We are increasingly fluent in images with no handhold, images freighted with all the orphanhood in the world—fragments.
July 6, 2014
An idea’s birth is legitimate only if one has the feeling that one is catching oneself plagiarizing oneself. —Karl Kraus
Thomas Hardy’s anecdote about looking up a word in the dictionary because he wasn’t certain it existed—and finding that he himself was the only authority cited for its usage. —David Markson, Vanishing Point
Tormented by spiritual thirst, In the wilderness, I eked out a bleak, And a six-winged seraph At the crossroads I was; finger light as a dream he touched my Lids: hath prophetic apple, like a startled eagle. My ears touched it, and filled their noise and ringing: And heed I shudder sky, and mountain flight of angels, and marine reptile submerged speed, and sub-vine vegetation. And he clung to my mouth, And tore my sinful tongue, My tongue idle and sly, And the sting-forked snake in my mouth he stilled Invested bloody right hand. And he cut my chest with the sword, and took heart quivering and a coal burning fire into the chest hole pushed. Like a corpse in the desert I lay, And the voice of God called to me: 'Arise, O Prophet, and see, and give ear, Be filled with the will of My, And, bypassing the sea and land, Verb-burn the hearts of men.’
I find it difficult to deal with praise because there is something irritating about pleasure. being told that I am special or good at doing things right, this tensions me. I’m imagining those little rubber hemispheres we played with as kids. the ones whose poles you pushed in and partways inverted, and then waited for the nipple-shape you’d made to flip back into a dome as it flew off the table. it’s fun to be fucked with like that, but like anything that springs you, the tautness dissipates and the irritation at being unable to live up to our transient pleasures takes its place.
and anyway, it’s a grave mistake to think that praise aimed at what you’ve done strikes anything close to the person who did it. the arrow always sails far over our heads, on its way to the work. and feeling better about yourself for being told you’ve done something ‘good’ is a little like running up to where the arrow fell, sticking it in your chest and shouting ‘You got me!’
Anonymous said: why am I always the target of bullying
I’ll tell you a story:
When I was in third grade I was in the last year of elementary school. The school was four hallways arranged around a courtyard where three tame sheep and an old nanny goat ate grass. On the first day of May every kid in the school would dance around a maypole, over and around one another until the bands of colored fabric we held above our heads were braided down the whole length of the blonde pole. The teachers would applaud us and bring large, white dairy cans over to the school’s five butterchurns. The strongest man at the school, a math teacher, would heft the cans of cream into the air and pour them into the stoneware buckets of the churns. Kids would take turns jumping on the wooden treadles that, by an oscillating arm, worked the pistons up and down inside the churns. Our enthusiasm was boundless and we soon had fresh butter to put on our lunches of saltines with grape juice. Then the school’s nurse would use an enormous black electric razor to shear the sheep of the wool we would card and dye later that afternoon.
Soon after this I began taking entrance exams for prep schools. These were private boys schools that ran from grades four through twelve. A prep school is, in an obvious sense, meant to prepare students to go to college, but the implicit purpose is to place them on a trajectory that ends in positions of control and authority within white society.
I took four exams for four schools. I worked diligently on the first, but when I took the second, third, and fourth I discovered that each was composed of a set of questions identical to the first. I wrote ‘I took this test last week, call them for my score’ on the top of the Scantron cards. I was accepted by only one of the four schools, and I went there in the fall.
This school was on close to eighty acres of land. Grades were called ‘Forms’ and each was designated a roman numeral. My favorite class was art, where our teacher would play Tangerine Dream as we tried to draw our own faces by looking in special mirrors that turned our heads upside-down. The teacher had a closely cropped ginger beard and could draw perfect freehand circles of any size on the chalkboard. After flipping one of his Tangerine Dream LP’s over, he would frequently retreat to one of the classroom’s bay windows and smoke a cigarette with his body leaning halfway out of it.
There was a library for the younger grades, but I quickly found the upper school’s library. It was a double-height room with wood panels and marble busts of famous authors on top of each riser of books. The decimal system was used on the spines of the library’s books, but if you asked the librarian where something was, he would say something like ‘Voltaire Seven’ which meant that you should look on the seventh shelf down from Voltaire’s bust.
