26 novembre 2025
It feels kinda weird to attach a feral image of sexual tension to a holy figure that was elevated beyond the carnal needs of us mere mortals. However the crucifixion in my unconscious consciousness the symbol of this transcendental event of my life which was sex. There's a before and an after. Every few months when I'm in neurosis this event comes back to me and I feel compelled to chase down the feeling, within memories places words sounds fabrics. It was months of walking on the tightrope, waiting to exhale. I felt like a medieval mystic like hildegard von bingen like joan of arc but mostly like saint theresa of avila. With my distorted sense of reality I was thinking that god and the angels were singing to me that night that I was gifted a mystical experience with a lifetime to decipher. The fact that I've never seen the other person eye to eye later made me think that he was the bearer of gospel sent to my life by god itself.
I much later experienced a very hard reality check and disenchantment but when you enter my home the first thing you’ll see is a crucifix I found on the street one day.
There’s a huge hole in my life that whimsy used to fill. It’s been replaced by the intellectualisation of sex and erotism and the consumption of depraved books and media.
The violence of sex, was a thought that slowly lead to another which was the violence of womanhood. Suddenly ropes whips and gags became the symbol for the pain i must feel in order to physically know that I love and desire. It is similar to flagellating yourself to expiate the sins to feel whole for a split second. I must attain pleasure through pain, I must train myself for death, I must feel like saint Theresa when she felt like Christ. One day I’ll go to Rome alone to see her.
All of this to say that after the reading the feral stories of bataille and Anaïs nin. I feel like no being on this mortal plane knows death better than a woman does.
Your son will betray you. His father will sever the umbilical cord and your son will stand up and look at the sky. He’ll point with certitude at the clouds, he’ll say that miracles come from above. Knowing but choosing to omit that he crawled from your blood into the world where he drew his first breath.
If he lives a life where he has never fallen, the smell of his own mortality, gift from your pain, will fade into oblivion until the day his heart ceases to pump.
What is it ? Jealousy ? Or the severed limb that used to make me indistinguishable from my mother ? What made men turn their backs at the living image of the cycle of life ? I think it’s the universal concept of the fear of death and the reality of our cluelessness in this world. Women are the painful reminder that things must bleed and die. Carrier of life, carrying death.
My father told me that men invented the father god when they understood that children came from sex and that their participation was required. Women were no longer this grand portal of magic and at the same time blood became disgusting because death was real and it was the absence of life.
Thus the woman became the embodiment of the profane, she’s the brutality and the violence, she’s all that hurts, and you men have the choice to close your eyes on her, while she must endure. Sometimes I think that Jesus is the only man thanks to his mother that didn’t bled and to the betrayal of his friend, that knows the truest of aches, the pain of sacrificing your body for love, for the continuation of life.
I pray a lot to Jesus and Magdalene but I’m not Christian I never was. Sometimes I feel like the beauty I found in pain bound to me to the tree of reminiscence. I can only slightly reach my hand to grab a piece of happiness.
Feeling like you’re predestined to be an eternal martyr is funnily incompatible to being in a happy long term relationship.
Which is the reason why I asked my boyfriend to learn shibari, I need some type of reminder of my existence or I’ll fade into nothing.
I have stopped painting so writing is the only signifier I have to offer to the great other, I’m filled to the brim with desire to be hit with something new, an arrow that blinds me and makes me create a physically huge piece a wall a fresco. Something big, phallic and unforgettable.
I’ve seen it once in a painting of Tracy Emin, the boy I thought was a prophet sent to salve me sent me to see it. It was the first thing I saw in that big space. It said I Wanted You To Fuck Me So Much I Couldn't Paint Anymore. I vividly remember the floor vanishing from under me and falling to my knees hyperventilating hysterically.
This what I want my art to do, wether in writing or visually. So maybe I won’t need pain to feel alive.
Lord Scarlett