A seething cauldron; is that what one would call this fucking sickening swamp that resides in the back of my brain? Is that where all these bad, bad impulses emerge; from the subconscious, unconscious or whatever the hell they're calling it nowadays? Is this where the messages come pumping forth, into my cerebral cortex demanding that I fuck, suck, kill, masticate, mutilate, and generally act like a rabid, raving chimp?
I feel at home in that realm; more so, I think, than most people do. I feel as if I have plopped my ass down right on the shore of this bubbling septic reservoir that is my sub-mind and I find myself quite happy there.
I've always heeded these whisperings from below, regardless of the well-intentioned advisory warnings emanating from the people around me. All my life I've heard their blatherings of "One must always maintain control of ones self, do not yield to your baser instincts, rise above your bad impulses, pay no attention to the fucking lunatic behind the curtain!"
Bullshit! I say- Sink! Descend! Wallow! Bathe in it! Daily! Follow the blood and the bile! On no account should one "rise". On the contrary, one must sink. And sink I have. I grabbed a good handful of the dark black soil and I dug in, for good, for the long haul. I gulped down heaping mouthfuls of rock, bone, and feces…I have made my home in the lower parts of the earth, and I reside there now, in my delirium. These depths are good. Equal part nightmare and ecstasy.
I'm a slave to my sensations. It's all about what I want, need or think that I need. The pleasure and the pain become confused, get turned around and sometimes the sight of bleeding flesh is better than orgasm….or beauty, or love. In these instances it feels as if my neurons are firing at odd intervals, that my skin is in flames and that my mind has cracked in half.
But, again, it's all about sensation and the fucking screaming need to return to that sensation. That's the nature of this psychic domain, it keeps on pulling me back to it again and again. The pleasure, the convulsive craving, the guilt, the love of transgression and my bad inclination to satisfy some kind of perverted avidity, with no end in sight. But really, who fucking cares? The world is an unfeeling, uncaring charnel house. Lives are just pieces of squirming material that are continually born, destroyed and then recycled over and over and over again. No Heaven, no Hell, no God-only the earth, it's soil, it's elements, and a constant churning, agitating, seething, and roiling on and on and on and on. Yet, I feel, there is a comfort in that realization. A strange solace. The old illusions can be tossed aside and a realm of brand new opportunities can be fully embraced. A yawning chasm opens inside of you that speaks to your private proclivities, tendencies, and appetites. At any rate, it opened for me.
This gulf does have guidelines, though. The activities one enters into, the sensations that one pursues have to touch a core drive-an already existing tendency. There is much potential, but only for what is latent and what is real. It is who you are and what you have become that "colors" this abyss; even if you've never been aware, beforehand, of these psychic shadings and perforations.
One must have a love of transgression, but sometimes that which must be transgressed is precisely who you had always thought you were. Sometimes what must be accepted is the horrifying realization of what you have become. Regardless, there is a kind of joy in this endeavor, because, at least to my mind, the static alternative is a living death. The stupid, fucking, apathetic compliance with the surface of things and the boring, regimented repetition of the everyday standards of behavior are anathema to me. From a very early age I refused to be put to sleep. I always listened to my core.
At some point I realized that there was no turning back. I couldn't pretend anymore, couldn't turn off those thoughts or resist those impulses. In fact, when I tried to hold them back, these impulsions only gained strength and momentum, thrust themselves forward-impelled from within and demanding an immediate release or at the very least some kind of acknowledgment….a little fantasy. But, when does the fantasy become reality, become action? When does the reverie actualize itself? When does the horrifying apparition become flesh? When I've had too much to drink and I've taken to the streets…late, late at night? When I'm drawn to an area of town that is dark, abandoned, and mostly devoid of people…excepting that sharp click-clacking of heels on the cement that I hear coming towards me? Do I shift myself into the shadow cast by a rusty street lamp and tightly grip the knife that is poised for action deep inside my black leather jacket? Spotting her now-and she's beautiful, small, and easy prey? Do I follow her for a few blocks and fantasize about what I could do to her? Or….?
It's like a drug. My neurons are pumping this chemical through me and I want more, more, more…. That rush, that surge, the urge, the drive…The obscenity and the delirium. It's all there inside me. Once tasted, this craving does not go away. These impulses are continually lurking, skulking, and prowling around. I put up defenses but they always find a crack in my wall and start to trickle through. They emerge in my dreams, they confront me in my musings; they hang like a gas around my head ...
© Vadge Moore / DISCRIMINATE MEDIA, 2008