Lusting for Eternity By Lucy May
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ftentimes, when people cannot help but to feel they are always drowning in the sea—which is their own mental makeup, of reality—more often than not informed epigenetically by the traumatic makeup of their lives, they begin to live with only one purpose in mind. Which is to fall in love with their experience of everything. Allowing them to live in whatever world it is, they are led to believe they have chosen to create e.g. this is the first pornographic icon that I sent in—as Mary Magdalene in ideation, to whom I’d like to call Lord Henry. But this same sentiment, of an all-inclusive love: can be unpacked into more meaning however, than the mere rhetorical reflections we are so used to often hearing: perpetually circling around in this day and age—of late stage, modern day capitalism i.e. it is what it is; we will see when we see etc. Rather, this purpose is more religious in its meaning and tone, and more similar to lines engraved within the commonly known, Gloria, Glory be to the Father poem i.e. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. Meaning—when one cannot break free—from the economic chains of, their own reality: clasped around their wrists, to supposedly tell the time—they will sever themselves free—and serenely, by surrendering themselves to, a solipsistic sense of divinity: serendipitously smiling back at them, wherever they have decided to have been chosen to be seen. So that they can kneel in heaven’s flames: with rapture inviting across their face—having discovered the secret, to a holy infernal love, and sense of spirituality: unfolding within everything. The shrine above: stretched of course, so I could display larger the result being made, when Art stretches past the point of a body’s breaking—its resolution that is. Because after the Lord had spoken to me about my pet name Lucy May being too sweet to be sullied by being listened to, (by which he meant, feminine) I told him I would prefer to go by then the name I would carve into my left thigh three days later: which was Dorian Grey. Which now shines whiter and brighter than I ever did, when I am cold. Unfurling as if they were petals: the thin silver blades the world had gifted me, from the hotel razor I had crushed under my feet—thus transforming my self harm into a child’s game i.e. He loves me,
Photographs courtesy author.
He loves me not, He loves me! (This nice of complimentary was as new to me as the DoubleTree chocolate chip cookies, served warm in the soon to be crumpled white bags in the hotel’s lobby like living room—as was later allowing the Lord to use an identical shaver, where the light had never been seen). But the other reason I went to New York needs to come into play, before I can lose myself while playing with myself in this story that I cannot let die (because it lives inside of me). And the reason is the Lord. Because he provided me the structure from which I was able to understand: what happened to me in New York and Amsterdam, and why it took me seven months, multiple and conflicting health diagnoses, a rejection and an acceptance of: modern day pharmacology, and a pilgrimage to Peru—to lose everything I once thought I had needed, in order to be happy—and the next year, to learn how to pick it all back up again. “Economics cannot be considered a science. It is a technology whose aim is the transformation of time into labor, and labor-time into value, and the transformation of our relation with nature into of scarcity, need, and consumption.” —Berardi, The Uprising, p. 76. I have added above: below my body’s libation— and what is now, this story’s only quotation (for in the first draft, lived Heidegger in his perpetual pondering of Essence, Bataille and his comparison of ritual sacrifice, with divine love, and David Foster Wallace: whose essay entitled “Big Red Son” was what gave me the courage to seek out the love I still so ardently seek) another photograph, of everything I honestly and accidentally snuck through the airport on my first trip to New York City. Where it all became like an ouroboros—or a prayer, as when I smoked that third night what I had confidently bought on the street, it made the shower dreamier and dreamier as I continued to bare my soul to reap. The cold metal hearts on my phallic like Osiris pipe spelling: I, Love, and [blank]: faded by my thumbs always frantic haste). It is important to note however, that Berardi’s concern in his book The Uprising: On Poetry and Finance is less the European collapse than its RFD 172 Winter 2017 45