Anterior Suicide & Other Tragicomedies

Here is the book Anterior Suicide & Other Tragicomedies by Jennifer Chesler & David McLean. It’s a collaborative collection of sick, twisted fragments, guaranteed to make you vomit or come, probably both.

 

anterior_cover

 

Advertisements

Jennifer S. Chesler

I have, by dint of consuming large amounts of coffee, spent the better part of three days editing & ordering two novels as well as a 200 page collection of shorter pieces by my very talented fiancée Jennifer S. Chesler.

I seriously believe that nobody alive is writing anything even remotely comparable to her work. I am enormously proud that she considers me worthy of her affections.

I hope that these collections reach print form swiftly, & her works will be read for many years. 

 

Down & Out in Muncie, Indiana

After being in a psychiatric ward & a suicide attempt, Jennifer S. Chesler describes feeling like she’s nothing. There is no nothingness, though, so ultimately one has nothing to say or feel.

Original post at this link, this is one of the pieces we put today in her resurrected book fragments. This is very intense, it’s basically autobiographical & I love her & am enormously proud of her. Here the piece is:

Homeless shelter. I could have had fleas, but instead I have hives. Everything is about me. There is no deviation from the pain of existence. I remain consistent in my efforts to avoid writing about it. I don’t write. I write nothing. I remain closed to my pain. I no longer have the same buffer against reality that I had when on drugs. I don’t know anything anymore. I know nothing. That is all I can say. Even writing this is difficult, and it’s not about anything. Listening to music hurts. Everything is a reminder of having had a home. I have nothing. I hate everyone who has abandoned me. I hate the world. A better way. This is where I am. The name is a euphemism. I have a typewriter in the corner, but I don’t use it. I have no paper. I have no home. I have no cat. I have nothing. These words get me nowhere. I am nowhere. I have nothing. I can say this with all certainty though I know nothing. Nothing is certain. My neck hurts from bad pillows. I can’t shower. I have hives. This is what I have. Hives. The kind induced by stress. I am allergic to stress. I am allergic to my life. I have nothing. My clothes are second-hand. My coat is a pimp coat. I went to New Jersey to visit my aunt, uncle and cousins. I wore a pimp coat there. It was embarrassing for me. I hate T. I hate my parents. I don’t have enough money for anything. I have nothing to do. I am unable to work. I am unable to do anything. I can barely write, barely. “I I I I I.” Everything is about me. The music I listen to makes sense to me, but I don’t know why or how. Nothing is the only thing that makes sense to me. The void of existence, this having nothing. I am at a loss for words. I write out of necessity. There is no substance. There are women with children and lovers getting out of prison. They need to hide. A better way hides them. This is the undisclosed location. I met the taxi at a McDonald’s. I was in the rain. Were you partyin’, she asks. What? Partyin’? Partying? No. Were you workin’? No, I was sleeping. Someone woke me up from a bad nightmare. It wasn’t a dream. I struggled to wake up. There was no other world to wake up to. I was amidst pure chaos. My whole being is called into question. I don’t know who I am anymore. Maybe I never knew this. Maybe I was staving this off for years, this fate of mine. I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I only know the pain of nothingness, of having nothing, of being nothing, of writing nothing. I am the pain of not knowing or being anything. None of my old friends associate with me. I am loss. I am pain. I am nothing. I am the remainder of an odd subtraction of being and nothingness. Sartre didn’t know anything either. I tried to kill myself twice. I thought I’d have been dead. Have been. I thought I’d get past this part. I thought I could get past the inevitable fate of the nightmare. I thought I could escape. I thought you were dead to me. Nothing self, you came back to me. She ain’t shit, she says. She’s nothing. I am nothing. I am not even shit. I don’t exist on a map. I come from nowhere. I go nowhere. I have lost everything. I can’t think of anything else. I am disgusted by myself but can’t shower. I smell like a homeless person because I am homeless. There are mice running about here. No one has seen any in the sleeping rooms yet, yet being the operative word. Yet. Not yet. There are not mice in there yet, not in the room where you sleep. The children seem to have gotten used to me though. Two of them will call me by name now. Since I went to New Jersey. I am disoriented. I have a shelter cough. I have hives. These are things I have. I do not claim them as my own though because these claims mean inevitable loss. Maybe I should claim