Where do our interactions take place? This is the first question we must address, and rapidly: they take place on forums, in corners, in cafes, in sex lounges, in male-female interactions, in bars, in restaurants, with professors, with peers, with friends, with acquaintances. They take place mentally, against the self, for the self. They take place in fantasies of the widespread mass, in dreams of the herd. They take place in self-fantasies of the projected onto the sky, onto the page, onto the newspaper. There can be no doubt that these interactions must be deemed non-trivial, or sexual, social. Penile. Regurgitory, biological. Reproductive. Survival-oriented. For the propagation of genes. They form the basis of who we are, what we are, how we feel, whether we are accepted, whether we are loved. They form the basis of our acceptance into the herd, our reputation as eating, living, breathing, shitting animals. They form our future, our social survival.
They form our self-concept and idea of ourselves with relation to our self-respect, self-identity, and self-esteem. Are we respectable? Are we strong? Are we good? Are we helpful? Are we loving? Are we contributing? Are we benevolent? Are we cool? Are we sexy? Are we funny? Are we likable? Are we popular? Are we respectable? Are we admired? Are we smart? Are we influential? Humanity of animality.
Now, to address the question of the corner where the animals play and fight, and snuff and toot.
These are the questions we must ask. What are the centrifugal relations and causes of the forces which drive us between and over, around and under these bestial modes of intellectualism? What are these imbecilic strands in ourselves which desire for us the color of a bright new suit, or a loud piece of music blasting on our stereo, or perhaps even more the staunch rejection of ourselves for the light of a picture seen by all? What are these things which make us reject ourselves?
There can be really no saying what these things are. It remains up in the air. Yet we can certainly investigate these strands with an eye toward their splaying out, their spread upon the carpet. We can play with them like little blocks and pieces of a bastardized and monstrous erector set. Here is what begins:
It is seen within a community that the whining beasts bray and stampede with great force upon the ground, their hooves tremble the dirt and shake the trees. The force of their stomping and the loudness of the puffing breaths and bleating will always alert us to their presence in the community. Simply seek out those who bleat the loudest and formate the collectivity under a bleating, heavy handed breath which croaks and blusters over morning heat. Here you may find and seek the collectivity unified.
But what can be done to counteract the large hooves of the stampeding monstrosity? What can be done to question and beget the rearrangement of the bastard monstrosity?
Here we see the essential arrangement as that of a tribal stomping. The tribal honking and hooting of the wig, of the feathers worn. The display of a large wreath on a tribal forehead. The loud hooting and tooting of wondrous and multicolored toots and pricking of bongo. This is the only explanation for a mind which is warped to where it cannot look and see what it sees, to a mind which denies its own perceptions. The stomping, wrangling, violence of a hooting and tooting tribal dance. Pre-human. Pre-history. This is our inheritance. This is the play-doh with which we are forced to work.
So, does one know how to dance? Does one know how to toot and jig? To stamp and stomp, huff and hoof? To puff about like a beast in the morning heat? Such are the questions one must ask. Does one know how to regurgitate, parrot, clamber over another to bleat out repetitions? Does one know how to hoof, stomp, puff, and toot? Has one mastered the art of snooting puffs from yonder heavy sacks, heavy barley naps across one’s back?
Fear not. These are not essential questions. It goes without saying though, that they may come back to haunt us all if we are unable to openly and relentlessly confront them. Have we the puffing, snorting feathers we need? Have we the bongos to pick and the breath with which to toot?
Can we stampede? Can we stomp our hooves while wearing feathers? I merely ask such questions as a posing of a question against an endless and stark background of cold ground and cold weather, preceding a coming heat of a morning ahead.
I would like to address now the question of clownisciousness (both clownishness as something observed and known, and the very fundament of clownhood/”dismissability” inherent to the word itself).
It has been said that yonder portfolio has perchance once or two times considered a “clown” in a space. That is, a mad Briar, a shouting, collapsing buffoon.
It has considered a drunk, a screaming wretched dandy. It has considered hollering, dusky bozos scrambling in the dark for a loose pill and huffing it into their pockets with a wild eye. It has considered laughter in a hallway screaming out through a sunroof into the blue sky where a bird flies overhead, watching below with disinterest as it all passes. It has considered the plight of a bozo with paint whose stomping failed, whose pail is full of cement and whose tawdry locality is gestural yet devoid of joy. The question here then becomes, how can a clown throw off his paint and find sexuality? How can a clown become sexual – in the act?
This cannot be called serious research. Sexuality is the least funny thing in the world. Pure sexuality. The sort where ice slides down a back, a woman groads and the man yonks himself forth, or bites, and a sense of passion. There is little sense of snap-crackle yaw-yawing that can be found here, one argues. Whereas, the most hilarious things we can conceive are almost always clownish to some extent, at least for those of us perhaps less restrained by the molecule of the toot. Humor for us is something which bursts off like a flash, blasting out of an asshole and all convention, completely obliterating all pretension, if at least momentarily. Yet such humor always risks the pail which cannot find itself again, a barren pail. With this, we must consider the possibility of re-sexualized clowns. Or a clown that is sexual. How can a clown be sexual? In public, a clown’s job is to make others laugh. Yet, at once, a clown can also be sexually appealing, displaying his paint suggestively, not only to other clowns, but to those in the front row who are curious about his colors. But beyond this, what kind of clown can truly captivate an audience, not simply a few stragglers who are open and sexually aroused prior to their arrival?
So, we have a good idea about clowns. Yet we remain up in the air about the clown-genocide that is sexuality. We cannot seem to wrap our heads around a reconciliation of the two. Here I draw out a conceptualization of sexuality, dark, deep, wet, covered up, and hidden. The unfunny sexuality of passion. This is not a blasting, but a sauntering, a smooth glide, less smooth than rough. Not quite slipshod, but certainly not collected or controlled. Men may glide in like hawks yet under the covers we see something more, something passionate. Breathing that is out of control, hoffing, puffing, yet from the pleasantries of the act. Perhaps this is in itself the problem, for the huffing and puffing of the imbecile has been combined with the feeling of joy, and eventually a return to base-status which is the clownblast at the end. I am curious about this clownblast. Is this the moment where the inner clown returns? Where did the clown go during this time? My conclusion is that the clown was prohibited. In what sense did the clown “continue on?” What did the clown want? How did the colors of the clown shift? From red and yellow, sparkly, green, purple, felt… to dark blue, brown, black, grey, silver.
In this sense we must now consider the possibility of a pre-clownbast pose that is composed of a different color and movement of both the staunch way and the prefabricated way. This way we can come to recognize a tooting/hooting that might calibrate itself toward less of a notion of passion, and perhaps more of a notion of reality. The clown whose grey and green mix, whose sparkles and blue spots shift in and and, red spots and silver lines intertwining and vibrating at high speed. A colorful and disjointed clown whose blasts hoot in and out, whose color patterns shift and enjoin. The ice slides down, the teeth nibble, they saunter and glides, disjointed, yet groad upon themselves, grind and hoot, there is a sense that the covers and pressures are blundering in some manner. Yet all the same, the passion and heat remain continuous.
But the reverse, a clown who brings passion to his performance? A clown whose silver lines sparkle, red spots move in and out, blue hues and traversals moan and press, a pressure inside and out. A clown whose covers saunter and blunders at once. Herein lies our most wondrous clown of the future.
hate crime silencio 