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José Esteban Muñoz – 1967-2013

Bully Bloggers

José Esteban Muñoz, 1966-2013

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This week, we lost a fierce friend, a comrade, a wry and trenchant critic, a brave and bold queer voice and a true utopian in a world of pessimists. As we try to reckon with his absence and learn to live with the loss of such a magnificent thinker, such an enormous spirit, we can find all kinds of solace in the work that José left behind. “Queerness is not yet here,” he cautioned us at the beginning of Cruising Utopia, and he continued: “The here and now is a prison house. We must strive, in the face of the here and now’s totalizing rendering of reality, to think and feel a then and there.”

These words are strangely comforting now that José is truly no longer in the here and now but dwells instead in a then, a there, a new world that we…

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Coming out as ‘Crazy’: A Mental Illness Series, The Introduction.


Excellent Erotica

I analyse (mainly gay male) porn a great deal: for personal interests, Semiotics, the sexual economy, etc: And I think I have stumbled upon some of the best porn I have seen in years. Check it out:

http://www.redtube.com/521312

 


Video: Psychoanalysing Jehovah’s Witnesses, Moving Beyond the Cult Culture, Note 1


History’s Greatest Monster: Antiochus Epiphanes and the Devil


Infinite Nothingness

Being is coiled within nothingness like a worm. The application of thought to das Nichts simply makes it go away. The world seems sensible in appearance, the surfaces are smooth, things called objects wake up and move, but dare: look beneath and soon you’ll see through the radiator grooves [David Lynch’s Eraserhead] the depths of the senseless move. And das Nichts – no-thingness – retreats from this realm of ours, metaphysics, religion: even Sartre’s worm of nothingness coiled in being cannot catch this nothingness-on-the-move; it retreats through the floorboards, the desk and your shoes; some notice its left a place where it never was: confused: even god dieu and Victor Hugo knows not what nothingness is; for it, like the ground [Boden] is senseless and mute. Interestingly, Plato despised the flute, but had it played beside his death’s bed; nothingness is impossible, but we know this from Schopenhauer. The unmöglich Boden is that which complicates existence, the stance of existence.

THE IMPOSSIBLE GROUND 

Since the grounding of being is impossible, for I am never fully where I want ‘to be;’ I am transmogrified into bits. These fragmentations, breakdowns, splitting processes of Zertrümmerung, constitute my being. Fragile creatures. The fragility of the skin, the ability to tear it, to break it down, to kill it, to rip it off, to eat it and to shit it out all show, or open, itself to itself. From the parotid gland, move downwards to sinusoids and bile canaliculi, towards the pyloric canal or the canalis pyloricus; here is found the nexus of digestive fusions. What’s the point of digestive analysis? Demonstrating a general impossible ground, for I eat the found food, it is given to the body and moves through the apparatuses crudely described above and it then is excreta par excellence. A circle is formed. The digestion is a swirl within the infinite: it is an infinite process within a finite system. Swirls within infinity create finite formation that we call ‘reality.’ Because the system outside the loop is both finite and infinite spreads itself out: always on the move from the thing that wishes to attain it, but always available as a presence too. The concave and the convex meet here: at the impossible ground. The impossible ground is that which swirls within infinity creating the temporal-temporary finite.

INFINITE NOTHINGNESS, notes on the pyloric sphincter

In conclusion, the universe is a finite swirl within infinity. The temporal dynamics of the pyloric sphincter muscle which serves as a valve that prevents regurgitation of food from the intestine back into the stomach is that of the universe: systems, differing from each other but both existing in reality, the reality that is the finitude, an eddy within the infinite nothingness: here the universe turns in and contorts itself; biological, conscious, social, political and existential ‘givens’ or Hegelian movements of opposites, or the various Kantian a priori coil within this. Outside of temporality and corporeality is an infinite nothingness, something that is so beyond, so weiter, that it leaves us as soon as we attempt to grasp it.


Releasing the Need to Struggle


Ricochet.

She was no longer in denial. She had become denial. It had taken three years, but here she was, pretending to be positively alive. Waking to the clock, she realised it was another day at the King of Burgers. Through the dusty, broken and askew blinds that covered the window over her bed she looked up; the sky was grey, that Rogue Valley pallid, bumpy canvass of smoke and cloud that settles in for days, sometimes weeks, at a time from December to March; the whole season is marked by rain, then drizzle, then pasty infinite nothingness.

