In this film I’m attempting to establish a timeless, voiceless place, outside of everything we can conceive and know, but still uncannily familiar, at hand— it’s probably easiest to describe this place as 'madness'— or to be more specific, as the point where the human organism resides outside the functional structures of language, the Social, The Political. While I'm not holding madness up as a positive condition— it does have the problem of being non-productive, static, an arrestment—it is compelling for what it may reveal, for instance, madness as a stubborn reminder of the body as a site, non-functional, living/breathing, incomplete, vulnerable— a potentia.

My approach to examining the predicament of the present and threats or promises of the future is to look at the body, actually the body and objects, and to represent the body as the surface on which all else is inscribed (the objects representing culture, order, production, ideology...) And the way I will point to this inscription, this writing of the body into the folds of the norm, is by making things not work, not fit, not happen, not make sense. For example, a face will have not one expression in response to something, but ten simultaneous and inscrutable expressions, flowing one into another.

I've waited for this moment between us for years and I still came back reeling from it cold and scared. Absolution under your skin only left temporary because of our mutual atomization from what society wants us to be. Isn't it beautiful that our disdain and submission towards the world can be channeled onto eachother until we are satisfied? Until the world creeps back in on us and leaves us rotting and sick again. I never wanted to leave you alone I just wanted to be alone. I never wanted to leave you alone. I never wanted to leave you alone. I never wanted to leave you alone. I never wanted to leave you alone. I didn't want to be alone either.

Passive threats and intimidation never worked on me either. I wanted to be the boy who kissed you unlike anyone else but eventually we both will get sick.

The day was extremely hot. Simone put the saucer on a small bench, planted herself before me, and, with her eyes fixed on me, she sat down without my being able to see her burning buttocks under the skirt, dipping into the cool milk. The blood shot to Ply head, and I stood before her awhile, immobile and trembling, as she eyed my stiff cock bulging in my pants. Then I lay down at her feet without her stirring, and for the first time, I saw her "pink and dark" flesh cooling in the white milk. We remained motionless, on and on, both of us equally overwhelmed ... . Suddenly, she got up, and I saw the milk dripping down her thighs to the stockings. She wiped herself evenly with a handkerchief as she stood over my head with one foot on the small bench, and I vigorously rubbed my cock through the pants while writhing amorously on the floor. We reached orgasm at almost the same instant 4 Story of the Eye without even touching one another. But when her mother came home, I was sitting in a low armchair, and I took advantage of the moment when the girl tenderly snuggled in her mother's arms: I lifted the back of her pinafore, unseen, and thrust my hand under her cunt between her two burning legs. I dashed home, eager to jerk off some more, and the next day there were such dark rings around my eyes that Simone, after peering at me for a while, buried her head in my shoulder and said earnestly: "I don't want you to jerk off anymore without me."



Other girls and boys no longer interested us. All we could think of was Marcelle, and already we childishly imagined her hanging herself, the secret burial, the funeral apparitions. Finally, one evening, after getting the precise information, we took our bicycles and pedaled off to the sanitarium where our friend was confined. In less than an hour, we had ridden the twenty kilometers separating us from a sort of castle within a walled park on an isolated cliff overlooking the sea. We had learned that Marcelle was in Room 8, but obviously

we would have to get inside the building to find her. Now all we could hope for was to climb in her window after sawing through the bars, and we were at a loss how to ide ntify her window among thirty others, when our attention was drawn to a strange apparition. We had scaled the wall and were now in the park, among trees bu ffeted by a violent gust, when we spied a second-story window opening and a shadow holding a sheet and fastening it to one of the bars. The sheet promptly smacked in the gusts, and the window was shut before we could recognize the shadow. It is hard to imagine the harrowing racket of that vast white sheet caught in the squall. It greatly outroared the fury of the sea or the wind in the trees. That was the first time I saw Simone racked by anything but her own lewdness: she huddled against me with a beating heart and gaped at the huge phantom raging in the night as though dementia itself had hoisted its colors on this lugubrious chateau. We were motionless, Simone cowering in my arms and I half-haggard, when all at once the wind seemed to tatter the clouds, and the moon, with a revealing clarity, poured sudden light on something so bizarre and so excruciating for us that an abrupt, violent sob choked up in Simone's throat: at the center of the sheet flapping and banging in the wind, a broad wet stain glowed in the translucent moonlight .. .