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SYNERGYZINE V SEX & DEATH
©2009 SynergyZine
Dedicated to
Benjamin Merrill & Don Fucking Steele
Our bright sons burnt out premature, we stand gaping at the wake of their implosion. They have become the songbirds that whisper “now� in our ears. They have become the hands that clasp us together. They have become the horizon, and we draw closer to them with each step.
SynergyZine V: Sex & Death Table of Contents Cover by Jeremy Atkins
Page:
Title:
Artist:
4
howisdeathlikesex
Jeremy Atkins
5
Sex & Death Introduction
Michael Warren Grant
7
Flora 1
Daniel W-B
8
Grim Figure
Jessica Pons
9
The Virgin
Jessica Pons
10
Orchestral Orgy
Jeremy Atkins
12
Your Pen
Elia Vargas
14
Lifestrips: Research
Marc Seestaedt
18
Zombies
Pam(tastic!) Benjamin
20
Animal
Valerie Chavez
22
Ghosts of Sexual Present
Jeremy Atkins
23
Inter
Jeremy Atkins
24
In Vino Veritas
Rickey Lee
31
Inside
Amelia Sandy
32
Medooser
Jarrod Rasalas
33
Tension
Shari Wargo
34
Rorschach Afterlife
Jeremy Atkins
37
Thud
Valerie Chavez
38
Seduction
Daniel W-B
39
Allied Spotlight
SynergyZine
40
Credits
SynergyZine
Founding Editor: Michael Warren Grant Contributing Editor: Rickey Lee
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" Ho wi sd e a t hl i k es e x ? " *
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" Aso u rmo l e c u l e sp e n e t r a t et h ee a r t h , o u rs p i r i ti mp r e g n a t e st h eu n i v e r s e " *
SEX & DEATH Sex and Death - Interwoven concepts that constitute two sides of the same coin. Would you, if given the chance, exchange that coin for immortality? For
single-celled
organisms,
that
exchange has already been made. Our single-celled precursors never aged, and with food and protection, never died. It was only with the development of a new duplication strategy that death became inevitable – that of sexual reproduction. From a genetic standpoint, our bodies and minds are mere tools of reproduction, a conglomeration of somatic cells that are, once we have passed our genetic material, expendable.
In 2002, three scientists
earned the Nobel Prize in Medicine for discovering that our cells actually commit suicide,
breaking
our
bodies
down
purposefully and paving the way for the
next generation, in a process called apoptosis – or, “dropping off.” According to Richard Dawkins, the cultural memes that exist within each society are also a form of “cultural genetics”, that we pass down in lieu of immortality, such the spoken and written word, illustration and artwork, and in recent times, video and audio recording; all means of offsetting our perpetual cycle of sex and death. Symbolism of Sex & Death The concept of “le petit mort”, or “the little death”, is a metaphor for orgasm first coined by literary critic Roland Barthes. It describes “the spiritual release that comes with orgasm, or a short period of melancholy or transcendence, as a result of the expenditure of the ‘life force’.” Our unconscious seems well aware of the biological relation of sex and death, knowing at what cost each orgasm comes,
and feels both sides of the coin when one side is rubbed.
We can only hope that
death also strokes its counterpart. The concepts of sex and death are intertwined
in
numerous
ways:
the
dissolution of ego that accompanies the acts of both sex and death; B.D.S.M., which introduces elements of pain, i.e. death, into the sexual act; pop-culture’s obsession with vampirism, and finally the possibility of lifethreatening STDs or abortion resulting from sex. Lastly, I would like to refer back to Roland Barthes, who said that the feeling of “le petit mort” should be the chief objective of reading literature – we can only hope that is your experience here. Wishing you a deathly little orgasm in every piece, SynergyZine
Orchestral Orgy "What is sex?" "The union of opposites. The merging intersection of counterparts...co-constructing, creating something that is greater than the sum of the separate parts" "Like musicians jamming? The bass line fucks the drumbeat while the guitar riff fucks 'em both, creating something greater than the sum of the individual melodies." "Or an artist illustrating someone else's story, where the images seduce the prose and create a work that is greater than both."