I was not allowed actually to check out books from the upper school’s library, but I found that if you dropped the book you wanted to read out of one of the windows and into the bushes below, you could circumvent the anti-theft panels at its only entrance. After I was finished with a book I simply put it through the night-return slot when nobody was looking.
One of the books I read in fifth grade was ‘To The Finland Station’ by Edmund Wilson. The book is a history of socialist revolutionaries and it was the most exciting history book I had ever read. Wilson’s writing was like discovering that the water you had been drinking all your life was a diluted version of a purer, more concentrated, and exponentially more refreshing liquid. And Wilson was giving you this essence for free, by the gallon, page after page. In his voice, everything about Socialism seemed both fascinating and inevitable. The next book I dropped out of the library’s window was a paperback copy of ‘The Communist Manifesto’ and ‘18th Brumaire of Louis Napoleon’ bound as one.
I had been teased about being fatter than most of the other students at the prep school and it did not especially bother me. I was frequently told by teachers that I should play football for reasons that they indicated should be obvious. I preferred to play tennis during the heart of the afternoon carved out for sports. The athletics director was a man named Ernest Winkle who wore a silver whistle and burgundy sweatsuit to every occasion. He was frustrated by my decision to play tennis but eventually lost any ardor he had for my usefulness after he took seriously a group of kids when they said I was a fag. I was happy to be in distant communication with another person across the school’s clay courts.
A student named Crispin sat next to me in history class. He saw me reading the library’s copy of ‘The Communist Manifesto’ one day, before the class started and began teasing me about it. I tried to explain about Wilson’s mastery of the English language, but the joke was in the air and Crispin was soon bouncing lines off four or five other kids. One of them said the phrase ‘Red whale’ just before the teacher stood up at his desk to start the class.
The next day, when I walked into the history classroom, Crispin stood up, clicked his heels together, shot his right arm out in the familiar Nazi salute and said in a loud voice ‘All hail the Red whale!’ Everybody laughed and I was extremely embarrassed. My first impulse was to explain how stupid it was to use the Nazi salute in this situation but I quickly realized that this wouldn’t help. For the next two or three months, everywhere I went at the school there was somebody from my form or from the older forms who would shoot out his right arm and yell ‘All hail the Red whale!’ Eventually I started carrying a portable CD player in the outside coat pocket of my blazer so that I could listen to something other than that taunt while I was walking between classes.
I thought that, like any other joke, this one would become old and lose its edge. I found, however, that once the joke had spread to thirty or forty other kids it stopped being a joke and became something more like a ritual. People stopped in their tracks when they saw me, became solemn, threw out their arm, and with no attempt to be funny shouted the line. They lowered their arm and waited for me to acknowledge that they had greeted me, and once I had, they walked on. It very quickly felt like being snipped out of the school’s social fabric and being repatterned into the school’s professional outsider.
This was the first time that I felt the depression waiting for you in the basement when the upper floors of your self start to collapse. I wasn’t stung by their dislike of me, but by the fact that their dislike was becoming less and less foreign to how I thought of myself. Their dislike did not require me to agree with it for it to become one of my own, domestic feelings.
The shame at being a person who was given a Nazi salute everywhere he went made it very difficult to ask an adult to help me. The later stages of this bullying would be funny if they hadn’t actually happened.
The Jewish students in my form who greeted me with the Nazi salute started calling me an anti-Semite because they had heard that Stalin was planning a purge of every Jew in the Soviet Union at the time of his fatal stroke. This news filtered back to the parents of most of my friends, who then began to discourage their sons from hanging out with me.
In the end, I became desperate and asked the headmaster of the youngest three forms (or lower school) for help. I went into his office one afternoon and—as I looked over his shoulder at a Looney Toons poster commemorating the death of Mel Blanc, in which every cartoon character he had voiced stood speechless before a solitary microphone—I told him my story. He nodded along and asked me questions about when it had started and by whom. I felt a growing sense of confidence that this man and his non-threatening mustache would intercede on my behalf. I was wrong.
When I finished my story he said explicitly that he was going to do nothing. Though he didn’t say it was my fault for reading ‘The Communist Manifesto’ in public, he did say that it was my problem and that if I wanted to fix it he would suggest a way. He told me that I ought to stand up at the end of the next school assembly and deny that I was a Communist. He said that the only way I could extricate myself from the mess I was in was publicly to deny that I held any sympathy for Socialism.
