Blood and Guts in High School

by Kathy Acker

  ‘The fullness and breadth, the clear entirety of this hell and therefore its limitations,’ Reverend Dimwit then says to Hester, ‘will appear and be fully apparent the moment we become conscious of the secrets in our hearts.’

  I can’t work. I can’t move.

  All I can do is sit here and wait for his call.

  Listen you creep, you dimwit.

  I want to write myself between your lips and between your thighs. How can I get in touch with you? You don’t answer your door and you don’t answer your phone. I think you’re a creep.

  I want to fuck you, Dimwit. I know I don’t know you very well you won’t ever let me get near you. I have no idea what you feel about me. You kissed me once with your tongue when I didn’t expect it and then you broke a date. I used to have lots of fantasies about you: you’d marry me, you’d dump me, you’d fuck me, you were going again with your former girlfriend, you’d save me from blindness. You’d. Verb. Me. Now the only image in my mind is your cock in my cunt. I can’t think anything else.

  I’ve been alone for a very long time. I’m locked up in a room and I can’t get out. Because I’ve been locked up in this room so long whatever desires are arising in me are rampaging around everywhere as wild and fierce and monstrous as gigantic starving jungle beasts. I don’t know how to talk to people, I especially have difficulty talking to you; and I’m ashamed and scared ’cause I want you so badly, Dimwit.

  I know you no longer want to see me ’cause I’m so antisocial and awkward. How can I learn to talk better? How can I learn to love you more so I can give you what you want?

  Teach me how to talk to you. WANT. Is my wanting you so bad, wanting your cock so bad, wanting the feel of your lips on my lips just me being selfish and egotistic? Is wanting horrible and has to be put down and repressed?

  Teach me a new language:

  ‘Rock-n-roll is rock-n-roll.’

  ‘Rock-n-roll is rock-n-roll.’

  ‘The night is red.’

  ‘The night is red.’

  ‘The streets are deserted.’

  ‘The streets are deserted.’

  ‘The children in the city are going insane.’

  ‘The children in the city are going insane.’

  ‘Rock-n-roll is rock-n-roll.’

  ‘Rock-n-roll IS rock-n-roll.’

  ‘The night is red.’

  ‘The night is all around me and it’s black.’

  ‘The streets are deserted.’

  ‘I can’t even see the streets from my room: how would I know if they’re deserted?’

  ‘The children in the city are going insane.’

  ‘How can I tell the difference between sanity and insanity? You think in a locked room there’s sanity and insanity? Anyway I don’t know if there are any children anymore. Maybe they went out of fashion.’

  TEACH ME A NEW LANGUAGE, DIMWIT. A LANGUAGE THAT MEANS SOMETHING TO ME.

  Hello, Hester. Would you like to go out to dinner with me?

  Dimwit.

  HAWTHORNE SAYS PARADISE IS POSSIBLE.

  When I was a child, I would go as far out as possible and jump around and throw my arms around and all the stars are turning. The winds are blowing through me. My arms and legs are winds. Slowly, the whole universe is starting to revolve like a giant wheel. This wheel isn’t a thing: it is everything. Everything is on the surface. That everything is me: I’m just surface: surface is surface.

  Whirling and whirling and whirling.

  The sun in the country is hot. When there are no clouds, day after day, it beats down without mercy. Then the winds start. The winds stop start change directions speeds second to second. In one hour the air temperature drops or rises thirty degrees. The seagulls rush into the dock, cackle and hoot perhaps to each other there’s no way we can tell in their low voices. The winds rise and waves, appearing out of the water, lash against the blackening dock.

  Whirling and whirling and whirling.

  HAWTHORNE SAYS PARADISE IS A HEART THAT OPENS UP AND BECOMES A HEART.

  Everything takes place at night.

  In the centres of nightmares and dreams,

  I know I’m being torn apart by my needs,

  I don’t know how to see anymore.

  I’m too bruised and I’m scared. At this point in The Scarlet Letter and in my life politics don’t disappear but take place inside my body.

  I have to figure this out: I have certain characteristics from childhood traumas, etc. Since I never had real parents, I never knew who my father was and my mother didn’t give a hoot about me (I wasn’t brought up, I just grew up like a wild plant), I want love affection the sort of love and affection you get from a parent rather than a jealous lover, and especially a father.

  I grew up wild, I want to stay wild.

  The first older man I ever fucked rejected me and his rejection put me right back into childhood desperation craziness and made me physically sick.

  OK These are characteristics. I can either do what I want to (satisfy my characteristics) or not bother.

  Doing what I want to is dangerous ’cause I can get really hurt. So I lie to people. I say ‘I love living alone.’ ‘I fuck around a lot.’ But I really want what I want. These aren’t passing emotions. These are my characteristics.

  By love do I just mean satisfaction of the needs created by my characteristics?

  Obviously I have to change my manner of life in some large way. And I have to do so in accordance with my needs.

