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I have been sick the past couple of days and it may be affecting my head. Coughing, taking extra naps, reading about cranial nerves and interstitial spaces filled with ionic fluid, gawking at Tumblr, reading, writing, day dreaming. Ooh! I saw Mars last night and it was lovely.
But before I launch off, I have to stick something here. So, you know how freaking hilarious it is to read Amazon reviews of books that you have already read, just for the histrionic reactions and the snarking back and forth? Well, this one takes the cake or the, something. I just knew that the more rancorous reviews for this particular slice of freaky literature would be golden, but this person exceeded my expectations. Awhile back I read this novella entitled Exquisite Corpse. Yes, that is the actual title. This was back when I was bored and kept going through various bits of twisted literature trying to find the most depraved piece of writing imaginable, something bleak and weird enough that I would stop in my tracks and feel sated in my bizarre need to vicariously feed off the bent mental wanderings of other human beings who had headed to the dark place in their minds with a vengeance and then proceeded to set up semi-permanent residence. (Something that would make Oscar Wilde go, "Well, fuck, that's strange.") As can be guessed from the title, there's cannibalism involved. It is not simply a metaphor. It's a tad porny as well, just a tad. There is much fellatio et le reste. Here is what one person had to say about it:
lmfao! She's right and, well, is there anything else you can say to that? She gave it one star. I was busting up and could scarcely make it to her other more salient points about the plot (or odd lack thereof in spots).
And this one, so true:
...which is *coughs* what drew me to it in the first place, uhm, before I actually read it that is.
I agree with the second review. It was pretty awful. I skimmed bits because I did not have the stomach for reading graphic depictions of "putrescence" and human rot being sexualized. Euuuurrghhh. Anyone who gets on their eerie religious high horse about charnal houses and people wallowing in sin by appeasing the flesh misses the point of real, human intimacy. It isn't about simply pressing and rutting against tissue compartments and fluid filled layers in order to tweak sensory nerve endings hard enough to spray your cerebrum with ecstatic neurotransmitters.
Our senses are intense, fragile gateways to our experience with the outside world and the only way to touch upon it, to be as close to others as we can whose gazes and affections and comingling of thoughts we crave so desperately is to get as physically close as possible which at times...depending on the blistering intensity of our oft misjudged and completely misunderstood not strictly chemical, but so much more crazily complicated impressions/emotions is still not close enough. No wonder some connections feel a little like drowning or that most people when truly, legitly confronted for the first time in their lives with a love that demands to be acknowledged despite their frantic, intellectual protestations, that tears away at their neat compartments and threatens to knock them on their ass and leave them shuddering all undone like a pile of nerves unraveled from their preciously held bindings, run the hell away in the opposite direction. Love will fuck your shit up! But I like to think that it can be the making of people. Some connections are a little scary, but so so good once you get past that , er, period of adjustment. Everyone is basically in awe of that most carefully navigated emotion. Who wouldn't be. It's heady stuff. It's REAL, no do over, no half-assed, "Well let me think about it..." NO. You don't get to think. You're asked to feel and to own up to it. Then you actually get to revel in it even as it is still tilting your world on its axis. Such delicious pain. :S
Whoa. Anyway. Yeah.
I was reading something earlier that started me on this path to being all wound up. It was a couple of stories, really, though the last one really hit me. People speak of parts and of types, but really, who you fall in love with becomes the only type for you, when you really fall irretrievably, inescapably hard. You see that form and that aspect everywhere and you want it because you want the person inside who it has come to represent so completely...the physical footprint of their being on this earth. You may not even know it, that like a magnet or something else equally as cheesy sounding, the universe is conspiring to draw you in a bit closer, closer, closer still...
This might be why some folks say that they feel that they already know someone even though they have never met or how they just sort of knew even though it was illogical and really the complete knowing only came later in retrospect when they were finally capable of giving words to their initial impressions of that other person.
Hmmmm.
