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Tears of the Expressionist Aphrodite

(Selected Passages From A Transcript Of The Documentary)

The Poet

I hate being called a poet. I’ve met too many people who think all a poet is good for is coming up with clever rhymes. I prefer to think of myself as a text-orchestrator. And as for rhyme: it’s only useful when you are trying to replicate the brain-wave patterns of deceased idiots. And there are other psionic applications. Orgasmic waves, for example, break down roughly into sestinas. But a poem that could drum the rhythm of life into the dead: or better yet, that could inspire the dead to fuck! That would be something.

The Painter

I’ve been criticized for going on and on about pain and suffering. And having said that, I shall proceed to talk about pain and suffering anyway, since I know whereof I speak. They put my father behind bars for what he did, but really, he should have received an arts grant. Slamming that car door on my hands—first one, then other—was a genius thing to do. Really. I was pissed off at the time, but now: the pain, it’s all right there on the canvas. The color theory of pain, the geometry of pain... My hands may not be the prettiest things in the world, but they get the job done.

The Boywhore

Yes, I used to fuck for money, but I’m beyond that now. I once thought that being hypersensitive was a curse, but with life experience, I’ve gained confidence. If only everyone were hypersensitive! That would be nice. A world of considerate lovers... A boy can dream.

I’ve been working on the development of the perfect virtual reality fuck program: layering the levels. Simultaneous auto-, homo-, hetero-experience. And everything else I’ve ever done, or anyone else for that matter. Dildoes. Pumps. Dogs. Every possible fetish, every sex toy, every—But you get the idea.

The Priest

It all started when I baptized a dead man and he became a zombie. A lot of people had a problem with that. But then, a lot of people had problems with electricity, flying machines, the car... Some people still think that radio waves can filter into their brains and drive them crazy. The baptism was simply an experiment. The process—I hate the word ‘ritual’—centered around a supplication to the true Aphrodite. Eventually I loaded the zombie in the car and hit the road.

This documentary surprises me: most people don’t want to hear about anything that could actually bring about change. But I do have faith that in time, everyone will embrace the new way.

The Historian

Society is all screwed up. It’s disgusting. I’ve read textbook after textbook and they’re all wrong. I can’t stand reading lies, knowing that the next person to read them just might be stupid enough to believe them. Truth can be such a burden. The bigger the truth, the bigger the burden. I wish that I could be stupid, but still able to discern the truth instinctually. Like animals in the woods: they know which plants are poisonous, don’t they? I’m fairly sure they do. I’ll have to ask the Scientist.

The Scientist

Consciousness. It’s grounded in every cell. The dead ones, too: even rot has a sort of intellect. Biology craves a purpose.

Each cell says to itself: I have to do something. The stupid ones just say it slower.

That’s my little joke. I shouldn’t say silly things. People think less of me when I do. Like I’m not supposed to have a sense of humor. But if I didn’t laugh every now and then, well, I’d probably die from ulcers and high blood pressure. My cells want me to speak my mind, and vice versa.

The Director

At first, I had trouble finding funds for this documentary. But when word got out—through the grapevine, articles here and there, radio interviews at ridiculously small college stations—money started trickling, then spurting, then pouring in. There are businesses and committees out there that want to see me succeed. They probably don’t even know about the Expressionist Aphrodite, per se. That makes me laugh: people who don’t know why they do what they do. Sure, they’re probably just following their instincts, but aren’t we all more than just flowers turning our petals toward the sun?

The Poet

At my most recent readings, I’ve performed my poem, Tears of Ecstasy, Iridescent Eyes. Each time, the entire audience was transfixed. That particular poem, that sestina, can turn the listener into a melancholy idiot. I’m not sure why it doesn’t fuck me up. I suppose I’m just a... Tool? Doorway? Organ? Maybe I’m a reptile: rattlesnakes manage to carry around their venom without dying. Isn’t that a vile image: little old me, the text-viper, stunning the brains of my mousy listeners. Making them stare and drool and sigh with sad wonder. Some of the folks from my audiences have been fetched and detained by family members, but eventually, most have wandered back to me. For a while, I was giving some of them crackers and setting them in abandoned buildings. Posing them in amusing tableaus.

