Pornocalypse: The Solipsistic Cure 𝑏𝑦 Meeah Williams

Pornocalypse: The Solipsistic Cure 𝑏𝑦 Meeah Williams

 

Derangement of the senses, is our only salvation, the only cure for death. What does it mean to say merely? What does it mean to say merely nihilism, merely solipsism?

 

What I say instead is precisely. I say whatever is devalued and dismissed out of hand precisely for not participating by the generally established rules of the communal debate there we must find the secret elixir if it should exist at all—among those “dead ends” one might find what is most fiercely viral, what has absolutely no survival value, what begins the terminal countdown to orgasmic self-extinction. …or, better yet, a count upward that must be suspended before it comes to any end.

 

Whatever accepts no counter-argument is what is most apocalyptically feared: gunshot, vomit, blast-off, explosion, masturbation, shit, monologue, slammed door. But also what offers no resistance: apathy, surrender, diarrhea, alliance, complicity, anal sex, payoffs.

 

I don’t care what you think. Logic, reason, dialogue are inherently weaker than solipsistic rant—and also impotent in the face of pure nonsense and farce. For the same reason: democracy is weaker than fascism to reach a goal. Survival is weaker than destruction. I compromise my revelation when I listen to what you say. I weaken myself by asking for directions. I stand on the balcony, speaking in tongues, gesticulating wildly, foam-flecked lips and dilated eyes fixed on cold nothing. I am pure speed, one-way velocity.

 

The probability that I miss the target increases dramatically the slower I travel. The more I listen to what you say, to what I say, the more chance I have to survive.

 

Or I may just as easily be a formless jelly: a goop that can be molded into anything but that eventually dissolves its mold to form a shapeless puddle on the floor. I am a running sore, an oozing sore. I listen to everything: I am a tape recorder that plays back everything but that repeats it in a funny voice. I am a closed system. 

 

Either speed and fanaticism…or its polar (cold) opposite: the reverse acceleration of decay. Either a steel death mask speeding forward at 800 m.p.h. decapitating anyone standing in the way or a camouflage camaraderie that insinuates itself parasitically into your system and may well be as unconscious of itself as it is duplicitous—and, best of all, even  unconsciously duplicitous

 

I am ferociously opportunistic: hand out, bent-over, the ultimate company man. I attach myself to anything. I am a free radical whose receptors are an indrawn suck.

 

I am a double-agent flip-flop unknown even to myself. I burrow down quietly into the meat of any-body, an anti-body, gnawing away in a cocoon that may just as well be called an encapsulated pustule because it signals the onset of the only thing that can possibly emerge from within such a hothouse sickroom chamber: the rabidity of decay, of shambling monstrosity.

 

I am the symptom of an outbreak of an unnamable disease when it is too late to cure.

 

The possibilities of solipsism as an anti-systematic means of ecstatic personal de-construction need to be encouraged.  Autism, catatonia, senility, dementia—these are all other words for simulations of a privatized paradise beyond the out reach of reason, colonialism, oppression. 

 

A unicellular revolution: I mutate as does a cancer cell—the metastases begins in singular solipsistic disregard for community.

 

Religious mystics have always practiced and recorded the solipsistic meltdown. One might reasonably suspect that “human” beings in general are always operating by solipsistic programs. They only pretend to abandon solipsism when they come in contact with other “human” beings and find themselves under propaganda pressure to act “reasonably” and “responsibly,” in other words: to survive and respect the survival rights of the other.

 

Cooperation is mass denial.

 

We know, after all, only what we know.   What consensus reality might we destroy by the encouragement of a voluntary and deliberate descent into solipsism? What systematic crash and short-circuit might an anti-strategically weapon-grade deployment of solipsism cause on every level if it were only acknowledged for what it already is: the state of things as they actually are?

 

I dream of a nation of Alzheimer’s patients, of everyone forgetting how to use a fork. Everyone, for instance, will have their own private word for “shoelace.”

 

Is solipsism “merely” a dead-end? What does it really mean for something to be a “dead-end?” Who marked the roads? And what if one does not heed the sign? What if one goes beyond the “dead end”? Where are we then? What are they hiding?

 

I am a maggot-form at the center of a suppurating Slop-ism. I only half-digest and vomit what I half-ingest and vomit and then I half-ingest it to vomit it again, ad nauseam.  

 

I keep nothing that doesn’t make me incessantly wriggle

 

I am unburdened by any facts.

 

While you assemble your arguments, refute or insult me, defeat me point by exhaustive point, I’ve already cut out your lower intestines. Your head is still talking but now it’s on a pike, your body has already collapsed, an empty shit-sack that the rats are poking their pointy snouts into.

