Title: The Childlike Life Of The Black Tarantula
Author: Kathy Acker
Premise: meshing of historical women killing for good/dubious reason with Acker inserted sometimes in brackets pushing on from within ecstatic self-destruction/paranoia.
Publisher: Grove Press
How much can be unleashed before exhaustion?
Euphoria > exhaustion > guilt [at exhaustion]
I become a murderess.
I’m born in the late autumn or winter of 1827.
Troy, New York.
Acker was born in 1947, 1948 and 1944.
Into wealth yet refused to act that way acted exactly that way that some act when they’re born into wealth and can’t stand it want to escape do porn stripping file clerk work.
Everyone hates me they just want to fuck me they don’t want to fuck me.
Contradictions bold in the same sentence suffocated commas this paranoia laid out can be mesmeric at times a kind of truth [I load up Japanese father fucks daughter at mum’s wake let it run on no skips to penetration shot work myself up slow lethargic strokes faintly bored blur out father aspect not on purpose she’s too old to be real daughter better than watching genuine teen fuck finish up wipe off machinate sit there dead cold stare out at hawk flying past window know that it knows yeah let it be don’t have a gun anyway wasn’t her real father doesn’t mean anything watched a dog fuck a girl once not that immoral] truth that can be permitted doesn’t hollow Acker out in a way that might make her truly uncomfortable/abject. Go too wretched or too Id, or the layer above the Id with partial control on your part, and only way left is suicide.
Counterpoint: confession permitted Acker to keep going, keep writing, bracketed her.
I don’t know.
What else was there, if not this?Continue reading