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alwayseatsthecrusts · 8 years

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im a male feminist, i have a fleshlight just to eat it out

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alwayseatsthecrusts · 8 years

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source: The Ottawa Evening Herald, January 27, 1902.

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alwayseatsthecrusts · 8 years

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The Freudian concept of the drive remains controversial even today. The term is adopted from the physiological and biological context, and even from mechanics, just as labour-power, but it describes a phenomenon that, even traversing the biological body, reaches beyond its limits. In the naturalistic context, the drive stands for a bodily need, which can can be traced back to physiological mechanisms. Freud, accordingly, distinguishes between drives that point to a quasi-natural need (e.g., hunger and thirst)- this was probably the reason why Trieb was initially translated as ‘instinct’ - where repression is out of the question, and drives that deviate from this apparently natural satisfaction and are subjected to repression (in this category, Freud situated sexuality): “Let us take the case in which a drive stimulus such as hunger remains unsatisfied. It then becomes imperative and can be allayed by nothing but the action that satisfies it; it keeps us a constant tension of need. Nothing in the nature of a repression seems in this case to come remotely into question.” In this physiological sense, hence in relation to the preservation of organism, the drive is entirely reducible to need and cannot become the target of repression. It can be satisfied only by a corresponding action (eating, drinking and so on). The drive that demands the labour of repression is too symbolic to be biological or physiological. This, and nothing else, is the meaning of Freud’s claim that the drive 'appears to us as a concept on the frontier between the mental and the somatic’ or as 'the psychical representative of the stimuli originating from within the organism and reaching the mind’. This careful placement of the drive- neither physiological nor psychological - sufficiently indicates that Freud aims beyond classical mind-body dualism, without therefore slipping into a vitalist monism. The drive is the border that from within traverses and splits the body on the physiological and the libidinal, so that we are dealing with some sort of conflictual monism including negativity, precisely the negativity of representation, which brings the materiality of the signifier and the causality that depends on its autonomy into the picture. As an internal border, which makes the biological equivocal with the linguistic, the drive remains a bodily phenomenon and even appears indistinguishable from the need it translates or represents. Fusing a physiological stimulus with its representation, the drive becomes a material echo of linguistic autonomy, but it is also what the intervention of the signifier isolates in the tendencies of the organism towards self-preservation. Freud’s inquiries circulate around this epistemological deadlock: because the echo is too material, it cannot be declared an idealist entity or a scientific fiction, but because its satisfaction seems to cause unpleasure, which is not the case with physiological needs, something violates the mechanisms of satisfaction. This scandal in the end exposes the minimal gap between the drive and organic needs: the drive is the symbolic isolation of their demand, the imperative for satisfaction that they contain. Detached from its repetitive organic context, the demand for satisfaction assumes a life of its own, and this is where the unpleasurable aspect of satisfaction enters the picture.

Samo Tomsic (via zizekianrevolution)

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alwayseatsthecrusts · 8 years

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Mrs. Hilton

“But really… you know I find it hard even to believe that these things go on."

“There are drugs in my life, Mrs. Hilton, Ketamine being my worst affliction, as well as others. My life is their symptom. They are colour, taste, and touch. They have words and sounds. They are boundless and highly caffeinated, bullish and incensed. They pull me towards and away in equal measure, they seduce and they betray, and on my body they write my punishment. And then they stop. And as I have my morning coffee I am grateful for my family: my parents, to whom I owe a debt beyond life; Rebecca, in whom I lay my faith forever; and to my daughter, who I pray can one day experience the bliss she gave me. I say this in the mirror each morning, before I am taken again by the image of a woman, a news reporter, a redhead, dressed in black and scarlet. And I am afflicted again, by big things, small things, objects on the walls, with my own body, and with the images on the television screen. All of it… was to do with that woman. And it disappears when Rebecca returns.”

He released a sigh of great relief - as if a newly grown tooth, ajar and unnatural, had finally found its firm place in the boy’s skull - and dropped to the floor. He composed himself in a slouch with his back curved against the hand rail and his legs extended in the direction of Mrs. Hilton, her legs draped in flowing black, and, stretching languidly, began lighting the cigarette.

“They make… the things inside of you come out. Those things we don’t want to see, but know are there, somewhere in the dark, and which for some unknown reason, won’t give you any sleep until they are faced.”

He drew the cigarette to his mouth, and the evening sun shone through the transparent surface of the capsule. The river, the streets, the pavement, the hotels and malls, both grand and unseemly, all seemed turned in to an endless golden sea, a triptych of blue, white and amber. Hanging in this space, suspended amongst the clouds, Mrs. Hilton put a piece of spearmint gum in to her mouth, and it was like the light in which they were bathed was a blindfold to protect them from the approaching darkness.

"Here’s what I know. There are things which I do which are me. There are things which I do which aren’t me. And there’s things which I do which are drugs. And as time goes by, it becomes unclear, whether I am doing things because of me… or because of…”

He gazed up at the woman, who had come to meet him on the ground and approached him in a languid crawl. Her figure traced the horizon like the crescent of the moon. Gently, she rested against his right shoulder, their skin touching for the first time.

“There are things inside of me…”

She whispered

“that I don’t want to see…”

in the breathless silence

“I do things that, even when I'm doing them, I don’t know whether they are me…”

and tracing the contours of his right cheek with the bottom of her lip

“or if they’re…”

spoke softly in his ear

“him.”

The capsule had come to a stop, and they were present once more on the ground. Mrs. Hilton let out a long breath; at first a sigh of relief, it contained the last murmurs of a passion broken off too son. Her body tensed, she broke her eyes’ contact with his, and walked away.

A figure remained in the doorway.

After a moment of bewilderment, a sense of sobriety returned to him, like a ship returning to port. The ticket officer’s face emerged in to view. The bland annoyance on his face suggested he had been there a long time. He leaned his head through the doorway of the capsule. A streak of light rolled and flickered across his forehead like the ash of Apollo, before a surge of self composure lead him to signal to the man that his unusual behavior could no longer be countenanced.

Bemused, but unashamed, he found himself striding the ivory pavements of the South Bank. With an unexpected sense of direction, and holding, gripping tightly, a dark strip of glossy fabric that had once bound Mrs. Hilton’s hair in a messy ochre ball, he made for the river’s edge. He held it at arm’s length over the Thames, and , letting out a wispy sigh, released the strip. He watched it cascade and twist in the bitter evening wind, but turned away before its fall had ended.

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alwayseatsthecrusts · 8 years

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