And so, at the end of the next assembly, I stood up in front of a hundred and fifty kids and recanted. I said that I was not a Communist and that I had no connection of any kind with Stalinism. I said that I was sorry I had given people the impression that I was or had. The last thing I said was to ask that nobody applaud my recantation. One or two people clapped ironically, anyway.
I came to think of this experience as the narrow edge on a wedge. One of several, that together separated me from all the other lumber being floated downstream. Lumber moving towards a sawmill that none of those who bullied me have escaped.
Anonymous said: There's an article on website The Awl right now called "The Dead Cannot Consent" which is a response to the Wallace estate's complaints about the making of this new DFW film. I was wondering what your thoughts are on the state of Wallace fans in general, given that their response to this movie is to actually decry the people who actually knew Wallace for speaking out against it?
Many people don’t know that JG Ballard trained as a physician.
There’s an early short story called The Drowned Giant. It was written shortly after his wife died while on vacation with her family, of a pneumonia that Spanish doctors were unable to cure. In this story, a 300 foot tall man washes up on the beach of an English resort town. 1964 was a fulcrum year. Ballard was disgusted by the medical profession and by himself. While his wife was still living, Ballard was bolted into a happiness that made his writing shallow. Her death thrust his three children on him in a way that made his compartment of self-satisfaction much too crowded any longer to soothe. After his wife’s death Ballard was thrown back on himself, where he nearly foundered.
The town’s inhabitants are at first awed by the presence of a man the size of a cathedral, lying drowned on a tidal flat. But the giant quite naturally becomes an object of tourism, and even of affection. Children dare one another to climb over his face, leap across the black well of his parted lips and curl up in the orbits of his cloudy eyes. Then, as the man begins to putrefy, his flesh is stripped from his bones and sold to factories where it will be rendered into cat food and fertilizer. His penis is dug out by the root on the orders of a theatrical promoter. The promoter has it skinned, dried, and loaded onto a truck where it follows a traveling circus, misadvertised as the member of a whale.
Whether you like it or not, whether you’re a fan or not, whether you’re tending some memorial flame or embroidering the edge of some disintegrating memory, whether you’re canning his posterity or wrapping death in chintz by referring to his suicide with despicable platitudes, if your connection to David Foster Wallace is personal in any way you will find yourself in the crowd that gathered on the beach in Ballard’s story. You are by turns deluded, callous, ghoulish, given to flabby eulogy, aroused by profit, paralyzed by glory, or worst of all, inebriated by intimacy.
The giant is dead, and though we will continue to gather around it to suck meaning from the corpse (we are helpless to do anything else), we will find that the flesh—flesh of the body or flesh of the spirit—can be sliced only so thin before its sections surrender to transparency and finally, nothingness.
And in the end, when only the ribs at low tide remain, when every exploitation has been undertaken and every last bubble of fruitless intimacy blown and burst, there will be what there always was—what there has always been in the face of death—the story.
Anonymous said: Admitted to a good liberal arts college and the free honors program at my city's public university. I'd prefer the LAC's academics/culture, but I barely grasp the meaning of 230k. Consciously, all I'd like in this life is to open the floodgates of my sternum and let that primordial silvery stuff inside out to mix with the equivalent fluids that sit in others' guts, dormant until piqued by the prospect of combination. But considering the more frugal choice stings my pride sharply. How do I deal?
Because liberal arts education is yet another thing that’s free to those who can afford it but very expensive for those who can’t, the real question isn’t about school but about yourself. The question is:
Do you care about the whirl of experience more than you care about the comfort and leisure that would make that sort of life a pleasure?
Because if you do liberal arts right, you’ll become a roulette ball that never settles. For the rest of your life no identity will seduce, no doctrine will persuade, and no accomplishment will reward. You will not win because the momentum of intellectual greed bends everything into a circuit.
If Faust and Paradise Lost don’t read as cautionary tales to you; if you’re okay with seeming like a loser to everyone around you and—inwardly—even to your deepest self, then do it.
You’ll be in debt either way: better to yourself than Sallie Mae Cocksucker.
kenbaumann said: How best to avoid describing myself in terms of the culture—in my case: books, movies, games, art—that I like? (Without doing Wittgenstein's mutter-about-my-increasing-stupidity thing?)
I think that it’s good to remember the distinction between the things that lend color to your life and the pale, translucent thing to which their color is lent.
