The Art Of The Heel

“Something in all men profoundly rejoices at seeing a car burn.” –Baudrillard

Trump is a car fire

He’s the death drive Freud warned us about. Our innate desire to self-destruct for the pure spectacle of it. Sometimes he’s the car, a vehicle for change in reverse. Sometimes he’s the fire itself, a burning in the body politic.

Trump is Moloch

Moloch is the Biblical name of a Canaanite god that demands a costly sacrifice. Ginsberg writes in his masterpiece “Howl”:

“Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!”

In voting for Trump we sacrifice our children, the future, the promise of American ideals—in the name of security and (white) power.

Trump is part of the accursed share

From Wikipedia:

“According to Bataille’s theory of consumption, the accursed share is that excessive and non-recuperable part of any economy which must either be spent luxuriously and knowingly without gain in the arts, in non-procreative sexuality, in spectacles and sumptuous monuments, or it is obliviously destined to an outrageous and catastrophic outpouring, in the contemporary age most often in war, or in former ages as destructive and ruinous acts of giving or sacrifice, but always in a manner that threatens the prevailing system.”

Trump’s platform stinks. It’s the waste of democracy. A spewing from the mouth we’re desperate to expel. His campaign represents “an outrageous and catastrophic outpouring” of hate we excrete in small amounts to keep the system flowing.

Trump is the sorcerer’s apprentice

Goethe’s poem “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” was published in 1797. As the story goes, an old sorcerer leaves his apprentice with chores. The apprentice, not fully licensed, bonded and insured, enchants a broom to do the work for him, but soon he can’t stop its frenetic sweeping. He splits the broom in two with an axe, but each piece then splits in two, on and on. The old magician returns and breaks the spell, reminding his pupil that powerful spirits should only be called by the master himself.

Mickey Mouse assumed the role of apprentice in the 1940 Disney film Fantasia. Trump is neither Mickey nor sorcerer, but the magic itself. He will make people disappear, preferably back to Mexico.

Trump can’t fire Mickey, now a celebrity apprentice, because Mickey’s hands are twice the size of his.

Trump is a human being

The most frightening proposition of all: Trump is just himself. He’s you and I. Out of many, one.

Donald Trump is the fate we’re surprised to meet halfway down the path of our escape route. The brutal truth of our collective demise we couldn’t imagine during the primaries, but after November 8 we will come to realize was waiting for us all along.

Refractory Period

one day i fantasize
all women will liberate me
one day i fantasize
all mothers will infantilize me

i can’t get off
without my fetish
i can’t get off
without a tease

i can’t get off
without permission
i can’t get off
without you looking away

we’re all confused in our teens
spreading our jeans
we’re all wet in our dreams
a puddle or stream

one day i fantasize
all women will fat shame me
one day i fantasize
all women will objectify me

we’re all coming apart
at the seams
recovering youth
lost in our teens

i can’t get off
without America Online
i can’t get off
without the NSA

i can’t get off
without thinking of you
i can’t get off
without falling in love

i can’t get off
without falling in love
i can’t get off
without falling in love

c b snoad

The Thirst For Life Itself

Not long ago I was asked in therapy to consider my purpose. I thought for a moment, careful to select my words.

My purpose, simply put, is threefold:

  • to love and be loved
  • to be present for others
  • to accept help

I realize after years in therapy that I can’t discuss my recovery without touching on spiritual matters. Even without uttering “God” or “faith,” I’m restless for meaning in a mechanically operated, perpetually instant world.

Perhaps I’m a secret believer. A reformed cynic. Maybe identifying as agnostic spoke to my struggle with indecision and self-ambivalence. Maybe this mask no longer fits.

Has my writing taken a religious turn? A desert wanderer, am I longing to be nourished by the thirst for life itself?

The Spirit Of Melancholy

I took away three main ideas from Alina N. Feld’s brilliant analysis of depression in Melancholy and the Otherness of God.

First, philosophers from Ancient Greece to modern times have seen the Melancholic as a visionary soul vital to humanity’s recognition of its own simultaneous vulnerability and power. The Melancholic thinks and feels at a higher frequency than “normal” people. This leads to greater distress and untold suffering for the afflicted, but this pain is survivable. Those who attend to the vibrations of what today we call depression become wiser human beings.

Second, living with depression requires courage. The Depressed must feel the fear and proceed anyway. At the heart of Being lies the specter of Nothingness; the Depressed encounters Nothingness but doesn’t back away from it. There is value in appreciating the vertigo of contemplation before the abyss.

Third, in order to reach heaven one must go through hell. Depression feels like hell on earth, but its torment is far from eternal. The life of the Depressed is a spiritual journey, a path to freedom in the face of terror. There is no Resurrection without Crucifixion.

Physical Fitness

What to do with my body?
I can walk with my body
I can eat with my body
Talk with my body
I can drive with my body
Pleasure myself with my body
Write a poem with my body
I can enter your house
& make myself at home with my body
Can I fuck you with my body?

What to make of my body?
Some parts might be smaller
Some parts might be bigger
I find my body in the mirror
It looks nothing like me
I can’t control my body
I go up & down with my body
There are serious issues with my body
My body is a medical condition
There’s a heaviness to my body
Maybe I should take it easy with my body

What to do about my body?
I have a sensitive body
You can tell just by looking at me
There are foods & people
My body won’t tolerate
I am nothing more than my body
I am nothing more than a body
There’s a heaviness to my body
There’s an easiness to things
I haven’t picked up yet
My body is a wonderland

I worry about my body
This headache
Cold feet
I wake up with neck pain from all the twisting
& shouting
& dreaming of tracing the curves of a body that is not mine
Am I doomed to repeat the mistakes of my body?
My body is going through the motions
There’s no deviating from the path of my body
I tug on my body but my body shrugs
My body is killing me
Fuck my body
I could do without my body
I can walk with my body
Eat with & talk with & drive with my body
Pleasure—write—bathe—flog my body
I can’t let go of my body
I can’t let go of my body
Would you be so kind
& fuck me in my body?

I’d like to accept my body
Count the holes in my body
I can’t deny my body any longer
I need my body more than you
In a dream I am satisfied with my body
& you’re satisfied & the gods
are satisfied & the world is satisfied &
the stars look satisfied & my life
is satisfying & you roll over in the bed
next to me & you think I’m playing dead
but I’m not anymore
& I overcome my body

c b snoad