Declassified documents from the man who lives in the cardboard box in the alley, #10,601
FROYD is my name. I’m a dreamer and sexual deviant. I want to kill myself but I’m a pacifist, and therefore prohibited from doing so by my own moral tenets. Yet, I think about possession as an absolute right and how both my life and my violence belong to me and are mine to do with as I please. The question remains, though: Am I still a pacifist if I only hurt myself?
My sister is an anarchist. My father is the Anti-Christ. It’s been so long since I’ve seen any face with similar bone structure to mine that it’s very possible I dreamed up a family. I have no family. I don’t remember being born. There are no family photographs or relatives of any kind to inform me on any sort of a childhood. I see no one with my tendencies, characteristics, hopes, fears. To that end, what other conclusion can I come to, other that one day I simply appeared?
I have a clock face. My nose is running. Time is running out of me. Swollen eyes and isn’t life just shit these days. I’m 400 pounds and filled with juice and meat. But my carcass is drying up in the sun. The skin on my legs is hard and rough. My hands crack from dryness. Out from these cracks, the blood comes out already dried. Am I dying from the inside out or from the outside in?
My name is FROYD.
When I think of painters and prostitutes of course Modigliani comes to mind. What innocence remains in the whore? Much! comes the answer in paint and dreams. Such enormous life in their faces, their eyes and necks, their naked and half naked bodies, their sadness and beauty – one which cannot be pried loose from the other. It is always said about M that he paints the soul of a subject. Her viciousness. His subtlety. Her quickly evaporating innocence. His diabolical nature, apathy, shyness, poverty of spirit.
In all life there is innocence, decadence, joy, pain. Why would anyone rip the puckered, pouting lips from such a face? Why would anyone clothe such bare and rare sadness and beauty? Don’t paint happiness when no such thing is currently present. Don’t paint lies! says M. Express each truth as it flows free out of each posed subject, each man and woman, each situation and circumstance, each room. Express truth, dear artists of the world, be it pretty or ugly or cruel and devious! Express truth!
Hi, my name is FROYD.
A question posed, if I might: For only self-destructive reasons (or its opposite), do we each denounce the one in our lives who most closely possesses the same turmoil, the same moments of clarity and peace, the same helplessness that dwells also in ourselves? Is our love or disdain for others merely the love or disdain we feel for ourselves?
Are we all not both whore and virgin? Corrupt and pure? Many selves within the one self?
If one woman is a whore, then all women are whores. No?
If one man is a deviant, then all men are deviants. Yes?
My name is FROYD. I am both king and peasant, at times ruling over myself with a benevolent hand, at times with a cruel hand. It’s simple: I’m complicated.
My name is FROYD, and isn’t this life just the shit?