Antonin Artaud
REMINGTON GRAVES
“There is in every madman a misunderstood genius whose idea, shining in his head, frightened people, and for whom delirium was the only solution to the strangulation that life had prepared for him.”
–Antonin Artaud
My first encounter, if one can call it that, with Antonin Artaud, was with a scene of a film entitled The Passion of Joan of Arc. Handsome and still, he looked at something the rest of the camera crew could not see…in his robe, in a black and white scene he commanded time to travel at his desired speed…and I, being eleven years old, understood, that some men, were beyond understanding in all their alluring glory.
Antonin Artaud was a French playwright, artist, and actor who was sent to sanatoriums for his eccentric mannerisms, severed from his loved ones for up to four years at a time. He was drafted into the army at age eighteen but his incessant sleepwalking episodes caused his dismissal. Back in the loony bins, his restless mind was quieted with laudanum by countless doctors, which eventually led to his burning love affair with any and all opiates. The Theater and Its Double, his most famous publication, achieved him notoriety, whilst already attracting much attention as actor, surrealist playwright, and being a figure of visionary in experimental theater. The curious concept of the “Theater of Cruelty” was introduced in his manifesto, advocating that drama should travel from concentrated literary form to one incorporating all the senses. Artaud believed sincerely that if you confronted your most vile desires, an unclenching would occur from the grasp of hypocrisy and awareness of the true unconsciousness self would emerge. This concept was quite challenging and was to be considered a penetrating vehicle of transition for established thought. Insomuch that artist and rock stars took their cue from it.
When he was not in the rubber rooms, he bummed the streets and frequented one room after another in cheap hotels. He was running fast then faster from his own demons of madness and slowly but surely was becoming undone, largely due to the side effects of the drugs he consumed. Other writers, playwrights, and theater companies reached out for help to no avail. His lips had darkened from the deadly kiss of laudanum. Artaud began performing dramatic variations of his death only to be booed and laughed off stage.
Antonin began to submerge himself in the desire to sink deeper into his own theories concerning the depths of his psyche that he ended up in Mexico putting himself into peyote parties. Mad outbursts during lectures about himself obeying orders from Jesus Christ got his ass chained up and transported back to his home country. He then did five years of sheer terror in an insane asylum being subjected to electroshock therapy, in hopes of dispelling his obsession with witchcraft incantations. In the remaining five years of his life, he had become financially secure due to the sale of his manuscripts at auctions which afforded a slightly better life in a halfway house–which were written while he was boxed in. This time summoned praise for his previously unrecognized genius, and he then began with the opiates again. In the ultimate irony, he ended up in the heaven he so yearned for, days of constant opiates for they had to administer morphine as much as was needed to appease his dire pain due to colon cancer. This is where I should make a stab at how, until the end of his days, was an insufferable pain in the ass, but…I won’t. He was forty-two when he passed in the year of 1948.
Now, a man, I still hold back the tears when I see the dark priest with more passion than this Joan of Arc. I wonder…what did you see, Antonin? Whatever it was, it must have broken you. Broken men are attracted to that which breaks, in hopes to understand themselves better. As if ever, could they be put back together again.
You tried and you succeeded. And while you tried, fools thought you failed. Let me see that which transcends me elsewhere, even if it breaks me. With the strength of a hundred lightning bolts and the courage of a dozen dragons, let me appear the failure while I surrender to success.
Farewell, Opium eater and thanks for your cosmic confessions.
Hail Artaud!
∞
Perfect Lovers
REMINGTON GRAVES
The automobile has always had a sexual allure for me. The way the engine sounds when you turn the ignition, the smell of its hot machinery under the hood, the shift knob and its peddles, an appendage and buttons that allows you complete control: speed, its growls, its groans, sighs, scrapes and screeching– if not handled properly. When the human disease kicks in ( to take anything for granted ), I usually play classical music while I drive, but when the vessel and I voyage together and are of one mind, the experience is symbiotic and visceral. The intimacy is initially overwhelming and then its familiarity, a fond comfort. My hands grip the steering wheel with ambition and a healthy dose of animal anxiety. The windshield–her eyes, I see what she sees, the road betwixt two blurring pillars in the periphery. And we carry on this way, with a fervent love affair, a silent understanding of my need to be inside her, I need her to reach my climax and destination: “Point B.” She needs me to turn her on, without me she moves not. The elements attack and she sits vulnerable and alone.
My craft has been still and sullen for countless days now. I tried to turn her on. She lit up, but she wouldn’t start. She was ready but couldn’t seem to get in the mood. I took the battery I’ve used every faithful time to AutoDrone and they said it was fine. I was a fool to entrust these people, they don’t know her personally…clandestine in every corner…she’s reserved, private.
So, I took her to the doctor and left her there. Somebody had to help me jumpstart her and it was a different experience having somebody else become involved in the process. Don’t misunderstand me, I am a pretty progressive man, but somethings take some getting used to, I suppose.
