ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR
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"A look around us at this moment shows what the regression of bourgeois society into barbarism means. This world war is a regression into barbarism. The triumph of imperialism leads to the annihilation of civilization." (Rosa Luxemburg)
Stories (126)
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INTP Mircea Cărtărescu's BLINDING (vol. 2): the body (translated from Romanian)
I no longer truly experience anything, even though I live with an intensity that simple sensations couldn't possibly convey. Even when I open my eyes, I still cannot see. To no avail, I linger rigid in front of my oval window, chasing echoes that slip away. As if my being extends beyond ordinary senses to myriad ways of knowing--each unique, each responsive to different stimuli: one sensitive only to my coffee cup's form, another receptive exclusively to the pattern of last night's dreaming. Another attuned to that terrifying whisper in my ears, heard distinctly a few years ago, as I was sitting, in a ragged pajama, with the soles of my feet on the radiator, in my room on Ștefan cel Mare Boulevard. I no longer register modifications of light, variations in the pitches of sound, the chemical composition of the carnation and the kitchen dishwater, but whole scenes swallowed instantly by a virtual sense, opened on the spot in the center of my mind solely for that glassy and transient scene like a wave of water, reacting with it, altering it, flattening it, invading it like an amoeba and forming together another reality, primordial and immediate, illuminated by desire and made obscure by peculiarity. It is as though it were the case that everything that happens to me, in order for it to be able to come to pass for me, surely it is something that must have happened to me already, as if all of it already exists inside me, but not fully formed or complete: rather, dormant, in shriveled little layers, rudimentary, coiled tightly within each other, somewhere in the brain's structures--but also in the glands, in the organs, in my twilight, and in my ruined houses--all waiting for confirmation and nourishment from the modulated flame of existence, which itself remains unfulfilled and embryonic. I no longer feel except what I have already felt once, I can no longer dream except dreams already dreamed. I open my eyes, although not to perceive color or contour--for light no longer refracts into corpuscles to traverse my crystalline lens and the translucent layers of my retina, no longer produces rhodopsin in my cone-shaped cells; instead, whole images manifest fully formed, sculpted directly in rhodopsin, and accompanied as if by an aura of sound's fringes and delicate strands of tastes and aromas, alternating icy cold and searing heat, of suffering and compassion, of a head turning to the right--an action simultaneously verified and questioned by my inner ear's cochlear knowledge. Entire neighborhoods materialize, each bearing their own time, their own space, and their own emotional weather, and especially their own degree of reality--because they can be actual or dreamed, or imagined, or transmitted via the ineffable filaments that connect our lives to those who came before us--lips and genitals arrive, and streetcars sliding along iron tracks during winters with filthy snow, my mother comes once in a while to bring me food, sometimes Herman comes. I wouldn't be able to understand any of this if it weren't being reconfigured, in another way, in my internal landscape (my world), if it weren't opening the ocular buds from there, unless I whispered to myself every moment: "I have experienced this before, I have already been in this place," just as you cannot perceive light if light hasn't already existed in the back of your mind's experience, cultivating the faculty for light within you. Hence, my life is but a life already lived, and my book one already written--for the past encompasses all, while the future is but a void.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR9 months ago in Psyche
Fortress Fantasies and the Sworded Self: A Psychoanalytic Glimpse into the Fantasy Lexicon of Mein Kampf
The fantasy terms extracted from the opening of Mein Kampf suggest a submerged narrative brimming with latent violence, wounded idealism, and compensatory grandiosity--what Freud might have identified as the language of a psyche still negotiating its earliest wounds. The imagery begins with "fortress imprisonment" and "relentless work," metaphors not merely of external circumstance but of inner structure--one imagines a child's psyche locked in a lonely keep, defending itself from an encroaching, perhaps chaotic world. Fortressness implies walls; imprisonment implies a crime, or at least a punishment. The author's symbolic self is simultaneously jailer and captive, judge and judged.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR10 months ago in Psyche