But before I launch off, I have to stick something here. So, you know how freaking hilarious it is to read Amazon reviews of books that you have already read, just for the histrionic reactions and the snarking back and forth? Well, this one takes the cake or the, something. I just knew that the more rancorous reviews for this particular slice of freaky literature would be golden, but this person exceeded my expectations. Awhile back I read this novella entitled Exquisite Corpse. Yes, that is the actual title. This was back when I was bored and kept going through various bits of twisted literature trying to find the most depraved piece of writing imaginable, something bleak and weird enough that I would stop in my tracks and feel sated in my bizarre need to vicariously feed off the bent mental wanderings of other human beings who had headed to the dark place in their minds with a vengeance and then proceeded to set up semi-permanent residence. (Something that would make Oscar Wilde go, "Well, fuck, that's strange.") As can be guessed from the title, there's cannibalism involved. It is not simply a metaphor. It's a tad porny as well, just a tad. There is much fellatio et le reste. Here is what one person had to say about it:
"Anyone who has really tasted ejaculate knows that it is not salty--salt would be poisonous to sperm cells. "
lmfao! She's right and, well, is there anything else you can say to that? She gave it one star. I was busting up and could scarcely make it to her other more salient points about the plot (or odd lack thereof in spots).
And this one, so true:
" This book is darkness for darkness' sake, extremely gross and sadistic, and beyond disturbing. Though well written, I thought it was a waste of time and offered nothing but horrific visions and bleakness"
...which is *coughs* what drew me to it in the first place, uhm, before I actually read it that is.
I agree with the second review. It was pretty awful. I skimmed bits because I did not have the stomach for reading graphic depictions of "putrescence" and human rot being sexualized. Euuuurrghhh. Anyone who gets on their eerie religious high horse about charnal houses and people wallowing in sin by appeasing the flesh misses the point of real, human intimacy. It isn't about simply pressing and rutting against tissue compartments and fluid filled layers in order to tweak sensory nerve endings hard enough to spray your cerebrum with ecstatic neurotransmitters.
Our senses are intense, fragile gateways to our experience with the outside world and the only way to touch upon it, to be as close to others as we can whose gazes and affections and comingling of thoughts we crave so desperately is to get as physically close as possible which at times...depending on the blistering intensity of our oft misjudged and completely misunderstood not strictly chemical, but so much more crazily complicated impressions/emotions is still not close enough. No wonder some connections feel a little like drowning or that most people when truly, legitly confronted for the first time in their lives with a love that demands to be acknowledged despite their frantic, intellectual protestations, that tears away at their neat compartments and threatens to knock them on their ass and leave them shuddering all undone like a pile of nerves unraveled from their preciously held bindings, run the hell away in the opposite direction. Love will fuck your shit up! But I like to think that it can be the making of people. Some connections are a little scary, but so so good once you get past that , er, period of adjustment. Everyone is basically in awe of that most carefully navigated emotion. Who wouldn't be. It's heady stuff. It's REAL, no do over, no half-assed, "Well let me think about it..." NO. You don't get to think. You're asked to feel and to own up to it. Then you actually get to revel in it even as it is still tilting your world on its axis. Such delicious pain. :S
Whoa. Anyway. Yeah.
I was reading something earlier that started me on this path to being all wound up. It was a couple of stories, really, though the last one really hit me. People speak of parts and of types, but really, who you fall in love with becomes the only type for you, when you really fall irretrievably, inescapably hard. You see that form and that aspect everywhere and you want it because you want the person inside who it has come to represent so completely...the physical footprint of their being on this earth. You may not even know it, that like a magnet or something else equally as cheesy sounding, the universe is conspiring to draw you in a bit closer, closer, closer still...
This might be why some folks say that they feel that they already know someone even though they have never met or how they just sort of knew even though it was illogical and really the complete knowing only came later in retrospect when they were finally capable of giving words to their initial impressions of that other person.
Hmmmm.
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