crash isnt one of ballards best books, but the plot is developed from a shor story in the atrocity exhibition,i feel that ballards novels are far more involving than his short stories. try reading the day of creation or the drowned world for a better novel. his other, newer books, such as cocaine nights, and super-cannes are dark and disturbing, and a fantastic read.
Oswald was the starter. From his window above the track he opened the race by firing the starting gun. It is believed that the first shot was not properly heard by all drivers. In the following confusion Oswald fired the gun two more times, but the race was already under way. Kennedy got off to a bad start. There was a governor in his car and its speed remained constant at about fifteen miles an hour. However, shortly afterwards, when the governor was put out of action, the car accelerated rapidly, and continued at high speed along the remainder of the course.
The visiting teams. As befitting the inauguration of the first production car race through the streets of Dallas, both the President and his Vice-President participated. The Vice-President, Johnson, took up his position behind Kennedy on the starting line. The concealed rivalry between the two men was of keen interest to the crowd. Most of them supported the home driver, Johnson.
The starting point was the Texas Book Depository, where all bets were placed on the Presidential race. Kennedy was an unpopular contestant with the Dallas crowd, many of whom showed outright hostility. The deplorable incident familiar to us all is one example.
The course ran downhill from the Book Depository, below an overpass, then on to the Parkland Hospital and from there to Love Air Field. It is one of the most hazardous courses in downhill motor-racing, second only to the Sarajevo track discontinued in 1914.
Kennedy went downhill rapidly. After the damage to the governor the car was shot forward at high speed. An alarmed track official attempted to mount the car, which continued on its way, cornering on two wheels.
Turns. Kennedy was disqualified at the Hospital, after taking a turn for the worse. Johnson now continued the race in the lead, which he maintained to the finish.
The flag. To signify the participation of the President in the race Old Glory was used in place of the usual chequered square. Photographs of Johnson receiving his prize after winning the race reveal that he had decided to make the flag a memento of his victory. Previously, Johnson had been forced to take a back seat, as his position on the starting line behind the President indicates. Indeed, his attempts to gain a quick lead on Kennedy during the false start were forestalled by a track steward, who pushed Johnson to the floor of his car.
In view of the confusion at the start of the race, which resulted in Kennedy, clearly expected to be the winner on past form, being forced to drop out at the Hospital turn, it has been suggested that the hostile local crowd, eager to see a win by the home driver Johnson, deliberately set out to stop him completing the race. Another theory maintains that the police guarding the track were in collusion with the starter, Oswald. After he finally managed to give the send-off Oswald immediately left the race, and was subsequently apprehended by track officials.
Johnson had certainly not expected to win the race in this way. There were no pit stops. Several puzzling aspects of the race remain. One is the presence of the President's wife in the car, an unusual practice for racing drivers. Kennedy, however, may have maintained that as he was in control of the ship of state he was therefore entitled to captain's privileges.
The Warren Commission. The rake-off on the book of the race. In their report, prompted by widespread complaints of foul play and other irregularities, the syndicate lay full blame on the starter, Oswald. Without doubt Oswald badly misfired. But one question still remains unanswered: who loaded the starting gun?
Oswald was the starter. From his window above the track he opened the race by firing the starting gun. It is believed that the first shot was not properly heard by all drivers. In the following confusion Oswald fired the gun two more times, but the race was already under way. Kennedy got off to a bad start. There was a governor in his car and its speed remained constant at about fifteen miles an hour. However, shortly afterwards, when the governor was put out of action, the car accelerated rapidly, and continued at high speed along the remainder of the course.
The visiting teams. As befitting the inauguration of the first production car race through the streets of Dallas, both the President and his Vice-President participated. The Vice-President, Johnson, took up his position behind Kennedy on the starting line. The concealed rivalry between the two men was of keen interest to the crowd. Most of them supported the home driver, Johnson.
The starting point was the Texas Book Depository, where all bets were placed on the Presidential race. Kennedy was an unpopular contestant with the Dallas crowd, many of whom showed outright hostility. The deplorable incident familiar to us all is one example.