So for example, you have the Egyptian tomb that Howard Carter excavated in 1922. I get uncomfortable and excited when I think about it. I find myself imagining the plates of carbonized fruit, the mummified cats, the fillets of fish laid out to feed them—fillets that were found to have raised themselves into arches as they dried, and then suddenly to crumble into dust when they were touched.
The immense period for which the tomb’s contents stayed perfectly still gives you the sense that time has been building up inside of it. And that the silence you hear once the doors are hauled open is not a silence at all, but instead a deafening testimony that time is bearing to a secret kept for three thousand years.
The testimonies of culture deafen us in a similar way. They are loud because life is hard. They are intense because disappointment can bleach. And to the kind of person who needs to make representations of their connection to culture, these accidents can easily be confused with an essential lack of vividness.
But then I think of a moment in the tomb after the excavation was complete, after the gold, the corpses and the treasure all had been removed. In this moment a junior archeologist is alone, copying hieroglyphs from the walls. And the only thing he can hear is the sound of wooden beams that creak and pop in the new air.
Anonymous said: if you could, would you live forever?
Karl Marx wrote most of Capital at a side table not much larger than an open issue of TheNew York Times, feeling as he did for most of his creative life, a pain in his side that reminded him constantly of his father’s early death from liver cancer.
the phenomenon of suicide would appear to argue that even mortal life as we now experience it is too long for some people.
On April 14th, 1919 the sister of Marcel Duchamp, Suzanne, married one of his closest friends, the painter Jean Crotti. Marcel’s wedding present to the couple arrived by mail three weeks later. It was a letter that contained a set of instructions for a work of art his sister and brother in law were to make. His letter said to take a geometry textbook, to open it, and then to bind it with wire to the metal railing of their apartment’s balcony. It was to be left out in the weather until it learned the facts of life.
That’s you and all of us. We have ideas about beauty, axioms that describe how faces ought to look and even rules for the right texture of skin. But right now, as you’re reading this, rays from space are entering your body and destroying the elasticity of the collagen in your skin. With every smile, with every expression of disapproval, you are stretching proteins that, thanks to this cosmic barrage, will no longer return your skin to its original and attractive tension. Wrinkles come from emotion and the particles shed by dying stars.
Beauty is a game that does not permit those who can compete to retire as champions. What do you do when you’re faced with a game that no one can win but which everyone feels compelled to play? What’s the point of squeezing yourself for the rest of your life in order to contribute your several drops to the ocean of human knowledge? Or culture? Duchamp was in Buenos Aires when his sister was married and he wrote a letter about how any game a person felt compelled to play was also a game whose rules anyone could change.
Anonymous said: What the fuck is the meaning of anything? Why am I compelled to wake up and go through the daily process when I know (or at least assume) that nothing I do will matter in say a thousand years? Is my inability to seriously contemplate suicide a product of my biology or is there some greater spiritual reason? Is it silly that I feel like there should be something above and beyond the nature of my meat, which is a spectacular work of natural engineering? Finally, how many of these do you get a day?
This makes me think about what happens in a woman at the midpoint of her menstrual cycle.
A woman’s ovaries are, in life, almost completely white. They sit deep in a woman’s hips, at the bottom of her abdominal cavity. If they weren’t tethered to the uterus by a pair of strong ligaments, they would be free to move around the abdomen, rather like the testicles of a male fetus before they descend into the scrotum.
The uterus is usually folded in a deep bow over the vagina. The two fallopian tubes extend from the top of the uterus, like a person bent double but with their arms thrown back at the shoulders. At their other ends, the fallopian tubes are open to the abdominal cavity. The openings are delicately fringed with thin fingers of tissue.
By the midpoint of a menstrual cycle, one egg is about to erupt from its ovary. The egg sits in the middle of a ball of jelly about the size of a hazelnut. This is the follicle. The follicle is so large and so well-supplied with blood that it forms a black blister on the surface of the ovary. The follicle begins to digest the ovary’s surface, in order to weaken the walls of the blister. Just before the follicle bursts, it secrets a hormone that causes the end of a fallopian tube to stir. The fringes begin to push their way through the abdominal cavity and towards the ovary. Once they’ve found it, the fringes start to walk across the ovary. They know the hormone that the follicle secretes and to discover its source, the fringes taste the ovary as they move across its surface. The fringes billow out once they touch the blister and then descend on it like a curtain. The follicle forces itself out of the weakest spot on the blister’s surface. The egg in its ball of jelly flows from this hole, into the abdominal cavity and up towards the tent of red fringe the fallopian tube has erected over it.
