Bomb and Mayhem

All right, i'll go straight to the point: if I mentioned the Bomb in the title of this blog, it is because if you write my name in a sms with the so-called 'intuitive' dictionary on, Bomb is what you're going to come up with.

It is not because of North Korea.

It is not because I'm a terrorist. As far as I'm concerned, i.e. as a citizen, an artist and a woman, wymyn, trucmuche, whatever you call her, the motor is less terror than furor.

Furor? Furor. You know, the story of Aphrodite (Venus, dear latinists, Goddess of lust, sex, love, whatever you call it) fucking Ares (Mars, not in a bar, God of war, t'fouh, t'fouh, t'fouh!) when she's married to Hephaistos (Vulcan, the Blacksmith God, patron of the makers and other artists, or whatever you call them, the not farty enough to claim Apollo [Apollo in Latin too!] as their 'Mr President'). And they're rooting in the marital bed, and he catches them at the climax. At this point, "Ciel, mon mari!", if you're a French husband and you happen to shoot the lover, well you were right, no-one is going to hold that against you in court. You were rightlously jealous, right? Or hopefully the law has changed lately?... Look, vote for a woman (or wymyn, or wha...) at next election, ok?
Indeed, Hephaistos is volcanically jealous! Fury turns blood into lava in his veins!! but instead of killing them with his mace and feeding them to the fire of his forge with his hottest plyers, well... he goes back into his workshop and invents the most amazing forged arty thingies a shameless Victorian balcony can dream of.

Fury is how Marcel Proust wrote 'à la recherche du temps perdu'.
Fury is how Pat Benatar sang 'Love is a Battlefield'.

So here you go: the more love, the more deceived it is, the more fury, therefore the more mind-blowing art. You know, 'Luxury, Calmness and Volupty'. QED. ;-)


Now, you're going to ask, '-but Bomb or Abel, or Bumfluff, or whatever you are called, is your blog some art, then? (or wha...) '

Well, dunno guys. After all I could be bitching about my ex, my transients and my future, but frankly, would I find relief by spitting publicly onto someone else's face? or pissing on it? (That is a Salo or the 120 Days of Sodome thing! except that it is the pissed-on who finds relief, not the pisser! It's all about perversion, you see?) or what not?

'-But, Fluff, other people do it when they're very angry and throwing up is not enough... They've suffered a lot and they feel like protecting themselves...'

Yep. Right. Well, I guess that's the g-string the Israelian government wears to hide their shaving of Lebanon, and the USA of Irak. T'fouh, t'fouh, t'fouh! Besides, if it's Mayhem you're talking about ('-Yes, we read the title...'), let me tell you something: she's writing a PhD in the shape of a crypto-fiction. Crypto-fiction, kat'onoma (sorry, can't swap into greek alphabet), is not an observation thing, it's a compositional work linking theory with examples drawn from the reality and carefully polished and simplified so they can reach the theoretical level, ok? And she's a master in it: she has a convincing style and a deep abstracting insight. To differenciate a piece of fiction made of real moments of her modelling experience she's condensed and synthetised into a text fitting just her analytical purpose and referential perspective from a piece of real experience of yours in the life drawing class is as hard as differenciating Labour from Libs when it's about (not) founding arts institutions.

I got so used to the bitch'n blog that I didn't even respond. Sure, I cried tears of blood reading it from the start, you know, catching up on the anger and stuff, when words go beyond what you really think but, shit hey, it brings such a comfort to get them out, where's the toilet paper now? But I would turn away, if not turn the other cheek (yes, of my bum. So what? I'm a life model, my bum is pretty well known, acknowledged and valued in the community). But when it hurts other people as well, I've got to acknowledge how furious I am that she does that; acknowledge that outrageously throwing one's raging passionate heart on the net like she does amounts to throwing one's ditto arse as well, outrageously.

It reminds me when two members of my housing coop accused each other of giving them gonorrhea at our monthly meeting.

Well, I guess we life models are all a little bit furiuously exhibionists. Throw'em first, grrl, I'll return twice as many!