The course ran downhill from the Book Depository, below an overpass, then on to the Parkland Hospital and from there to Love Air Field. It is one of the most hazardous courses in downhill motor-racing, second only to the Sarajevo track discontinued in 1914.
Kennedy went downhill rapidly. After the damage to the governor the car was shot forward at high speed. An alarmed track official attempted to mount the car, which continued on its way, cornering on two wheels.
Turns. Kennedy was disqualified at the Hospital, after taking a turn for the worse. Johnson now continued the race in the lead, which he maintained to the finish.
The flag. To signify the participation of the President in the race Old Glory was used in place of the usual chequered square. Photographs of Johnson receiving his prize after winning the race reveal that he had decided to make the flag a memento of his victory. Previously, Johnson had been forced to take a back seat, as his position on the starting line behind the President indicates. Indeed, his attempts to gain a quick lead on Kennedy during the false start were forestalled by a track steward, who pushed Johnson to the floor of his car.
In view of the confusion at the start of the race, which resulted in Kennedy, clearly expected to be the winner on past form, being forced to drop out at the Hospital turn, it has been suggested that the hostile local crowd, eager to see a win by the home driver Johnson, deliberately set out to stop him completing the race. Another theory maintains that the police guarding the track were in collusion with the starter, Oswald. After he finally managed to give the send-off Oswald immediately left the race, and was subsequently apprehended by track officials.
Johnson had certainly not expected to win the race in this way. There were no pit stops. Several puzzling aspects of the race remain. One is the presence of the President's wife in the car, an unusual practice for racing drivers. Kennedy, however, may have maintained that as he was in control of the ship of state he was therefore entitled to captain's privileges.
The Warren Commission. The rake-off on the book of the race. In their report, prompted by widespread complaints of foul play and other irregularities, the syndicate lay full blame on the starter, Oswald. Without doubt Oswald badly misfired. But one question still remains unanswered: who loaded the starting gun?
The latent sexual content of the automobile crash.
CrashNumerous studies have been conducted to assess the latent sexual appeal of public figures who have achieved subsequent notoriety as auto-crash fatalities, e.g. James Dean, Jayne Mansfield, Albert Camus. Simulated newsreels of politicians, film stars and TV celebrities were shown to panels of (a) suburban housewives, (b) terminal paretics, (c) filling station personnel. Sequences showing auto-crash victims brought about a marked acceleration of pulse and respiratory rates. Many volunteers became convinced that the fatalities were still living, and later used one or other of the crash victims as a private focus of arousal during intercourse with a domestic partner.
Relatives of auto-crash victims showed a similar upsurge in both sexual activity and overall levels of general health. Mourning periods were drastically reduced. After a brief initial period of withdrawal, relatives would revisit the site, usually attempting a discreet re-enactment of the crash mode. In an extreme 2 percent of cases spontaneous orgasms were experienced during a simulated run along the crash route. Surprisingly, these results parallel the increased frequency of sexual intercourse in new-car families, the showroom providing a widely popular erotic focus. Incidence of neurosis in new-car families is also markedly less. by the images of colliding motor cars.
The tragic failure of these isolation tests, reluctantly devised by Trabert before his resignation, were to have bizarre consequences upon the future of the Institute and the already uneasy relationships between the members of the research staff. Catherine Austin stood in the doorway of Trabert's office, watching the reflection of the television screen flicker across the slides of exposed spinal levels. Missile and RocketThe magnified images of the newsreels from Cape Kennedy dappled the enamel walls and ceiling, transforming the darkened room into a huge cubicular screen. She stared at the transcriptions clipped to the memo board on Trabert's desk, listening to the barely audible murmur of the soundtrack. The announcer's voice became a commentary on the elusive sexuality of this strange man, on the false deaths of the three astronauts in the Apollo capsule, and on the eroded landscapes which the volunteers in the isolation tests had described so poignantly in their last transmissions.