The egg is separated from its jelly by the fringe’s delicate fingers and passed from fringe to fringe, upwards into the mouth of the fallopian tube. Grooves in the wall of the tube slowly undulate to conduct the egg deeper and deeper, until a swallowing motion along the length of the tube catches the egg and conveys it to the uterus.
In one sense this is where all of us are from, but in another sense this account is even more foreign than the most extreme alienations that geography can produce.
When I say “I’m from Boston” or “I’m from Lagos,” I mean to extend myself to other people. When I say where I’m from, I’m trying to help someone understand me. But this is not the same kind of understanding you could boast of having once you’d read how an egg gets from an ovary to the uterus. When we begin to understand another person, after they start talking about themselves, we understand them. If you read a detailed account of an egg’s ovulation, you understand what happens toit. This is the difference between talking to a person over dinner and conducting an investigation that determines if they are guilty of a crime.
As thoroughly as we study the fringes of the fallopian tube, when they taste the ovary’s surface or delicately raise the liberated egg into the swallowing throat, we are only documenting their performance to higher and higher standards of precision. And even a record of unbounded precision will never allow us to understand the egg as it is understood by the delicate fringes that search for it. When a person talks about himself, when he explains his accent, or his unexpected turns of phrase, or the blackness of his skin by saying “I’m from Lagos,” when I bow over my dinner plate to catch every word he says, he is offering and I am accepting an understanding of greater and greater depth.
This is because the kind of understanding we would like to have, for other people and for ourselves, is a mutual activity. Something is offered and something is sought. An egg extends itself and the roving fringe tastes in search of it. A black man talks about himself and I lean forward so as not to miss a word he says.
Anonymous said: i don't know who else to go to about this. i'm just incredibly conflicted about the whole damn woody allen thing. i don't know what to think. i don't know what to believe. i've read countless articles. i'm terrified someone will ask me about it. i know it's stupid and i shouldn't care. i know there are lots of way more important problems. i don't know. i just want it all to go away. i don't even really know what i'm asking you for here.
(just between you and me, if mia farrow had in fact coached her daughter to accuse woody allen of raping her, if mia farrow had gone completely insane and was manipulating her daughter to ruin the life of her ex-partner, I’m not sure I would blame her.
yes, woody allen is not soon-yi previn’s father in any conventional sense, but soon-yi previn is unequivocally mia farrow’s daughter. and if the guy I’d left my husband for and started a new family with began to take nude photos of my 16 year-old daughter, if I found those photos cold, with no warning, if that guy then started fucking my daughter and if that guy then said he wanted to leave me for my daughter, I’m not sure I would be any more normal than mia farrow.
if mia farrow has been irradiated by Phèdre-level family strain, it would not be difficult to identify with her distress.
but this is not a parsable situation. it’s the j.g. ballard wonder years. the fact that you’re having trouble with it means that you are a normal person who is being slowly gaslighted by our psychotic media, as it insists that this situation is simple when it is not.
if you think you understand this family, you are either fooling yourself or admitting that relationships of blood and love can be a great deal more complicated than is generally assumed or permitted.)
acontinuation said: Are your thoughts about Woody Allen any different now in the aftermath of Dylan Farrow's piece in the NYT?
If you mean different from the last post about this, I don’t think I expressed any thoughts about him as a person. There I said that celebrity was so poisonous and so malignant that it could bend the focus of a rape accusation away from the victim’s injury and towards an audience’s own feelings of betrayal and indignation. Which is a terrible insult to any victim of sexual assault, both personally and in the larger, more insidious way it dilutes our understanding of people who have been raped.
In Connecticut (where the crime was meant to have taken place) a criminal case can be brought for sexual assault of a minor at any time. A civil case, to recover damages stemming from the sexual assault of a minor, can be brought by Dylan Farrow until 2033, if I read Connecticut Statues, Vol. 13, Title 52, Chap. 926, Sec. 52-577d. right.
Anonymous said: what do you think about the whole woody allen possibly abusing kids/gulf between his work and the person he is argument?
