Two New Extremisms

Here are two new pieces from our forthcoming The Philosophy of Extremism III – co-written with Jennifer S. Chesler.

Oh, little Jennifer 
In the differend, something asks to be put into phrases, and suffers from the wrong of not being put into phrases right away.
(Lyotard)

Daddy, my pussy burns from the cheap medicine.

It’s called “inexpensive”, and you need to get Daddy off faster to deserve the good stuff.

(What makes demands upon us is not the child as such, it is the words expressing themselves into a sense; she is the referent, the burning pussy is the referent, but there exists as given a disparity in power, an imbalance, where some are used. It is this that is the essence of which every haecceity can be seen to be a fraction. That about which the child remains silent is her desire, is the slow passage of time and her becoming. Daddy is never silent about nothing.)

Oh Daddy, where are the answers to my test?

Which text, little Jennifer? Look around my balls, ruffle the sac with your little tongue.

My pussy burns, I just peed again in the bed.

Oh, little Jennifer, I love it when you are special and hold your wrists all twisted and palsied.

I know, Daddy, it’s sexy. I’m a big girl and I am sexy and I know joined-up writing too.

Ice cream comes after come

When I went to school today, I told Sally how I drank Daddy’s pee from his big willy. She said that the last family that owned her would loan her out to their friends. One time they rubbed sick in her hair.

Daddy! Here was Daddy, in his brand new shiny red Silverado. He looked so handsome.

Is that your Daddy? Sally asked me.
He sure is, i said.

I went running up to the truck. He opened the door, slid over on the seat, and put me in the truck with him. I felt proud. I have the best Daddy in the world.

Jennifer, you know when we get home we can’t eat dinner without some white stuff first.

From your hard thing? I asked.

Yes, my rod. You can swallow as much as you like, if you’re very good.

As a reward, Daddy?

Yes, little Jennifer.

I can’t wait to get home.

Can I get an ice cream before we go home, Daddy?

You drink the white stuff first, and then we’ll see. It’s a waste if you get sick from gobbling my big rod and lose all the ice cream, isn’t it?

We got home very quickly, and sat on the couch. I was on Daddy’s lap. He put his arms around me and squeezed me around the waist.

No, Daddy, I said, and giggled.

He picked me up and put me on the wood floor facing his willy in his big pants. I knew what to do and started sucking like it was a popsicle. I was really in the mood for ice cream. He made some noises like he was dying and a poopy smell with a big fart too.

I had puked in my mouth, and swallowed it when his white stuff came out. I wanted to sit next to him but didn’t want him to smell it because he had warned me about it before, and I really wanted that ice cream.

Well, little Jennifer, wanna go to Dairy Queen?

I sure was happy. What a great daddy I have.

Advertisements

Not being dead yet

Here’s a new piece from our next & third volume of The Philosophy of Extremism, Fisting Fiesta.Until then, gentle reader, you are free to purchase the first two volumes of TPoE, Fragments, the masterpiece first novel by Jennifer S. Chesler, as well as various tomes of poems about her by scumbag scrivener McLean. They can be found at this link. Fragments is also available here at Amazon.

Not being dead yet

Chesler and I would assume the forms of flapping skin, night a pizza and Tammy, the sound of Daddy running his fingers over little Jennifer’s skin sleeping as she squirmed waking up and asking who mommy was and why she was dead forever and Jennifer sleeping every night in her bed.

“Daddy, she asked me, why is it big and swollen and makes my tummy slosh around inside me like it was sad?”

She would never be old enough to understand the obvious answer that it was because she would never be old enough to understand the obvious answer.

Jennifer S. Chesler

There are a couple of new posts on the blog of my wife, Jennifer S. Chesler. Here is Birth of a Portrait, & here is Little Jack.

These pieces are both drawn from Fragments, her book linked here from Nickle Hole Press. This is also available at this link from Amazon.

The book can also be seen in part via Google Books.

I have written three different posts about various aspects of the book further back in this blog.

d32f6-fragments2b22789807_cover

 

Jennifer S. Chesler

The blog of my beautiful & brilliant wife, Jennifer S. Chesler, is linked here.  Though most of the recent posts are often humorous collaborative pieces, the older posts include some tremendous texts that are included in her novel Fragments, of which I have written below in this blog.

