My superpower would be like a permanent lube on my stogey so I can slippery slide into wonder woman’s asshole of truth.- nandovee
You may think Nandovee is simply a fool. A maggot. An ass. A butt-sucking pervert. Shame on you for jumping to conclusions. Shame on you for judging this perfectly acceptable human being. Yesterday, I might have drawn your same conclusions. But I’ve been reading Artaud…
Our little Nandovee might be compared to Heliogabalus, king of Rome in 217, who undertook the “systematic and joyous demoralization of the Latin mind and consciousness.”
Heliogabalus was a mythomaniac, a sexual pervert, a faggot, an adolescent (14 years old). When he wasn’t busy cross-dressing, he appointed people to high office based upon the relative size of their members (and I’m not talking about party members here). Gemstones hung from his genitals.
Heliogabalus undertook to re-build Rome using a ten ton phallus. He paraded through the city feminizing the Senate, choreographing police officers to dance when commanded, cutting off dicks to use as earrings… You could say that Heliogabalus had an itch that only a total orgy could scratch.
For there is a rite of the dead, a rite of the sorting of sexes, objects made from male members that have been stretched, tanned, blackened at the tips like rods hardened by fire. The members—affixed to the ends of staffs like candles impaled on nails, like the barbs of a mace; hanging like bells from arches of beated gold; stuck on enormous plates like nails on a shield—turn in the fire among the dancing priests, which men mounted on stilts manipulate so that they dance like living creatures.
Like Heliogabalus, our little Nandovee is an anarchist in a golden crown. He worships a myth. For Artaud, this myth precedes and undercuts all rational materialist thought. Goodbye, fascist logic. Goodbye experimental method. What did Newton ever do for my soul, anyway? Mythology is the only true force. And the force is with Nandovee.
“… where anger advances, guilt retreats; this is the secret of the empty and the full…” Artaud, Emotional Athleticism