namely a hundred “schools” of political, philosophical and literary subversion, there is one word, one thing that remained upright, a value that remained unchanged, which preserved despite all its excellence, it is the word and the thing spirit,
the value attributed to the spirit,
the value of the thing spirit,
as if it would be enough to pronounce this magnetic word ,
as if it would be enough to let it spring up in the corner of a page for everything to have been said.
As if it would be understandable, indeed,
as a principle and as a substance, that the spirit is the innate notion, the model value,
the top word,
that from this point on, the old atavistic automation of the animal called man would cease to be adrift.
Because the stretcher would securely be in place.
Everywhere it was undeniable, after, I do not know how many, years of Cabbalism, hermetism, mystagogy, platonism and psychurgy,
that the body is a child of the spirit, which seems to be its expansion,
the melange or the magic pile
and that we can not perceive a body that is not, at the end of the natural course, the culmination of a dark conjugation of the spirit with its own power, the limit of a path selected by the spirit itself during its course,
as if there could not be a body, if there wasn’t the spirit somewhere,
as if the condition called body, the thing we call body, would be substantially and naturally inferior to the mode spirit and emanating therefrom.
As the body was the chariot and the spirit, the horse, led by another spirit called coachman.
As if the body is the factory workers and the spirit, the boss, which has devised the chaining of the workers in the production process.
As if the body was the body of all the soldiers killed under the orders of this great spirit, of the General, sending them to be slaughtered.
As if it were self-evident for life that the body is this stinking substance in which the spirit makes its foot bath, as a Capuchin washes his boots into the bloodbath of war.
And the body has just to shut up.
I would like to see the body of a spirit to organize its future cemeteries.
But before that, I would like to talk about the nightmares.
Funny inconsistency, isn’t it?
To go so suddenly and brutally from the spirit to the nightmares.
The nightmares come from the skunks, of all the body deniers,
of all those full of spirit, practicing magic to live and who have experienced nothing but spirit, namely magic.
Without supporters of the purity of spirit,
the pure spirit as the beginning of things and God as pure spirit,
there would be no nightmares.
And everyone of course, since the existence of the earth, have to complain about a nightmare, to accuse, when they wake up, that tortured them at night, without giving it more importance,
without paying attention to the seriousness of the event.
They do not know that the nightmare is the entrance of absurdity from the void,
anarchy in the normal logic of their mind,
the venom thrown on affluence, an interference from the bottom upwards, that it is the drop of hate of another, flowing in their evening respiration, instilling a nymph of spirit, a tear of pure spirit silently introduced to their body, by everything that is weakness, absence, void, hate, illness or desire.
The nightmare then, for the majority of sleepers on earth is but a nice story to tell when they just jump out of bed.
Something like a short story by Edgar Poe, Herman Melville, Hoffman, Lamond Fulke, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Lewis or Chamisso,
whose dream provides the material allegedly for the depiction of life,
but they do not suspect,
they do not perceive,
that some people are methodically searching, inside the dream, a way to end life, to acquire themselves life, at the expense of the distorted anguish of the sleeping that they have dominated.
In what way?
By taking advantage of the human sleep,
from the relaxation that sleep offers to humans, to uproot from the normal flow of the molecular mode of existence of a man, a little slice of life, a small sanguinolent network of people who will serve them to feed their own lives.
A nightmare is never an accidental event, but our own calamity , let loose by a whore, from the mouth of a vampire who finds us very rich in life and who creates, with some drips of interactions in our thoughts,
catastrophic gaps on the routes of breaths of our sleeping body which thinks it has escaped from the worries.
So it is men who create these nightmares, but these men are spirits who wanted to remain in the spirit without going farther in life.
And what is the spirit?
The spirit truly.
I mean beyond philosophy.
And why the body to originate from the spirit and not the spirit from the body?
Why the spirit to contain the values and the body simply considered their shabby dwelling, their physical incarnation?
As if there was ever a mystery called incarnation.
What is the link between body and spirit?
If we think well, none.
