All One Horse

between the legs

In the beginning there is God. Or Creative Principle. If we take it that there must be a start and a stop, then there should be some entity to begin with or who/which can make the beginning begin? But we are not there yet so there can be no if. If comes later. Let’s start all over again.

In the beginning there is the Word. (This is plagiarism.) Who writes the Word? Ah! Read for Word a synonym for creative act. You have to leave room for assumptions. If you don’t leave room nothing can be created, not even Nothing. If you leave room for synonyms you have a splitting of cells, procreation, multiplication, a filling of the Void. Where the Void comes from? It is in the nature of the Void neither to come nor to go. And I don’t know who you are. Not yet. Don’t leave the room!

(But if I am it must be because you are, my brother. And since there’s a consciousness conscious of its being in the act of searching for synonyms, it must be an I. If the looking is written down it must emanate from a First Person, even if anonymous, even if produced by the words. The unsayable must be hemmed in. Welcome to the Land of If!)

Now that we have filled some space we can deduce that there is Existence. It would thus be only logical to assume that in the beginning there is/was Potential. How else did we get to the filling of the page?

No Existence without Limitation. In the beginning there are instructions. (Read directives, imperatives, no-go areas, etc.) God is Word or Flesh or some such. It doesn’t really matter. However, since Word is God there will be a fleshing out as the word can only be in becoming. I mean that every word has a double being: the word as such and that which it brings word of. Another word at a pinch. And the sky is the limit.

This goes on for a long time. The sky goes on for a long time but not forever — due to feeble mindsight. The human mind starts all things without being able to see to the end of them. It is called spinning the mind.

Anyway, we shall jump ahead and take it that we already know what we mean when we say First and Day. So, in the beginning there is God who we take to be the Word and all the rest. God has the instructions in word form. Let’s hope he can read. (Who gave him the instructions? Let’s not start all over again!) On the first day he creates firstness and therefore two and the so ons followed by copulation, as also day which calls up night (since otherwise it could not be ‘day’), or the warm hollow for copulation. As the mirror creates the image. The image creates the mirror. Imagine Imago! Imagine I!

In the beginning I had the intention of writing you this so as to introduce you to Story. Do you still doubt? Are you not now reading these words? If you don’t I don’t exist which makes no difference and we have no argument to pursue with one another. If we have no argument we have no way or need to recognize each other and so on back to square none. No Story to sit on your lap, no Flesh to warm with the caresses of Existence. In that case I didn’t write and so there was no I to be manifested.

All of the above I started a long time ago and I now forget what purpose I had in mind. I do see nevertheless that I have just given you a concise explanation of the history of creation. It is because there is creation that I am God continually creating Itself.

God, the One I look at in the black mirror, the Other — is dead. (Creation doesn’t stop with consciousness.) He died of neglect and crass ignorance. People didn’t look after him. To the extent that he might have been no more than an image in People’s mind.

I berate People and tell him he can be had up for non-assistance to a species in danger of extinction. I ask People what he did with God’s corpse. We spirited it away into the earth so as to beef up the subsoil, he says. Does it make the plants grow, I ask. No, the ground in these parts has a weird white taste but there is a sweet-water fountain not far off. People is wont to come here to be reminded that there’s something he ought to remember. Then he has a sip of water and promptly forgets himself in the clear liquid. I tell People not to worry, that there is no sense in thinking about what has been forgotten, that there may have been Nothing to remember in the first place (which naturally sends the mind frantically fumbling for presence), and anyway that the subconscious is quite old enough to take care of itself. I also posit that water is the soul of the mirror.

It is not that easy to kill nor is it clear that you ever succeed. If there is successful Sonderbehandlüng there must be a you. I, God, cannot be dead without there being the knowledge of death, some instance to know I am dead. Therefore, if I, God, am killed, you exist. Welcome indeed!

There is the woman who tried to do away with her husband. First she poisoned him, then she strangled him, then she bashed him over the head, than she tried to slice him up with a buzz-saw and when she saw that the saw wouldn’t do it she dragged him into the car and drove him to the lake where she dumped him. But the lake was frozen. He died some time later of pneumonia and of blueness of the body. Through bloated lips he croaked: ‘I love you.’

Story tells the following — it takes place in White city: three young Matsetedi bucks out for an evening’s fun intercept a squatter with a funny hairdo. It is a dark and stormy night. They bundle him in to their car, two of them sit on him. Where to? They take him out to the cold lake near Clearwater Fountain. There they knife him repeatedly. Because there’s no end to his groaning they drive the car over him, risking hurting the tyres. Off they go for a late beer but after a distance they realize he must be hanging on to the back fender going wop-wop-wop over the night-tinted tarmac. So they stop again and it takes a lot of stomping before all breathing ceases. He died of overtiredness. Before the judge one young Shiny Face pleads innocent: ‘I did kick, your Honour, just for fun, but I couldn’t have done much harm, as I was wearing my soft poofter pumps.’

In the Bois de Boulogne there are persons soliciting passers-by for sexual panhandling. Most of them are Brazilian. On a dark night one of the skirted and rouged ones inadvertently steps out right into the spearing headlamps of an oncoming car and gets picked up by Sonderbehandlüng. (It had thought that the sex could be a purse or a roll of banknotes; it wasn’t intent upon meeting thus the foul breath of the Pimp.) During the course of the night twenty more cars on the look-out for a quick screw pass over the corpse without noticing it. With hardly a shudder of the body. Things that go bump in the night. Will you recognize Orgasm? In the early morning it takes a lot of piecing together to come to the conclusion that the defunct was in fact a transvestite. (Though who would ever know for sure or give a damn? No service, no money.)

God ‘is a Brazilian’. And all God is one Word. Also: freedom will come to him or her who lives the longest. And: some persons carry the cough between the legs.