"I guess then any type of collaboration or brainstorming is sex too, where one idea triggers the next which triggers the next and so forth until you collectively arrive at a point where one couldn't reach alone." "Right. The back and forth, back and forth. The building; the escalating through repetition." "Sex is also a simultaneous giving and taking. We become simultaneously selfish and selfless." "Selfless also in the sense that we lose our self. The disillusion of ego and self through the enmeshed fusing with other." "The complete synthesis of energy." "Thus, sex is synergy."
Your Pen Using your pen Leaves me inkless These are not the shattered frays Ripped up indispensable threads It is blood, and Saturating, it soaks The paper in your room Here I am Judging the judger, that Judge Penitent Who says to me that I am where I should be Nevertheless it constrains and suddenly This ink the instrument with which I write to you Is pumping hard a force It breaks Now I am liquid in pieces On your bed Staining white pillows and grasping for something solid Then explode
I said write with me, a poem On the docks and the moon spoke back She handed me your pen and we danced in words Now I am picking up the pieces in your room Fumbling in this liquid state Formless and full I know, and everything is true I am and always have been omniscient The knowing flows from your pen It is written on your walls Here I am Opening the box Here I am In a grateful state and the sun did rise To smile laughter sparks And nibble the edge of sage leaves Hoping that the elbows of time Those healthy crossroads Have just enough skin For the teeth that needs them Here I am In your room Looking for your pen to tell the truth Waiting for you to clean me up Just how I fell, in this liquid state‌
lifestrips. de
Zombies
My zombie ex-fucks litter this city. I can’t go to a bar anymore without rotten skin dripping into my whisky, (which is pretty fucking gross). Half alive boys drag their feet down 19th street, one is missing an arm. A tragic combine incident on the HomeStead left him for dead. Now he sips Bulleit from a straw. The ginger back bathes his decaying gullet. He left a finger for a tip.
I didn’t even know one was un-dead until he lost his hand in my vagina. It just broke off at the wrist, so I slipped a condom on his bones and tried to cum anyway. Oh, I did. Then left him for dead. My zombie ex-fucks groan and foam from open sores, I’m sure they wouldn’t tell the story even if they could talk. Communication with a zombie is more difficult than you think. So I will get another drink. And get another drink. And get. Another. Drink. ‘Cause I can see past death if I’m drunk.
Animal We let the cords of our bodies whip the song of everything that could not fit through our throats. In a corner, always in a corner, the walls were sympathetic. We tried—trying of the eyes, the hands— we tried. Strangling pause with each swallow, dirty rhythm of tongue and pulse: a wet habit to keep us circling, expecting. There were stains beneath our blanket of electrical claps. We never saw them. We never stopped to find their confused bodies, shapes of a loud, darkened tone.
It didn't mean that petals were dropped in our wake, that we were done trying to lather our love solid; it never meant that. We needed a living reminder. So we kept grabbing, pawing for surfaces thick with anything. We pressed our earth into holes; we waved flags in the night, white strings on sticks— but the child never came. The animal could never find a thing to claw.
IΞN T E R
The shovel was rigid in the cold earth but pressed its will against the resistance. The handle shook with each plunge but the tight soil was stoic and unimpressed. After repetitive, relentless thrusts, the dirt began to soften as the warmth from the blows penetrated the surface. The warmth gradually loosened the increasingly supple earth. The soil contoured to match the shape of the pounding shovel head. Waiting, wanting, expecting the next strike to render it deeper, softer and more complete. The digging grew faster, stronger and frenzied as the shovel sensed that completion was near. Two more brutal plunges into the deep, dark earth and the shovel tightened to a shivering halt. Its work finished, it collapsed into the fresh grave.