  I can’t live a slave in a locked-up room for ever. Think more on this:

  Dear Dimwit,

  I’m so scared that I’m not thinking anymore. I want to do whatever I can to make you happy. If you don’t want to fuck me, that’s OK. If you want to fuck me once a month like you do all your other girlfriends that’s OK. I’ll do anything so I can keep knowing you. I think you’re the most interesting man I know even though I’m very scared of getting hurt by you.

  Dear Dimwit,

  Now you’re gone from my life. You’re not here. Go fuck yourself ’cause I hate you. I know you don’t need me. I hurt. I’m stupid.

  Hester begins to break out of the prison of her mind when she starts to do something for someone besides herself despite whatever her emotions may be. Chillingworth while pretending he’s curing and loving Dimwit is instilling poison in Dimwit’s soul. Like Hester, Dimwit hates himself. Like Hester, Dimwit is conscious he doesn’t understand what’s happening. Hester sees Dimwit’s going crazy and in deepening torture.

  When you start to do something for someone else, you start to perceive that you’re the cause of all the pain in the world and that only you can do something about it. So Hester tells Chillingworth she’s going to tell Dimwit who Chillingworth really is. Chillingworth says if she does so, he’ll tell everyone Dimwit is her bastard’s father and Dimwit will die.

  Robot fucking. Mechanical fucking. Robot love. Mechanical love. Money cause. Money cause. Mechanical causes. Possessiveness habits jealousy lack of privacy wanting wanting wanting. Is that all you think I mean when I say I care about you? At least give me a chance to learn and find out who you are.

  This is a plea.

  See. I think it’s so easy. I throw away my ‘A’. But my body goes crazy, night comes and my body goes crazy. I stick my third finger in my cunt, no no that doesn’t help, where is relief? Could pick up some young boy. Young boys are candy; they’re not relief. You are relief, but you’re in my mind: you’re my characteristics again: I want relief. I want to know who you really are.

  My body aches and aches and I remember who I am.

  Hester tells Dimwit Chillingworth is her husband and hates Dimwit. According to Hawthorne, as soon as Hester does this, as soon as her ego-obsessions are beginning to break up (this is why psychiatrists stink: they focus you even more on your ego-obsessions rather than helping you turn away), she and Dimwit and the society around them begin to move from prison to being free.

  Then Hester falls back into hersel
f. You see, I know I’m selfish. She’s going to fuck Dimwit, she’s going to have Dimwit for ever and for ever, the moon and the stars in the sky, pluck them out with your hand, put them in your pocket and keep them, a dream of a limitless world, of the sun and the moon and the stars. As far as I can go. Love love love. Want want want. This is a message to myself. You are pursuing your own desires and your own desires are BORING.

  Dear Dimwit, I WANT TO LEARN.

  Dear Dimwit,

  This is the plan: We’re going to run away from here and live happily ever after. We’re going to be able to fuck each other however we want to as much as we want. There’s a pirate ship sitting in the harbour. When that pirate ship leaves in four days, we’ll be pirates on it, sailing to Persia. In Persia everyone does whatever they want.

  I won’t ever impinge on your freedom Dimwit. You can sit on the faces of as many Persian girls as you want to, you can stop fucking me, you can have Turkish coffee and hash with me only once a month: I want you to do what you want as much as I’m doing what I want. I want to love you madly so I’m loving you madly. I hope you don’t mind …

  Once upon a time there was a materialistic society one of the results of this materialism was a ‘sexual revolution’. Since the materialistic society had succeeded in separating sex from every possible feeling, all you girls can now go spread your legs as much as you want ’cause it’s sooo easy to fuck it’s sooo easy to be a robot it’s sooo easy not to feel. Sex in America is S & M. This is the glorification of S & M and slavery and prison. In this society there was a woman who

  freedom and suddenly the black night opens up and

  fucked a lot and she got tied up with ropes and

  on upward and it doesn’t stop

  beaten a lot and made to spread her legs too wide

  the night is open space that goes on and on,

  this woman got so mentally and physically hurt

  not opaque black, but a black that is extension

  she stopped fucking even though fucking is the thing to do.

  This woman was really tied up. One day a

  and excitement and the possibilities of new

  man tried to fuck the woman. She loved him

  consciousness, consciousness.

  desperately so she wouldn’t let him touch her

  open her find her all gooky and bloody and screaming

  don’t you see it?

  and angry hurt pain inside. Tell me how are the

  right here. more important than any desperate

  lobotomy children supposed to act? How are

  love desperate possibility of going out farther,

  the children who imbibed acid and downs and dex and

  going out and out as far as possible

  horse before they were born, who walk through the

  going out as far as possible in freedom

  radioactive rain, how are they supposed

  going out as far as possible in freedom

  to act? Tell me now why am I scared to fuck

  going out as far as possible in freedom

  you Dimwit? I’m all alone in outer space.

  going out as far as possible in freedom,

  I’M ALONE. THE SHIT WITH DISTINCTIONS BETWEEN CRAZY AND SANE. DOES ANYONE KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING?

  Dear Dimwit: There’s really no plan. I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t know how to talk. I like you.

  Dear Hester: I don’t want to run away with you and become a pirate. I just want to save my soul.

