The circumstances of his life were marked by that strange but rather common phenomenon – perhaps, in fact, it’s true for all lives – of being tailored to the image and likeness of his instincts, which tended towards inertia and withdrawal.
She flirts with the communist incel would-be priest (he was rejected from the priesthood for his autism and his mania). He tries to seduce her by talking about his holy indifference. You would be good in the Church, she says. I can imagine you as a prelate. But she’ll never fuck him. No one will ever fuck him. Sometimes he falls in love with girls having depressive episodes in the hospital: girls who’ve attempted suicide, with gashes in their throat. That’s his eros. They talk about Visconti, about opera, about the historic role of the bourgeoisie, and later he jerks off soft (this takes place in his parents’ basement (literally) in a Northern Virginia suburb).
She doesn’t believe in climate change (or vaccines, obviously) and on particularly hot days in her Athens apartment she claims the air is radioactive, that she’s seeing auras, like Prince Myshkin, that static is coursing through her skin, that this is some 5G microwave shit in her brain. It’s unclear what she thinks about the State Department accusations of covert microwave brain-attacks by the Cuban government. Her knowledge of science is avant-garde and ancient, and somewhat Borgesian. Her allegiance to truth is passionate, but in its excess, it’s monstrous: countless lives have been lost that way. She has a homeopathic anamnesis of her Greek pastoralist ancestors and her attitude towards the sick (one of hate, of horror, of mockery) is more fascist than communist. Though maybe it’s an attitude that’s common among Mediterranean communists, among the communists of the underdeveloped nations of Southern Europe. I recall Pasolini had a similar attitude, and so did or so does my family in the former Yugoslavia, for whom illness is a kind of moral susceptibility to imperialist chicanery. Though of course they themselves are all riddled with cancer and schizophrenia, but these are more afflictions, mute demons, than illnesses. Gramsci was sick, but he had an excuse (the malnourishment of the Sardinian countryside in post-Risorgimento Italy). Despite her European sophistication and her leftist politics, she likes to accuse her enemies of being “cucks” like a Redditor. She wrote a poem dedicated to Stalin once, and another poem to her dead father (the affects of reverence and misanthropy come easy to her, which is strange, for me, since I simply cannot conceive of these things, on a personal level). Like Frida, I imagine her with a gigantic portrait of Stalin above her bed while she masturbates. A love poem to Daddy Stalin. In Frida’s case, that made Trotsky the ultimate cuck, a posthumous cuck. In general, everyone goes to their grave a cuck, or a potential cuck. Like her medical knowledge, she has a preternatural knowledge of the world of finance, preternatural even for a Marxist, which strikes me as strange. I can’t verify her knowledge one way or the other, it makes me dizzy, though it reminds me of what it would be like to talk to R’s uncle, a Nobel laureate in economics who invented the derivative, more or less, and made billions during the genocide of the Yeltsin years, but lost most of it, or a lot of it. Or maybe she worked as a professional Domme in New York City when she lived there for men like him, powerful men with Asperger’s who can only get off in very literal ways, with sex workers who know as much as they do about finance. I don’t know, I couldn’t say.
She’s loyal to the murdered and martyred, the defeated factions of the Communist Party of Greece (she also wrote a poem in their memory), and considers the remnants to be opportunists and psyops. She longs for a mother, somehow. She’s attempted suicide at least once, I think, though that time in her life is far behind her.
She’s convinced that the world will kill her. I agree. The intensity of her paranoia is deeply erotic. Her belief in individuation and oceanism, or individuation and orgasm, likewise.
She’s so beautiful I’m not sure I didn’t dream her up. Maybe I did dream her up. But I’m always falling in love with Greeks. I don’t know why Greek women are so beautiful, or why Greek men are so beautiful, or why Greek men all have huge dicks, but not in the way men in this country have huge dicks (in this country a big dick is superfluous). Once a Greek couple invited me to be their unicorn on an Aegean island. I don’t know why they chose me. I was their type. I don’t know why I didn’t take them up on their offer. Another time a couple in Oakland asked me to fuck the girl while she pretended to sleep and he filmed it. It’s just for our private use, they said, though I didn’t care what they did with the video.
I want there to be a dyke hardcore band named Sapphic Chaos. The other day I saw a photo of a militant group of French TERFs posing menacingly with a bizarre and vaguely violent flag. One of them was holding a sign that said: Les Lesbiennes N’ont Pas De Pénis.
The question of whether lesbians have a penis strikes me as metaphysical.
The Nazis, she said, never discovered the secrets of consciousness.
I don’t know what she thinks about the anarcho-communist Greek poet and suicide Katerina
Gogou.
The micro-sects that she belongs to on a spiritual level are unfathomable.
And I, the writer and penultimate cuck, like the dwarfish Pessoa dreaming of genocidal
ancestors, of genocidal glory, over a glass of port. I who fall in love so easily and feel nothing.