A disquieting feature of this annual exhibition--to which the patients themselves were not invited--was the marked preoccupation of the paintings with the theme of world cataclysm, as if these long-incarcerated patients had sensed some seismic upheaval within the minds of their doctors and nurses. As Catherine Austin walked around the converted gymnasium these Missilebizarre images, with their fusion of Eniwetok and Luna Park, Freud and Elizabeth Taylor, reminded her of slides of exposed spine levels in Travis's office. They hung on the enameled walls like the codes of insoluble dreams, the keys to a nightmare in which she had begun to play a more willing and calculated role. Primly she buttoned her white coat as Dr. Nathan approached, holding his gold-tipped cigarette to one nostril. 'Ah, Dr. Austin...What do you think of them? I see there's War in Hell.'
All the while I stared at those parts of Gabrielle's body Reflected in this nightmare technology of cripple controls. I watched her thighs shifting against each other The jut of her left breast under the strap of her spinal harness The angular bowl of her pelvis The hard pressure of her hand on my arm She gazed back at me through the windshield Playing with the chromium clutch treadle As if hoping that something obscene might happen
It was I who first made love to her In the rear seat of her small car Surrounded by the bizarre geometry of the invalid controls As I explored her body Feeling my way among the braces and straps of her underwear The unfamiliar planes of her legs and hips Steered me into unique cul de sacs Strange declensions of skin and musculature
Each of her deformities became a potent metaphor For the excitements of a new violence Her body with its angular contours Its unexpected junctions of mucus membrane and hairline Detrusor muscle and erectile tissue Was a ripening anthology of perverse possibilies
As I sat with her by the airport fence in her darkened car Her white breast in my hand lit by the ascending airliners The shape and tenderness of her nipple seemed to rape my fingers Her sexual acts were exploratory ordeals
As she drove towards the airport I watched her handle the unfamiliar controls The complex of inverted treadles and clutch levers of the car had been designed for her -- implicitly, I guessed, for her first sexual act Twenty minutes later, as I embraced her The scent of her body mingled with the showroom odor of mustard leatherette
We had turned off near the reservoirs to watch the aircraft landing As I pressed her left shoulder against my chest I could see The contoured seat which had been molded around her body Hemispheres of padded leather that matched the depressions of her brace and backstraps I slipped my hand around her right breast Already colliding with the strange geometry of the car's interior Unexpected controls jutted from beneath the steering wheel The cluster of chromium treadles was fastened to the steel pivot Clamped to the steering column An extension on the floor-mounted gear lever rose laterally Giving way to a vertical wing of chromium metal molded into the reverse of a driver's palm Aware of these new parameters The embrace of this dutiful technology Gabrielle lay back Her intelligent eyes followed her hand as it felt my face and chin As if searching for my own missing armatures of bright chromium
She lifted her left foot so that the leg brace rested against my knee In the inner surface of her thigh The straps formed a marked depression Troughs of reddened skin Hollowed out in the forms of buckles and clasps As I unshackled the left leg brace And ran my fingers along the deep buckle groove The corrugated skin felt hot and tender More exciting than the membrane of a vagina
This depraved orifice The invagination of the sexual organs still in the embryonic stages of evolution Reminded me of the small wounds on my own body Which still carried the contours of the instrument panel and the controls I felt this depression on her thigh The groove worn below her breast Under her right armpit By the spinal brace The red marking on the inside of her right upper arm These were the templates for new genital organs The molds of sexual possibilities Yet to be created in a hundred experimental car crashes
Vaughan died yesterday in his last car crash. During our friendship he had rehearsed his death in many crashes, but this was his only true accident. Driven on a collision course towards the limousine of the film actress, his car jumped the rails of the London Airport flyover and plunged through the roof of a bus filled with airline passengers. The crushed bodies of package tourists, like a hemorrhage of the sun, still lay across the vinyl seats when I pushed my way through the police engineers an hour later. Holding the arm of her chauffeur, the film actress Elizabeth Taylor, with whom Vaughan had dreamed of dying for so many months, stood alone under the revolving ambulance lights. As I knelt over Vaughan's body she placed a gloved hand to her throat.
Could she see, in Vaughan's posture, the formula of the death which he had devised for her? During the last weeks of his life Vaughan thought of nothing else but her death, a coronation of wounds he had staged with the devotion of an Earl Marshal. The walls of his apartment near the film studios at Shepperton were covered with the photographs he had taken through his zoom lens each morning as she left her hotel room in London, from the pedestrian bridges above the westbound motorways, and from the roof of the multistorey car park at the studios. The magnified details of her knees and hands, of the inner surface of her thighs and the left apex of her mouth, I uneasily prepared for Vaughan on the copying machine in my office, handing him the packages of prints as if they were the installments of a death warrant. At his apartment I watched him matching the details of her body with the photographs of grotesque wounds in a textbook of plastic surgery.