The Painter

Aphrodite is the inspiration for all Expressionism. At my last exhibit, everyone kept staring at Pain Flowers, staring and soaking in my pain. It’s odd that they didn’t want to leave, since they weren’t having much fun. Oh no. They were all gently crying. That mindless weeping gave me a few anxiety attacks, but eventually I got used to it. Really, though, crying isn’t a bad thing. Deep down, I think, we all need to shed a few tears. Sure we do. Isn’t an orgasm a sort of bodily crying jag?

The Boywhore

I tried out the first draft of the fuck program on some old friends—clients, actually. It reduced them to a gritty, quivering paste. And let me tell you—it’s a crazy thing, to have eyes staring at you out of pink slime, staring in an accusing sort of way. Not that it made me feel bad. I don’t believe in guilt: it just holds you back, and really, who needs that? And besides, nobody died. That slime was—is alive, and I’ve saved every ounce. If there’s anything anyone should feel guilty for, it’s waste.

The Priest

I’ve set up my own church in a little ghost town in the Midwest. Toad City. It’s near a huge, swampy lake, full of critters, so that’s probably where they got the ‘toad’ part of the name. As for ‘city’: probably just wishful thinking. Or, who knows? Maybe prophecy. I happened to pass through the town during my travels with zombie No. 1. The place consisted of twenty broken-down buildings and a cemetery. No one was around to stop us, so the zombie and I dug up the dead people and baptized them. At the time, I didn’t know what they were going to do. They had a complete lack of focus.

All in all, things have a way of fitting together. For me, that’s an unusually optimistic statement, but what the hell. Technically, I am in the optimism business.

The Historian

Aphrodite—the real Aphrodite—was never the goddess of love. But various cultures copied her. Distorted her. Softened her.

In ancient times, the people of Babel worshipped the true Aphrodite. The tower legends, as the world knows them today, are all wrong: the language thing, for example. A very sloppy metaphor. Religious texts won’t tell you this, but the bricks of the tower contained bits of flesh and shit and cum and other goo. But back then, they didn’t have the guidance. Or the manpower. Or enough goo. So the whole project fell apart.

I tried to set the academic community straight on these points, but they never listened. Oh no. They always wanted proof. Information gleaned from visions simply wasn’t good enough for them. I did eventually met some sympathetic souls, and their support meant everything to me. For a while there, I was actually beginning to doubt my sanity.

The Scientist

I HAVE TO DO SOMETHING. I can hear my own cells crying out. Perhaps that voice is the tiny—what would one call the reverse of amplified?—voice of Aphrodite, goddess of Expressionism. She is not Life: she is the shadow that Life casts. And once that shadow falls on you... A gorgeous feeling of pain and sadness that goes on forever. A feeling so strong, it warps the reality around it. A study needs to be done on the effects of warped reality on various plants and animals. I’ve got that on my ‘Things to Do’ list.

The Director

After I found my funds—or rather, they found me—the whole project came together quickly. Phone numbers were sent my way anonymously. Volunteers would stop by my house, asking if I needed anything done. I had stumbled upon something, and it began to engulf me. You wouldn’t believe how much help I’ve received... How many gifts. And all the people who’ve wanted to sleep with me.

Regarding the six main players in this undertaking: I contacted some by correspondence, others by phone. Eventually I met them all in person. They were of different ages, social backgrounds, even countries of birth. But they all talked the same: meaning, they sounded the same, and even chose their words in the same sort of hyper way, like—Me. And they all had that long, pale face with deep-set eyes. Like mine.

For that, I don’t have an answer. But I do have some thoughts on the matter. Have you ever seen a jigsaw puzzle where all the pieces were shaped exactly alike? They may be the hardest to put together, but when you’re finished, there’s such a sense of satisfaction.

The Poet

I received a letter from the Priest in the Midwest. It took me a while to figure everything out—we exchanged letters for about three months—but finally, we arranged for all of my permanently dazed audience members to be spirited onto buses and out to Toad City. We had to pay off a few people, but our project had some extremely generous sponsors.