Most exceptional among these pieces are perhaps:

Down and Out in Muncie, Indiana

& Bourgeois Dreams.

Having read these, you may wish to purchase the novel itself, which is here at Lulu or alternatively here at Amazon, if you like corporate multinational scumbags. Lulu actually save at least one kitten for every copy you buy from them.

Further Considerations Regarding Fragments

Further Considerations Regarding Fragments

In “Four Propositions on Psychoanalysis”, Deleuze does not consider psychiatry as such, but some arguments hold true of it in modified form, & relate to Chesler’s book.

Firstly, psychoanalysis stifles the production of desire. Psychiatry attacks the brain’s chemistry to render desire an achievement. As a victim of mismedication, Chesler writes of the mental hospital in “Down and Out in Muncie, Indiana” – as an artist, we do not want to stifle & conquer the alleged unconscious, we must produce it – & it is not easy to create this infantile world, but it is our duty. Fascist psychiatrists may believe that they mean well, but as Bukowski notes: there are no good cops. Chesler’s desire was stifled before then, deviated & suppressed, but it sought itself in art, it found itself in me. In the story in question, she is seen as surrounded by pointless ciphers, each of them barely human, vermin. The mentally ill, the Herr Doktors, & the fascist camp guards on the medical staff all played out their allotted roles, like all the unintelligent they were unable to be outside of their clearly delimited borders.

Secondly, psychoanalysis abuses language, it keeps people from speaking, it takes away the conditions of true expression, & thus it stifles utterances, that strive to be indefinites, infinitives, proper names of becomings. Psychoanalysis separates the expressing subject from the subject of the utterance, Chesler does not try to speak her “I”, except in the meta-level excerpts alluded to in the previous analysis of the work. She even masquerades this alleged “I” through the character “I” – she subverts the entire psychiatric/psychoanalytic subversion of thought by assuming the “I” as a proper name. The establishment uses personal pronouns as weapons; they are part of its rape kit. The psychiatrist sees the patient as part of an anonymous group categorized, in this case, as “bipolar I” – this is horseshit. Each of them, these various victims, is a unique name, indicating a haecceitas.

Thirdly, psychiatry, like psychoanalysis, destroys utterance & desire by a machine that interprets, & a machine that subjectivises its subjects. They, this enemy, tell you who you are. Chesler defies the process by the representation of an irreducible intensity, though this book is full of placeholders, wasting space while an equal awaited her unknown to her and myself unknowing, so the irreducible intensity is a failure & a sense of despite, of disgust, spitting arrogant hatred at eyes that are full of junk & nothingness.

Fourthly, psychoanalysis involves power relationships. Now this is doubly true of the psychiatric institution. Chesler’s current psychiatrist, whom we call Dr. Bunghole in our texts about him, is a moron who actually boasted that his IQ was 130 to her, as if this were impressive. This ludicrous arrogance stems from the fact that the branch of the police called psychiatry is a medium of social control. It exacts an enforced docility from the unruly bodies of the insane by the brutality of the anti-psychotic. Chesler narrates in another story in this collection, “Bourgeois Dreams” of a cretinous nurse who behaved like a camp guard, a scumbag.

Art should reveal truth, should indicate it & engage in the strenuous activity of thought, now at the “end of philosophy and the task of thinking” says Heidegger. At any point in our existence we should be able to forget the preconceived and conventional, and venture securely into the abnormal. This Chesler does.

The book is on sale here:

https://smile.amazon.com/dp/1387747967

Fragments, by Jennifer S. Chesler

Fragments is the third written, but first published, of Jennifer S. Chesler’s four novels to date. Fragments has the form of an anthology, but functions as a sort of aleatory novel, in that Chesler randomly ordered the texts when she first wrote them, & I, who ultimately edited the book, reordered it & added new pieces from her archives. The interconnection of the pieces is both thematic & linguistic, & unifies the novel regardless of the exigencies of ordering. This reordering was particularly necessary, by the way, since the book had been massacred by a worthless agent & was not in its first form. I write this since I am, according to the author, the only person who knows the back story to every piece.