In his vision of a car crash with the actress, Vaughan was obsessed by many wounds and impacts--by the dying chromium and collapsing bulkheads of their two cars meeting head-on in complex collisions endlessly repeated in slow-motion films, by the identical wounds inflicted on their bodies, by the image of windshield glass frosting around her face as she broke its tinted surface like a death-born Aphrodite, by the compound fractures of their thighs impacted against their handbrake mountings, ban above all by the wounds to their genitalia, her uterus pierced by the heraldic beak of the manufacturer's medallion, his semen emptying across the luminescent dials that registered forever the last temperature and the fuel levels of the engine.
It was only at these times, as he described this last crash to me, that Vaughan was calm. He talked of these wounds and collisions with the erotic tenderness of a long-separated lover. Searching through the photographs in his apartment, he half turned towards me, so that his heavy groin quieted me with its profile of an almost erect penis. He knew that as long as he provoked me with his own sex, which he used casually as if he might discard it for ever at any moment, I would never leave him.
Vaughan died yesterday in his last car crash. During our friendship he had rehearsed his death in many crashes, but this was his only true accident. Driven on a collision course towards the limousine of the film actress, his car jumped the rails of the London Airport flyover and plunged through the roof of a bus filled with airline passengers. The crushed bodies of package tourists, like a hemorrhage of the sun, still lay across the vinyl seats when I pushed my way through the police engineers an hour later. Holding the arm of her chauffeur, the film actress Elizabeth Taylor, with whom Vaughan had dreamed of dying for so many months, stood alone under the revolving ambulance lights. As I knelt over Vaughan's body she placed a gloved hand to her throat.
Could she see, in Vaughan's posture, the formula of the death which he had devised for her? During the last weeks of his life Vaughan thought of nothing else but her death, a coronation of wounds he had staged with the devotion of an Earl Marshal. The walls of his apartment near the film studios at Shepperton were covered with the photographs he had taken through his zoom lens each morning as she left her hotel room in London, from the pedestrian bridges above the westbound motorways, and from the roof of the multistorey car park at the studios. The magnified details of her knees and hands, of the inner surface of her thighs and the left apex of her mouth, I uneasily prepared for Vaughan on the copying machine in my office, handing him the packages of prints as if they were the installments of a death warrant. At his apartment I watched him matching the details of her body with the photographs of grotesque wounds in a textbook of plastic surgery.
In his vision of a car crash with the actress, Vaughan was obsessed by many wounds and impacts--by the dying chromium and collapsing bulkheads of their two cars meeting head-on in complex collisions endlessly repeated in slow-motion films, by the identical wounds inflicted on their bodies, by the image of windshield glass frosting around her face as she broke its tinted surface like a death-born Aphrodite, by the compound fractures of their thighs impacted against their handbrake mountings, ban above all by the wounds to their genitalia, her uterus pierced by the heraldic beak of the manufacturer's medallion, his semen emptying across the luminescent dials that registered forever the last temperature and the fuel levels of the engine.
It was only at these times, as he described this last crash to me, that Vaughan was calm. He talked of these wounds and collisions with the erotic tenderness of a long-separated lover. Searching through the photographs in his apartment, he half turned towards me, so that his heavy groin quieted me with its profile of an almost erect penis. He knew that as long as he provoked me with his own sex, which he used casually as if he might discard it for ever at any moment, I would never leave him.
Slashdot Mirror
TEN-SHUN!
eyes riiiiight!
chew it
yep, mmm, it tasted goooood.
and lie
BUUURP!
and see?
see clicky for the short story excerpt that crash is based on.
crash isnt one of ballards best books, but the plot is developed from a shor story in the atrocity exhibition,i feel that ballards novels are far more involving than his short stories. try reading the day of creation or the drowned world for a better novel. his other, newer books, such as cocaine nights, and super-cannes are dark and disturbing, and a fantastic read.
