ABSTRACT
The last boddhisatva is a Chilean snuff pornographer who is personally emptied of desire. He is somewhat of an artist, he has a smattering of hermetic learning, and his violence is neither real nor staged but carnivalesque; his sodomized carcasses are more than apparently dead, but always rise anew with fey smiles, with hyaline tears, with frozen grimaces that are an eagerness for more carnal miracles. When I wake up from the coma of the id, though I rarely do, I realize that sex is nothing: nothing not as logical negation, but nothing as the vibrations of fate are nothing, nothing like the space left behind when the kabbalists’ God retired into his monarchical slumber. Tzimtzum was the pornographer’s final movie, though it was also his first. In 2017, he was murdered in his bedroom while working on post-production (the only part of the profession he enjoyed, given his love of solitude and his formal monomania; he was, like Robert Bresson, quite indifferent to his actors, except to their phalluses, that strangely luminescent fauna, the worm-life of a vast, dead planet). The killer was a tramp he had employed sometime in the past in the part of a priest, a scrappy, rheumatic man with an average-sized cock but with a prodigy’s intuition for torture. The pornographer was found with a tremendous, almost mythological erection due to rigor mortis, the first erection he had ever been known to have. Angel lust, I’m told it’s called. Soiled ornament of the sephirot, or perhaps the tree of life itself. When he opened his eyes in the dark, it amused him to imagine himself as the following: an ubermensch from a Ukrainian shtetl; a giant born of parthenogenesis of Baltic seaweed; a German deviant; a Mexican poet; a Romanian general with a supernatural member; a beautiful, amoral whore; Borges’ fornicating anarchist brother; a woman at a cosmic gang-bang, sobbing with shame and delirious joy; Blaise Pascal, which is to say the same thing; a fetus’s vigilant eyeball, plotting to avenge its twin who was impaled by their father’s cock, his father who was the whole continent; his father; his mother; a mourner at his own funeral, a mourner who had barely known the guy, but they had discussed Ezra Pound and Sade one night until four in the morning, in between bouts of hieratic fucking.
