Resistance p.4 - Brian Henry

4.

a.
The loss of art in a war-the destruction of cathedrals and monuments, the effacement of murals and frescoes, the demolishing of museums and squares-is the greatest of crimes. The human animal will generate itself, one family will occupy the space of another, the dead will decompose and the living persist in persisting. But art, once lost, will not come back. The loss of one statue, one painting, is a loss more painful than the deaths of a thousand children. Arguments to the contrary will call upon the irreplaceability of each human being, an assertion ludicrous as it inflates the human animal to divinity, necessary for propaganda but thoroughly false and sentimental and dishonest. The logical argument-that the one thousand children murdered might have become makers of art- depends on prognostication and ignores the history of each work of art, which is far greater than its future, that future being perhaps a fraction of even its present.

b.
In the main hall [of the train station], almost deserted despite the time (4pm) and the day (Monday), [three pigeons circle, exactly midway between the ceiling and the floor. A boy stands in the corner watching them search for an opening. After their fifth lap he starts to cry. Not loudly, but to himself, the tears accumulating until his eyes can no longer hold them, his shoulders quivering with sobs] he will not let go let go let go into the open space around him.

c.
You must ride a train facing backward lest a storm overtake you and pull you out right where you sit.

d.
Mediocrity as a way of life is what we all must accustom ourselves to. There is no use in trying for greatness, as even the attainment of greatness would go unnoticed and unremarked upon. Passive resistance murks the waters.

e.
Here we have information, information coming at you so quickly and intently you feel the need to duck. A certain desperation-for particulars-finds its way into your body and you think you have to run, as fast as possible [along the wall circling the city. The wall is breast-height, mainly, except toward the hill's top, where it rises above your head. Here your view is of the wall, not of the valley below-the valley scrolling because you are running. The valley is cut into shapes, the colors are greens and browns, the houses ochre with clay tiles.]

This is not a new feeling, not even for you, who's felt so little. A father dead, a cousin, all grandparents but one, an aunt-no feeling but a lack. A lack is a lack. It is to be neither felt nor missed. It simply is not there. This is not a new feeling, not for most and not for you. As an un-feeling, you cannot even decide to succumb to or resist it, it is so not there. You're afraid you're coming up with a philosophy or, worse, are appearing to come up with a philosophy but in reality coming up with nothing but well-trodden thoughts. This is not your worst fear. Your worst fear is [lifting your body from a fall to feel your teeth-three, four, five teeth-gone. You go to your knees to search the dirt but your hands find only dirt, a few rocks.] Your body is aching, your mouth throbs with its newfound lack. You cannot taste blood but you can taste the irony moisture that should be blood. [The two top front teeth, a couple on each side.] The jagged bottom teeth must be chipped though something is still rooted there. [You push the rocks into your gums but they, too, fall out. They will not adhere] and your mouth, it's very dry now. This, you think, is your fear and you are always waking pushing [-a tongue against your gums, a finger against a tooth-] to test the resistance you swear is there. For if resistance failed, you would be left with so many lacks you could not see a way clear.

Let's call on another fear, not to take the place of the first, but to attempt a rounder portrait of what drives you. This fear has to do with your genitalia, naturally, and while it has never appeared in a dream, it is perhaps the baser fear, being daily. You proceed through each day with little damage, but daily you pause to assess [the cock shriveled between your legs]. There is nothing special about it: it could be anyone's. You've seen it in films [-in a woman's mouth as her first works its base, cleaving her cunt and then back in your hand as you deposit the day's semen on her face or chest or belly-] but there it is always full, hard, until its purpose-public release-has been fulfilled. You struggle daily to achieve that purpose but have no receptacle. No audience. Your cock reflects this, as it too can never be as alive as the cock finding its purpose. It is losing its vibrance, its beauty. While its function remains more or less intact, your cock has no purpose. You are sick of it. Since it is central to your life as a male animal, your cock's deterioration seems a poor reflection on your life. You fear the day when, ugly and dull thing that it is, you don't even notice it.