      Yours,

       Dimwit

  The shit hits the fan and everything becomes chaos and wild again. There are no more secrets. Dimwit ascends the scaffold, the prison, the place of punishment, caught at the height of agony, about to orgasm, and says I’m the guy who fucked Hester. I’m the one you’ve all been looking for. I’M A CRIMINAL.

  The Scarlet Letter is the best book I’ve read locked up in the Persian slave trader’s room and I think everyone should read it. I’m not going to tell you the ending of the book and spoil it for you. I think the author Nathaniel Hawthorne felt that his readers should have fun reading his stories. He didn’t think anybody’d learn anything.

  Hawthorne is a writer

  Writers create what they do out of their own frightful agony and blood and mushed-up guts and horrible mixed-up insides. The more they are in touch with their insides the better they create. If you like a writer’s books read his books, the books aren’t pure suffering; if you want to publish/help the writer, do it business-like, but don’t get into the writer’s personal life thinking if you like the books you’ll like the writer. A writer’s personal life is horrible and lonely. Writers are queer so keep away from them. I live in pain, but one day, Hawthorne said, I’m going to be happy I’m going to be so happy even if I’m not alive anymore. There’s going to be a world where the imagination is created by joy not suffering, a man and a woman can love each other again they can kiss and fuck again (a woman’s going to come along and make this world for me even though I’m not alive anymore).

  for the criminals, the agony of being rejected

  and yet I will keep on being rejected, because I

  will live only by my dreams

  for those who being dreamers in this

  fucked-up society must be unhappy criminals,

  the lonely, the royal fuck.

  Translating

  Days or months or years. At one point Janey fell in love with the Persian slave trader because she had nothing else to feel. She had to write poetry to him.

  Since she had no idea how to write poetry, she copied down all she could remember every pukey bit by the Latin poet Sextus Propertius which she had been forced to translate in high school.

  On the desire for love

  Slave Trader first with his lousy me imprisoned eyes

  diseased by no before wants.

  Then my strong he threw down the drain individuality

  and head forced into the dust LOVE’S feet,

  until me he had taught undiseased to be evil,

  him evil, and without to live plan.

  And my at this moment for a whole wanting this has been going strong year,

  although be my enemy I am compelled to have the universe.

  Psyche, by no fleeing labours hard times, Love

  the ferocity of all-mighty she battled:

  Sometimes the castle’s her-mind-gone she would wander through shifting

  hallways

  so she was wild meeting beasts;

  physically beaten up. Worse: rejected

  burnt in hidden corners she cried her eyes out.

  In this way fast-changing she controlled the boy:

  So much against love prayers and enduring help out.

  Inside me monogoloid WANTING no knows techniques,

  can’t remember known, like before, to go roads.

  As for you of drawing down who knows the trick the moon

  and a work in magic sacred things doing,

  right now one-I-want’s mind turn round and make him at the thought become

  death-white of my lips even more!

  Then I’ll believe you both the stars and the waters

  can saying have power over by poems.

  As for you who too late me given up told the truth, friends,

  Get for not quiet heart help.

  Resolutely both the knives burning of my lust I’ll accept and fires,

  as long as the freedom whatever my lust wishes to say.

  Poetry! Poetry!

  Take me away

  through the farthest races

  Through the farthest waves

  To where no men know the way.

  You who’re safe ’cause God or Luck lets you

  Thirst desire and in always love may you remain safe.

  Against me MY LOVE nights bears down sour

  never ceases agony wanting Love.

  I’m telling you: shun evil: Love fucks u
p

  everyone and never becomes safe.

  If any of you to these words don’t listen

  Too bad you’ll return knowing suffering to my yourself poems.

  Dying is one cure for love

  Just like Ariadne’s just dead on the empty shore

  ’Cause Theseus has abandoned her,

  Just like Andromeda who’s just gotten away from a horrible green sea-monster

  Sleeps on the sharp spikes of rocks,

  Just like from endless drinking, drugs, and sex

  a Bacchante drops dead on sweet soft grass:

  so I see lightly breathing

  Slave Trader his bobbing resting on his arms head,

  as I mean cruel drag my drunk feet

  and outside the night, night becomes everything.

  Not yet completely gaga,

  I gently crawled up to his bed

  to give him head

  but the more horny I became,

  the drunker I became:

  my body was a battle between sex and booze.

  Finally I dared my fingers touch his upper arm

  kiss him, then breathing his breath my arms

  but what if I woke him? I might harm him –

  I know how horrible Slave Trader can be,

  Temperamental and raging like all the Arabs I’ve seen –

  but I couldn’t leave him

  I had to look at him

  just like Argus had to keep

  his thousand eyes pinned on a horny cow

  (’cause she was a beautiful female)

  and so couldn’t die or sleep.

  Just as I’m unbuttoning from my hair tiny flowers

  just as I’m laying on Persian Slave Trader’s head

  now the apples I’ve ripped off I’m putting in your hands

  all to a thankless I’m giving sleep

  gifts rolling off your slanted body

  the few times I have to breathe

  I try to stop, lest my breath be an augury