One for Bataille

Lisa Charbonneau
One Is all that time, the strange signaling, our ripped-up shirts with fraying collars, clues that added up to be the imaginations, One is mystery.

Two is getting beyond the Image, that fantastical veneer. Realizing the atomism of every person and learning to refuse what is most seductive. Perhaps two is the pure essential.

Four comes before three because it's about blood. Blood, which seems more and more important as I get older, In sex, I prefer fake blood to any other prop or too[. Dripping it out of our mouths and covering our arms and legs with it. Instead of hickeys, we'll get necks smeared in blood. Fake blood aids rolling around; it glides hands and improves the slide of one body on top of another. We awaken to a bed stained with blood, faces stained with blood, fingers stained with blood. We'll look like monsters, killers who have died a bit themselves. With smiling eyes I will scare you in the morning. You will recoil and squirm in delight.

I reject any identification of this as kinky, fetishistic, or even gothic. These words mean nothing in my vocabulary. And that is three. Three is how few of us consciously make the connections between love, sex, and death, the total annihilation of the individual that comes along with true intimacy.

As an adolescent I was terrified of dying, individualization, and solitary adulthood. My intuitive recourse was La be with, seek the with at all times. This, as you can imagine, progressed into sexual situations quite early on. I like to think that I was trying to create family- after all, the mythology of lineage is the only sure path toward immorality. But now that familial bonds are no longer automatically forged by taking off one's clothes with another human being, this methodology only served to satisfied my decayed boundaries. As I worked to bleed in, on, and through others, to unite my blood with theirs, I only found myself in a sea of disparate zombies-zombies whose blood was spilled on my skin and forced down my throat, zombies who perpetually wear blank expressions of apathy and forget. At times, I too am one of those zombies.

Do you see how four followed three? How fake blood became so fascinating in lieu of unattainable blood lines? And do you see how four had to come before three? That the fake had to precede the acceptance of the real. It always does. It's the last grasp for dreams of transcendence via transformation, before you are left only with sublimation.

Luckily, one plus two equals three and not four. And thus one, two and three are the secrets of existence: The acceptance of essential individualities and the mystery of why so many of us relentlessly search for the most beautiful of annihilations.

I am not asking you to kill me, but you will. I murder you in my dreams every night. Over and over. All night long. We will visit and revisit this theme. You and I. I. You. Who dies first? Let's go to bed. I'm as afraid as ever.