All over. I was scared all the time; when the fear came, grew, it took me and made me absolutely passive. It was Daddy who smelled like cunt but because he couldn't bear being scared he made me scared instead. Because he couldn't make Mother his cunt and he needed a cunt I became his cunt. I always do whatever anyone tells me to do even if I hate the person's guts. All of their guts. I do it because they need a cunt more than I need a cunt, because someone has to be a cunt in this world for the world to continue to function. At the very same time there's a spot between my legs and since it's almost always burning up it is almost my entire consciousness it becomes all of me. Since it involves another person, sexual need looks like fear, is fear, is all fear. I don't see any reason not to play my fear out, not to play along, not to swing it in their faces like a...like a joke chicken, like a taunt, like a slap in the face, like a live cunt. I spread the cheeks of my ass and look over my shoulder and Daddy's face is bloated with insane desire like a drunken clown and I'm drenched and reeking terror like a perfumed little animal provoking him to fuck me, to strangle me, to make me his slave.
Take a look at the progress of art, literature, philosophy, physics. The point of it all seems to have been to reach the point we're at today where we're obliged to finally acknowledge that none of it has any point at all. There is a knock on the door and when I open it I find her standing there looking older, worse for wear. I might not have recognized her if she were anyone else. I know, of course, what she wants.
"I'm sorry," I say. "You're too late. The person you're looking for is gone a long time now, gone forever. Dead is the word to use."
"Don't hand me that shit." She makes certain threatening moves.
I counter, "Force won't work." I sound confident but I'm feeling terrified. "Not anymore."
I can see she doesn't believe me, that she thinks it's simply a facade. It is a facade, but it isn't simple. I continue: "You're looking for someone who existed in the past but who doesn't exist in the present. Because you choose to believe that identity is constant and unchangeable that is no reason for me to believe likewise. Your beliefs, in other words, do not condition mine. Yes, you are backed by the force of authority, by the overwhelming numbers of those who hold the same opinion, by convention and paradigm. That means you win but only if I'm playing your game. You've been brainwashed and now you appeal to the very authority that brainwashed you to back up you're misperception with all the force of law at their disposal. A neat trick they played on you but I'm not playing."
She can see where this is going and that she is getting nowhere, not in this scene. She retreats down the stairs with the junk mail, shaking it at me warningly. "I'll be back," she says. "Back with the sheriff and his deputies."
I know this is just a bluff, a way to save face, but I can't get my glands to believe it and they are pumping out toxic hormones at frightening rates.
Money is the flavor that is never quite there. The taste fades before you can taste it, so you're always hungry for more. It never satisfies. You keep putting more and more in your mouth. You bite the hand that feeds you, even if it's your own. An American hero is a man who's made American history and American history is a myth told again and again by the advertisers of America.
—Kathy Acker/Meeah Williams
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