Writing is cooking. Have the books been cooked? The primitive body eats it raw; the unconscious material is raw material from the perspective of the cook. Cooking is the "value added" that Marx talks about, a spiritual process which transforms shit into gold. And so Freud mined the dream for "latent thoughts." Once the spiritual light is lit, it incorporates all that falls within its beam. The cook is blinded by the light of his fire.


The spiritual fantasy is the fantasy that is cooked up by the brothers in the clubhouse, the fantasy that initiates history. The spiritual process is intiated by a "second birth." This second birth is a declaration of independence from the Mother, or mud, or matter. The spiritual phantasy and its technology of the alphabet arise from the brotherhood. The wish is to have Mother inside me, to reverse the natural relationship; it is a wish that cannot be satisfied. In reality the son remains in the only place he can be, inside his Mother. It is an exercise in futility which reproduces the show. Does the show actually go on forever?

A pervert is born, not made. The human infant is polymorphously perverse, no clue as to the function of these pleasure machines: the penis, the clitoris, the anus, and the mouth. When the infant is sucking, the infant is a mouth, when shitting, an anus; there are only parts, no "whole that is greater than the sum of its parts." The conceptual challenge is to make a whole of these parts. The process is genital organization. The genitals become the focal point; the mouth and anus are genitalized, and thus incorporated so as to establish an identity.

The function of the four pleasure machines is to reproduce a corporate identity. It is in this way, that necessity incorporates pleasure. A perversion is a pleasure that does not lead to intercourse. It is only when the penis enters the vagina that reproduction becomes possible; Holy Matrimony. In our collective fucking we buy the species more time. Our identity is a genital identity, a temporal identity. Time is an abstraction of the genital process. But there is, O Monks, timeless experience. A pervert is a traitor.

The human family is holographic; each member represents the whole. None of the members of the family can be plucked out and looked at in isolation. Every father is a mother and a daughter and a son, oscillating between genders and generations, and so it is with each part in the family drama. The situation as it actually is, is always ambiguous and the dynamic is always ambivalent. In actuality the human body is schizophrenic; reality is an overcode, software that translates the whole as separate parts. The process is digital, placing a space of time between the poles; the "whole that is greater than the sum of its parts" is digitally translated as parts becoming whole. Reality is constructed from parts that remain parts by incorporating an artificial unity. The real body is a corporate body, a historical body, a time/space contiuum.

It is Sunday morning and Mother's Day on Harris Creek, a day on which we collectively affirm our parts, our roles in the family drama, the drama of birth and death and the tragicomic time between. But the play is a fiction, made by words and numbers; it is the map and not the territory.