In the second installment of Knausgaard’s My Struggle (2013) there’s a part (pg. 74) where he talks about Dostoevsky and Holderlin and how they both are like envoys of “the light” but the light within Dosto’s works is contaminated in some way by human bodies, muck, or mire (“humanity”) and Holderlin has a celestial divinity to him that is entirely ethereal, taking place on mountaintops or whatever and thinking about this dichotomy and also about like “mud” I’m immediately drawn to create a parallel with Tarkovsky and Tarr in that they are both masters of “the light” and sculptors of “the light” (and here the light is like their actual ability to make light look cool in a movie in addition to the emotional/spiritual state of being suffused with “the light” and like suppose it could be argued that the light in film is “the light” in film and additionally that the embodiment of light in human is here potentially more meaningful or profound.
My Mom showed me a grainy video on the internet of pulsating meat in a tabernacle in a Latin American church somewhere. The Eucharist shows its true colors as human flesh. The whole idea behind the Eucharist is that it’s not human flesh (in any sensory way) but you trust that it is human flesh because you have faith that the human institution of the Catholic Church is set up in such a fashion so as to imbue human priests with the power to change the “essence” of a thing but not its form, literally, the meaning of the Eucharist is the experience of the eater, but it is so important to ground that in the understanding that if it wanted to, this detached celestial light will contaminate itself with a real physical human body and make itself known to us and there is evidence of that somewhere, that mystery is killed, and that provides all the comfort. Isn’t it so important though that this happens right at the moment of transubstantiation and not like a ways before because human bodies need not be corrupted by any outside influence like the capacity for sickness is an ever-present thing inside the body. The body, if well, contains within it the potentiality for a full range of mishaps and maladies without even bringing the idea of outside contaminants into the picture.I went to the doctor because I thought maybe I had testicular cancer, but actually it was an epididymal cyst: one’s body attacks its own sperm as if it were an invader and grows an achey lump on a testicular viaduct to lock down the situation.
I made an excuse to leave a date early because I was consumed with images of an errant, ingrown hair on my upper thigh that was burrowing into my body. These images and the “ingrown hair feeling” and “pain” of the ingrown hair scaffolded one another and gave one another strength until I got “down and dirty” and attacked it with tweezers and thumbnails. afterwards my thigh felt hollow and dull and achey, like my body was attacking my body so I removed my body from my body, and now I felt bereft of its comforting presence. I think there’s a part in Swan's Way (1913) Really early in the beginning of the book where someone moves a cabinet in child Proust's room and he’s like omg a place that I habitually recognized as being “occupied” is now “empty” so I’m gonna throw a temper tantrum in the form of a lengthy digression and also presumably a temper tantrum in the form of a real life temper tantrum and that’s how I felt the moment the rude ass zit on my upper thigh buckled under the pressure I was applying.
Do you think the Eucharistic flesh in that church in Latin America was covered in ingrown hairs and epididymal cysts?