Jealousy is not something we both feel; I have allowed others to take her for a spin. I cannot be in her interiors all day. She, no doubt, enjoys the handling of foreign hands. I drive other vehicles but very rarely. We both have stared at Bugattis on the road, Ferraris and even vintage Cadillacs and sigh almost in sync.
She is both hot and cold, fast and slow, likes my possession and never tries to posses. Appreciates my attention and digs on my affection, but knows a man of my caliber, a man wired this way, a god amongst mortals, could not be contained or altered. No lover worth her salt would want to, she says ravenous revs.
I have been riding my bicycle and it helps the environment and all that considerate shit, but there is nothing like embarking on a four-wheeled rocket and moving along faster than six-hundred and sixty-six horses on the road to nowhere.
Get well soon, my cold and hot, fiery, emotionless partner…you are, one of the many, perfect lovers.
∞
Every Creature Its Own Way
REMINGTON GRAVES
The bicycle ride by the old river conjured up old contorted ghosts, ghosts mumbling about the good old days, about the bad old days, and the messy stack of days in between. The water is higher than it has been in about thirty years, I heard someone say. Gnarled wooden hands peaked in the middle of the current like victims reaching for the sun, seized by surprise and frozen in time. The ripples ran through the surface and created Dali dunes that inspired decompression. Dust carried by the wailing wind got in my eyes and threatened to invade my mouth. I gripped my arms tried to warm myself from the chill.
The water had been gone a long time. Now that it’s back, I find it beautiful. Somehow I have learned in my old age, it takes an absence for me to appreciate the simpler things. I’m a slow learner.
I see how the fowl of the air rest their fond feathers on the trees aside the body of water. I imagine the tree enjoys it’s company, and likewise the bird. Or perhaps they both silently accept the other’s need for one another, if for a short time.
A caw then the furious flutter of raven wings beating the wind and disappearing. The tree remains. There is no argument about one wanting the other to remain.
Nature understands: Every creature its own way.
Understand me, ye nature’s creation. And don’t try and stop me.
∞
This Far A Distance
REMINGTON GRAVES
I arrive at my work to behold bright yellow brick walls arrayed
With frames of pop art and Elvis squaring up with Muhammad Ali and
Animal skulls and paintings of tattoo inspired ideas riddle the building from top to bottom
The tattoo machines abuzz converting the place into a hive of money-making monkeys
Wonderful women giggle and moronic men grunt
The artists stare at each other from time to time
Tired
Competitive
Clashing mildly in rebellious assimilation
My shoes have stains of hot pink drops on them
Green
White
Clients come around rudely demanding deals
Some asshole asked for a case of beer and twenty dollars to
Cover half my arm
Then why the fuck are you here I say
The place gets quiet and tense
I have been at this place for thirteen years and no longer
Desire to know anybody or to be one of the big wigs
The only thing that gets me off in the world of tattooing is making money
And making my client happier than they imagined they would be with the final product
I am the asshole from time to time and everybody knows
They know I know
I connect my cellular device and pair it to the sound system and play The Cramps
I won’t dare play Schubert there anymore
Grown men begin to cry like incorrigible cunts
Blue tooth
Wi fi
Discounts
Gift cards
Customer service
I faintly hear the roar of a T Rex somewhere far away in time
Nobody then laughed at his little arms whirling as he fought
Until the end
Many would laugh now though
Because its safe to do so
At least from this far a distance
∞
Chairs In The Dark
REMINGTON GRAVES
I came home late and was taken aback by the chairs in the dark, they had all been moved and were facing each other away from the dining table. The street light always managed to penetrate through the blinds on the sliding door that lied between the living room and dining room.
I spat the papers I had in mouth and locked the door right before I turned the lights on. The ominous silhouettes summoned Schubert’s Piano Trio number 2 in E flat major. It was almost as if they were staring at each other, convening in the terrible tranquility, communicating. It was still.
The grandfather clock kept clocking and the traffic in the distance, faint.
And there they were…an order of invisible silent men, the council of quiet, all nine chairs.
How had this occurred? I wondered. Such a bizarre sight. The eerie reserved reticent eagerly begged me to run, to clamor, to stand like stone for fear, fear of what–one never knows when confronted by such a weird scene.
As I took a step towards them, the telephone rang loudly startling the pate out of me.
“Yes?”
“How many chairs?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How many? How many chairs?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m you.”
“This some kind of gag? It’s not funny.”
“No gag, bub.”
“How do you know about the chairs?”
“They represent the council of your psyche.”
“What in the world are you talking about?!”
“I set them up that way. Well, by “I”, I mean you.”
“Is this me?”
“Yes, this is you.”
“And I am… you?.”
“Yes.”
“What are we talking about here?”
“I am going to hang up now…after you give me a number.”
“What number?”
“The chairs…how many?”
“Nine, damn you, nine!”
“Good bye.”
“Hello?”
Dial tone
“Hello?!”
Dial tone…
∞