In Vino Veritas
Some months ago, around the height of summer, I felt an artistic urge to record an amusing dream told to me by a friend and associate. These days, he is in the habit of calling this dream his “Inflatus;” clearly referring to the swelling effect it had upon his confidence and vivacity. Indeed, prior to it he was timid around his contemporaries, shrinking from social gatherings and working selflessly on his work at the palace archives. Only later did I find out that this behavior was not actually characteristic of him per se, rather the result of a particular ailment. The following transcription is his own truthful account of his miraculous improvement. - L. P. Pontifex Year 870 after the founding of the city.
Falernian wine truly is unequaled in quality and potency. Thank you, Pontifex, for bringing it. And since we’ve a spare hour before we depart for the theater, let us go to the balcony and relax. And if Lucia finishes getting ready in time, she may join us there as well. Here are the cups. I’ll pour. [We situated ourselves on the balcony under the shade of a tree and began to converse. Since he was in unusually good-spirits, I felt impelled to compliment him upon his apparent happiness, adding that Lucia, his wife, likewise
appeared more exuberant.] You know, Pontifex, you are right: she
and I are more cheerful than usual. It seems my recent luck has directly affected hers.
In fact, there is an amusing tale in
connection to that. Would you mind if I divulged a little? [Curious to see what he had to say, I agreed and politely allowed him to top my glass off with wine.]
Several weeks ago, I had a profoundly vivid and life altering dream. It began simple enough; I was walking through the Forum. The temples, arcs, and statues rose high above, much higher than in reality. I was staring up at them in wonder, when suddenly a crowd of people poured in from all places and gathered around me. No one spoke. Instead, like birds of prey their eyes were focused intently on – how can I say this without sounding facetious – on the fold in my toga, where tucked underneath lay my male-member. I began to identify people in the crowd. There were my grandmothers and their kin, palace scribes, and various superiors of ours, such as Suetonius, the “Golden Apple” of the Imperial Court. At first they were merely transfixed, but then they began to engage me with questions designed to unravel the details of my sex life. I’ll give you a few examples, which I can recall; my grandmother asked whether she could expect a great grandson; there was Tubulus who asked whether I preferred a wife to a mistress; fat Crassus who asked if I found delicate women more
arousing than rough ones; Pavo the self-made-poet, asked if I liked rich boys instead of poor slave boys – as if I liked boys; and that boisterous wife of Rufus, Appia Asina, inquired what positions I took a liking too. Looking back, Pontifex, I’m aware of the reasons for their strange and rather bold questions.
That is, there was some
validity to their behavior. I’d like to get it out – I never expected to, but why not – another pour? – that since I arrived in Rome – enough? – I hadn’t been able to, you know, perform. It had been numb and asleep even during the most stimulating of occasions. Thankfully my most patient wife Lucia did not hold this against me.
It’s acceptable for an old man, but at my age, it is
humiliating… I’ve been as impotent, you see, as a granary mule. [I nearly inhaled on my wine when he referenced the mule, subsequently interrupting his confession.] I’ve caused you to smile
Pontifex. Probably, I should join. Humor does after all dispel awkward situations. However, before I loose the thread of my story, let me continue. From the increasingly agitated crowd emerged a centurion, who wore a suit of banded mail and plumed helm, under which I recognized his dim eyes and broad face. With an unexpected child-like giddiness he handed me a booklet, saying, “I have for you, my lord, an image of love the way every common man wants it. Let it be yours to imitate.” I quickly opened up the book,
expecting, even believing, that this soldier and his booklet might really have some clue to offer. Surely I’m a fool of a scholar to expect such miracles from books. Instead, I found on each page pornographic drawings, displaying various scenarios of Venus’s nighttime rompings; welldrawn but scant of dignity. In a desperate plea to arouse me, more books of this sort were brought. Even my grandmother offered an antique book on the love fests of nymphs and satyrs. Over time, the flaccidity of my interest became not just apparent to me, but to everyone.
