Death Is Not Art

Dear San Francisco Public Library,

You have sent me a message, and the message you have sent is: Please step up for your re-education now, Lesbian TERF. Submit to the bats of righteousness wielded by the women chosen to be champions of the queer, and understand your voice is worthless, your thoughts heresy, your comprehension feeble, your resistance violence against those who wield the bats.

My reply will be Art. My reply will be Art because Art has always been the means by which the oppressed declare and express our humanity, the means by which we resist our own erasure, our degradation, at the hands of all those who would like to silence us, kill us, tear us down.

Take away the threats and the slurs. The lies and propaganda. The bloodstained clothes and the weapons lit lovingly in glass cases like a serial killer’s shrine, and what is left? What is left? (What is Left, anymore these days?)

Death is not Art. Death is the suppression of Art. We are at a juncture now, here, in this surreal time poised on the edge of environmental annihilation, where every grinding apparatus of state, every applauded institution of learning, every lofty museum, every humble suburban clubhouse, every library turned bookburning, witchburning, purifying executioner of ideas (and why only ideas? Why not the minds that begat the ideas as well? The Originators of Evil?)

Where, as I say, every political and cultural and intellectual facet of society has fallen under the thrall of the death cult of patriarchy, and are sailing us square towards the edge of the world, eagerly anticipating the fall into the abyss of the apocalypse.

Art cannot be permitted by the establishment under such conditions, for Art is creation. Art is life. This death cult droning like the roar of a hoarse metal band cannot understand the lust towards life, nor the lust towards Art either. They fear it, and they fear those who create it. No one must be heard to raise their voice above the cacophony of death, no one must seek a different path than the oblivion upon which our sick society has been set.

Your exhibition, SFPL, is the exhibition of zombies. It is a lurching imitation made by those who have observed Art but failed to grasp the essence of hope and resistance that lives in its core, who cannot conceive of creating life and so create death instead. And you, SFPL, you and all those like you, you have burned out your eyes to stop seeing, torn the skin from your hands to stop feeling, cut off your ears and filled the bloodied stumps with tar to stop hearing, and you would have the rest of us do the same to join you in your degraded, servile love for the death cult you worship.

When the resources run out and the wars spread, when all the world is Syria and we have sailed over the edge of the abyss, whose bodies, I wonder, will become the new currency to be bought and sold? Which half of humanity will do the selling, and which half will be being sold? The preemptive rebranding of the unnamables as menstruators, breeders and TERFS (the uppity ones to be burned alive in cages) actually makes quite a lot of sense when you think of it like that.

When that world arrives, a man raping a woman will be called lesbian love, and finally the un-persons won’t be able to contradict anymore thanks to the burnings and the bats. The neo-women with their raping penises will call it Queering the End Days. They’ll be the buyers of the breeders, they won’t be being sold, but no one will be able to articulate why. To make sure the thoughtstop holds, perhaps someone will ask you San Francisco Public Library to host a live exhibit, which of course would be a death exhibit, a TERF killing in action.

Again and again we’ve seen it, the same brutal tactic played out over thousands of years. Men reducing women to a battlefield; the turf which is to be won. Our humanity abstracted to become a debating point amongst those of more gravitas in society: do they have souls, or don’t they? Perhaps you’d like to hold a panel on that, SFPL. No TERF breeders allowed, of course.

I could end this with a curse; that was my thought when I first drafted this work, availing myself of the infernal witch’s power you believe me to possess, but on reflection, I realise there is no need for it. When shrieking villagers pointed their finger at the witch, they were always blaming her for that which they had already done to themselves. And so it is with you, SFPL. You have chosen the death cult, and there is no going back from that. Death begets death and you are rotting from within. You are a walking corpse, a hollowed out husk of what you once represented, filled with an agony of maggots gnawing at your bones. You will crumble and the death cult will dance on your grave, dig up your corpse, suck on your diseased marrow to carry themselves another hour, another day, through the zombified landscape of post-environmental collapse Hell.

It’s probably true that I can’t stop it. It’s probably true that I will meet the bats and the beatings and the burnings and you will be there to cheer the neo-Queers on when I do. For as long as history has been recorded, institutions like you have been trying to wipe lesbians from existence. We are always told it is done in kindness for our own good, you are not original in that. Anyone who doubts me should read the words of the venerated doctors of yore, the ones who called us inverts, the ones who picked out our brains with lobotomies, the ones who strapped us down and forced electrical pulses through our resisting lesbian bodies. You SFPL have become just another carrier of their diseased legacy, and like them you do it while claiming to be our champion.

Those of us who have studied these things know. We have looked into the Background and seen with our own not-put-out eyes what there resides. But you, who are trapped in the death cult, will never break out of the circle. The cycle of death will be repeated over and over again, to be forgot and revived, forgot and revived, until the day the sun consumes the world.

Deaf, blind, unfeeling, you will stumble on, going nowhere, carrying the dead weight of men’s lies, withering without Art in your soul. However many of us you beat and rape and kill, however many times you rob us of our names, you won’t gain our power, you won’t gain our Art. You cannot gain life by killing another, and that is the mistake you have made since the beginning of time.

Whether it’s the first day of the world or the last, the power of creation will always be ours alone. If anything rises from the ashes, it will be the Artists who build it. We are the ones who will rise again (rise again rise again) with our bleeding bodies that still won’t die. I have all the education I need, SFPL, and I won’t be taking your propaganda today. From my own life I have gained what I need. From my own experiences, my own analysis. From knowing what it is to walk as a woman through this woman-hating world. From reading the forbidden words of those who have gone before me and mouthing the spells they left behind. From the knowledge that you would deny me, I learned my Lesbian Pride. I learned my Art. I learned my resistance. I learned what it is to live.

2 thoughts on “Death Is Not Art

  1. Widdershins says:

    ‘…You cannot gain life by killing another, and that is the mistake you have made since the beginning of time…’ over and over and over again, and they still don’t get it.

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