(a short excerpt from something very long)
..Without love (the mirror of love), I feel that I’m already dead, already extinct. I am part of the geological layer of plastic microparticles that will be the only evidence our species ever existed, if complex life were to evolve again from the bacteria that remain a thousand years from now. I am part of no story (biotic or abiotic). I cannot shake the counterfactual despair, the flailing wish that I had transitioned, had written these books, five years earlier, when the world could have received me, received my art. But no, this woman, this writing, could only have emerged right now, at this specific point in history, or where history cracks up, smashes against its bio-spiritual limit. The very nature of this woman, this writing, is that it’s something so beautiful that it could only have emerged at the very end, at the very last moment, or the penultimate one. This body: destined never to be seen, loved, touched, fucked with intimacy or genuine violence…
..When they stop manufacturing hormones, that’s when I’ll kill myself (if not before, but certainly not after). It strikes me as fitting that trans women became the universal object of fixation, of loathing and desire, as the species achieves its purpose, its entelechy, in the complete annihilation of life on Earth. For fascists, this is because we are in an Age of Sodom before the Kali Yuga or whatever the fuck. But that’s not it at all. The truth is we slip away from the mask of nature, to reveal our true and unutterable face. It’s as Sativa, the Christ-haunted bimbo, said: living angel, angel of history and death, is the trans femme.
..If planetary murder, the catastrophic warming of the Earth beyond the capacity to sustain life, peaks in one thousand years, nine hundred or so years after our species has gone extinct, then Hitler will have been right about the Thousand-Year Reich. When the Wehrmacht was surrounded at Stalingrad, Germany lost the prospect of accessing the oil fields of Baku, and so, exoterically, the Thousand-Year Reich died in its infancy, after a mere twelve years. But if fascism has always secretly aimed at the end of organic life, which it finds unbearable despite or because of its sexual neurosis, then it has won, irrevocably.
..The mirror image of this planet is a planet where no one dies, because they only fight for love.
***
..At night, I light a lavender candle and read Anna Kavan’s Ice until I fall asleep. I don’t know if this is a good book, I don’t think it really matters. What matters is the sensation, as consciousness diminishes, of being frozen to death, of being in a place (that’s also no place, really) where sadism, the state, and war, along with desire itself, succumb to universal entropy. It makes me think there might not be a world at all when I wake up, or that I’ll never wake up, which is to say the same thing. I find this a consolation because, as I’m falling asleep, deep down I know that the world I wake up to will be worse than the one I left behind. I’d heard about this book a long time before I started it. Anna Kavan is a weird author with a weird reputation. All people really say about her is that she was born wealthy, she was addicted to heroin, and she wrote very bleak, unclassifiable books, with no plot or character. A kind of blur in literary history, leaving behind a desolate landscape of herself.