Dorcas Müller
Suck - Digest - Excrete: Again and again the infernal machines start up, hunger, guzzling and gulping, streams of sap and slime ... throbbing and writhing and sucking and pumping... Order in ruins, dreams of paradise shattered. Beginning of all stories and their end. Sometimes it appears as tonic, restoring life, at other times as poison, gift to us, an invitation to finally accept death. Just like the poison of the snake promises death or recovery. It has always already been there, this other being, this stranger, long before us, it will be there long after we have dissapeared. Exorcism comes too late; the strange remains strange and the expulsion becomes ridiculous even before it has been begun. But only the inconceived, without hope of comprehension inviolable, shows us freedom .. the freedom of lost chances. Freedom to resign, freedom to proliferate. Freedom to defec(a)t(e): Defec(a)t(e)! And again: Freedom from freedom. To be free from the terror of finding one's self, of origin, of resemblances, of recognition. And finally freedom from good taste.
Messager - angelos, Greek for “angel”: the messenger: intermediary from the world of the inhuman to the human, travelling between the mortal and the immortal, between being and not-being. The leech is the other angelic being, damned to crawling (or swimming - l'ange qui nage), the demonic antagonist to God in the mythology of the serpent.
The messenger wants to eat, we are his host. We are food, meat and juice, nourishment for the messenger, sustenance for the glutton. Everything now becomes biting disgust, burning and heat; skins glow and the mouth froths over. What if pure lust, lechery is the message, with wich life falls upon life and fills ist guts, the bloated body of the messenger. Roaring messenger ... Destructions and disturbances increase, something new starts. The messenger, the message breeds, multiplies. Scum of scum, scum of creation (I Mos 3). Only growth or death. Nothing else. The world is simple: Tap - suck - fall off: Filled to bursting the beauty of the parasite emerges, pure leisure - contemplation. End of dialogue: The sun is being taken from the skies and smashed. Darkness in the Lord's Garden - paradise without light. Wichever way you listen: Slurping and silence.
The liveliest among lifeless corpses - quite soon it brings wind and decay and takes its leave. Every battle-field serves a good meal, every devastation sets the table for a greedy mouth. The table has been set. The meal about to start, the grace: “Drink ... drink the juice of my obsession, my sap, because I owe everything to you. Everything I give to you, but you give me nothing. Drink the glow of my body, to the end, down to the last drops of light, down to the last dregs, the last of me. Only emaciated, only then will I be whole, will you be of my blood, will we be one, a whole, one bleeding, one dizzyness, one swaying, coming and going. Worm, serpent, dragon. The image blurrs and disintegrates. Drifting with the clouds, weightless and formless, dislocated. Haziness everywhere, movement. Fleeting and Forgetting. Happiness. Silence.”
(Thomas Knoefel, Freiburg 12.12.2000, Translation: Barbara Filser)