Rather good.
i have found some interesting fluff today.
(Considered as a Downhill Motor Race)
Oswald was the starter. From his window above the track he opened the race by firing the starting gun. It is believed that the first shot was not properly heard by all drivers. In the following confusion Oswald fired the gun two more times, but the race was already under way. Kennedy got off to a bad start. There was a governor in his car and its speed remained constant at about fifteen miles an hour. However, shortly afterwards, when the governor was put out of action, the car accelerated rapidly, and continued at high speed along the remainder of the course.
The visiting teams. As befitting the inauguration of the first production car race through the streets of Dallas, both the President and his Vice-President participated. The Vice-President, Johnson, took up his position behind Kennedy on the starting line. The concealed rivalry between the two men was of keen interest to the crowd. Most of them supported the home driver, Johnson.
The starting point was the Texas Book Depository, where all bets were placed on the Presidential race. Kennedy was an unpopular contestant with the Dallas crowd, many of whom showed outright hostility. The deplorable incident familiar to us all is one example.
The course ran downhill from the Book Depository, below an overpass, then on to the Parkland Hospital and from there to Love Air Field. It is one of the most hazardous courses in downhill motor-racing, second only to the Sarajevo track discontinued in 1914.
Kennedy went downhill rapidly. After the damage to the governor the car was shot forward at high speed. An alarmed track official attempted to mount the car, which continued on its way, cornering on two wheels.
Turns. Kennedy was disqualified at the Hospital, after taking a turn for the worse. Johnson now continued the race in the lead, which he maintained to the finish.
The flag. To signify the participation of the President in the race Old Glory was used in place of the usual chequered square. Photographs of Johnson receiving his prize after winning the race reveal that he had decided to make the flag a memento of his victory. Previously, Johnson had been forced to take a back seat, as his position on the starting line behind the President indicates. Indeed, his attempts to gain a quick lead on Kennedy during the false start were forestalled by a track steward, who pushed Johnson to the floor of his car.
In view of the confusion at the start of the race, which resulted in Kennedy, clearly expected to be the winner on past form, being forced to drop out at the Hospital turn, it has been suggested that the hostile local crowd, eager to see a win by the home driver Johnson, deliberately set out to stop him completing the race. Another theory maintains that the police guarding the track were in collusion with the starter, Oswald. After he finally managed to give the send-off Oswald immediately left the race, and was subsequently apprehended by track officials.
Johnson had certainly not expected to win the race in this way. There were no pit stops. Several puzzling aspects of the race remain. One is the presence of the President's wife in the car, an unusual practice for racing drivers. Kennedy, however, may have maintained that as he was in control of the ship of state he was therefore entitled to captain's privileges.
The Warren Commission. The rake-off on the book of the race. In their report, prompted by widespread complaints of foul play and other irregularities, the syndicate lay full blame on the starter, Oswald. Without doubt Oswald badly misfired. But one question still remains unanswered: who loaded the starting gun?
(Considered as a Downhill Motor Race)
Oswald was the starter. From his window above the track he opened the race by firing the starting gun. It is believed that the first shot was not properly heard by all drivers. In the following confusion Oswald fired the gun two more times, but the race was already under way. Kennedy got off to a bad start. There was a governor in his car and its speed remained constant at about fifteen miles an hour. However, shortly afterwards, when the governor was put out of action, the car accelerated rapidly, and continued at high speed along the remainder of the course.
The visiting teams. As befitting the inauguration of the first production car race through the streets of Dallas, both the President and his Vice-President participated. The Vice-President, Johnson, took up his position behind Kennedy on the starting line. The concealed rivalry between the two men was of keen interest to the crowd. Most of them supported the home driver, Johnson.
The starting point was the Texas Book Depository, where all bets were placed on the Presidential race. Kennedy was an unpopular contestant with the Dallas crowd, many of whom showed outright hostility. The deplorable incident familiar to us all is one example.
The course ran downhill from the Book Depository, below an overpass, then on to the Parkland Hospital and from there to Love Air Field. It is one of the most hazardous courses in downhill motor-racing, second only to the Sarajevo track discontinued in 1914.
