding us that if everything we own is indeed constructed, then it can at all times be deconstructed. 

Consider Hamlet in conversation with his mother: "Come come, You answer with an idle tongue.", "Go go, You question with a wicked tongue!" He throws the very structure back at us, but disassembled, converted...broken. He can question the system of power, i.e. the royal family, only because he is a part herein. Perhaps this is the real reason why Laertes' rebellion is completely impotent? That which threatens us from the outside is never really a threat, just a dialectic commodity. That which erodes our system of thought by investing it with madness...The Fool! 

The Shakespearean Fool was comic relief filled to the brink with irony; the Disneyean Fool is only comic relief. 

The Court jester was in a unique position, in that he could criticize the king by mimicking the accepted discourse, by openly displaying its pathological consequences in extremis, and by filling every available space in between the words with the phantom of doubt. 

As Sonic Youth said: "Kiss me in the shadow of a doubt". For only there can the gesture achieve limitless meaning.

X.

Trossystemernes konstante infiltrering; glæden og orgasmen er for længst fyldt til randen med iskold betydning, men alligevel tales der stadig om seksuel frigørelse. Homoseksuelle ønsker at frigøre sig fra at blive dømt for hvad de er, blot for at dømme sig selv til præcis hvad de kæmper imod, blot som negativ spejling. Rollerne er byttet om: Enhver ung heteroseksuel flirter med sin tvekønnethed i en desperat erkendelse af betydningens fængsel (det burde han også – hun har boet der så længe han kan huske). Det er en ironi der passer så glimrende i vores selvopfattelse, at det der skulle være enden på den seksuelle segregation (og i samme åndedrag individets frigørelse, eftersom seksualiteten er blevet givet som værende lig frihed), den længe ventede anerkendelse af enhver seksuel orientering, nu blot er indstiftelsen af et nyt paradigme, konstrueret på præcis samme måde som det bestående.

Den konstant dunkende stortromme, fascismens støvletramp, den demokratiske Jesus der falbyder sin krop til købmændene – hvad er snart forskellen? I den virtuelle skin-verden, internettets ideal-parallelle virkelighed har vi konstrueret det sande billede på vores frigørelse. Eller snarere: Vi har projiceret vores behov for kontrol over egen essens til en anden sfære for at undgå at tage stilling til den som et ”virkeligt” fænomen. Det virtuelle har tilbudt os en enestående mulighed for at opløse os selv i den pluralitet som ethvert individ altid har været og altid vil være, qua sin evige tilbliven; men i stedet insisterer vi på at fastholde os selv som et fikspunkt i stedet for at forsvinde endegyldigt i billedernes/overfladernes flux. Ordene der flyder ned i mobilens teknokratiske konstrukt, skriften på computerens overflade, der med et tryk på en knap kan forsvinde for altid – er dette ikke Narcissus’ fuldbyrdede spejling? Det intentionelle objekt i den forestillede ”anden ende” er tydeligvis en narresut, hvis eneste formål er (igen) at give vores ord betydning; at fæstne dem til en superstruktur, der kan redde os fra at skulle tildele dem betydning – den famøse Anden er der jo for at forsikre os om virkelighedens (læs: meningens) fortsatte beståen. Vi kaster os ned i skærmens blanke overflade for at kommunikere, men i realiteten med samme formål som Narcissus da han lænede sig ud over kanten – altid en væren i sig selv, aldrig for sig selv. Internettet gav os muligheden for at leve vores liv som et kalejdoskop: i stedet lever vi som et forstørrelsesglas’ brændpunkt. 

IX.

The absinth-minded ramblings of two unequals:

