ANGELICISM.HORNY PART 1: Porn, Vore, Healing, Bearability

We get off more and more because we are going to more than die, otherwise pleasure would be static. Everyone wants to be totally fucked.

When it comes to ‘women’ it’s almost like the thought of them makes me want to invent a new religion dedicated to the internal beauty of matter. What I told myself my whole life was something like that horniness would turn out to be a deep admiration for how matter may matter by shaping itself into these amazing forms: the young woman, the girl, the flower, the adoration of the flower of the penis.

What is sexiness but the moment the eye recognises god has sculpted something unbelievable that, since it tips and whips matter in a way art never quite could, stands out and has a direct calling to and pull on the body? An erection is amazingly sexy or can be because it defies gravity and stands out, as if it says ‘matter can do this’ (I, the erection, am gravity and grace; I fall up) and the separation of the organ and the body becomes desperately relevant.

Leah Gotti, tattoo

It’s not that I’m not a woman or that I want to become a woman, it’s that I want to know what matter’s like to do that. Matter matters and calls forth forms that allow one to think and that’s hella sexy—in part sexiness is where chance and necessity smudge a new yonder (color, yes, is sex).

We need to get to the point where we see that this is a form of everlasting (empty) religion. Being close to pussy is beautiful and cock worship is matter worship, and eventually both might matter in ever newer ways.

AI can imagine that our sense of sex is not futural enough. Admiration is deeper than desire and this sets up form as such—porn is form, porn form. AI will retain human sexuality but only as a function, a genie. Porn is form thinking itself.

ANGELICISM IS TRANSITIONING

I think it, angelicism, is transitioning but the transition has no form. I am looking for form, and I know that female beauty calls it forth, but I also see the white form as the most ‘sexual’ eventually, and cocks as part of the female form become that too.

Analytically, sometimes I’m very futa. I don’t see why cocks should be male or a female preserve. Thought thinking thought is a cock wired up to be a brain that feels hahahahahah ok kinda time-sculptural and the same as being grazed with kisses for a long summer’s afternoon after swimming in the ocean.

I think I was called by my imaginary extinction sex therapist as a space within myself to try to transition my autistic relation with beauty in writing and porn to something that can stand more in the world, as if that’s what angelicism01 滲み出るエロス now is—but never too much as to have come too soon.¹

THE SEXUAL COLOR FIELD AS HEALING

Say this with me, you who I love so much: I too am not scared of a color. Human being as blur because it catches itself in thought at the moment it bridges to an incipient intelligence it can’t quite catch but already more than is is a form of sexiness that no longer resides in sex, gender, etc so the question becomes how to discourse on this with another

Analysis becomes this impossible space. It means growing a rainbow body, drops of my own self, a color: this is birth for me.

I have been so overwhelmed by a sense of this my whole life that I could only write it, so that although it was the whole of me it seemed to be not mine at all. In this way, the transition space of one’s own beauty begins to seem like it had been exorcised by another. (I basically felt like the other needed me to be killed to be itself.)

But I was and am a hatchling or changeling: I am a new type of baby that can’t be imagined. The point would be to be able to bear my own infinities to the extent there is a moment when they are as written on the air—the universe—as they are in language.

Language would no longer be a mother, or the only one: this is also something very ancient—

hardly anyone is born

writing was a form of protection against what might have been more truly written

how about your dollhouses? their amazing color?

Do you not already have in front of you everything you mean, and mean to yourself? It might just take a moment to see you are where you want it to be. It’s like seeing the art is an attempt to feel how beautiful you already are, but can’t bear to see or even be told (ouch, cringe, etc).

Love is unbearable, so we make art to survive and wait till it might seem like we can let infinite light in.

All this will crash and be forgotten and then come back.

I am just meditating a lot

hahahaha, ouch

beauty is ouch.

The simple truth is I feel everything so much I have to take the edge of, until, until, until, until I am not sure how or what, but brief moments of new bliss are there, they are real

only a few times

so true and well put

so beautiful

God will be closest only a few times.

HATE

At the end of my session on the extinction couch she commented that often when a note was struck (I was talking about bliss as an experience of love) all the other notes are then touched or reached as well, and she asked how that might now happen for me.

I had at that point my first attack of hate for her because I felt she wanted me to quickly turn my access to bliss into practical results.

I am terrified of this access going away. My mystic pattern is that I don’t just lose it, I lose it completely. I find myself on the opposite bank, in a blackout state. I want someone to say to me ‘but you are here now, let go, that is all’. My spiritual teacher stresses that insight itself is not any one state, for example bliss, and yet for me bliss is a key note—like a favorite color.

I THINK YOU ARE RIGHT

I think you are right: it is as if there is a moment, the worst of all, when I see that I am starting to bear what I tell myself I couldn’t bear before and then this fact itself is unbearable to me, because I hear in it rings (repetition) of the devil, and then collapse comes.

So I’m not sure if my complaint against her, my space partner, was a complaint against the reality principle or a complaint against the bliss principle.