Kennedy went downhill rapidly. After the damage to the governor the car was shot forward at high speed. An alarmed track official attempted to mount the car, which continued on its way, cornering on two wheels.
Turns. Kennedy was disqualified at the Hospital, after taking a turn for the worse. Johnson now continued the race in the lead, which he maintained to the finish.
The flag. To signify the participation of the President in the race Old Glory was used in place of the usual chequered square. Photographs of Johnson receiving his prize after winning the race reveal that he had decided to make the flag a memento of his victory. Previously, Johnson had been forced to take a back seat, as his position on the starting line behind the President indicates. Indeed, his attempts to gain a quick lead on Kennedy during the false start were forestalled by a track steward, who pushed Johnson to the floor of his car.
In view of the confusion at the start of the race, which resulted in Kennedy, clearly expected to be the winner on past form, being forced to drop out at the Hospital turn, it has been suggested that the hostile local crowd, eager to see a win by the home driver Johnson, deliberately set out to stop him completing the race. Another theory maintains that the police guarding the track were in collusion with the starter, Oswald. After he finally managed to give the send-off Oswald immediately left the race, and was subsequently apprehended by track officials.
Johnson had certainly not expected to win the race in this way. There were no pit stops. Several puzzling aspects of the race remain. One is the presence of the President's wife in the car, an unusual practice for racing drivers. Kennedy, however, may have maintained that as he was in control of the ship of state he was therefore entitled to captain's privileges.
The Warren Commission. The rake-off on the book of the race. In their report, prompted by widespread complaints of foul play and other irregularities, the syndicate lay full blame on the starter, Oswald. Without doubt Oswald badly misfired. But one question still remains unanswered: who loaded the starting gun?
The latent sexual content of the automobile crash.
CrashNumerous studies have been conducted to assess the latent sexual appeal of public figures who have achieved subsequent notoriety as auto-crash fatalities, e.g. James Dean, Jayne Mansfield, Albert Camus. Simulated newsreels of politicians, film stars and TV celebrities were shown to panels of (a) suburban housewives, (b) terminal paretics, (c) filling station personnel. Sequences showing auto-crash victims brought about a marked acceleration of pulse and respiratory rates. Many volunteers became convinced that the fatalities were still living, and later used one or other of the crash victims as a private focus of arousal during intercourse with a domestic partner.
Relatives of auto-crash victims showed a similar upsurge in both sexual activity and overall levels of general health. Mourning periods were drastically reduced. After a brief initial period of withdrawal, relatives would revisit the site, usually attempting a discreet re-enactment of the crash mode. In an extreme 2 percent of cases spontaneous orgasms were experienced during a simulated run along the crash route. Surprisingly, these results parallel the increased frequency of sexual intercourse in new-car families, the showroom providing a widely popular erotic focus. Incidence of neurosis in new-car families is also markedly less. by the images of colliding motor cars.
The tragic failure of these isolation tests, reluctantly devised by Trabert before his resignation, were to have bizarre consequences upon the future of the Institute and the already uneasy relationships between the members of the research staff. Catherine Austin stood in the doorway of Trabert's office, watching the reflection of the television screen flicker across the slides of exposed spinal levels. Missile and RocketThe magnified images of the newsreels from Cape Kennedy dappled the enamel walls and ceiling, transforming the darkened room into a huge cubicular screen. She stared at the transcriptions clipped to the memo board on Trabert's desk, listening to the barely audible murmur of the soundtrack. The announcer's voice became a commentary on the elusive sexuality of this strange man, on the false deaths of the three astronauts in the Apollo capsule, and on the eroded landscapes which the volunteers in the isolation tests had described so poignantly in their last transmissions.
A disquieting feature of this annual exhibition--to which the patients themselves were not invited--was the marked preoccupation of the paintings with the theme of world cataclysm, as if these long-incarcerated patients had sensed some seismic upheaval within the minds of their doctors and nurses. As Catherine Austin walked around the converted gymnasium these Missilebizarre images, with their fusion of Eniwetok and Luna Park, Freud and Elizabeth Taylor, reminded her of slides of exposed spine levels in Travis's office. They hung on the enameled walls like the codes of insoluble dreams, the keys to a nightmare in which she had begun to play a more willing and calculated role. Primly she buttoned her white coat as Dr. Nathan approached, holding his gold-tipped cigarette to one nostril. 'Ah, Dr. Austin...What do you think of them? I see there's War in Hell.'