are you making this up as you fall along?
 are you falling along this makeup?
 on your mark
 get set
all on me
fall on me
put me down for 2
just put me down..
and put 2 up my ass
 and drown me out
can you put me up for the night?
 and I'll bleed out your dreams
can you put up with me for the night?
 and I'll feed on your screams
mmm icecream
 eyescream
feedback and daydreams
everybodys cream for eyescream
 Everybody get cream in their eyes
 and lips to da floor
 five times a day
five to one
one in five
 noone here
 gets out alive
you KNOW it!
 alive she cried
 unfortunately, yes....
 waiting for me....
 good times... alas.. time leaves no speyeral unraveled
no road untraveled
except the unraveling of the mind
 because we can can can
 the burden of man
it's good to be the king!
 manborn
but better to sing
sing of songs
 long forgotten
a merry sing-along
 the sin of song
"this one won't hurt"
"but the next one will"
when you run out of pills
ay papi
 truth will set you free
or death.. whichever comes first
but alas: Truth is a whore
 spreading her legs every chance she gets
 yells one foot to the other
 across a dimlit room
"We seem so far apart!"
and yet we where never closer
 to the end
than now
 and now
 we wait
till the end
comes to chase us out
 and we come... undone
 I undo my zipper
and I come
 check
zipper undone, here I come
I slip into her
with my finger on the buttonfly
 and my thoughts anywhere else
ever since now
 the key to the shitty
shifts hands
the gypsy switch
with one hand on the gearshift
flip it!
 and one hand floating lazily along the steeringwheel
 surfs up
highfiber diet
die high
with broken fibres
 just another highroller
hiding in the nothingness of october
just another gay gone dry
 just another dead barfly
two snails on a beach
 a beached whale
 a waling bitch
haunting the memory of sleep
a bitching male
a fairytale
oh morningstar
where art thou
 "I've gone too far
though I know not how"
 the farther the ties
 the lesser the love
 I beg to differ
indifferent
I'm begging for difference
please
 cork my mother
before I bleed dry
the better part strayed behind
 before I fall from my chosen high
 frozen thighs
"Why so cold my love?"
 My balls are icecubes
Oh great ball, I dare not whisper thy name
 into the end
 of the endless night
the nightless end
only the light of hindsight
to guide the misplaced designs
 the I and the con
 the conman and I
why so cumeyed?
 Icon because I can
my eyeland is a wasteland
 close to comatosed destitude
destined to close the eyes
 of the comatose land
 the 1.
I second your thirst
 the second round is on the house
 the first comes at a price
steep as your love
for man
 eyelander! you are the chosen one!
you are the focalpoint of desire
 let the first choice be your last
 and the last lasts only so long
well..
as long as it lasts..
there's fun to be had
untill their days are forgotten
At the expense of our mothers
and mother's mothers
smothered
 and brothers uncovered
let he without a mother shoot the first load
let he who loads his brother first mount his mother
as mothers we rise
singing like sirens
in the stillness of the future
 but still
 soft
 trademarked for life and for death
marked by a trade in death
buy low, sell high
 touch all the children you find
child of mine
 and you will find the change undesired
 caress my flinching paranoia
unchanged I desire
Sire
but the fire burns ever brighter
 while we quietly drown in the mire
Oh Sir, please forgive this small mistake
and with these words he takes his leave into the night, for he is needed elsewhere...
 blows a kiss into the electric winds
alas; the vacant space
left by his demise

VIII.

All the ghosts of past relationships lining up along the walls; all shouting "No. That's not the way it happened. That is not what I took part in!". My memories are the victims of a hostile takeover. I am no longer deemed responsible enough to be the caretaker, so a government official is instated to oversee the management. 

My past has asked for divorce.

And as the nice angel said as I passed the gates: "Think of it as freedom". 

VII.

What is desire? A movement, a moment. Desire is an absence, and a finding of pleasure in that very absence. The shadowy image that we perceive at the end of our reach is more than enough. Desire is a stretching out towards nothingness...a groping in the dark, not to find, but to loose ourselves in a moment of complete suspense. Thus desire is never directed toward someone or something – that only comes as our reflective alibi. Desire is a jumping off the edge of reason; desire is the Ego’s suicide. It is that perfect, beautiful moment where there is only the unrestrained search for what one has not lost, what one never needed. So we desperately look for the plot, not daring to face our delusion; for what would then happen to our narrative, so carefully constructed? Desire is not the wish to escape from one state to the other – it is the wish not to be in a state at all.

So what is desire? Desire is destruction. Or rather, in the collision of desire and desired, the latter is completely annulled, drained of any significance. So faced with this horror, we either claw our way back, only to find that desire has already also laid waste to our past...or we plunge blindly into new moments of becoming, forever bound to the hunt.

Desire gives us to ourselves as we really are, which we cannot face. It drags us, sometimes kicking and screaming, sometimes more than willing, from this hollow frame we stubbornly refer to as ”I”. Desire is an intentional without an intended, a denial of possession (though we always make it seem the opposite). Our ghost in the machine...always there as the possibility of the reversal of everything we held important. I don’t desire some-thing; I desire no-thing. I want to be filled to the brink with the ecstasy found only here: In the darkness between the signs. I want to drown in the disharmony of desire, so as to drown out the harmonic structure of my many personas.

As in music, the important is not the notes; these may be transposed with impunity. What matters is the space in between them...the single note will never move us. 

VI.

Tension stretched to its fullest...a breakingpoint hovering, shimmering slightly between non-night and no-longer day.
A flickering shadow of something long since lost. The light has no kindness.
Hands are for letting go.

V.