Because we know what the body is, but the spirit,
who said that it was the beginning of that from which springs everything there is to life?
It is the spirit that has the data.
In this is that we see the ideas, these maternal breasts from which everything that has energy feeds.
But you piss us off, Plato. And you, Socrates, Epictetus, Epicurus, Kant, even you Descartes.
Because we can easily reverse the problem and say that the spirit would not have existed, nor the values and its data, if the body, that spread them, wasn’t there, while the spirit, always being immobile, just liked looking at them, expecting to sodomize them from the first moment.
Since without the authority of sodomy, the spirit would no longer have remained with nothing but to empty the earth and the great void of planets, which Plato, this sorry sciolist, thought someday that was furnished with ideas, that nobody ever met .
Because the spirit is claptrap, a scam.
A kind of haunted smoke which does not live but only with what it sucks from the body, to make strugglingly a movement and not a thought or a hypothesis.
Because what are these thoughts, assumptions, values and qualities?
Concepts without life implemented only when the body expels them, creating a great sweating to force them to leave it.
Because the body does not ever need to determine what it did.
Without the body’s daily functions, no thought would ever be born and it is not from the body that it is born, but against it, on the occasion of its own movement, whose thinking, namely the shadow, wanted to live on its own, under the influence of so-called spirits.
These exiled airy-fairies who wanted to acquire substance without toiling to obtain it.
When someone doesn’t have a body and is a nothing, when he hasn’t yet breathed, terrible willpower is needed to manage to build such a body and conquer with it the ability to breathe wholly.
And this is not a matter of thinking, but of a terrible horror that it must overcome.
It is at this point that the great impostor died,
the great fucker by the flood of pure essences,
which as an authority and essence and with no body to resist them, is nothing but the hole of the eternal passage of every thought or hypothesis for existence,
pure spirit, shade and potentiality.
Too cowardly to try to obtain a body, the spirits, volatile gases, lighter even from every processed body,
they roam the skies or the void and the absence of life, their emptiness, their vast sluggishness limits them in the spirit.
Seeing the human body to predominate, they ended up imagining they transcended it.
To avoid being scorned and repelled by man,
They tried to attach to this void we call spiritual condition, to the castration of their body, male or female, in their inability to recognize anything that has life and energy, a dangerous kind of modesty that was based on the most stinking magic.
The spirit has never been anything other than the parasite of man, the canker that his body deserved, since it is nothing more than a bug that does not want to recognize the value of his life.
But how did just one day through these hideous abominations God sprang?
History never revealed this.
And I say, FUCK THE SPIRIT.
I am well aware, of what ravishing embraces of the brides the spirit resulted in prevailing over the body, which was anterior.
I know that what we call spirit is merely a paste without existence, that failed to become flesh, and to acquire a body and ensure its food, it relied on this which the living bodies would lose,
it relied on the bodies that it would draw blood from.
The body that works has no time to think and produce, as they say, ideas.
Ideas are just the vacuum of the body.
Interactions of absence and lack between two movements of illuminating reality, which the body with its presence did not cease to impose.
It’s not only that matter was activated before thinking,
it is mainly that it wasn’t activated,
it never went towards the place where the mental perception thrills, the place where life was manifested, dialectical or ratiocinative, the place where culture was able to start.
It is that the body has always existed,
the body, and its way of life and existence never had to do with the spirit or thought, not even with what we call soul.
The body is a fact that has no need of ideas and sensibilities, but which, from the depths of its funeral cave, it supervises the moment when even the heart does not have time to feel that it exists.
Which means that when I see Claudel [Paul Claudel (1868 – 1955): French poet and playwright, influenced by Christianity.] to seek the help of the spirits of the authorities of the century, I can still allow myself to laugh but when I see in Karl Marx or Lenin the word spirit, like the same and unchanged old value, when I see the invocation of this eternal entity as a reference point of things
I tell myself that there is grime and group sex and that God licked the ass of Lenin
and that it has always been this way
and that it’s not worth continuing,
it doesn’t matter,
a fucking account
which must be settled.