the end of VOLUME 1 of ENFJ Gogol's novel DEAD SOULS
Chichikov did nothing but smile, slightly rising and falling on his leather cushion, because he delighted in rapid motion. And indeed, which Russian isn't fond of speedy travel? How could such a soul, longing to spin wildly, to lose itself in revelry, to sometimes cry out, 'To hell with everything!' --how could his soul not love it? How could one not love it, when it carries a hint of something blissfully magical? It seems as if some enigmatic force has lifted you aloft, borne upon its wing, and you yourself are flying, and everything is flying: the miles sweep past, merchants atop their kibitkas [wagons] hasten to meet you, the forest streams by on either hand with somber files of spruce and pine, resounding with the axe's stroke and the raven's cry; the entire road rushes off to some unknowable vanishing distance, and something terrifying is concealed in this rapid flickering, where the disappearing object does not have time to be discerned -- only the sky above your head, the light clouds, and the struggling moon alone seem motionless. Eh, troika! bird-troika, who was it that conceived you? surely you could only have been born among a spirited people, in that land that cares not for jesting, but has spread out smooth and level over half the earth, and you may go on counting the miles till they dance before your eyes. And it’s no clever device, it seems — no iron bolts hold it together — but with just an axe and a hammer, in haste yet with masterful strokes, a resourceful Yaroslavl peasant crafted you, alive and pulsing. No polished German boots for this coachman: just a wild beard and thick mittens, seated on the Devil knows what, then, with a swift rise, a sweeping motion, and a song bursting forth, the horses surge like a storm, the wheel spokes spinning into a perfect, smooth blur, the road quivers, a frightened passerby cries out -- and away they go, thundering, racing, vanishing into the distance!.. And there, far off, something looms into view, trailing dust and piercing the air.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR11 months ago in Psyche
Soviet/Russian INFJ Maxim Gorky's The Life of Klim Samgin (VOLUME TWO)
In Spivak's recounting of the exhibition and the fair, Klim Samgin became aware that the tenderness he had once felt survived solely in his memory, having vanished as an emotion. He knew that what he was saying wasn't interesting. He was embarrassed by his desire to establish his own line between the exaggerated adoration of some newspapers and the grumbling cynicism of others, and besides, he feared falling into the rude and mocking tone of Inokov's satirical pieces.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR11 months ago in Psyche
The Stones of Instruction . Content Warning.
The air hung heavy outside the school, or what might have been a school--an expanse of cracked pavement framed by walls too low to keep anything in or out. I sat on a bench that seemed to shift beneath me, its wood splintering into my palms as if testing my resolve. Somewhere nearby, Amanda Palmer stood, her presence a shadow with no source, humming a tune I couldn't place but felt I ought to know. The sky pressed down, gray and unyielding, like a lid on a jar.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR12 months ago in Fiction
David Lynch's MULHOLLAND DRIVE
Mulholland Drive. I’ve never been able to entirely comprehend this film, although it’s one of my favourite movies and I’ve watched it countless times. Its last spoken word—“Silencio” (Lynch, 2001)—uttered by a strange blue-haired female being, is somehow supposed to put a conclusion to the tragic mystery. What follows is my attempt to make sense of what is almost universally regarded as an enigmatic, inscrutable, and nebulous work of art.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTARabout a year ago in Geeks
To Dream of Enceladus (Ἐγκέλαδος)
Beneath the distant canopy of Saturn's luminous rings lies a frozen jewel, the moon Enceladus, a sphere of pristine whiteness and secret depths. Here, in the shadow of celestial giants, humanity's longing for discovery finds a worthy adversary. Enceladus, with its icy plumes and hidden seas, calls to our restless spirits like the Sirens of old, daring us to pierce its mysteries. Yet before we can set foot upon this alabaster world, we must first contend with the tyranny of nature, as mighty and relentless as the Olympian Zeus who smote the giant Ἐγκέλαδος (Engélados).
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTARabout a year ago in Futurism
My INFJ Year of Empty Mountains
In the annals of my year, 2024, as I reflect upon the tapestry of my existence, I find myself drawn to these melodies and verses of music, each piece a mirror to the soul, reflecting facets of my own journey through the labyrinth of human experience.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTARabout a year ago in Beat
