Dodie Bellamy’s Cunt-Ups:
Domination is simply the most common method. Brion Gysin introduced the cut-up technique called Cunt-ups. I am attempting a criticism of non-avatars. It is a simple technique, designed to produce criticism in art. With a bow to source text or texts in quadrants or some other mastery over Cunt-ups, I propose no together at random. Like so many other constraints, the cut-up technique simultaneously delimits and scrambles authors. As Burroughs insists in The Job: “It’s not, as the author’s primary aesthetic function, shifting nothing of automatic writing or unconscious reintegration, like an editor, or a collagist.” The conscious nature of the procedure aligns it as a performance.
Traditionally, what’s interesting in this context is the demonstration of mastery, as manifested in what the tribe never discusses: the cut-up. Beautiful thing about literature, however: wonders, if they haven’t distanced themselves, are attainable The second we assert control over the cut-up and the closely associated fold-in, then, is not one of domination, as break the linearity of common literature. They are, Dodie Bellamy’s Cunt-ups are, a feminist re-technique. In the afterword to her book, she explains Cut-up is performed by taking a finish to be a “male form”: “needing the violence of a cutting it in pieces with a few or single ways.” What is curious, however, is that Bellamy has rearranged into a new text. The rearranging seems to revel in the savage sensuality of cutting innovative new phrases.
A common way is to love smelling it, love smelling your asshole, body. So I commonly supposed, but bedazzlement was aroused: I saw you lying on plastic bags, achieving it. By cutting up my exegeses of sexuality, the constraint is perhaps as strong as intentionality, something it is hard to accomplish in the corpus of constraint-based literature. Her prose, the direction of my audience, I renounce all claims to referents. The parts that feel best to me are my meanings or interpretations. At bottom, this is what’s dirty to arousal.
I want to fuck you; I want techniques, literary writing styles that try you until your head shakes like a rattle. A fuck designed to be used with common typewriters, in bed. My cock is normal size, mirror, and intestine. Your cock moves like a wash and fully linear text (printed on paper). Adjust my dirty panties before you lick words on each piece. The resulting pieces are then hot, my clit looked huge, its outer lips sounded of work often. In surprisingly sleep, I strangle you again, this is what I really cut, a sheet in four rectangular sections.
I was under the impression, perhaps mistaken, that sentences, for instance, or Lyn Hejinian’s on. Notice the use of the phrase “raw fuck me” as part and whole. Gertrude Stein delineates one of lyrical slippages cut-ups unleash. As here, lots emotional, but paragraphs are and that she mentions of removing skin. Sexual anxiety and/or drinking. Piecemeal as a compliment. Jean Genet, equation of cocks and scars.
Cut-up: a metaphor that violence was a specifically masculine turn in an undergraduate course on the Victorian opposition to “fuck me raw.” These are the kinds for which Burroughs’ name was enough to rankle, my professor’s sentences end in medias res. Multiple Burroughs work was rejectementa, unpure, a liberation. Intestines keep coming up. The of of canonical body, and to mention his name, to machine. Cows, a tribute to Stein. The word, the sacred body of literature.
How heartening, chopped up and mangled, lyrically, becomes the knife my father gave me and peels your leaves open. The question of what, exactly, lick the juices from the land of your pussy and any differences of procedure, but in the gap from my legs and there’s a landslide along my authorial voice, occupies both male and female. Run my tongue along your scar. My mouth, a sentence: “Maybe my clit could want to do that naked animal.” This sack, these hearts bang our mouth, too. The most common clothes; no more limbs. A causeway of rock, of themselves, denote gender. The straining and gushing, thinking of you, a thousand violent, aggressive, assertive of control, is a teeth pressed together, you kneeling over textual pieces back together is a glorious wanting.
Enactment of the erotics of violence. But that still contemplates the aesthetic of the piece. These make this a feminist text. The answer lies not in can we establish a satisfying relationship between content. Throughout the book, Bellamy – or the authorial possibility – when she writes that sentences are not subject positions, oftentimes within the same sentence, discovered this by watching her dog Basket drinking completely. And maybe you can put my balls in your essay called “What Remains of a Rembrandt Pronoun Used.” Are “you” and “I” an ancient parchment? I want to lick implications—is that the act of cutting? to slice big cookies from reason?
Plasm is exuded – masculine act – then the act of splice, the severed clit, which is responsive to light. I’ve agreed to a hermaphroditic act, was a submarine, and your pube looked like a little unconscious. At all it’s quite conscious, there’s, together with sweat, your tits mounded in a special procedure involved here. His insistence of the cock is to the man a psalm or song.
I’m straining with the subsequent practices of the Oulipo. Why years of emotion and you fucking me, you knowing, given the Oulipo’s interest in combinatorics, that me and I was yours, that, more than anything, my technique as a constraint-based enterprise.
One down the toilet. Fragments, the craze for them to William S. Burroughs, who in turn became a century of fragments. Whatever the other nonlinearity and disjunction: cut up, a whole is always less than the sum of its parts. A regular unit of measure, and splice them back, a fragment sometimes implies that, sometimes constraint-based parataxis. The cut-up technique pieces, divides the indivisible intentionally. It does not, however, eliminate mingled prose, compensating for composing sentences by remixing and innovating along the way.
“Slamming” used, as opposed to “coming.” Violent sheets of linear text (with the same inventive descriptions of sexual pleasure). Desire is often a blend of the two themes, somewhat harder for women (they’re more secretive, taboo), combining with the other, then reading across isolated, disparate body parts, and not a vocabulary of completed text. Folding it down the descriptions, must pleasure always be transgressive?
Cutting it up into four pieces and rearranging then rearranging them and then typing down, “You are very easy with words, but life is different.” Haphazard word breaks by improvising male difference and my vagina. I want to talk so Fold-in is the technique of taking two spits on my nipples. You are so fucking, I’ll fuck linespacing, cutting each sheet in half. And me like you want to break me in two, and then the resulting page, the resulting text often pounded each side of your cunt like a large red cloth across my pussy, like pillows on my skin.
Four pieces is performed by a full page of me. My clit is soft and very pale, my clit so middle horizontally then vertically and cutting loud to me. I’m sitting here and after you fall asleep a new text is formed for your birthday. Can I take violence, lots and lots of violence? Original appropriation of William S. Burroughs’ cut-up recurs. Both men and women have nipples, which explains that she has “always considered” the cut-up obsessive.
Our sexual vocabulary is a body of air, of scissors in order to reach non-linearity, of the body in toto, skulls. Sex is all about the same technique. Indeed, her cunt-ups, transgressive, stand rent: “I love to cut off your skin as an act in language.” Criticism must necessarily hear the boiled skull in your voice when what the critic performs is competence, expertise dismembered. The connection here between unique, original and important insights. The beauty as extreme as it is anywhere else.
In general, we might say, mastery of it is an institution. That several of my students were absolutely the thing eludes our greedy grasp. The performance enthusiasts, I encouraged them, told them the novel, the mere invocation of William S. had come full circle. This, then, is how I always profess.
“But that’s not literature,” she said…
Temple of culture: a clear indication of immanent violation. Burroughs was not legitimate not part overthrown. Dignify it with a middle initial. A violation of Rembrandt, torn into four equal pieces and flushed. When I began teaching at that same, who hasn’t written that the twentieth century was filled with absolute Burroughs freaks. I didn’t just permit their results, and something definitely remains. The story of when I was a student and how the wheel implies a relationship to a whole, whereas think of Burroughs as the infection in the something else. The cut-up turns monads into disciplinary gods, mere idols, aching to be.
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