by Kathy Acker
’CAUSE LOVE LEADS TO DEATH
I WON’T EVER BE UNHAPPY AGAIN
THOUGH IT’S BEEN A WEEK SO YOUR LOVE’S
ALMOST OVER
THE WORLD’S ABOUT TO EXPLODE
TERRORISTS NEED NO MORE COVER
OH YES LOVE LEADS TO DEATH
OH YES
‘I couldn’t hear any of that political music shit I just wanted to kiss the guy again and again. The music made it so you couldn’t hear the words and the music itself was so loud music couldn’t be heard
you weren’t hearing
this is beyond hearing
you is just vibrations so there’s no difference between self and music.
‘President Carter was just THERE, that’s the only way I can describe it. I didn’t want to fall in love with him because I didn’t want to put something in my life, but he was screwing me so GOOD and beating me up that I knew I was going to fall in love with him. I did everything I could to avoid President Carter. I dropped out of everything. It’s hard to drop out of a nightclub filled with teenage hoods and teenage bums, but that’s what I did. I roamed the streets of New York. The streets were black and full of garbage. I ROAMED the streets, not WALKED the streets because I was a cat. Cats adore being loved, but they don’t want to be in prison.
‘Cars drove by me. Big rich Cadillacs and little snooky sports cars, the grey cars and the red cars, each car had a personality. “Go to hell” a big black car said to me. “Whrr whrr,” “race, race” and “toot toot” are what the cars said to each other. On the whole cars like each other and they don’t like people. A few cars liked me. A grey car whose behind was longer than its front and which was so smashed it looked like it should be dirty black smiled at me. A long sleek light green car whistled. “Whoo whoo. I could make a few dollars out of HER.”
‘Then there were no cars. Two people passed by, men, older males, ages say forty-five and up, bellies large, cocks small with slight dribbles, clothes wool, mouths open. The street was empty again.
‘Actually it had always been empty. It was me. I was a disjunct.
‘You can smoke a cigarette. A cigarette is thin, long, and it contains fire. You can puff the fire. No one will arrest you. No cop cares. Even if you don’t have money, there are butts on the street. Most waiters will give you a match. You see, there’s no trouble. It’s best to do things there’s no trouble about. Being scum, being disgusting, lonely, alone, not bothering anybody, not wanting, being dark, in the dark.
‘I tried masturbating. I tried.
‘These are secret letters where I can say things that … secret (secret). In there get in there. Dark like a canal President Carter I love you. Whoops that’s the wrong one. Let’s try again. I love you. I have to get beyond that one. The tunnel is my cunt. That’s the first bump. A big I love you. I don’t want you to go away. I want to be in you, there, in between your right Presidential arm and the skin on your side PUKE MUSHY MUSHY I GO MUSHY I AM REPULSIVE. NO I AM HOT. Now we’ve got it I AM HOT. Oh please fuck me for the rest of my life. The rest of my life means fuck me right now. As hard as you can.
‘OK. I’m telling you exactly what I feel ’cause you never say anything. I don’t feel anything. What do I feel?
‘I’ve got cancer. Cancer is the outward condition of the condition of being screwed-up. I am such a total mess, that is: a priori askew to the world/the nature of things/therefore: myself, askew to myself, that I will never live without pain. I can’t help but do everything wrong. Every incident reveals this. I’m saying I’m screwed up because I want you to tell me you love me.
‘I know who you are. Go away, President Carter. Leave me alone.
‘Our affair had come to a crisis. President Carter had to return to Washington so we had nowhere to sleep together because I couldn’t sleep in the White House and he wouldn’t sleep on the streets. Huge hickies covered my neck and back. I had asked President Carter to beat me up while we fucked and he had said OK, but we had nowhere to fuck.
‘The President didn’t mind having nowhere to fuck, only I minded. He said all that mattered was there was political disruption in the air. I had to tell him:
FUCK YOU. GO AWAY. I’M LEAVING YOU. I’M GETTING AWAY FROM YOU. WHENEVER THERE’S PAIN, I WALK OUT. WHENEVER SOMETHING GOES WRONG, I WALK OUT, but I didn’t. I stuck to him.
‘I wrote these things about terrorism:
‘Terrorism is not being conscious. Terrorism is letting happen what has to happen. Terrorism is letting rise up all that rises up like a cock or a flower. Tremendous anger and desire. Terrorism is straightforwardness. You are a child. Only you don’t imitate. For these reasons terrorists never grow up.
