In Excelsis Deo

This year for Lent I am going to give up reality.

In the Catholic tradition, for Lent, one is supposed to sacrifice, for the season, something that regularly recurs in wrongone’s life, that serves to separate one from god.

I believe this is to be a worthy goal, whether one is Catholic or no.

Reality, I have determined, certainly serves to separate one from any and all gods.

As but one of literally numberless examples: here, in reality, we have some dirty little Danish dog who apparently believed he was “protecting his faith” by killing a kind and gentle man who made documentary films about an Australian child who sought to be a boomerang boy, Danish children whose parents are in prison, the hard journey of Vietnamese immigrants to Europe.

Finn Norgaard. That the name of the man. Who, in any real reality, should, and would, never have been shot and killed at all.

And then, of course, the dirty little dog next needed to kill a Jew. Dan Uzun. Who was keeping watch, by a synagogue, over the bat mitzvah of a young girl.

Because, in this reality, which I no longer accept, if you are a Jew, maybe, probably, you should best keep watch, always.

I’ve decided that people such as the so sad and lost little Danish dog are so ridiculous they don’t even exist.

And that such utterly useless dog-dick-lickers can just dumb shitskeep right on shooting. Because we’re not going to stop.

If some dog-anus “faith” compels some dog-shitstain to stab and shoot, all that dog-bowel-blow does is reduce its “faith” to stinking hideous dog-shit garbage.

The dog-dopes’ winged-horse shit and women-should-be-covered-in-cement nonsense—that is all so sad, that all we can do is laugh.

And that’s what we’re going to do. Keep right on laughing.

I’ll still cry. Like an angel. All my tears like water flow. But I have to laugh.

The dirty sad lost little Danish dog killed Norgaard in shooting up a Copenhagen jazz cafe wherein was occurring a small symposium on “Art And Blasphemy.”

What the dirty little bow-wow obviously didn’t get is that all Art by definition must contain Blasphemy. Because blasphemy is defined as “the act or offense of speaking sacrilegiously about God or sacred things; profane talk.” And the artistic creator, s/he is god. And will, ineluctably, employ both the sacred, and the profane, in setting forth all and every—unto, inevitably, blasphemy, about all and every, even unto all and every god, including the god of her/himself.

The jazz cafe, at the time the sad lost dirty little dog peed on it with his little dribbly bullets, contained one Lars Vilks—the apparent target of the dog.

Vilks is a Swedish artist most known for cunning and creative driftwood art installationsnew country in the Kullaberg nature reserve.

After he erected said installations, Vilks widened all human minds by declaring the area around his art a free and independent nation known as Ladonia.

In 2007, Vilks submitted three drawings to a provincial Swedish art exhibition in the hamlet of Tallerud that portrayed that Muhammad dude out of Islam as a roundabout dog.

A “roundabout dog” was a Swedish art thing that had sprung up the previous autumn, in which anonymous people placed homemade dog sculptures—typically made of wood, but sometimes plastic, metal, or textiles—in roundabouts.

These dogs were of all sorts.

Why not, Vilks whimsically and puckishly wondered, a Muhammad dog?

But no.

For various different one knuckle-dragging howling imbeciles of Islam had an ape-shit. Foam flew from mouths, and  hands went towards guns. Death-threats washed over Vilks in waves, and eventually he ascended to the same hit-list where also resided the now-extinguished sweet innocent little baby boy cartoonists of Charlie Hebdo.

Vilks neither courted, nor expected, this. “What I expected was that my contribution would be a local event,” he wrote. “But I was naive about this.”

He’s been under continuous police protection for the past eight years. Everywhere he goes, he is like a leper.

His career has suffered due to the security concerns among galleries and art institutions about exhibiting even work unrelated to Islam.

“Just meeting me or learning I am going appear somewhere creates waves of fear. They think the whole world will come storming over there and blow it all sky high.”

And. Sure enough. The dirty little Danish dog. A month after Hebdo. Blew roundabouta place where Vilks be. Sky high.

Dogs, as is well known to anyone who spends any time around them, may have various appealing aspects, but they also eat shit, hump all and every, and loudly and at length lick and suck their own genitals.

Why can’t somebody call Muhammad a dog?

What is the big deal? The guy was no more god than am you and I.

He’s less god, in fact, because he’s dead as dog shit. While alive, as gods, are you and I.

I’ll write that I am a dog. And I’ll write that Muhammad is too. And what I write is sacred. As well as profane.

Everybody has a line. Which shall not be crossed. Mine is these mange-ridden dog-balls out therelet's have a war killing artists.

If you’re some ur-human suffering from the Muslim delusion—or the Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, etc., delusion—and you’re feeling oh-so-oppressed, like every human who has ever been on this planet has always and every felt oppressed, and you want to Get Back at Someone who’s physically hurt or killed your people: first, if you commit violence, you are lower than any life-form that has lived anywhere ever: and second, you don’t like a little shivering peeing-down-his-leg rat-dog go after people who just draw fucking cartoons. Unless you’re a sad pathetic cowardly little nut-less dirty Danish dog who lives to lick shit out his own asshole.

You people are going to stop this dog-shit. It’s putrid and it stinks and it’s crawling with worms.

You don’t cut it out, and the artists, who in the main really haven’t been paying all that much attention to you, are going to really turn on the light, and shine it straight through you.

You and the black dog who makes of you nothing but death. Caught, kept, creature of Thanatos.

We know Thanatos clearer than do you. Because we’ve been there, and come through, and are now gods in service to Eros. Subsumed in all the elementals, wallowed in all the temptations. And, now, like ollaves, we will say: if you don’t, soon, stop fucking around:

You want form, do you? I’ll give you form. I’ll make you wish for something nice and cozy—Something all chewed and digested for you—Look, the thing’s worn out—It don’t work no more. It ain’t in a pretty package, you don’t want it—Because it ain’t art.

A tree near a lake.

Red deer.

Greatness and Truth can never be in danger from these murdering wretches.

To perform one’s duty, be it now, be it clean . . . 

The artist—They hate the artist. Mediocrity and servility are what they want. To get to the point—hell with all these bastards. I tell you it’s got to open up . . . hit the flow . . . 

—Let me say

look it’s getting dark all the fame and stuff and crap hell
it looks more and more to me like the only really important idea
is to say yes to anything that brings life
and no to anything that brings deathyes
step out of line and stay out of line
reject
reject
don’t let them kid you
this is a brutal and evil world
the war never ends
they’ll fix your wagon if you don’t give in
you can’t ever win with them on their terms
so reject the whole swindle
let them know where you stand
hell what good’s it how bright you get if you choose
to run along with the blood-stained bastards
every time the chips are down

i say it—art is giving life—art is talking to god
if the artist loses now the world is doomed
and I think the human imagination is being murdered
go into the darkness as clean as you can

—Kenneth Patchen, Sleepers Awake

There is a thing in Catholicism where one is not supposed to play or hear “Gloria In Excelsis Deo” during Lent.

Horseshit.

I hear it every night. I hear it every day. For I am G. As are you. As the glory is, to us, in our highest: for we are gods. Even as we go into the darkness. Clean as we can.

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