Last night I dreamt I was in a shopping mall that was part tacky, antique home decor, and part live art installation of de Sade’s 120 Days of Solom with hundreds of nude, queer bodies. There is a man with a facial disfiguration slithering along the floor, his mouth sucking the dirt off the tiles. There is a woman with a cobweb tattooed across her face and chest. There are transgender bodies. There are bodies with sadistic scars (deep cuts and whip lashes). There is a domnimatrix with a myriad of facial piercings and dyed red hair.
The curator of the installation tells me that the arts organization that has put this on has had a very difficult time “controlling” these bodies. Several have tried to commit suicide. Many of them are not following “the rules” of the piece.
I have never seen Pasolini’s Salo or the 120 days of Sodom. I can’t.
In My Death My Life By Pier Paolo Pasolini, Kathy Acker writes:
So I can see any and everything. I can talk about everything as a child would. The interior or my mind versus the exterior. Art proposes an interiority which no longer exists for all of us are molded. The nightmare that I fear most is true.
Yesterday, I spent the entire day working on my “performance and humiliation” essay. I write: Humiliation is a price we pay for having a body. I write: My humiliation is not your humiliation.
Yesterday, my lover fucked and spanked me until I came.
In my dream, I am riding up the escalator when I think to myself: These bodies scare me. I am taken aback by my own narrow-mindedness and run to the bathroom to pee and take a shit in a bathroom with a window. A man watches me silently through the window. After I relieve myself I re-enter the installation. I am no longer scared, but content and calm. Calmer than I have ever felt in my entire life.