Fast food, always a job to fall back on. On this particular morning Joanne decided to make a cup of green tea in the kitchen. Kitchens are places of trouble. Things killed get cooked. People try to make themselves feel happy, but the incessant need to eat always makes people uneasy, even if this queasy guilt is pressed to the deepest recesses of the unconscious. Joanne mother’s Christine was making coffee in an old machine from the 1980s in their abysmal kitchen, a cross between the kitchens of That 70s Show and Dr. Finch’s house in Running With Scissors. Adorned with green tiles and a cheap plywood-like table with a worn plastic cover. The cover had a floral pattern. It was repugnant, but no one ever acknowledged how terrifying this piece of thin skin really was. Christine, a woman in her fifties, plump and unable to properly dress herself out of the 1990s, promptly started the squalling that raged wherever she went. At work she hid her miserable hatred for herself, which was actually a hatred for her youngest daughter. But these things usually remain unknown to the living.

Joanne attempted to be nice. Although she had dissented, argued and yelled at her mother in her late teens and early twenties, now at 27, she had become demure. Some sort of New Age karma clicked for her, and she desperately needed saving. Jesus was too anal-rententive and besides it was a small town and Joanne was a lesbian. In other words, no church would have her even if she wanted it. So, she turned to the works of Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, dabbled in the ideas of Theosophy and wondered about her own way of approaching the clouds. Reading the Upanishads one day she had glanced over at the plastic tablecloth and noticed a small hair. Her mother’s hair. Partially brown, partially grey. Almost like the turd of a sick cow; she’d seen a cow’s turd several years back when some of her friends smoked a joint in a cow field. She was frightened by her own hatred, and secretly, a secret guarded from her own conscious self, decided to suppress the hate she felt for her mother. Hadn’t she done enough? Handling the most intimate fluids of her stepfather, helping him move about so that he didn’t get bedsores, giving him his medicine on time? John, that was his name, had died exactly three weeks before this morning in the kitchen. He’d suffered from multiple strokes. Everyone knew he deserved them, but no one said why.

As Joanne poured the boiling water into an old, yellow teacup, Christine began shouting, “Your brother is slaving away, serving his country in Iraq, and look at you, pathetic, working at Burger King and still living at home.” Joanne pretended not to notice. Christine hit her over the head with a frying pan. Joanne sat down at the table, she was used to such things. A shot rang out, the window overlooking the large backyard shattered. The backyard was a large rectangular space, with four huge maple trees, patchy grasses, little hills and ruts dug by the the family’s two labrador retrievers. Blood splatted, oozed as Christine flailed, her neck gushing out bright, prepossessing and beautiful blood. Joanne’s cup had red dots floating in it, like a lava lamp, she couldn’t stop starring out the window and then back deep into the cup. Deeper still she stared into the seemingly bottomless cup, looking, looking and then sticking her finger into the hot water. She pulled it out and sucked on it. Her mother was on the floor yelling something about calling for something or another. Joanne decided to stare at her for a minute. Christine lost consciousness. A hunter had shot at a deer and missed. Ricochet. This happens in the remote backwoods of Merlin, but usually not so near the cloister of houses on Polaris Circle. Unusual as it was, shocking as it should have been, not even the dogs bothered to wake from their little houses near the back sliding glass door that led to the kitchen. A man, dressed in sturdy winter gear, boots that were made for walking in the deepest of muddy ruts, with binoculars dangling from his neck, ran and opened that very same unconcerned sliding glass door behind the table where Joanne was sitting, smiling at her mother.


India: Revolutionary Students Challenge the Heroism of Nelson Mandela

Absolutely essential reading.

Frontlines of Revolutionary Struggle

Democratic Student Union, Jawaharlal Nehru UniversityDecember 14, 2013

Nelson Mandela: A Hero for the oppressors, A BETRAYER FOR THE OPPRESSED!

The mournings & praises from the imperialists and their agents, are Mandela’s “legacy” of brokering one of the biggest sell outs of the 20th century!

Ever since the death of Nelson Mandela on the 6th of December, the most flowery tributes have been showered on him by a wide spectrum of the ruling classes all over the world. While the face of US imperialism Barak Obama “led the world” in paying tribute to “his personal hero”, the speeches his lieutenants in Britian, much of Europe, and across the world reverberated the same. The mass murderer president of Sri Lanka Mahinda Rajapakshe who oversaw the genocide of the people of Tamil Ealam also had tears to shed for Mandela. The Indian state also gargled the same and declared a…

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Spend Your Minimum-Wage Cash on This $52 Occupy Wall Street Poster From Walmart

It’s just risible these days.