Odiouspus
(Dec 30/05)
So Oedipus stubs out his father’s eyes with a pointed stick, post coitus, having put the gears to his dear mother, Jocasta. Jocasta, realizing that her lover is in fact her long returning son, and not her dear Theban husband Laius, gets all fucky and falls swooning to her knees. This patricidal, post coital mother/son-incest, vanguards the beginning of Freudian psychopathology. The Oedipal complex, or triangulation, or, as I much prefer, strangulation, pits son against father against mother against father, son and mother, hence, the triangulation, or strangulation multiplex. The little sister gets her due, ad-inversion, in what Freud referred to as the Electra complex, or father/daughter-incest. Of course the incestuous part of the Oedipal/Electra complex is moot, as sexual commerce, or coition, is not the driving force behind the compound, but rather, the onset of a co-morbid psychopathology. Establishing one’s place in the triangle, or family constellation, or mosaic, if you like, is the motivator. Snuff out poor old dad, then put the gears to dear, sexually charged mom, all the while claiming infantile moral status, which means being neither moral or immoral, as all acts are the acts of an infantile psyche, and there you have it, Oedipal Jihad.
So Oedipus stubs out his father’s eyes with a pointed stick, post coitus, having put the gears to his dear mother, Jocasta. Jocasta, realizing that her lover is in fact her long returning son, and not her dear Theban husband Laius, gets all fucky and falls swooning to her knees. This patricidal, post coital mother/son-incest, vanguards the beginning of Freudian psychopathology. The Oedipal complex, or triangulation, or, as I much prefer, strangulation, pits son against father against mother against father, son and mother, hence, the triangulation, or strangulation multiplex. The little sister gets her due, ad-inversion, in what Freud referred to as the Electra complex, or father/daughter-incest. Of course the incestuous part of the Oedipal/Electra complex is moot, as sexual commerce, or coition, is not the driving force behind the compound, but rather, the onset of a co-morbid psychopathology. Establishing one’s place in the triangle, or family constellation, or mosaic, if you like, is the motivator. Snuff out poor old dad, then put the gears to dear, sexually charged mom, all the while claiming infantile moral status, which means being neither moral or immoral, as all acts are the acts of an infantile psyche, and there you have it, Oedipal Jihad.
I hate writing. Or is it writing that hates me? Either way, the abhorrence is a mutual one. This phantasization of repressed sexual energy is most disconcerting in deed. More so, neutering. More so than so, dare I say, incorrigibly emasculating. All writing, or at least my own, scribbling at best, is a reenactment of the primal scene, mom fucking dad, fucking son’s head up. Moms and dads don’t have sex, fuck, for goodness sake, they make babies, and that’s stretching it. Perhaps erasure, or defoliation. Or an Agent Orange that stymies and atrophies the testes and labia major and minor, not good-natured fucking. No, certainly not that. This, of course, is where the advent of masturbation raises it’s prepuce-head, all hand gestures and palming the coin, the coin being the currency of an ill-spent adolescence. Dad’s photography magazines, and the ubiquitous National Geographic, more aptly renamed Irrational Pornographic. Sagging paps and Brownstone nipples, and codpieces and hastily slung fig leaves. What more could minor Priapus desire? His mother perhaps, or a sharp pointy stick.
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