Angela Dufresne

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I guess you’ve come to examine me? But it’s too late. I’m already dead. In fact, the forces that came together to produce me lack mitochondria so I can’t breathe, but that’s because my maker, not Marquis de Sade . . . rather Mr. rev MW Peters—Penis—didn’t really love me and didn’t let me live beyond the sign level. He regretted me later—the fucking coward. It was the enlightenment period so I don’t get why he became so pious, but I suppose science never solves our problems fast enough to kill god, so there you go. . . . Anyway. Sex was made rational in me. EVERYBODY knows my nipples should produce a particular effect. Rev. Peters is just reminding you of the facts—I’m symbolic, darling. It’s also because it’s Independence Day in America when I was born dead. (Will Smith wasn’t there because it was the first one in 1776 and I’m a British whore [or a wife?]. I also had my head cobbled back together by Peters though it didn’t really work, having been pummeled by something—maybe it was my headwrap itself? Maybe it was the Aliens? Or maybe it was St. Paul when he converted my Judaism to Christianity? That had to be it, I was living in Philippi when I met Paul on his second missionary journey and he wouldn’t take no for an answer—No is Yes you know. I’m the first recorded convert to Christianity in Europe, another Independence Day, perhaps  not?) Regardless, I’m a copy, you can tell from my smile. My original self is in the British museum, no it’s the National museum, NO WAIT!—it’s in the Tate! In that “original” iteration my features actually almost align to the structure of my “skull.” I’m almost human, not that anyone ever offered me a skull. I’ll never reach full human because I’ll never make it to subject status—the subject here isn’t me, it’s HIM! Typical. Still, there is an inner life here, even without the skull? That makes me post-human, which makes me very of the moment, and for that I’m glad. Here in this copy my features are projected onto an orb form like a Tony Oursler video sculpture—in fact I’m the origin of Tony Oursler, not that anyone cares. But no one scripted what I’m saying or made a voice track for me so my interior is unknowable . . . like other supernatural beings. If you stay here long enough, no amount of analysis will save you from the deprivation my awareness will transfer onto you. Because I’m endless, I cycle through everything, and I’m masturbating the entire time—and no—I’m not thinking about you. You will NEVER know what I’m thinking—forever.