If there is a rape case against Woody Allen, he deserves little to none of our attention. The fact that he’ll still get it either way is a symptom of a very serious illness in all of us:
Think about what would happen if someone you knew, one of your friends, were accused by someone you don’t know of sexually assaulting a third person, whom you also didn’t know.
People ‘like’ Woody Allen because he’s an acclaimed film director.
A number of sick, sad delusions endemic to our society make people feel that Woody Allen is their friend because they ‘like’ him.
And yet we, Woody Allen’s ‘friends’, do not leap to defend him—as we certainly would one of our real friends—because we are embarrassed by the delusions his celebrity has fostered in us.
Rather, we feel betrayed. ‘How could Woody have done this to us? And after all those feelings we felt about the movies he made!’
‘In a sense,’ we think, ‘it’s almost as though we were the ones he abused.’
‘Yeah, that’s it!’
‘Woody Allen touched me! In a dark theater!’
‘Several dozen times!’
It’s revolting to watch people try and to cover this sequence up beneath high-volume outrage at someone else’s daughter having been raped. Children are raped every day, and except for a small but thankfully growing minority, nobody cares about it. That’s why they keep getting raped.
What do people really care about? Themselves—and how everything bad that happens must somehow also happen to them. People like that belong in an audience.
And there’s nothing—nothing—more typical of an audience than their heinous conviction that they deserve the milk, the butter, and the maid who churned it.
Anonymous said: I'm 21 years old, I've never had sex or any partners of any kind. this is something I actively want, but would feel strange to actively "pursue". opportunities have never presented themselves. should I be worried? can I alleviate this situation?
I think your instinct about sex as something that feels strange to pursue is right on. Not in a moral dimension, where you might think it’s wrong or douchey to hunt for sex, but in a deeper sense of strange.
It’s a strangeness that stems from the way we’re all educated about sex as we grow up. And the fact that sex bears little resemblance to what you’re taught.
The words we reach for to talk about sex before we understand it are words that make it seem discrete and isolated. In the same way you reach up for a product on a store shelf, sex seems like something that can be acquired. An object of desire.
If you don’t have it, thanks to your education in treating anything valuable as an object, you’re impoverished. And in societies that educate people to link possession with feeling okay, nothing fills your cup with shame like being poor.
But of course, it’s dead wrong to think of your relationship to sex as nothing more than the sliding spot on a line connecting ‘Wealthy’ to ‘Broke.’ Societies like ours do something much worse than merely to instill this connection—they conceal the words by which any other picture could be expressed. These other ways are hidden by seeming strange and different. And difference, real difference, is nearly as potent a source of shame as poverty.
We’re taught to think of sex as an object of desire and so the satisfaction of that desire as something you have to ‘get.’ But in reality, sex is nothing like an ipad.
Sex isn’t an ipad in exactly the same way that being alive isn’t a substance. There is no essence of life that fills your body but which is missing from the that of a corpse. Everyone used to think that there was, that there was something you could distill out of blood or fraction off of breath, and that the presence of this substance in medicines was what lent them their power to cure. Now of course, we know that life is not an essence you could isolate into a product, but instead that it’s a process.
Same with sex. Fucking is change.
Sex is the chance to remake yourself on the anvil of nature. To remake yourself in whatever shape pleases you. It’s our opportunity to unlearn the lessons we didn’t know we were receiving. Every orgasm is a hammerblow, and beneath the sparks you are malleable. The vulnerability of being naked with another person does not come from being close to harm but from being close to freedom.
(By the way, this fact—sex as a catalyst for change—shows the true perversity of sex tapes. Sex tapes aren’t perverse because recording yourself as you fuck is wrong, they’re perverse because they imprison the people in them, people in the act of purest personal freedom, in a capsule of desperation, strengthlessness, or shame. Or, if made deliberately, worst of all: imprisoned in a crystal of loneliness, as their thirst for attention is stuffed, mounted and preserved forever.)
When it comes to wanting sex, first make sure you know what you want to be. Because sex, just like the societal educations you didn’t know you were receiving, will make you a way. And it will engrave you all the deeper for finding you blank. Because the world we live in has some deep-delving and extremely thorough ideas about what it wants you to be, and none of them involve you making up your own mind.
In Australia, opal mining happens in a fairly primitive way. The opals are formed when silicate rocks are subjected to high-temperature water, as this water snakes its way through deep-underground faults. Because of this, the opals are found stretched over a wide area as nodes in a spidery network of rock faults. This means they have to be mined with a scattershot method.