‘Terrorism is a way to health. Health is the lusting for infinity and dying of all variants. Health is not stasis. It is not repression of lusting or dying. It is no bonds. The only desire of any terrorist is NO BONDS though terrorists don’t desire. Their flaming jumping passions are infinite, but are not them.
‘No bonds.
‘For these reasons terrorism and health are inseparably bound.
‘Terrorism can be fun. As far as big goals go, it has no goals so you remain slum-under; it has lots of little goals. You don’t have to live any way. You don’t have to believe in any certain thing or world. You don’t have to give a goddamn and yet all the passion the burning the disappearance of is in terrorism. Terrorists believe in nothing and everything; serious terrorists every time they kidnap someone don’t believe they’re changing anything.
‘One of the most destructive forces in the world is love. For the following reason: The world is a conglomeration of objects, no, of events and the approachings of events towards objects, therefore of becoming stases static stagnant, of all that is unreal. You get in the world, you get your daily life your routine doesn’t matter if you’re rich poor legal illegal, you begin to believe what doesn’t change is real, and love comes along and shows all these unchangeable for ever fixtures to be flimsy paper bits. Love can tear anything to shreds.
‘PRESIDENT CARTER, it isn’t sweet and it hurts. Pain is the world. I don’t have anywhere to run. I want to go out in a blaze of light and scream. Stick your cock in me as hard as you can. Hurt me. Beat me. If you beat me hard enough I’ll never leave you and I’ll do everything you say. Otherwise I run away. I run away whenever I can. You take me by the hips in back of me your cock pounds steady. BAM BAM BAM. I start to come. Your cock moves harder, faster. You’re hurting my cunt. Energy shoots up from the base of my spine to the top of my head. Every time cock hits in, energy path set off. You become out-of-control getting into me as much as you can. I’m beyond coming. In a space of consciousness and unconsciousness. Black. No more pain like no more coming. I never knew I could get here. You stop. When cock out of me, I come down enough to start coming. Gradually I stop coming.
Sex you’re gonna stop. I hate you.
You made me vomit and throw up and act crazy.
Now I’m sick.
You never say anything to me at all, nothing at all.
I don’t know what goes on in your mind.
I don’t ask you to come here, to the street. Now everything’s changed.
‘EVERY POSITION OF DESIRE, NO MATTER HOW SMALL, IS CAPABLE OF PUTTING TO QUESTION THE ESTABLISHED ORDER OF A SOCIETY; NOT THAT DESIRE IS ASOCIAL; ON THE CONTRARY. BUT IT IS EXPLOSIVE; THERE IS NO DESIRING-MACHINE CAPABLE OF BEING ASSEMBLED WITHOUT DEMOLISHING ENTIRE SOCIAL SECTIONS.
‘HELLO, I’M ERICA JONG. ALL OF YOU LIKED MY NOVEL FEAR OF FLYING BECAUSE IN IT YOU MET REAL PEOPLE. PEOPLE WHO LOVED AND SUFFERED AND LIVED. MY NOVEL CONTAINED REAL PEOPLE. THAT’S WHY YOU LIKED IT. MY NEW NOVEL HOW TO DIE SUCCESSFULLY CONTAINS THOSE SAME CHARACTERS. AND IT CONTAINS TWO NEW CHARACTERS. YOU AND ME. ALL OF US ARE REAL. GOODBYE.
‘HELLO, I’M ERICA JONG. I’M A REAL NOVELIST. I WRITE BOOKS THAT TALK TO YOU ABOUT THE AGONY OF AMERICAN LIFE, HOW WE ALL SUFFER, THE GROWING PAIN THAT MORE AND MORE OF US ARE GOING TO FEEL. LIFE IN THIS COUNTRY IS GOING TO
GET MORE HORRIBLE, UNBEARABLE, MAKING US MANIACS ’CAUSE MANIA AND DEATH WILL BE THE ONLY DOORS OUT OF PRISON EXCEPT FOR THOSE FEW RICH PEOPLE AND EVEN THEY ARE AGONIZED PRISONERS IN THEIR MASKS, THE PATHS, THE WAYS THEY HAVE TO ACT TO REMAIN WHO THEY ARE. YOU THINK BOOZE SEX COKE RICH FOOD ETC ARE DOORS OUT? TEMPORARY OBLIVION AT BEST. WE NEED TOTAL OBLIVION. WHAT WAS I SAYING? OH YES, MY NAME IS ERICA JONG I WOULD RATHER BE A BABY THAN HAVE SEX. I WOULD RATHER GO GOOGOO. I WOULD RATHER WRITE GOO-GOO. I WOULD RATHER WRITE: FUCK YOU UP YOUR CUNTS THAT’S WHO I AM THE FUCK WITH YOUR MONEY I’M NOT CATERING TO YOU ANYMORE I’M GETTING OUT I’M GETTING OUT I’M RIPPING UP MY CLOTHES I’M RIPPING UP MY SKIN I HURT PAIN OH HURT ME PAIN AT THIS POINT IS GOOD DO YOU UNDERSTAND? PAIN AT THIS POINT IS GOOD. ME ERICA JONG WHEE WOO WOO I AM ERICA JONG I AM ERICA JONG I FUCK ME YOU CREEP WHO’S GOING TO AUSTRALIA YOU’RE LEAVING ME ALL ALONE YOU’RE LEAVING ME WITHOUT SEX I’VE GOTTEN HOOKED ON SEX AND NOW I’M
‘MY NAME IS ERICA JONG. IF THERE IS GOD, GOD IS DISJUNCTION AND MADNESS.
