nigredo: The Last Supper και η καλοσύνη των θεραπευτών

20110410

The Last Supper και η καλοσύνη των θεραπευτών

Αφού το ασυνείδητο δεν θεραπεύεται (και, άλλωστε, πώς και γιατί να θεραπευτεί η βιολογία εφόσον δεν απειλεί;) οποιοσδήποτε γνωρίζει αυτό το αδιέξοδο και το εκμεταλλεύεται για όφελος της γνώσης επί αμοιβή, που προσπαθεί, δηλαδή, να το θεραπεύσει μέσω της ψυχανάλυσης, χωρίς να γνωρίζει πραγματικά την οντολογία του ασυνείδητου, απλά ξεδιπλώνει μία πτυχή του υποτιθέμενου ασθενή, την ψυχρότητα της φύσης.

image: postcard, tattoo of "The Last Supper" on a woman by the stage name of Artoria who was the wife of the tattoo artist C.W. "Red" Gibbons. The postcard reads “L.A. Cal.”.

1 comments:

Ruela said...: Happy Easter!; April 22, 2011

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As a Science of Apparatuses. Semiotext(e) intervention, series 07, σ. 200

The event, this act that keeps its power within itself, can come only from outside, as that which demolishes the very thing that should keep it at bay. When noise music burst on the scene, THEY said: "That's not music." When '68 irrupted, THEY said: "That's not political." When '77 had Italy by the throat, THEY said: "That's not Communism." Faced with the old Artaud, THEY said: "That's not literature." Then, when the event lasts, THEY say: "Well, it was possible, it's one possibility for music, for politics, for Communism, for literature." And finally, after the initial moment of shock brought about by the inexorable work of power, the apparatus reforms itself: THEY include, defuse, and remap the event; they ascribe it to a possibility, to a local possibility.

Who Wakes by May Sarton

Who wakes now who lay blind with sleep? Who starts bright-eyed with anger from his bed? I do. I, the plain citizen. I cannot sleep. I hold the torturing fire in my head. I, an American, call the dead Negro's name, And in the hot dark of the city night I walk the streets alone and sweat with shame.
Too late to rise, to raise the dead too late. This is the harvest. The seeds sown long ago - The careless word, sly thought, excusing glance. I reap now everything I let pass, let go. This is the harvest of my own indifference. I, the plain citizen, have grown disorder In my own world. It is not what I meant. But dreams and images are potent and can murder. I stand accused of them. I am not innocent.
Can I now plant imagination, honesty,
And love, where violence and terror were unbound -
The images of hope, the dream's responsibility?
Those who died here were murdered in my mind.

Praise by Harry Smart

(from Fool's Pardon )

Praise be to God who pities wankers and has mercy on miserable bastards. Praise be to God who pours his blessing on reactionary warheads and racists.
For he knows what he is doing; the healthy have no need of a doctor, the sinless have no need of forgiveness. But, you say, They do not deserve it. That is the point;
That is the point. When you try to wade across the estuary at low tide, but misjudge the distance, the currents, the soft ground and are caught by the flood in deep schtuck.
then perhaps you will realise that God is to be praised for delivering dickheads from troubles they have made for themselves. Praise be to God, who forgives sinners.
Let him who is without sin throw the first headline. Let him who is without sin build the gallows, prepare the noose, say farewell to the convict with a kiss.