NANDOVEE
My superpower would be like a permanent lube on my stogey so I
can slippery slide into wonder woman's asshole of truth.- nandovee
You may think Nandovee is simply a fool. A maggot. An ass. A butt-sucking
pervert. Shame on you for jumping to conclusions. Shame on you for judging
this perfectly acceptable human being. Yesterday, I might have drawn your same
conclusions. But I’ve been reading Artaud…
Our little Nandovee might be compared to Heliogabalus, king of Rome
in 217, who undertook the “systematic and joyous demoralization
of the Latin mind and consciousness.”
Heliogabalus was a mythomaniac, a sexual pervert, a faggot, an adolescent
(14 years old). When he wasn’t busy cross-dressing, he appointed people to
high office based upon the relative size of their members (and I’m not
talking about party members here). Gemstones hung from his genitals.
Heliogabalus undertook to re-build Rome using a ten ton phallus. He paraded
through the city feminizing the Senate, choreographing police officers to dance
when commanded, cutting off dicks to use as earrings... You could say that
Heliogabalus had an itch that only a total orgy could scratch.
For there is a rite of the dead, a rite of the sorting of sexes,
objects made from male members that have been stretched, tanned,
blackened at the tips like rods hardened by fire. The members—affixed
to the ends of staffs like candles impaled on nails, like the barbs
of a mace; hanging like bells from arches of beated gold; stuck
on enormous plates like nails on a shield—turn in the fire
among the dancing priests, which men mounted on stilts manipulate
so that they dance like living creatures.
Like Heliogabalus, our little Nandovee is an anarchist in a golden
crown. He worships a myth. For Artaud, this myth precedes and undercuts
all rational materialist thought. Goodbye, fascist logic. Goodbye experimental
method. What did Newton ever do for my soul, anyway? Mythology is the
only true force. And the force is with Nandovee.
“… where anger advances, guilt retreats; this is the secret of the
empty and the full…” Artaud, Emotional Athleticism