In desperate times desperate people head here – an online journal of Apocalyptic-themed fiction and commentary.

The Celestiosexuals Get the Glove

Starved prisoners, nearly dead from hunger, po...

Starved prisoners, nearly dead from hunger, pose in concentration camp in Ebensee, Austria. The camp was reputedly used for “scientific” experiments. It was liberated by the 80th Division. Deutsch: Unterernährte Gefangene, fast tot vor Hunger, weil Essen knapp war, posieren im Konzentrationslager Ebensee, Österreich. Das Lager wurde angeblich für “wissenschaftliche” Experimente verwendet. Es wurde von der 80. Division befreit. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Copyright © 2004 by Noam Daguerre. All rights reserved.

(Parental warning for content, violence, language, sexual situations content to use violent language, the barest whiff of tartuffery and a splinter-ribbed logjam of truth.)

I used to be able to handle the Holocaust.

Ever since I stood in the ruins of Dachau at age 15 and drank my first mental draught of blood tainted with black whorls of hate, I understood what was required of me, as a human being, by the Holocaust. I understood that the moment we forgot how the Holocaust FELT, in the gut, sharp in the back of the throat, it would happen again.

And so I drank deep, again and again to keep the feeling fresh and awful. Books, documentaries, meeting survivors with tattoos that still raise the hackles on my neck just thinking about them. No bullshit — I’m choking up as I write these words.

So why can’t I bring myself to watch Schindler’s List? The DVDs sit, gathering dust, on top of my TV. They’ve been there for months because every time I sit down and steel myself to absorb it, I find I just can’t do it.

Before, there was enough happy going on in the world to give me respite from the yawning awfulness of the ultimate human truth — that our facility for evil is bottomless. A world full of bunny-hugs and the laughter of children kept me from falling. For me, study of the Holocaust was the ultimate counterpoise, the dark delineating the light; the Holocaust throws the best of humanity into sharp relief. The laughter of children becomes more precious than breath, more fulfilling than bread and meat.

But not anymore.

This was supposed to be a laffy-happy slightly irreverent column, and here I am writing about the Holocaust. It was supposed to be laffy-happy but I find I don’t have much of that left in me anymore. I’m too full of raw, aching anger. Anger at the thing that’s been sucking the color out of life for the past four years.

Anger at what my beloved country has come to symbolize to the rest of humanity, anger at the numb deafness of my countrymen, anger at my own Sisyphean inability to shift our dark course. Anger at the visible corruption of our democracy, anger at a leader who has effectively lead half the population against the other half, anger at Foxism. Not to mention The War on a Scary Noun and the Iraqi Adventure — including the crazy pill you have to take to do the non-Euclidian geometry required to link them.

Dangerous, paralytic anger at everything wrong everywhere and all at once, consuming me daily, shutting down my creative powers. This is my reality now, the world I prophesied when the second plane hit the towers and I turned to my wife and said, “The lid is off on crazy.”

But when you’re angry at everything you just get a diffuse, flaccid anger, much like the state of Evil at the end of Lord of the Rings. There’s no power there. No power to push and move and change and shape. But if you turn that anger from everything and swivel it onto a single target, then like the Lidless Eye, by god, it BURNS.

This is what I’m doing right now, in my mind, in this sentence, throwing my hurt and pain against a single facet of the culture war that rages all around us, through us, binding us together as it pulls us apart — this war for the heart of the United States of America. I have to choose my target, to the exclusion of all others.

This is where the celestiosexuals get the glove right across the face.

Celestiosexuals — or, in the rude vernacular popular in 1917 Zurich, Geistfickeren — are people who, as hard as this is to comprehend, pray to God to temper their lust. And the scary, yelly ones seem to have a big woody for homosexuals.

Ah, let me rephrase that. The more virulent and vocal celestiosexuals have it in for homosexuals. They want to curtail rights, belittle and marginalize, even going so far as to trivialize the homosexual experience as a mere ‘lifestyle choice.’ As if being gay is akin to joining a frat. Or worse.

I was born heterosexual — but I remember, I remember in my bones what happens to motherfuckers who don’t raise their voice against oppression. I remember that if I don’t speak up now, when my mind’s eye sees the possible futures radiating off the current zeitgeist like dark cables into a midnight sea to find the pull of that Holocaust anchor, then there won’t be anyone left to speak for me when it’s my turn under the moral searchlight.

The Big Question that has to be asked of celestiosexuals is: Would you ever take a Louisville Slugger to a faggot? And they flinch — they have the bald audacity to visibly flinch. They lean back in the saddle on their high horse and wince down and mouth the words of God.

What these high-horsemen need to understand is that there are no innocents in the culture war. Whether you swing the baseball bat or are just a secretary for the engineer who designed the damn thing, when the wood plows into the face, warping it with basic physics and hickory stoicism, you’re still gonna get teeth and gobbets of brain in your hair. Even if you’re standing in the back row. Because you were there. Your words, your soulless condemnation supplied the activation energy that drove the bat forward. Sure, YOU would never even THINK of taking a bat to someone for No Good Reason and yet YOUR thoughts ate away at the batter’s moral bulwark until it burst in a flood of hate. You were just the secretary, and if people die it’s not YOUR fault ‘cuz all you did was alphabetize action items, right?

Know this now: if you preach hate, especially the soft-pedaled kinder/gentler ‘compassionate’ hate of defending your conceptual territory from the ‘morally unclean,’ your name is on the bat. It’s a Youisville Slugger. Your condemnation, no matter how soft, gives the weak-willed the social permission they crave to commit acts of violence.

But it’s not like anything’s at stake. History would never view our current course as homologous to Nazi Germany, right? But that’s the hilarious thing about history and its epicycles; it doesn’t look like a story while you’re living it. It looks like chaos. The years preceding World War II didn’t look like The Years Preceding World War II to the people there. It just looked like a mess. Or like the triumph of the Righteous giving the parasitic mongrels the pasting they deserved. Depends on your politics.

In my beloved country (I’m not being sarcastic here — if I didn’t care I wouldn’t bother with the writing and the high blood pressure) we now have the Hate Amendment. I’m sorry — I meant the Defense of Marriage Amendment. Or whatever protein coat they’re giving the virus these days. Regardless, it will insert fag-killing into the U.S. Constitution.

Let that sink in for just a sec. Nice ‘n deep ‘n hurty. Because that’s what it does.

Fair warning to the celestiosexuals: the gloves are off and the skin, too. My knuckles are peeled to the bone and it’s on.

If it’s going to be about sex, then by Lot’s daughters let’s make it sexual. No cowards, no rubber-neckers, no innocent bystanders. Everyone gets it in the eye.

Come get some.


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