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.

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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.

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Fragments, & why to buy it.

Fragments is, the third written but first published of Jennifer S. Chesler’s four novels. 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 since the book had been massacred by a worthless agent & was not in its first form.

The book is brilliant & deserves recognition for its innovative nature. 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 can be ordered here at Lulu.

It is also on Amazon at this link.

A preview can be found on Google Books.

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.

 

The Philosophy of Extremism, Principle 2: Extreme Sex

Jennifer complained today that I, David, fucked her very intensely, and that the power of the pressure on her clitoris therefore led to considerable cursing and protests. Basically, fucking is done by taking one’s huge cock and using it with tremendous force and expertise. Jennifer tells David that she appreciates the atavistic bellows and roars, just as he feels that this is the point of the exercise, to surrender focus on utility, the exchangeable unit of measurement, the unit of pleasure or whatever, and exist the intensity of which Lyotard writes in his “evil book”, the absolutely unique irreplaceable.

Part of the point of the stories earlier about the deplorably inadequate exes is to demonstrate that none of these had mastered the art of fucking, or of general humanity, but got by through exploiting mental illness. This is why they were never loved. For example, French Little Billy Blond, who assiduously reads these blogs, can go fuck himself, and sleep with dust and memories. Jennifer tells us that he uses a form of Fleshlight. But these are for lonely, pathetic, older men, so we naturally ask ourselves why does Mr. Blond have one? In fact she now tells me that he has more than one. He has three, one for each orifice that he recognizes

It should not be forgotten that, in nature, it is not necessarily an animal’s right to fuck. Jennifer says that Blond once abused a frail gay man and was bottled, he phoned the police: that’s just weak. Low quality males, or females, are often rejected, and this is no problem to the better animals, since, let’s face facts, what the fuck are the rejected specimens going to do about it? The best should fuck, the rest can fuck off and die. Dysgenic fertility is already a huge problem.  Scumbags breed most readily.

I, Jennifer, mistook Principle #2 to mean that constant complaining during sex was not only good, but a turn on for David. I would say no, stop, you’re hurting me, when inside I was gushing with vaginal fluids. The more excited I got, the more biting the complaints became, such as saying, oh, you asshole. I came to learn over time that complaints were not necessary to keep this particular male member erect and that, indeed, almost the opposite was true. The more excitement I expressed, the more passion I felt, the more I continued to complain. One time David told me to shut up and slapped me across the face. That really excited me, so much so that I instantly stopped complaining. Indeed, he was harder than ever, a true lightning rod of unbridled pleasure.

Jennifer writes as though I don’t slap her around pretty much all the time, as one does, and as I just did a round dozen times while bruising myself around the os pubis, and producing a symphony of sluttishness from her frail form. She writes as though she would not be enormously pissed off if I refrained from so doing. Anyway, if men with small dicks breed, we will ultimately see an accursed race of humans who develop midget wangs. The clitoris will become insufferably arrogant, and Jennifer will be able to crush me (I, Jennifer, am related to the Incredible Hulk, which enables me to wind David quite severely when I lie flat on top of him); whereas now, with my use of the techniques of extreme sex, I am able to lift her by the goddamn snatch with one hand and hold her up in the air, which really does provoke cursing, even if my grip gets all slippery on account of the enhanced flow of secretions.

Again, with extreme sex, Jennifer is obsessed by showering before i eat her out, since the vagina is assumed to smell and taste funny, which it doesn’t. There is no particular pong attributable to the snatch. I attribute that particular piece of bullshit to religions, even influencing atheists such as Jennifer, since it influences the whole of society. The Christian pedo rapists, and other practitioners of retarded voodoo, disapprove of the snatch as being a residence of devils and general naughtiness. She also seriously believes that I give a shit if she happens to be bleeding like a stuck pig. As a vegan, I appreciate the nutritional supplement, and am not obliged to chew coal for iron.

Really, it is impossible to be more extreme than I have been. But I’ve never met a man who would eat me out and earn what used to be called their “red wings” by lesbians, the term having been used once by Hells Angels, though the latter are more advanced than the lesbian community. Maybe this is because I was a lesbian for a while, women shying away from blood like most straight men. However, it is common practice for lesbians to perform oral sex on each while one, or both, has a yeast infection. No, the cottage cheese discharge is no breakfast treat. Some lesbians even put their yeast discharge into glass vials and display them on the mantelpieces in their homes. The scent emanates from the vials like a sweet perfume in the nicer homes of such cities as San Francisco. I have turned my nose on the whole mess, and tell David he can lick me anytime. We were going to ask some lesbians in the grocery store, but David bottled out when they stared at his trousers, licking their lips and giggling inanely. The excitable one started running round in circles.

Extreme sex, it must be noted, does not require an extreme cock or extreme pussy, but we do not really know what women with gaping vaginas and men with small cocks do to get off in an extreme fashion. Quite frankly we don’t want to know. It’s like whether the crack babies are laughing or screaming; who cares?