The Oedipus myth has become the feature of so much latent hatred that it is comical, in French society to have anything to do with Papa Freud. His antagonisms on his children are well known, even to their children. That grandchildren should fight over trinkets is the legacy and life blood of a patriarch, the measure of his life and revenge for his death. That they should take his side against his sons is the mechanism of redemption.
What is the Id to the French? If it is ça, it is "that"--an object la and not a pit of murky electrical flows. Partout refers to the place of all the its, all the objects of the unconscious not to the fact of an alien force as the unconscious and this is what we need. The alien automata, the neuro-electrical bios of the Freudian unconscious, the unconscious of the body. Walking not talking is the vocation of the philosopher who supplements the marketplace with sex work. What is the grand air? Not fresh!
It is Ca that should never have been translated ça. In addition to never having been It. Ce La makes us pigs. Consuming what we think to never have produced. Objects are excrement a little dried out. Solid enough to pick up and sniff. Lick. And Eat. As though someone else made them just for us. My shit is mine. It emerges from my depth as a feature of my eventual death, the death of the rats in the warehouse nibbling on the hindquarters of my dinner. A body on the Gears will never recognize its humanity let alone its animality. A body on the gears latches but does not eat.
The father of my father transcends and puts him in his place. I transcend to His to earn mine. Against Oedipus? Impossible. Futile. Almost as much as a rant against self-defeating linguistics, or an anti-capitalist collection of object-ideas. To stand against a frame is to lean on it, and to confuse the object of a critique with the critique of its object is the oldest error in books. There is no critique without the attention of time, no against but the rubbing that makes a spark. Preferably before the fungal cream. Open this frame as wide as it is fresh before having a lean against it.
The primal myth of Oedipus is abuse. Meaning it is a story about the cycle of abuse, not that the story is abusive unless you count the liberation of shame and pleasure that comes ready made with a punishment about discovery.
It feels good to the abuser to feel bad because it feels bad to the abused that it might ever have felt good. Sodomy, a contraceptive method that bypasses patriarchal regulation has only shit for protection from adult curiosity.
That children should develop impossible and aspirational views toward vaginal intercourse is at the heart of what it means to transmit patriarchy. That adults should develop sexual pleasure along the inflows and outflows of the gastrointestinal tract is at the heart of what it means to have ever been a child.
So for a couple of friends at the edge of the universe, surrounded by slack mouths and drool, moaning and banging the wall, in an office dimly lit with grisly diagrams and lurid anatomical details, a new translation awaits. A hard copy rests open one hand on its knee. Not more than a couple of ounces and it's already too late. An adventure swings open and madness doubles down. The pain and what flares, the Whole at the center of the Son.
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