The brain is an august and complex grey, the epitome of grey and though of the body, seemingly bloodless, and when alive as sessile as a sponge rooted as it is to its Medulla oblongata, as hermetic as a discalced anchorite solitary in a stone cave, yet so suggestive in its seclusion. I don’t know if Hegel was writing of god or clouds or dialectical materialism, but his metaphor is apropos, “oyster-like, gray, or quite black Absolute.”
So there it lay on the black satin cloth, the scene Tertullian in its darkness, virtually dripping, yet clean and lifeless, grey erotic convolutions forming a harmony of dead flesh, so many vulvas of the brain, calling, welcoming, pursing its lips so like a whore on 2nd Avenue before Giuliani.
The pain is exquisite or in the equivalency of Bataille ecstatic. Each of the sutures connecting the 29 bones of the skull separated one from the other, one by one with the slow rasping of the bone saw. It could take 8 hours, sometimes more, a weekend of orgiastic bliss.
This was my work…my pleasure. Once that quiescence of the little death had been attained…witnessed like the adoration of the magi…the bodies, absent their heads, were all useless—it is why I kept the dogs—and I could display the hierarchy of my art in the ironic detachment of the brain.