Tomas S. Butkus | Antiessay: "A Transvestite as Musical Score" (2005)

A Transvestite as Musical Score

because it’s something totally different which forces us to suffer. the possibilities of choice in an independent time. hundreds of thousands of times you repeat various things in order to recognise them in your surroundings. and they comprise your surroundings. while you wear these off-white reflections as if they would vanish if only from mere contact, gaining a more concrete form, a more tangible surface. their formula: a thing with no shape. with only a list of contents for meaning, which is made up of that vanishing. you observe the surroundings, replete with the repetitions of our yearnings. with logic of instinct breaking itself through: a transvestite as a musical score is not salvation from the figure of the number two, the multiple finite duality. a threatening bioactive derivative is not something third, which threatens with perfection a geometric composition of being, derived from the holy trinity. new people in the crack of the change-scape appear like the worn out exiles of historical time, seeing themselves in the sparsely treed forests of experience they’ve created. these mortal neologisms alive on the day of historical rationale, entwined with supposition, that everything that’s on the other side – night: the baroque, women men, the civilization of suffering. because if there were no tiredness, how would it be possible to explain the test of recognition? the voluntary loss of boundaries and that heaviness of variety that seeps into everything. but why is this all so tangled? so that it would later become clear. the era when we will forget everything, words will yet again trade places with that which they signify, liberating themselves from the only ties they have left – language. this is why we have to exist through surroundings. granting them their only promise to grow and expand, we transpose all that moves onto the illusory coagulation of lava. this is how moving things end up in the corridor of the clock-dial horizon, life’s suffering, eye-whites of historical consciousness, they become the arteries of pain killers. it is not by using these that we recognise our dreams, it is not by using space machines that we attempt to measure suspended music, believing fully, that there never was never any suspension. which arrived as if out of nothing – the interior that exists within everything – filling all of its nooks and crannies with incompleteness, fragmentation. non-participation, which meant participation, revolution, which was linked to being beaten (while in fact it was only the first training session for the legions of pr professionals). even now, having recorded these dispersed changes, the unreality of known truths gives no peace.  it hasn’t disappeared, it’s words: do you really still believe that you can still explain the world? the attempt to make a choice would already mean these efforts have been undertaken. meanwhile, all that I wanted to impart is this one news item – it’s not the non-existence of choice that causes torment, but its dictatorship, its monopoly. they are foreign to choice-less beings.


Translated by Darius Ross

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