The book is brilliant & deserves recognition for its innovative nature. Among many topics covered in the book are dog sex in the Phoenix area, the stupidity of the average American, the patriarchal nature of society, the worthlessness of almost all sexual relationships, & the author’s mental illness & poverty (caused by an upbringing in a hostile family environment &, later, a life among worthless scumbags as a consequence of a low self-esteem & “political correctness” in the sense of thinking that all humans have equal value, which they obviously don’t).

The book portrays the effects of defective child-rearing & a dysfunctional attitude to sexuality. A character in the book, for example, portraying male sexuality, assumes the form of a non-human mythological creature who is without language or intelligence, & exists solely as an inhuman form of generalized homosexual desire. He is totally without value, & this reflects upon the early experiences of the author with predatory & abusive males with a low mental status, the death of one of whom is described in the book.

There is an emphasis on nausea & anxiety & a description of how societal values together with familial pressure actually validated anorexia, giving vomiting a higher value than might be usual in more well-regulated households.

The effects of prostitution are portrayed, along with the fact that most marriages in the wealthier strata in the USA are basically a form of whoring. Some pieces are basically included to offend, & speak of prostitution as though it were acceptable on any level, although feminist consciousness is retained in the underlying tone of sarcasm, describing degrading & disgusting practices in a way that seems to normalize them. The people are egoistic & the fault with prostitution is the fault with much sex nowadays, according to Lyotard – everything & everybody treats what should be an incommensurable & invaluable intensity as though it were a unit of exchange.

The author uses direct quotes, & in every case the speaker is barely human: they are stupid, selfish, & without any redeeming features. The reported speech is full of colloquialisms & non sequiturs.

Among subjects ridiculed are the American obsession with veterans, dog masturbation (apparently used as a dog training method), the general stupidity of any pretense to knowledge in a country where dysgenic fertility is rampant & idiocy reigns everywhere supreme. Chesler was told as a child to conceal the fact that she was more intelligent than others, perhaps in case she would not be able to get a man. The men she encountered were so worthless & bad in bed that she became a lesbian, but the women were such scumbags that they were worse. One character, The Narcissist in the book, had a micro-penis to which he never alluded, such is American arrogance.

The whole familial & societal analysis bears traces of Deleuze & Guattari; prostitution represented a failed line of flight from the static familial constellation, this first line of flight was actually a flight to degradation that transformed into a retreat into perversion that was actually a retreat into intellectualist & literary perversity that became a successful line of flight – leaving the city, the family, the social to assume a nomad existence in a fictional world. Several pieces reflect this, the author writes on a meta-level, & gives advice to the reader in various fashions, each of which reflects the construction of an alleged identity.

A writer whom Chesler once interviewed is included, although the interviews were never published since they were so abusive & dismissive of the writer, who had written a childish book about BDSM featuring “advice” about “safewords” for people who don’t know what they’re doing. The short pieces in fragments are classic dismissals that mock the interviewed writer’s defective grasp of English. Chesler never met a real dominant, since there are almost none of us around, & the work in Fragments related to BDSM is funny in that the feeble nature of the egos of the participants is exposed.

One of the best pieces, written high on meth, describes dental work on, & sexy dentures for, stillborn babies in a dialog piece that resembles Plath on mothers in form. Elsewhere rhymed prose is used, some pieces have the form of doggerel poems, & the pieces have been ordered to reflect the structural peculiarities of the texts, & thus of the book.

The book can be ordered here at Lulu.

It is also on sale on Amazon at this link.

A preview can also be found on Google Books.

d32f6-fragments2b22789807_coverIMG_20180518_144307

The Natural History of the Cockwomble reaches Amazon

Now the second volume of The Philosophy of Extremism, or, The Natural History of the Cockwomble, by Jennifer S. Chesler & myself, has arrived at Amazon. It is on sale at this link.

We say of it elsewhere:

The book contains diatribes against various scumbags, a depiction of bad parenting styles, which are legion, and diverse perversities. For roughly the price of two frozen pizzas, the reader can sicken herself with these stories.

It contains elements drawn from the real lives of the authors, these are the grossest parts. We would like to inform the reader that Tammy is a real person, and she is very upset by the first book. It is our hope that this slim volume will please her more. We finally reveal her true weight, varying though it may be.

It is a book of singular virtue, curing as it does impotence & male pattern baldness. Rites invoking the aid & protection of Baphomet have been conducted, & the results are most auspicious. This book will make you hard, wet, or both.