on lacan and not fucking your friends sister
i am always hyper aware of the “character” im playing in the scene. being a person has always felt a bit like pretending to be that person. doing my sales job. any separate situation seemed to call for a slightly different ev.
“the imaginary set of fragmented bodily elements must be distributed across the puppet with which we deal in the symbolic, inasmuch as we are puppets and our partners are too. but these puppets are missing something, the phallus”
i am aware lacan is not really talking about the self there, but the benefit to having almost no formal education in any of these subjects is that i am free to read the words on the page and then relate to them, regardless of how much instruction i have been given on how to interpret these words. most of what i have read since being formally removed from academia has followed this pattern.
i figure out my opinion or thought process on something — → i figure out which historical thinker already wrote a book explaining why he (and i) think that — → i read that book, and find his sources for his thought (really my thought) — → ad infinitum
i truly believe this is how great thought is developed, inasmuch as i truly believe that i am not capable of emitting great thoughts. but what is does gear you towards an inability to converse with normal people without becoming the spectacle. i do not have the common opinion in my brain. i did not finish an entire philosophy education before settling on heidegger and nietzsche as my boys. i read them first. and then worked back through hegel and schopenhauer and all the boring guys. never fucking read spinoza after m.crumps posted about him. but this doesnt set you up to be non-confrontational, this does not set you up for dinner parties.
“The phallus is busy elsewhere, in the signifying function. When faced with the other, the subject identifies with the phallus, but he fragments qua himself when he is in the presence of the phallus. To spell this out as clearly as possible, i will ask you to dwell on what happens in relationships between men and women, even the most loving”
on memorial day i was off. shaking basically all day. literally. could not catch a break. rapping off beat like carti. if bruce lee is like water i was like soylent. went to a party that night after freaking out at the skatepark and snapping my board. at my friends house, ive known him since we were 8 years old. when i arrived his sister and her friend were already drunk taking shots. since last new years ive basically been aware i could have his sister. fuck her, date her, whatever. it was subtle then, like randy talked about in his one blog. but it was there, palpable. but you cant just do that. you can’t just bang your friends sister. date her. become his brother. his parents are really annoying sometimes. also,
monday night was different. now she’s leaning on me, grabbing my hand while we sit outside smoking cigarettes. probably the alcohol, but i was drunk too.
“In love, man truly becomes a slave of [s’ aliné a] the object of his desire, a slave to the phallus. But in the erotic act this same phallus nevertheless reduces the reduces the woman to being an imaginary object. This is why we find in men a splitting of the object [of love from that of desire], even at the very heart of the deepest, most intimate love relationships. I have often emphasized this when I criticized the so-called genital relationship.”
now what u have to understand, what u have to sublimate, is that all the while this is happening, her friend is Satan. Satan with the big S. at least my personal Satan.
small indian woman going to west point openly bragging about how the military is stupid and shes only going there to get a good job at a tech company afterwards. first generation. i asked her if her parents grew up with toilets. i was drunk, im supposed to be the zen master. whats the point of doing martial arts if a little indian girl can stop u from getting laid. i asked her if she thought it was ok that people like her make decisions that result in my friends dying, when she couldnt even carry their dead bodies off the battlefield. i could have stopped. how can i have all this awareness, all this tranquility, all this understanding, only to lose it in an instant. not even aware of when i slip into pure being, ready to clock this cunt in the mouth for suggesting that they enlisted for stupid reasons.
somehow, i think because of Jesus Christ himself, i didn’t hit her. i stormed off to my car and drove away. apparently his sisters not mad at me. i think that means i have to fuck her now. i was supposed to fuck her that night. that was her plan, probably her friends plot as well. but ahah, foiled again by ev’s retard brain.
“When we turn, on the other hand, to women’s relationships to men, which people like to believe are more monogamous, we see that they present the same ambiguity — except that women find the real phallus in men. They are thus in a position to in fact obtain from such relationships a jouissance that satisfies their desire.
“But, to the degree to which their desire is statisfied at the level of the real, their love, not their desire, concerns beings who are beyond the encounter with desire — namely, men insofar as they are deprived of the phallus, men insofar as, by their nature as fully developed beings, speaking beings, are castrated”
next time im alone with this girl i have to kiss her. castrate myself. for the good of the nation.
-ev