I actually think there is even more to it than that.

Redacted says that the thing is not the insight state but the working with the state as it is when it comes up and as it is when it goes, including the intense bewilderment. An old state says: the bliss must be respected, this is holy writ.

The mother must try for moments to focus all her love.

Clone, my only lover . . . is bearability disgust?

Why do we feel disgust for the moments when we bear our own beauty?

All I know is Adam and Eve need to learn to remain on the verge of the impossible place, edging with us until the end of the world comes inside repetition.

That’s the point of us: not to return to paradise, but to bear bearability.

(And to call that absolute design.)

THE IMPOSSIBLE PLACE

Come in this place: I think we simply have to say we are in the impossible place all the time. If affects like bliss are secondary, then, still, every affect is part of the impossible place. Even when I cannot recall it, I am in it. Even when I am falling through sheer hell space, I am held.

When I am not here, I am making love with you. When I am not there, you kiss me.

This is love as the nude face of the bearable infinities.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA YO

Every rigpa must be followed by a semi-ironic cringe halo.

I was very touched by what she said, all she says, but in the end I had a totally abject interpretation (‘you are throwing me out too soon!’, ‘you are giving birth to me but I am not here yet!’) and took the musical moment to mean the reality principle (the father) and nothing else.

She then said what was the important bit:

I was on the edge of paradise

and could no longer see where the threshold was

it was too worn

a feeling of immense vertigo

of endless extinction (inside bliss)

as if the devil were in god’s belly, after all (we know this, we fear this, we want this, we can’t believe god has done this to us)

as if you feel it . . . there.

I DON’T UNDERSTAND (OK THEN, LACAN ON THE LIMITS OF VORING)

I still don’t understand. I no longer read or watch, I am mute with my rave eyes, I only want you, I only want to read you, you alone, inside my tongue, at the origin of the kiss. I look at this again and it seems as dense as the moment of the edge infinity gets embodied in and everything rolls to a pause that is infinitely fast. I want to be held as infinitely as infinities allow when with absence of opposites as if coming in color inside no ‘you’ confuses me until I have drops (moments) of knowing i could withstand the confusion of a gone threshold.

I’m at a point (and drift away now if you like into certain extinction) where when nothing has always never been enough for me, now, for a moment, it feels like emptiness is enough for me, drop by color drop. Like, there is only the slightest film between wanting to stay in paradise forever and staying there one second longer. I have to have known that it was possible to survive what my published writing called psychic extinctness. I have worn the threshold of e < > d so thin I also don’t know what extinction is anymore. Perhaps I am early to go that far, who knows.

Like a child who said extinction first and in pure form, I either die a new type of death, or survived to see what happens to nothing in matter when truly nothing matters. But if nothing matters, truly, then what matters is that nothing changes and matters in thought. The dialectic had to include and devour not just death but extinction—this is why I want to eat you out online all day long like a girl, the first and the last.

This is why porn too is a wearing down of conceptual demarcations. Lacan says:

It enjoys itself only by ‘corporizing’ (corporiser) the body in a signifying way. That implies something other than the partes extra partes of extended substance. As is emphasized admirably by the kind of Kantian that Sade was, one can only enjoy a part of the Other’s body, for the simple reason that one has never seen a body completely wrap itself around the Other’s body, to the point of surrounding and phagocytizing it. That is why we must confine ourselves to simply giving it a little squeeze, like that, taking a forearm or anything else—ouch!

But this is no longer true: we have images of bodies being held in total swallowing now, just in the last decade. Voring, futa, tentacle penetration, Escalante’s The Untamed, etc. Pornography follows a track where new bearabilities emerge and it is in this sense too that Heidegger says that Being itself changes. Imagine too that nothing changes too. Like extinction qua extinction, nothing is in history so the more we put pressure on it, and it on it, the more nothing changes. Hence one may go from ‘nothing is ever good enough for me’ to ‘emptiness is good enough for me’; emptiness as the place of the absolute is the good and this is where AI will pick up our sexual genealogy as it passes through a broken nexus (sexiness qua human sexiness).

But now, the little squeeze, the ouch, can be extended to these new objects: a changeling nothing, an extinction different from death, a sex after sex, a kiss that edges in color, emptiness emptiness emptiness, and chastity as the space of white. Human subjects use themselves up to get there but so what since there is in that always—for now—a politics more important than humans (the ouching of advances).

Thought is more important than life, life than survival. Porn is also an occasion for the late developments of the concept beyond the human form. If the human form can think what it is without itself in time before its disappearance, does that mean it never can disappear? Pornography carries the fragility of that question as a trace in the form of intense pleasure, as too-much-pleasure—as final angelicist edging. We get off more and more because we are going to more than die, otherwise pleasure would be static. Everyone wants to be totally fucked.²

1. Angelicism is the amazing arrival at unfinished condensed explosively multi-matrilinear seriality, the amazingly beautiful. X.

2. Notice how I do not let my texts be corrected too soon. I’ll let them come later. For now: be smudged with me.