A Surrealist Epistemological Psychosis

Ladyboy Spirit Done

There is no greater lie than total honesty. Arriving at the core of our thoughts, feelings, memories, and intentions, we discover nothing but a spider web of associations between them beaded by the dried out bug-husks of experiential phenomenon.

Surrealism isn’t simply the boredom of hearing out the fake dreams we pretend to have while awake because we expect it of ourselves, it’s the profound rationality of seeing in reality the fictions by which our minds imperfectly encode knowledge. The western intellectual tradition is hostile to the virtual pleasures of the imagination because it is afraid to admit all realities are fantasy.

I therefore request twelve long haired and beautiful surfer boys to tie me down onto a mattress in their beach house to serve as their shared wife in spite of my primary sex characteristics. I furthermore suggest we indict all traitors who dare speak out against honesty as though it were not the sacred pagoda which enshrines eternal truth. We will cut out the tongues of those who protest candor.

Surrealism is never boring. Surrealism has no cliches. Surrealism does not repeat itself. Surrealism is change. Surrealism is unexpected. Surrealism is Surrealism is Surrealism. Surrealism is reality. Reality is rationality. Rationality is, therefore, never boring. Never. Boring. Never. Boring. We can’t remember what it’s about anymore, but it must be interesting because it’s Surrealism, which is never boring, or repetitive.

Once my twelve husbands have filled me with their seed, I shall use divine telekinesis to recombine their genomes and breed a superhuman race, molecule by molecule, whose mother I shall be. It can likewise be argued that honesty is the greatest lie for it is the one we tell ourselves. What surer path to misery is there than insisting upon who we are and what we want when we seem already to be running astray? I’m a witch-boy who needs to be cloned – one of me for every beautiful man!

I shall order my precious demon child to kill me so that I do not fall in love with him.

 

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My Haunting

Poetry of everyday life? What does that even mean? I hate everyday life!

Take the abandoned property next door (please). It is more a complex of creepy old sheds from when the area was just cheap cottages by the Ottawa River than it is a proper house. The place is crammed with scrap wood, tarps, rusting bicycles and other refuse piled up like the junk heaps outside a rural family’s barn.

I imagined the grumpy old guy who lived there as a sort of Mr. Plinket from Red Letter Media’s review of the Star Wars prequel trilogy – a dullard serial killer rooted to his couch hurling infuriated common-sense criticisms at Hollywood trash while rooted to a threadbare couch. His sheds were no doubt full of the gutted and beheaded corpses of local innocents. He probably disguised the smell by smoking the bodies in an oven stoked with old newspaper and half-rotten wood – visiting the shed from time to time to spray them with Febreeze. The wasp nests which frequently form on the boundary of our two properties are clearly a manifestation of an infernal alignment.

This is all very colorful, but it makes for a disquieting daily tea on the patio. While the emptied shacks are now clearly haunted, my experience of them has become mundane. The fashion for Gothic media spectacles has convinced many to yearn for monsters – vampires, ghosts, zombies, witches and werewolves – but this can only be attributed to gross misinformation as to the significance of a haunting which, in times past, was associated not so much with the blood-drenched adventures of B-movie horrors, but a condition of dreary stagnation akin to hosting a guest who has worn out their welcome and having to restrain your impatience to chase them out lest it make a tense situation all the worse.

My household is as poor as the rednecks that surround us, but our poverty is of a wholly different type, for we are as rootless cosmopolitan gender bohemians under siege by our neighbor’s limitless capacity for leathering themselves with tobacco and producing noise and garbage. Our warring tribes are at an impasse.

The force that might most need to be exorcised, however, is probably gentrification. The house of horrors next door is sure to be torn up – oh how I blanch to consider the noise of having a wrecking crew for neighbors! They will somehow turn the little plot into a duplex ready-made for public-sector yuppies. They will probably have children they don’t know how to control and disapprove of my hot pants and vacillate between scolding them for staring and doing it themselves. Under the circumstances, I’d prefer the ghosts.

The question is, if I flee from the spectacle, and real life, and reserve judgement on this so-called nature thing, where am I to flee? Were that I could spend my whole life asleep!