from an essay i wrote on drezzdon:
I recall Mark Fisher using the term âmagical voluntarism,â the belief, under capitalism, that we can become anything we want to become. He also refers to it as âthe belief that everything, including the material universe itself, is subject to individual will.â All of a sudden I wanted to write. I watched a couple of drezzdonâs TikToks right after reading Mark Fisher as a kind of somatic ritual Ă la CAConrad. Though I am aware we lose ourselves in âmagical voluntarismâ because this neoliberal project is such a success, that bones litter the Gaza Strip and tumours of red fucking meat cling to them, drezzdonâs TikToks made me feel more revolutionary. They gave me an active purpose. I could walk to the Conservative Club with the knowledge that the sky contains a âheaven,â that âangels are near,â before throwing eggs, plums, whatever modern rebellion looks like. I could write without constraint. Is our delusion not an act of resistance rather than compliance? And if it isnât canât we mobilise it as such?Â
Great acts of defiance have hardly been reported as righteous, I mean historically. Adam and Eve, for instanceâtheir rebellion got me cum in my mouth, stomach, all over my stomach, got me the love of a man, as a man, as well as the knowledge of good and evil. It got me enough complicated moralism to make my life worth living, make it not seem too long. It gave us things to uncover, another major player in drezzdonâs work as well as Genesis.
Eve, Miss Universe, like literally, rounds the corner to see Adam criss-cross applesauce, his cock concealed by a fig leaf. Around it a bold red circle. She smiles, knowing nothing of bloodshed yet, no mutilation in colour. Being the archetype of feminine wiles, she revels in his embarrassment. Her cunt is wet. She cartoonishly stretches to feel her fig leaf brush gently against its lips and then lies next to him at the base of the great tree to nap. As she dreams of, what, nothing better, Adam lifts the fig leaf from his (and the first) average cock and penetrates the red circle, the canonical first bloody hole. He wonders why it was ever concealed. He wonders if his cock means anything but pleasure, knowing nothing of procreation. But we, like Eve, enjoy the unveiling, stripping our lovers piece by piece; we love what is secret, sexy, under, and perhaps thatâs what the red circles are, the snippets of language. We undress the world, like Adam and Eve did, almost biblically, discovering and creating its malleability, its shadows. We revel in divine consequence and its sadomasochistic connotations.
In the middle of writing this essay I imagine ctrlcoreâing your body. Youâre in the nude. I click and stretch red circles around each nut, âangels were here,â meaning of course a traditional mode of reproduction, the feminine silhouette eager for your spermâbut whatâs here now? âgod,â âgod,â in red arial font.