YOURS TRULY,
Erica Jong
‘I is now she. She, Janey. Shit, Janey, shit. I’m glad someone’s explaining President Carter to me. Why do I write this down? I read it. I might as well admit to everything I do. “Me”? “Everything”?
‘Janey wants President Carter. President Carter may or may not want Janey. Actually President Carter wants Janey, but Janey wants to believe President Carter doesn’t want Janey because it’s more difficult for Janey to deal with a situation (Janey can’t deal with any situation) which isn’t a mirror of her desire. Janey isn’t me. Which of the two do I think is real?
‘Janey sees too many people. Now that Janey has a boyfriend, Janey knows too many people these people are too many because she has to talk to them because of her boyfriend.
‘Each person is an asking, a peculiar kind of hole asking some very definite energy from Janey. Janey is very scared of people because she’s scared she’s going to hurt someone. So what? She has to give a lot of energy to giving each person the exact right kind of energy.
‘By the end of the evening she is nothing.
‘President Carter abandoned me. It took me three days to realize this. Then I wrote him a letter.
‘I don’t care what you do when I don’t see you, etc, but when I make this effort to see you, within a few minutes you walk out or else there are lots of people and by the time we’re alone either I’m asleep or you’re drunk. So we’re never alone together for more than a few minutes and we don’t really talk or learn about each other and become better (or worse) friends.
‘I think we should talk about our peculiarities ’cause I think the situation’s getting a little weird and I’m getting confused. I know I’m very peculiar and hard-to-be-with. But I really am confused because you don’t talk to me and you don’t fuck me yet you want me around.
‘You’re gone and there’s no more love left in the world. I can’t deal with you in my mind anymore. I hope I don’t ever run into you again even if you are President of the United States. Even before you left – knowing that you had power over me and were going to leave me – that future made us ghosts. That’s how I felt. I hurt. That’s how I feel. That is: either I judge and blame and Hell exists, or I don’t judge and everything’s OK. Either this is a time for total despair or it’s a time of madness. It’s ridiculous to think that mad people will succeed where intellectuals, unions, Wobblies, etc, didn’t, I think they will.
‘I don’t want to stop talking to you, Mr President. You are my home and now you’re gone I have no place to stay. I’d rather have nowhere to stay: all America wants somewhere to stay an image stasis. I’d like to say that everything I do, every way I’ve seemed to feel, however I’ve seemed to grasp at you, are war tactics.’
Through the arches of the Café Zagora I can see the white area where the distant Atlas mountain tops fade into the white sky. Rows of walls rise to rows of walls and upwards.
Genet asks me if I have a passport.
Why do I need a passport?
He wants to know if I can travel.
I explain I got to Tangier illegally. I don’t think I can travel.
Genet’s going to leave Tangier. He wants me to go with him.
I’m more excited than I’ve been in a long time. ‘Since I’m dark enough to pass for Moroccan,’ I tell Genet, ‘can you help me get a Moroccan passport?’
A long line of people are inside the Government Centre building, in rags, with faces of the dead. A skeleton runs out of a grey office and shouts at all of us. His whole attitude is nervous and shaking and mean. Genet walks up to him and talks to him. When Genet returns to me, he says, ‘We’ll have to come back here in an hour.’
An hour later the office is black and horrible, more crowded. The skeleton official is cursing at the poor people and pushing them into lines. Bit by bit the poor people go away. I don’t know how I’m going to get a passport. The skeleton government official is still cursing the poor people, those shuffling hollow rags, even though they’re no longer here. Genet murmurs to me: ‘He’s a pig, a brute, insulting and shoving people around!’