Agitation and disappointment grew in
the crowd of my contemporaries. At point of climax – or should I say, anti-climax – many began to boo and others throw stones. Crassus immerged from the crowd and spoke on behalf of them, proclaiming, with his guttural and baritone voice, “Let Venus and her perpetual consort, Mars, bear witness to this weakling. We, his peers and family, can do nothing to inspire him. By your holy image, we’ve tried to excite him. But nothing will do; thus we must declare him impotent in his affairs.” He looked me in the eye, grimaced, and then concluded, “Therefore, we’ve decided to execute you on the simple and logical grounds that since you – at your prime and able age – haven’t the vital spark of life in you, and you’ve no apparent necessity to live. Let your position be filled by a man more in touch with his
contemporaries.”
After this, there were many shouts of
concurrence and, as if all at once, they drew swords from their togas and lunged at me. Like lightning bolts the blades struck my chest. I hit the ground and all went black. By Hercules! We’ve already nearly finished the first jar of wine. When I’m finished, I’ll go fetch another from the cellar. Let’s top off these cups and see if we can make them last until the end. Bear with me, this next portion presents a sort of ethereal backdrop, which might appear absurd, though in actuality, I am lucky to have encountered. I was woken from the void by words softly spoken into my ear, “The voice of the people is the voice of the gods.” There, standing before me, was divine Mercury himself, wearing his winged helmet and sandals and carrying the golden staff of intertwined snakes; the Caduceus. Around us in every direction stretched a primaterial darkness, limitless and indefinable, in which only Mercury had form and delivered light. We began to float steadily downward and, as if to answer an unspoken question, he began to speak. “The mob,” he said, “prefers wild and lustful hearts over modest ones, pleasure over self-denial; they always seem to enjoy a carnal showing of sex and death and are more appreciative of
clever wordings than utterances of truth. So it is. In spite of this, the only thing to sway them otherwise is amor.� We soon floated down into a vast cavern eerily lit by bonfire below. Light danced upon the uneven and rocky surface of the concaving walls.
At once still, then moving, glittering then
transforming into shapes, then reverting into shadow, I watched the luminescence with a sense of awe and mystery, wondering if this was truly the depths of earth or instead the recesses of mind. We touched down on solid ground beside the fire. I felt its warmth and stared into its flames, totally absorbed by its presence.
It was immediately clear to me that this was a holy
fire, not lit by man but by the gods. Mercury informed that me it was what Greek physicians call vital energy; the source of will, thought, and emotion. He added, just before departing, “Yours looks hungry.� When the fire had completely entranced me and Mercury and cave ceased to be, I found my surroundings changed and bathed again in sunlight. I stood in a kitchen near a cooking hearth in a house that felt like my own though it did not resemble it. On a table, I found a plate of sweet wafers, the kind we eat during the Saturnalia celebrations, and a cup of wine. The wafers had a special allure to them and I intuitively knew that these cookies represented the mob Mercury had discussed and those
from the Forum. As I began to eat them, I thought to myself, “Here’s a nice bite out of Pavo; there goes Crassus; let me savor Suetonius, and gobble Asina.” Washing these Romans down with a nice mouthful of wine, I perceived with profound satisfaction that I had stoked the vital flame within. This was accompanied by a sudden and defiant desire. A call came from another room; a woman’s voice.
Ripe with
longing, I went excitedly into the bedroom and found her standing by a window, half-clothed; a goddess as beautiful as a summer’s dawn. I approached her and with firm resolution embraced and kissed her. And she, showing her compliance, released herself from my hold, leaped like a fawn onto the bed and removed a cloth ribbon to let her wavy hair come undone… I’m guessing I mustn’t go on any further, only let me say: of my performance, like us mortals watching our carnal show, Pan, Jupiter, Mars and Mercury must have together smiled and applauded. That is about it Pontifex, the end of my dream. Only, I’m happy to conclude that I carried with me the healing-effect of this dream right into my waking life. Early that same morning and ever since, I’ve found myself refreshingly prone to arousal. And this, Pontifex, is why you find Lucia and myself in such a good mood.