Sekundernes sagte fremmarch river langsomt syningen op; gulvet omkring dig fyldt med indpakningspapir fra gaver du ikke ønskede dig. Det ukendte bliver kendt og straks derefter føler du dig igen fortabt...en emotionel flygtning i dit eget sinds krinkelkroge, der går omkring på listefødder for ikke at vække fantasmerne.
Det har været en lang rejse for at nå dertil hvor du altid har været: Et tomt palads, hvor du febrilsk prøver at holde murene oprejst; en labyrint som du stadig tror har en udgang. Genfærdet af din egen overflødighed, der følger dig gennem hundreder af hovedstæder, der lægger armen venskabeligt om din skulder når du stopper for at få vejret.
En hånd taget i hengivenhed, der trækker dig ned i kærlighedens patologi. Blot et øjebliks svaghed, og du står ansigt til ansigt med et spejlbillede du ikke længere genkender...et lånt navn på passagerlisten. Hvad forsvinder ved selvmordet andet end disse aflejringer, disse spæde glimtvise forsøg på dominans?

IV.

Lufthavnens overgangstilstand. In transit. Her er vi mere os selv end noget andet sted, her får vi givet vores identitet trykt på et boardingpass. Ingen tvivl, ingen frygt: Du kan dokumentere dit selv ved blot at åbne dit pas, og hvis den ande tror på denne åbenhjertighed...jamen så er du ægte. Så er du legitimeret som den du er og behøver ikke mere.
At lufthavnens komplette ingenmandsland af rettigheder er en langt større frihedsberøvelse end noget fængsel er en anden sag. De gigantiske monitorers deadlines er en blitzkrieg.

III.

Brudfladens diskontinuitet; forskydningen af de tektoniske pladers tilsyneladende overlegenhed. Kun dette skyggebillede er givet os, resten må vi gætte os til. Altid denne tæmning af impulsen...som om disse korthuse af sandhed kan holde til mere end et enkelt emotionelt vindpust. Altid spindes du ind i denne fortløbende tragedie, uhjælpeligt fanget i den andens narrativ.
Du vinker til en du tror du kender, men hilses tilbage med en enkeltfingersgestus; dette skrøbelige lysglimt, hvor det faste meningsfundament skovles væk i en enkelt bevægelse, en sprængladning under strukturen. Den tomme plads mellem ordene, der siger så meget mere i sin tavshed...vi ønsker transcendens, men møder kun angst i tomrummet bag vores overleverede selv.
Sminken, det artificielle; overdrivelsens bevidste løgn er vores eneste tilbageblevne sandhed. Kun det uægte, der er ærligt for sig selv, rummer nogen værdi. Det primitive tabu, det urørlige, materiens Sorte Hul, der afspejlede vores kollektive tomhed, er gået tabt i en oplysning, der ønsker at underlægge sig alt. Alting gennemboret, udhulet...befængt med betydning som en virus - hvorhen skal vi nu vende efter én der kan tage vores tomhed fra os? Hvad skal vi gøre med al den tiloversblevne energi som religionens død har frigivet? Det rationelle har altid været stendødt i dén henseende - ingen hjælp at hente her. Måske frigørelsen af det enkelte individ i sidste ende blot var et større fængsel. Hvem ved?

II.

Horrorgenren: Hvad er den hvis ikke et udtryk for vores fanatiske ønske efter at se hvad der gemmer sig under huden? Vi vil langt hellere konfronteres med blod og indvolde (altid denne fysiske dimension) end med skinnets, hudens overfladiske afgrund. Horrorgenrens åndelige pendant, Gyseren, fejler ligeledes fatalt: Skønt dens raison d’etre er et univers uden mulige restriktioner, er dens struktur håbløst fanget i en (freudiansk) finalitet – altid findes der en årsag til handlingen, skønt vi alle ønsker at lade handlingen forblive "syg" og "meningsløs" fordi vi ikke kan undvære vores meningsløshed. Man behøver blot at se på dagens overskrifter for at være sikker på dette faktum. 

I.

Google Translate er den eneste sande poet tilbage. Thi den tager teksten for pålydende og splitter den i en uendelighed af brudflader, der krydser hinanden uden nogensinde at kunne genkalde sig nogen ”oprindelig” mening. Google Translate er vor tids Homeriske vers; vor tids omrejsende troubadour, der i sit arsenal har uendelige variabler af sine indlærte byggeklodser. En ny betydning genereres for hver oversættelse og unddrager sig derigennem det kritiske blik, der ønsker at gennemtrænge og forstene teksten som en moderne Medusa. Forsteningen og indkapslingen af skønheden er det modernes synd. 

Er kropsdyrkelsen den endelige løsning? Er den, på trods af alle indsigelser herimod, erkendelsen af at essensen er det der er overfladisk, og at overfladen netop er denne intethed, som qua sin intethed rummer alle muligheder i sig? ”I am deeply superficial.” – Andy Warhol havde ret i denne tilsyneladende uskyldige sætning, hvor gådens løsning ligger svævende mellem de to ophævede poler. Måske er den samlede fascination af det evigt unge, det evigt smukke blot romantikerens passionerede ”Nej” til kontinuitet og forgængelighed?