All the while I stared at those parts of Gabrielle's body
Reflected in this nightmare technology of cripple controls. I watched her thighs shifting against each other The jut of her left breast under the strap of her spinal harness The angular bowl of her pelvis The hard pressure of her hand on my arm
She gazed back at me through the windshield
Playing with the chromium clutch treadle
As if hoping that something obscene might happen
It was I who first made love to her
In the rear seat of her small car
Surrounded by the bizarre geometry of the invalid controls
As I explored her body
Feeling my way among the braces and straps of her underwear
The unfamiliar planes of her legs and hips
Steered me into unique cul de sacs
Strange declensions of skin and musculature
Each of her deformities became a potent metaphor
For the excitements of a new violence
Her body with its angular contours
Its unexpected junctions of mucus membrane and hairline
Detrusor muscle and erectile tissue
Was a ripening anthology of perverse possibilies
As I sat with her by the airport fence in her darkened car
Her white breast in my hand lit by the ascending airliners
The shape and tenderness of her nipple seemed to rape my fingers
Her sexual acts were exploratory ordeals
As she drove towards the airport I watched her handle the unfamiliar controls
The complex of inverted treadles and clutch levers of the car
had been designed for her -- implicitly, I guessed, for her first sexual act
Twenty minutes later, as I embraced her
The scent of her body mingled with the showroom odor of mustard leatherette
We had turned off near the reservoirs to watch the aircraft landing
As I pressed her left shoulder against my chest I could see
The contoured seat which had been molded around her body
Hemispheres of padded leather that matched the depressions of her
brace and backstraps
I slipped my hand around her right breast
Already colliding with the strange geometry of the car's interior
Unexpected controls jutted from beneath the steering wheel
The cluster of chromium treadles was fastened to the steel pivot
Clamped to the steering column
An extension on the floor-mounted gear lever rose laterally
Giving way to a vertical wing of chromium metal molded into the reverse
of a driver's palm
Aware of these new parameters
The embrace of this dutiful technology
Gabrielle lay back
Her intelligent eyes followed her hand as it felt my face and chin
As if searching for my own missing armatures of bright chromium
She lifted her left foot so that the leg brace rested against my knee
In the inner surface of her thigh
The straps formed a marked depression
Troughs of reddened skin
Hollowed out in the forms of buckles and clasps
As I unshackled the left leg brace
And ran my fingers along the deep buckle groove
The corrugated skin felt hot and tender
More exciting than the membrane of a vagina
This depraved orifice
The invagination of the sexual organs still in the embryonic stages
of evolution
Reminded me of the small wounds on my own body
Which still carried the contours of the instrument panel and the
controls
I felt this depression on her thigh
The groove worn below her breast
Under her right armpit
By the spinal brace
The red marking on the inside of her right
upper arm
These were the templates for new genital organs
The molds of sexual possibilities
Yet to be created in a hundred experimental car crashes
GET IT IN YOU
Vaughan died yesterday in his last car crash. During our friendship he had rehearsed his death in many crashes, but this was his only true accident. Driven on a collision course towards the limousine of the film actress, his car jumped the rails of the London Airport flyover and plunged through the roof of a bus filled with airline passengers. The crushed bodies of package tourists, like a hemorrhage of the sun, still lay across the vinyl seats when I pushed my way through the police engineers an hour later. Holding the arm of her chauffeur, the film actress Elizabeth Taylor, with whom Vaughan had dreamed of dying for so many months, stood alone under the revolving ambulance lights. As I knelt over Vaughan's body she placed a gloved hand to her throat.