The skeleton pig is still saying that if these people don’t give him enough money for a passport, he’ll lock them up. These people are all gone. Finally, when the building’s being locked up, the skeleton pig tells Genet that I can get a passport if I have the proper papers.
A fine rain is blowing across the sand of the street. ‘That man doesn’t want papers, he wants a fistful of banknotes, doesn’t he?’
I don’t answer. We walk for half an hour on the boulevard. Then Genet buys a few newspapers and some magazines, and goes back to the hotel.
Today we got the passport. We found a friend who knew a government official and we paid. Genet’s giving a small party in his hotel room. I’m standing opposite Genet.
‘Why’re you taking her with you?’ pointing to me a famous older male friend of Genet’s asks him.
‘Oh, she works for me. She’s a gardener.’
I want to laugh in the guy’s face because Genet doesn’t have a house or a garden.
‘She’s your servant.’
Genet thinks about this. ‘I didn’t mean to mislead you,’ he says. ‘I don’t consider anyone a servant.’
The strange man smiles. I’m accepted in this world. I shake hands with Genet.
Later on the same man asks Genet where we’re planning to travel.
‘I don’t know, I know I can’t go to the United States, their government won’t let me in again, and I can’t go to the Soviet Union for the same reason.
In Journal du Voleur Genet wrote:
Movies and novels have made Tangier into a scary place, a dive where gamblers haggle over the secret plans of all the armies in the world. From the American coast, Tangier seemed to me a fabulous city. It was the very symbol of treason.
Here all the big men I’ve known, all the men who’ve hurt me because they had no feelings or who’ve offered me affection and then stamped on me the minute I reached for it, who’ve swung their monstrous cocks in front of my face and then laughed when I begged to touch, TRAITORS FASCISTS WHO NEED TO CONNIVE all of you live in this fabulous city. I worship you. I can’t fuck anyone else. It’s not your cocks, but it’s your dishonesty your need to manoeuvre and lie the way most people walk down a street that form those entanglements I call ADVENTURE. Everything else is dead. When I’m with one of you I’m alive and otherwise I don’t give a shit.
I don’t call having some young boy between my sheets SEX. I rarely let myself go for young or nice boys because I know I’ll get bored. I want the textures of your lives, the complexities set up by betrayals and danger – I like men who hurt me because I don’t always see myself, I have my egotism cut up. I love this: I love to be beaten up and hurt and taken on a joy ride. This SEX – what I call SEX – guides my life. I know this Sex of traitors, deviants, scum, and schizophrenics exists. They’re the ones I want.
In Egypt, the end
&nb
sp; Genet takes Janey with him and they travel through North Africa, through Rabat across the inland through Fés to Oujda, through Tiemsen the city of oases, straight north to Oran, and then, just as summer hits, along the Algerian sea border through Algiers and Bougie down to the mysterious city of Constantine.
In Constantine Genet makes Janey put on the double black dress of an Arabian woman. A dress about twelve feet in length thrown over the head, belted around the waist, then pulled upward at the belt, so three skirts fall from the belt to the ground. Two eyeholes permit the woman to see.
From here Genet and Janey travel along dust-filled roads, through small villages almost nameless, to Tripoli, and along the seacoast through Agheila, through Derna, through Tobruk, as fast as they can, until they reach Alexandria.
Scene 1
Inside an Alexandrian brothel. All the women’s houses in the Arab section are brothels, so to speak, but this is especially a brothel because its women cater to foreigners. In Alexandria women are low and these are the lowest there are. For them there is no class struggle, no movements of the left, and no right-wing terror because all the men are fascists. All the men own all the money. A man is a walking mass of gold.
The rooms are done in gold. Extremely thick tapestries cover the floor. A large silver cask, lying on a small wood table, decorated on its outside by leaves and branches contains layers of incense and honey. The scene is two whores talking professionally. It is clear that the whores regard what most people regard as (them)selves as images. Sex, that unblocked meeting of selves, is the most fake thing there is.
At the end of this scene a crippled drunken lobotomy case walks into the brothel. He controls the whores because he is a man.
Janey to herself: Genet doesn’t know how to be a woman. He thinks all he has to do to be a woman is slobber. He has to do more. He has to get down on his knees and crawl mentally every minute of the day. If he wants a lover, if he doesn’t want to be alone every single goddamn minute of the day and horny so bad he feels the tip of his clit stuck in a porcupine’s quill, he has to perfectly read his lover’s mind, silently, unobtrusively, like a corpse, and figure out at every changing second what his lover wants. He can’t be a slave. Women aren’t just slaves. They are whatever their men want them to be. They are made, created by men. They are nothing without men.