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The Blood In My Veins

Posted 24 January 2003, 9.34 pm by shaggy

Like twisted wires they wrap around me. They are my weakness, and they are my strength. They take the blood inside me, and takes it to passageways unseen, to the depths inside of me, to my soul.

I would give anything to see what my soul is comprised of. I would like to see what it breathes, what it strives upon. I would like to console it, to tell it that the world is not as wicked as it seems, that all is just a temporary condition that will go away with patience.

I watched the movie feardotcom. In it, a woman repeats "Do you want to hurt me" so many times that yes, you do indeed want to hurt her so that she will not repeat that wretched phrase. How interminably useless such a question is: of course there is someone who wishes to hurt you. Not only would it make a pathetic movie if no one actually wanted to hurt you, dear, but it also would be an ultimate lie to say that the world is free from such harm.

If I walked out of my door, exposed myself, and shouted "Do you want to hurt me," I have no doubt that I would not survive the night.

What are my veins? What is flesh but inconsolidated and impure, something wretched. There is an instinct that relies on existence, an instinct that allows me to move on. I would not say that it is a sixth sense, or anything so trivial. Rather, it is a sense of something insensate, something on the edge of temporal and pyschological existence, something pure, not tainted by the human sickness. Flesh means nothing: it is the mind that creates, it is the mind that hates and loves, it is the mind that feels passion and sickness. Without the mind, we are nothing but globs of blood, guts, and water, and the concept of being nothing more than my parts is a thought to sinister to allow myself to feel.

What are aesthetics, then? What is the importance of fooling one's self that knowledge can be attained? Physics holds short, mathematics as well, and philosophy is only a catalyst to the ultimate end. What then is the purity that I seek?

I thought it was love, but now that I have it as pure as I can find, as pure and blind as anything I can ever hope to feel, is my path, then, ended? Have I found what I was looking for all my life, or is there something more, something benign and malevolent, both passion and pain, that lies on the edges of my sanity?

I feel lacking, somehow, and I am wondering if I can ever find the source of power that Lacan calls The Phallus (and no, Freudians, that is not limited to the penis). If love cannot make me complete, what then?

Passion and pain, really, are inseparable. They both can be summed up in "play," for to play the game of existence is to feel intolerable pain and torture.

Perhaps that is why my blood whore exists, ravishing as the red crimson flows upon her breasts. We will come, as they say, drunk on her immorality, and burn forever in judgment. It is written, though by a mortal man "envisioning" what God's message might be.

I think God's message is at once singular and simple: Love. After all is said and done, what other purpose is there but to be company to each other, to take part in each other as a whole, and to further perpetuate not only love, but existence and tolerance?

That is all well and good, but what about that ten-inch blade sticking into my chest? Am I not able to say "F### you" or to feel anger?

No, but that is something that needs to be further worked out. Vengeance is such a complicated issue, for it is in human nature, as biological entities that are taking over the world like a virus, to want and need a strict system of order, and how can a system work without punishment for deviation?

I would say, for me, the thing that stops me from sinning the most: silence. I am shy, thus I do not speak out in public often. I do not say things like "you bumped into me, thus I must punch in your face," like Bin Laden, Sadam Hussein, and Bush are playing right now. Not that I encourage submissiveness, but I think one should only be active when it is one's nature, or there is something to be active against. I am passive by nature, and have nothing to fight against except this empty pit inside me, one I cannot expect to bring out into the physical world. I fear doing such, bringing my soul and unconcious into the outside world would be to create such a frightening, nightmarish world that no one would survive. So I remain quiet.

Then again, some might say that I live a sad, sheltered existence.

I think it is inevitable for me to be a fool. Why not a quiet one? It suits me for the time being. Maybe at another time, I will need and thirst for loudness, for destruction.

For now, I'll rely on the cathartic effects of heavy metal: the world in which a constant war is made after nothing at all, really.

Ahhhh. The greatest combination anyone can have on a mp3 list: Bach, Mozart, Mudvayne (though we'll leave out the fact that they are poets before musicians), Marilyn Manson, Finger 11, and Chopin... et alia.

on 26 January 2003, 2.09 pm
I am a completely uninterested party who signed in under this name to prove a point: that this is also a pant-creaming article, and as I am a lesbian, I would love to call the author and have him watch as I make sweet sweet love to many many women with large breasts.

But alas, he has a girlfriend, so I must search out for another man to watch these wicked lesbian orgies of mine. Oh well, his loss.

Though the article still is pant-creaming quality, of course. Pant-creaming all the way!

on 27 January 2003, 11.19 pm
/me creams his pants

on 2 February 2003, 10.23 am
Just testing...

on 4 August 2004, 7.19 am

on 4 August 2004, 7.21 am

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Doggybag/baggy_dog is an artist living and working in Barga, Italy. Click here to read about this piece in his own words.

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Props to Green Mamba for bringing the weirdness


80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

lol we all know you don't have a soul ghoti

my soul for some carbs...

But of course!


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