Could she see, in Vaughan's posture, the formula of the death which he had devised for her? During the last weeks of his life Vaughan thought of nothing else but her death, a coronation of wounds he had staged with the devotion of an Earl Marshal. The walls of his apartment near the film studios at Shepperton were covered with the photographs he had taken through his zoom lens each morning as she left her hotel room in London, from the pedestrian bridges above the westbound motorways, and from the roof of the multistorey car park at the studios. The magnified details of her knees and hands, of the inner surface of her thighs and the left apex of her mouth, I uneasily prepared for Vaughan on the copying machine in my office, handing him the packages of prints as if they were the installments of a death warrant. At his apartment I watched him matching the details of her body with the photographs of grotesque wounds in a textbook of plastic surgery.
In his vision of a car crash with the actress, Vaughan was obsessed by many wounds and impacts--by the dying chromium and collapsing bulkheads of their two cars meeting head-on in complex collisions endlessly repeated in slow-motion films, by the identical wounds inflicted on their bodies, by the image of windshield glass frosting around her face as she broke its tinted surface like a death-born Aphrodite, by the compound fractures of their thighs impacted against their handbrake mountings, ban above all by the wounds to their genitalia, her uterus pierced by the heraldic beak of the manufacturer's medallion, his semen emptying across the luminescent dials that registered forever the last temperature and the fuel levels of the engine.
It was only at these times, as he described this last crash to me, that Vaughan was calm. He talked of these wounds and collisions with the erotic tenderness of a long-separated lover. Searching through the photographs in his apartment, he half turned towards me, so that his heavy groin quieted me with its profile of an almost erect penis. He knew that as long as he provoked me with his own sex, which he used casually as if he might discard it for ever at any moment, I would never leave him.
Vaughan died yesterday in his last car crash. During our friendship he had rehearsed his death in many crashes, but this was his only true accident. Driven on a collision course towards the limousine of the film actress, his car jumped the rails of the London Airport flyover and plunged through the roof of a bus filled with airline passengers. The crushed bodies of package tourists, like a hemorrhage of the sun, still lay across the vinyl seats when I pushed my way through the police engineers an hour later. Holding the arm of her chauffeur, the film actress Elizabeth Taylor, with whom Vaughan had dreamed of dying for so many months, stood alone under the revolving ambulance lights. As I knelt over Vaughan's body she placed a gloved hand to her throat.
Could she see, in Vaughan's posture, the formula of the death which he had devised for her? During the last weeks of his life Vaughan thought of nothing else but her death, a coronation of wounds he had staged with the devotion of an Earl Marshal. The walls of his apartment near the film studios at Shepperton were covered with the photographs he had taken through his zoom lens each morning as she left her hotel room in London, from the pedestrian bridges above the westbound motorways, and from the roof of the multistorey car park at the studios. The magnified details of her knees and hands, of the inner surface of her thighs and the left apex of her mouth, I uneasily prepared for Vaughan on the copying machine in my office, handing him the packages of prints as if they were the installments of a death warrant. At his apartment I watched him matching the details of her body with the photographs of grotesque wounds in a textbook of plastic surgery.
In his vision of a car crash with the actress, Vaughan was obsessed by many wounds and impacts--by the dying chromium and collapsing bulkheads of their two cars meeting head-on in complex collisions endlessly repeated in slow-motion films, by the identical wounds inflicted on their bodies, by the image of windshield glass frosting around her face as she broke its tinted surface like a death-born Aphrodite, by the compound fractures of their thighs impacted against their handbrake mountings, ban above all by the wounds to their genitalia, her uterus pierced by the heraldic beak of the manufacturer's medallion, his semen emptying across the luminescent dials that registered forever the last temperature and the fuel levels of the engine.
It was only at these times, as he described this last crash to me, that Vaughan was calm. He talked of these wounds and collisions with the erotic tenderness of a long-separated lover. Searching through the photographs in his apartment, he half turned towards me, so that his heavy groin quieted me with its profile of an almost erect penis. He knew that as long as he provoked me with his own sex, which he used casually as if he might discard it for ever at any moment, I would never leave him.
please remove your intellectualisms from MY discussion.
THIS IS MINE!
[ Reply to This
| Parent]
helooooooo there.
i do exist.
im here.
no, not there, over here.
look gimpy, i cant help it if you are blind.
here goddam it.
SHPLLLRT
fplonk.
alien being. welcome to slashdot.
so do you.
ha ha ha.
CAKE!
GOOP!
FOOP
no. you dont.