A prospector usually hooks an enormous auger to the back of a truck and drives it out to the middle of nowhere. He anchors the truck with hydraulic spikes and drills the spiral bit of the auger into the Earth. He sifts the hill of dirt and broken rocks that the augur bores up out of the shaft. And he either finds opals or he doesn’t.
This type of mining has turned vast areas of opal-bearing land into swiss cheese. Land full of vertical graves ninety feet deep and just wide enough to make sure you go all the way down. The mining has made a landscape where it’s suicide to walk around at night.
Rock salt is mined in a very different way. Geologic salt is usually laid down when an ancient sea dries up. The salt flat it leaves behind is first buried, then folded into a corrugated sheet as it is compressed and distorted by the weight of rock above it. This tends to produce huge volumes of nearly pure salt. These masses can be equivalent to a cube of salt, a half-mile on each side, just buried in the Earth.
Formations like these tend to be mined in a way that turns them into architecture. That is, the salt tends to be so extensive and so deeply buried that the only way of excavating it is to make a kind of subterranean building whose only structural material is rock salt. Salt pillars, salt arches, salt hallways and salt galleries. The miners getting what they want from the formation—by necessity—creates something else: a vast and secret building, hidden underground and given definition by what has been drilled out of it.
So you can be out there drilling dry well after dry well, flagrant in your destruction of an entire landscape. All in search of a fourth rate gemstone.
Or you can be otherwise. And realize that beneath even the most featureless Kansan field, a secret city can be excavated. Vast, unified and private. Far too majestic ever to be confused with a grave.
the cells in your vagina that make it wet are long and thin. they align with one another so that all their tips are facing the same direction, like stacked bottles of wine. deep inside the cells, their nuclei unspool the region of your DNA that encodes the recipe for vaginal lubricant. the nucleus exposes this region of DNA as a long noose, which is found by a transcription enzyme. this enzyme makes a copy of your DNA and other enzymes shuttle it out of small holes in the nucleus. once outside of it, one end of the transcribed recipe is fed into the open jaw of a ribosome. the ribosome snaps shut and begins to read the recipe. the strand is pulled through the the mouth of the ribosome and a mechanism in the ribosome’s body reads the series of thee genetic bases that each correspond to a command like ‘GET THIS AMINO ACID’ or ‘GET THAT AMINO ACID’ or ‘STOP READING THIS RECIPE IT IS FINISHED.’
at the other end of the ribosome, a protein strand is assembled from amino acids in a long chain, the sequence of which was encoded in the recipe. the protein strand is attracted to itself in several strategic places, and as it is squirted out of the ribosome, it begins to fold into a shape unique to that sequence of amino acids.
at the same time, blood begins to engorge the walls of your vagina. so much blood flows into the vessels near the interior surface of your vagina that the vessels start to leak. serum, the watery component of your blood that is centrifuged off when you donate, starts to pour into your vagina.
back in the lubricating cells, the proteins that your DNA caused to be manufactured are piling up. the proteins have been designed to cover themselves in water molecules and expand into enormous, criss-crossing networks of protein mesh. this loose meshwork of protein and trapped water slides over and through itself very easily and dries out much less quickly than ordinary water. this is how it lubricates. the thin cells collect the proteins in large, spherical balloons called vesicles. the vesicles migrate towards the other end of the cells and, one by one, they burst through the cell wall and spray their lubricating protein into your vagina. the proteins unfurl and trap the serum that has leaked from your vagina’s engorged blood vessels, creating the well-known lubricant.
all this production is very hard on the thin cells, and after around four days their machinery starts to break down. they begin to produce incorrect sequences of protein, which in turn curl into the wrong shape for lubrication. the cell detects these errors and sets into motion a chain of events that eventually causes the DNA in its nucleus to unspool a noose containing the recipe for killing the cell it inhabits. the cell commits suicide and a new cell takes its place.
to make your pussy wet you are relying on the deaths of millions of cells who gave their lives to keep it that way. who lived and died so that when the walls of your pussy become engorged, the bloodless blood that leaks from them will become slippery and stick around.
the lesson to take from your cells killing themselves so that you can remain comfortably lubricated is to (like ezra pound) MAKE IT NEW. remember also that you’re shedding blood to stay wet.