 

You don’t hear over your logic-drone, the incoherent buzzing of the flies. I am covered in your blood and shit, dancing like Shiva, all snaky arms and legs, destroying and creating illusions, grime and stars beneath my toenails, emphatically pointing here and there at nothing, a dervish of misdirection, tongue lolling out, adorned with a necklace of skulls: I am a cross-dressed Kali.

 

I am a poisonous gas, ejaculated seed—uncontainable. I get all over everything. 

 

Solipsism, like glossolalia, is “holy.”

 

When what I say doesn’t make any sense, when I refuse communication but won’t stop talking, I approach the “truth” about the incoherence of everything.

 

Does this make communication impossible? Is communication even possible to begin with? Have you ever truly communicated anything to anyone? How do you know? Who cares? Do you think I have any interest in what you say?

 

I make sense only when I vomit.

 

What is it that you could say to me that would really make any difference anyway, that I won’t assimilate into a form of what I already knew before you even opened your mouth, your teeth clenched, holding back your own vomit?

 

We are only puking at each other. Look at the mess we’ve made.

 

Vomit is the incoherence of everything: it is a universe of hard nodules, foul chunks, seedy slime, of the indigestible. I am full of poisons, toxins, lies, half-truths. I want only that which will make me puke better my own puke. 

 

I read and listen and watch like an industrial cannibalization project: everything is “merely” raw material for conversion to the energy that is required to fuel my own insatiable maggot-hunger for a private regurgitation. That’s it: I eat to have the energy and material to excrete.

 

I am a wasteland producing machine moving across the plains of serious (survival) discourse sowing non-sense: behind me are uninterrupted nothing-fields of solidified puke.

 

Solipsism is like a magick spell: all magick incantations are solipsistic.

 

All texts upon which magick spells are inscribed are wastepaper, useless, spoiled and soiled like used toilet wipes or tissues crusted with dried ejaculate, the moment following orgasm.

 

The written spell, like pornography, is only valid at the one-point: the instant when the incantation reaches its zenith, its orgasm-flash. After that, it’s garbage.

 

What you are reading now, for instance, is nothing but a dead cum-stain. All magicians are self-contained systems, closed universes, laws unto themselves, solipsists.

 

The solipsistic text is not lucid any more than the terminal series of images bringing one to climax in an act of sex magick or ordinary orgasm is lucid: these spells are intended only to achieve certain limited results, and success or failure is defined in a fiercely autocratic personal manner without any consideration for proof by repetition or the outside whatsoever.

 

If I orgasm, the text is a success.

 

If anything at all, it’s the unapologetic manner of solipsistic composition that may be of objective interest to the outside world, that may “communicate” something to an audience, but only incidentally (the way a knife is of universal use as a murder weapon, for instance, but the victim is always personal): I have ultimately nothing to communicate but method, and that only by accident. 

 

This is the way I stab.  

 

The outside world, the hypothetical readers of my text, are only innocent bystanders: the “accident” itself concerns only the actual participant, which is to say, the perpetrator–and not even any victim.

 

This text is a crime that goes unpunished. I am my sole audience: I write like I masturbate. I write like I commit murder.

 

Solipsism is a sentient terminal disease with neither love nor hate for its host. Solipsism destroys itself as it destroys what it feeds upon: a parasite without past or future.

 

Solipsism is a parasitical present that erases itself and leaves no trace.

 

The solipsist is the ultimate escape-artist. Solipsism is the ultimate escape, a disappearing act, the chains and padlocks and straitjacket left behind.

 

I write like I commit suicide—and every text is a suicide note but what I’m slaughtering is the world.

 

Solipsism is a murder-suicide pact between me and the world.

 

Solipsism is the autoerotic intimacy of a fatal single-car accident.

 

Solipsism is whatever I say it is.

 

I am dead to you.

 

When you read this text you are performing either an autopsy or an act of necrophilia. You are scanning the front page of a supermarket tabloid announcing the birth of alien twins destined to become the saviors of Earth to a raped and martyred Jennifer Aniston shown naked and dead nailed to a cross in the Nevada desert: there is not even the pretense of truth to this story.

 

And if I’m wrong and love can exist between one person and another, love without vampirism, equations, and the calculation of needs, but true love as we often imagine it—then life, and all the consequences of our mortality, well what of it then? It would truly be an agony too horrible to bear.

 

Ha! There are jokes that only the Gods can laugh at.

 

I hang my head.

 

It is done.–Jesus Christ.