Tension As the pounding hurtles to a flat pale back she screams her silence and he closes his eyes to feel life. Though he does not believe in the energy that warms their skin and caresses the spaces between them, it wraps him in its passion, and urges him to strike. They cannot feel their sadness nor frustration, and yet all sadness and frustration, rage and lust, tension and fear swallows them whole to feed their responses, keep them grasping one another to stay afloat. They are drowning in life, drowning in each other, sinking in exhaustion, and reaching unknown heights with the unbearable delight of sensation. They are up and down, left, not right, and the friction that creates movement, energy and existence – they are the tension and drama that keep life's wheel spinning.
Rorschach Afterlife
"What is death?" "Death is a mirror." "A mirror?" "It reflects your current condition."
"How so?"
"Well, there is no conclusive evidence about what is on the other side. Therefore, whatever we feel or think about death is purely a projection of our own state of mind - where we are in life at this point. How we feel about our self, about the world, about existence." "So people who think there's a heaven with shining angels are simply optimistic and quixotically hopeful?" "Those who truly espouse the whole heaven / hell paradigm are people who need external punishment / reward systems in place to compensate for a lack of a fully developed internal one. “ "What about those who believe in reincarnation?"
"Those who truly believe in it may feel that a single lifetime is not enough time to accomplish sufficient personal development." "I think death is the end. Pure and simple. Not even blackness...just nothingness - a simple return to what it was like before birth. So that means I'm depressingly pessimistic and bleak?" "Or spot on Zen" "What do you think about death?" "I was once under the impression that we were all going to hell. Then I believed I was going to be reincarnated into a praying mantis. Then I was of your belief that it was nothingness....Now I’m a strong believer in the law that says matter/energy cannot be created nor destroyed, only transferred. So I feel death is gonna be an incomprehensible transformation and manifestation of light, matter and energy.� "You must be a having a good week."
Thud
For DFS It was a hollow thud how it all started— last pump to make the body, final blood-beat, news-filled hammer— of what internal thud. The door slammed in our face; we heard the dead-bolt lock. They told secrets inside the walls. The hallway is crowded. We bump into lives, we wet the wood— thud. Outside it is autumn: the leaves quiver with the last of their orange, a whirling breath wipes lightly their veins.
SynergyZine: Allied Spotlight
This edition of SynergyZine, we were lucky enough to sit down with Katya Guseva, editor-in-chief of BIG UP Magazine, a San Francisco based mag that delves deep into the worldwide music and art scene. For the full interview, check out issuu.com/synergyzine and get all the juicy details of BIG UP’s origins, Katya’s midnight epiphanies and her views on the elusive topic of SEX & DEATH. And check out BIG UP’s website to wish them a Happy First Birthday!
www.thebigupmagazine.com
We’d also like to mention a very interesting project began by philosopher Richie Kim, called A Cup of Talk. Richie sits down with San Francisco folks and delves into the Philosophy of Love and Relationships, asking the questions that are on the tip of all our tongues, and getting the answers we all secretly know to be true. Check it out, you just might see someone you know being interviewed – and that could very well lead to some juicy secrets being divulged!
www.acupoftalk.com
SynergyZine V: Sex & Death Alpha Print
SynergyZine (Publishing); 2009 Printed in San Francisco, California by Copyedge Cover by Jeremy Atkins Type Font: Centaur and Calibri For submissions or issue requests contact: editor@synergyzine.com Visit our publication online at: www.issuu.com/synergyzine Website (currently under construction): Synergyzine.com A special thank you to all our contributors! To follow their work, please visit their individual sites: Michael Warren Grant – Founding Editor – feralgrinn.blogspot.com Rickey Lee - Contributing Editor : ploughandfeather.blogspot.com Jessica Pons : jessicapons.blogspot.com Daniel W.B. : flickr.com/photos/danielwb Marc Seestaedt : lifestrips.de Elia Vargas: PirateCat Radio DJ @ 87.9 FM – Mondays from 6-8 Donations & Sponsorship: Via Paypal: editor@synergyzine.com