These days, I’m sharing a house here in Toad City with the Painter. We’re working on some truly breathtaking collaborative projects.

The Painter

The Priest’s letter came at a good time. I was getting quite a bit of negative publicity. Isn’t it always the way? A person can work for years at their craft and no one gives a rounded fuck. But the minute people start going crazy en masse—! The priest and I found a way to have my addled art lovers corralled into vans and shipped to that little town in the Midwest.

The Poet and I have so much in common. Sometimes we start talking and before we know it, a couple days have passed and we haven’t had a bite to eat or a minute of sleep.

The Boywhore

The priest invited me to move the production company out to Toad City. The fuck program operates off of an intricate headset: we had dozens manufactured, and then we hitched them to those sad cretins that the Poet and the Painter trucked in. We stood the poor things in a tank to catch the goop.

The Priest’s zombies follow directions fairly well, so we taught them to mix the paste with powdered plastic to make salmon-colored bricks. Lovely. They give slightly when you squeeze them. And they hum, too. I used to carry one of the bricks around with me, just to hear it hum. But then my hands started hurting, so I had to leave the brick in my quarters, under my pillow. My hands finally stopped hurting after these little flaps opened up on my fingertips. Now my hands can taste textures.

The Priest

For a while, I was writing to dozens of people: business folks and culture vultures with checkbooks and of course, the Historian—we’d met back in college, and we saw eye to eye on so many points. He shared his thoughts on the Babel Tower with me and I thought: this was the missing piece in my fantastic puzzle. And so I wrote to the Poet, the Boywhore and the Painter. I’d heard about them on the TV news, and for that, I must thank this country’s marvelous electronic media.

The reborn dead have been a joy to work with. They are so good at taking orders. Some of them are beginning to show signs of actual personality, and that’s good: I want them to enjoy their work, and embrace the new way with glad hearts.

The Historian

Well, let’s see. I had been corresponding with the Priest and the Scientist: the Priest wrote to me about his little town in the Midwest, and the Scientist told me all about his friend, the Boywhore. So, first thing, I went to Toad City and shared my ideas with the Priest. The perfect combination: I had the plans, he had the manpower—or rather, corpsepower. The Priest wrote a few letters, made a few connections, and soon, we were on our way. This time, the Tower of Babel would be done right.

Society is an organism: it has to change and grow. Evolve. Old cells die. New senses emerge. Extraordinary.

The Scientist

I’d been in touch with the Historian (a brilliant man) and the Boywhore—I was one of his technical consultants. According to the Historian, the problem with the original Tower of Babel was that it was phallic. To embody the Expressionist Aphrodite, it should have been an architectural womb. A holy place.

The zombies built a magnificent temple out of the salmon-colored bricks. The Expressionist Aphrodite is the queen bee of intellect. Upon completion, the living womb began the process of parthenogenesis. And it’s still going strong.

Still, that doesn’t mean we can rest on our laurels. I’ve always been what you’d call results-oriented. Like I said, I have some studies lined up. I’m going to begin a whole new line of research in a few weeks. By then, this lump on the side of my head will have become... Something. Maybe another brain. I’ve got my fingers crossed.

The Director

The Babel-womb continuously sprouts monsters-in-pain: the living tears of the glorious Expressionist Aphrodite. Fantastic creatures with...with just everything: hundreds of knowing eyes...swollen sex organs blossoming like giddy flowers...wagging tongues and bell-like ears and dripping, snuffling noses...sensuous hands with dozens of soft fingers. Experience nourishes them, and reality twists to accommodate their passage. I doubt that civilization as we know it can withstand such an onslaught of change.

And speaking of change: I can’t help but wonder what will become of me. I suppose I’ve been in Toad City too long. This must be how a tadpole feels. New bits keep popping out here and there, and I’m not at all sure what they’re for. The Priest keeps talking about embracing the new way...

The Boywhore told me I looked sad this morning and gave me a chaste hug. It took us the better part of an hour to separate. Our flesh had grown together as he held me in his arms.