Nietzsche, Pasolini & I
“Why am I a destiny?” —Friedrich Nietzsche I know so little of myself, even less of them, so I’m stunned when, in a dream, I taunt Nietzsche, on my knees, calling him “the little minister.” He doesn’t want to play, holds his temples in his hands like his head is a Fabergé egg, or a soul, not that I know anything of souls. On all fours, I can only cry out a long, ragged neigh, stomping and violently flinging back my head—a horse, whipped into terror, his front knees buckling and suddenly praying, his mane trembling. A steam rising from his wounds. I know so little of my desire, but I feel base lust for Pasolini, who’s been crying, muttering, “I repeat, all sex is ironic.” He’s wearing a black cravat tied so tight his face is red. When he tries to loosen it, he gets erect, and cries some more. It’s all too much for Nietzsche and me. We embrace in a long kiss that seems to answer every question we’ve ever had. Alone in the house, as the lights slowly rise, Pasolini—in staccato, ironic claps—applauds.