The Wounded

The Wounded
$23.00$16.00
Author:
Genre: Fiction
Publisher: nereusmedia
Publication Year: 2002
ISBN: 9781329728226
Enter the labyrinth of dark desire that is Billy Arioch’s 'The Wounded', with a new introduction by the author. 'The Wounded' brings the reader to Bataille’s crossroads from 'Le Coupable': where the protagonist’s guilt of rejecting a world of war and terrorism, and his subsequent 'escape to the brothels', becomes a surreal and philosophical journey, a liberation from convention. We meet the art student and exotic dancer M______, mischief in her eyes and wild at heart. The labyrinth that is 'The Wounded' is a wrestling with the economies of art, sex, philosophy, eroticism, with the consequences of desire validating the hurt within. Arioch's search is our own searching for a somnifère to ease the pain at the wounded heart, some hidden Minotaur, center to all of us.
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Overview

The following is a excerpt from Billy Arioch’s The Wounded.

There was an idea of never really being oneself, never risking to show oneself because of the worlds ability to always judge, or to misjudge, or to prejudge. There is the risk of living ones life in hiding, instead of out in the world, even though the world may condemn the way one acts. It is about living the life that one wishes to live, and not having the fear or shame that breaking with the tradition that have come to be calcified over the lids the sleeping masses.

What it had to do with my writing. My writing is about my life, and hard choices I wish to make about living that seem against the normal. I want to live more fully, yet to keep abreast of all the demands of real life, of modern life perhaps, or perhaps it is urban life, or worse it is urbane life, I feel less and less connected with this way I wish to explore living life. My writing is about meeting and friendship, about remembering and forgetting, about the wounded and their redemption. There is also something more real about the life I must lead to consider the writing I am undertaking than I seem to be able to live up to from a day to day perspective.

What kind of remembering and forgetting was I talking to them about. The kind where remembering is a tool of forgetting. There was an inversion (was it something like this? Nietzsche’s “enemies, there are no enemies” inverted as “friends, there are no friends”, or have I got that wrong? ). Where the very act of remembering was the way to forgetting, where remembering was the only tool available to increase a kind of amplitude of knowledge, and forgetting was disregarding the fact that these things in my past happened to me, and were more like signs that could be rearranged in order to create tools of transformation. Hence, forgetting wasn’t about disregarding the facts of ones past, forgetting was disregarding any strict interpretation of them, overturning any preconceived connectivity with memory and self or history, recalibrating what goes on when one remembers by turning the activity from an introspective to a transformative endeavor. And what remains, after there has been some transvaluation of the process and its fruits? Forgetting.

Forgetting opens the way to remembering, allows us to rethink remembering by taking away the object of our memory. After some uncounted amount of time, when you are without something for a long time, it is easier to feel the weight of gravity, to feel the grave pull of the need for a remedy. The remedy would be to have the thing that you desire, but this puts one into the realm of dependent or addict.

But what I want is a remedy, and this writing will have to serve as a fix, in that it brings the hope of remedy and the twisted redemption into view. Still the feeling is flat, exploring blind with hands inside the black box, looking through some kind of telescope, or microscope, or more appropriately a kaleidoscope, at l’objet de desire.

Still dreaming, I tell them about my writing:

The place where it all began for me is easily described with black and loud and neon. But that does not tell of the place. For me it is a middle world, a blank space between above and below. It is here that I would learn about friendship and being a fool, about the redemption of Osiris by Isis, about the three-part goddess Hecate.

There is noise and beauty. There is an atmosphere that is best described as confused. And in the confusion, I was able to learn a few things, but for the most part, I was just able to get through a few weeks of rough nights that seemed to take years to go by. And when it was all over, perhaps I’ll truly have some perspective.

It was at this point that one of them, the woman perhaps, made a joke about thinking this had something to do with healing or redemption. This did make us all laugh, since the mood of the writing seemed heavy and judgmental itself. However the point of the writing was an actual liberating idea. Perhaps this was the question I was posing to them in the dream lecture. Was this idea liberating, or was it something that would remove fear only to open up the world to insecurities or mistakes.

In the dream, I don’t know if I actually got an answer. I know that things soon turned from the discussion with its serious intentions and moments of laughing, to a kind of transportation through my levels of awakening. I was at once aware of risks in the real world for being oneself, around the myth of freedom of speech here, and tentacles of consequences that would demand careful swimming to escape their potential grasp. This swimming to the surface had a sort of control about it, a careful regard of the dangers of a too rapid accent. Some of the tentacles I saw had social implications, other economic, still others sought to ruin potential and retard the growth of self and others. As I lumbered into awakeness, the most important details and plans were just unfurling, down below the light in the fathoms of sleep.

So much can happen with one exchange between two people, that it makes me wonder how much of the details I miss every day. I want to go back to the moments that I had with her, and learn to be in those moments more fully. I want to be able to say those things that have taken me months to realize, and I want to say them to her.

It is the same moment, that I keep like a cherished timepiece. More than the object itself, which is the actual remembering of the moment with her, there is the ritual of the moment. Every day I wind the watch, keeping the moment alive. It is no longer a memory, it is a diurnal event, like a sunrise, but more like a sunset. It is a moment of hiding, but it reveals something to me. I still don’t know if it is about her or about me. I bring out the watch again, I wind the memory into motion, I check the time, just as a minute hand swings…

She is able to talk with her body, with her expressions, her eyes. I could never know the intention behind her unspoken dialogue, but that it reaches me has to do with a fantastic culmination of human gesture, endorphins, proto-language. It is the moment when the human animal opens to the human animal. I was opened. She did it whether or not see intended to do it. This writing is my way of learning what happened, and maybe, of telling her what she did.

The moments came and went too quickly. There wasn’t enough time to respond to what she had said. It’s more like there wasn’t enough perspective at the moment to see how the stone thrown into the pond would create the rippled waves, extending over time.

There is an opening. Something took place that let us enter into the space of meeting, more than our first introduction. An implicit trust is detected, that gives us the hope that we may be able to let this person inside our protective shell. In through that carapace, where we nurse our wounds, we are still not ready to let them inside our space where we experience our being wounded. We often don’t even let ourselves inside. Still the other is a promise, a hope that we will someday let them inside. We become open to the possibility of giving up on this shell, of mending our wounds.

 

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