Red
The Mitraic cult of the sun led to a very widespread religious practice:people stripped in a kind of pit that was covered with a wooden scaffold, on which a priest slashed the throat of a bull; thus they were suddenly doused with hot blood, to the accompaniment of the bull’s boisterous struggle and bellowing—a simple way of reaping the moral benefits of the blinding sun. Of course the bull himself is also an image of the sun, but only with his throat slit. -George Bataille “the Rotten Sun
She slept in the day, woke in the night, late at night. She painted mostly, vivid oil colors slashed across the canvas. Painted infants without eyes, legless old, normal people empty of emotions. Painted nude woman of jet black hair draping down like weed in swamps of deep Aztec rainforests just like she. It made her look like raw smoked salmon, it made her hungry. But mostly she painted nothing at all, just burst of red. It made her arouse with ecstasy. She read too. Yeats was much too melancholy, Rochester had too little to say much too much words to say it. Kafka made her laugh, but Bataille made her think. For Bataille, absolute fear and absolute seduction was just as well as the same, which for her, was pretty much everything in her life.
Of course she ate, she liked to stuff them all in herself, gulped, than vomit out again. It was like a religious practice, essential, a need. Sacred, she thought. Just like the lighting of cigarettes. They are incense, glistening studs sparkling in the pitch darkness of midnight. The blue clouds even seems bluer in the darkness, blanked the canvas, blanked her sight. The sudden blank of her first enhailment always amuses her, she felt like a medium in progress, almost being able to abscond this rotting corpse of hers, steaming and smoking her body from the inside, like a chimney in a broke down house. Doing it on purpose, as if all this proves that the least she can out do god is to manipulate her own death. After all, death is too predictable nowadays. Even though she kept her self in almost complete darkness, she always woke up at straight noon, to see the sun, to feel the bursting red of the sun. At these moments, she felt as if she was going to burst open herself, to blow up, guts and all. The sun in her, her heart beat like mad, these were the time that proved human mechanism were mere and negligible, even the slightest feeling of self vaporized, boiled, fused into sun’s blinding sun. It all ended when he disappeared, who let her lead this kind of life style, tolerated and approved. He loved her work, and her feet. He came before the break of dawn, while there’s still a smear of twilight in the horizon. He bought her paintings for a price so high she knew it was far not worth, and he left them there. She felt ashamed, humiliated, for it is already became charity not appreciation. He always came with a scent of woman perfume, but never touched her in the least. Only her feet. He said it was the most beautiful thing ever, like pure white jade buried deep in the depths of ancient tombs. He washes her feet, soaked in fragrance water, massaged and pampered, treated it in absolute care. After, he always starts kissing it slowly, from the heel gently, tenderly upwards. Swept over the skin, lips and tongue. Gently between the toes, around the nail. Until they both shiver with elation. She loved him, it was a form of utter seduction, she was afraid of him, when he talked, she dared not make a sound, when he walked, she was timid of inching. Knew not where he came from, who he is. She can’t over come him, cannot make him finger her any farther. It made her even more seduced for he is the only thing she cannot get. The more he won’t react, the more she had to assure his appearance.
-----
留言列表