them as my own then. I claim shelter cough and hives. These things are mine. Do say rape as well. Rape. Don’t say rape to T. Rape. The opposite of rape. Angel. She wants a distraction. Chooses the stripper over me. I want a distraction. I am the antithesis of possession. I am the antithesis of Angel. I have nothing and am nothing. I am the year of my birth. I am a newborn nothing. Sartre and Henry Miller were nothing. Chaucer was nothing. Nothing that existed exists now. The void of becoming. The apparent heir of nothingness. I am a newborn nothing. I repeat myself to save words. I am thrifty in my solipsism. I am alone in the mirror. I spell mirror in French. There is a remnant of my past. I would take you out with me. I would take you to the mirror and make you look at my puffy face next to yours. I would make us look at each other in the mirror until our faces turned blue like corpses. I would make you die with me, slowly and by part. First our faces would die together. Our extremities next. Our trunks last, and in our trunks the hearts finally. Not our hearts anymore, just the hearts. They come last. The hearts come last. There is nothing in the brains so they come first. We’ve been emptied of thought. We are death incarnate. We love ourselves despite death. We love our suicide attempts. We love you and hate you. We love nothing and hate nothing. We tried to asphyxiate ourselves with plastic bags taped around our necks. The suffocation was extreme. We stop ourselves from becoming. We are death. We are asphyxiated anyway, this time by existence. Life is a trap for death. There is only a wish for death. I try to stop myself from wishing for death, but I cannot wish for anything else. Death, yes. I want to come with you, into you. A lover for eternity, the rest of decomposition. I am everything and nothing. I am love and hate. I am nothing. I hate these words. I love these words. I hate and love everything. I hate Angel and T. I hate my parents and sometimes my brother. I hate them more than life itself. I hate life. I hate lists. I hate waiting for nothing. I am always waiting for nothing. I wait for nothing to end. There is no peace and death. I am forced alive by not killing myself well enough to die. I am a failure. I have failed to die successfully. I didn’t take all the pills in one go. I should have taken more. I had them. What was I waiting for? Two goes. No discernible death, only a semblance of it in life, the mired existence that remains in the traumatic aftermath of failed suicide attempts. I am nothing. I breathe even though I tried not to. The asphyxiation was too much for me. Why do I hate my brother sometimes when he has done nothing? Because he has done nothing but take me to the hospital. I didn’t want to go to the hospital. Once there I didn’t want to leave. I don’t understand myself. Someone got shot by his father. The inverse of patricide. It lives in me, the inverse of self-creation. I want to destroy myself fiber by fiber. I want to die. I want to stop existence and get off the bus. I am not waiting for a bus. I am waiting to halt it. I am waiting for the bus to crash. I wait for the waves to drown me. But there is not an ocean here in the middle of the country. I wait for nothing. No waves drown me. I want to leave the country. I have nothing. I am nothing. I wait for nothing. The ocean was a symbol for life. I was drowned by existence. I was nothing then as I am nothing now. I was always no more than nothing. I saw myself as interminably verbose. I was articulate. Now I look forward to bad potato salad, the kind that is sweetened. I eat Cheez-It crackers. I splurge on empty calories because I am empty. I am empty and full of shit. I lie to everyone about everything. I am running out of cigarettes. About that I can tell you the truth. I am even good at typing. I am even good at sitting in bed. I am even good. I am even good. One day we will laugh about the parson’s coat. I will not always look like a pimp. I will not always wear my father’s clothes. I will not cut off an ear or even two. Even two. Even two. I know nothing. I am nothing. I am the inevitable consequence of my actions. I tried to commit suicide. I understand your wish for death. I am coughing my lungs out over it. I spurt up my insides. I cough them onto your plate. Here are my lungs. Here is my heart. I have no brain to give you. But take my heart and lungs, please. Take them and run.

Creative Destruction

Jennifer Chesler, my hot fiancée, & I have been writing what we call pornoetry, filthy texts, because that’s the way we roll, motherfuckers.

Creative Destruction Press have been kind enough to accept five of these for publication in their forthcoming anthology Gutter, Grimy, Scumfuck, the title of which naturally attracted us Not sure when it’s forthcumming but submissions are not closed yet, so in a while

Not sure when it’s forthcumming but submissions are not closed yet, so in a while.