writting of an « Archimandrite » for english readers
14 juil 2011 par vincent
Vincent has been writing since the age of 11. In all his writings, you will dicover a sensitive being, burned by life, his life. In all his texts, Vincent expresses anguish, fright, fear of living which make him speak of death constantly – seeming to him very enviable. Cemeteries are his favorite places, he'd like to be dead to « live » in peace. Thus, his pains, his failures wouldn't exist any longer, for he wouldn't be there any more to suffer from them. They evoke the wounds and the painful absences of a father, but also of deprived love, rejected and unforgettable, producing an incurable wound. Chaotic, bitter school years have resulted in a man filled with the fear of not being able to write, for which he has a passion, a fear of trusting and thus knowing affection, a fear of attention and the complicity which would allow him to live fully with a young woman. Coldly he says « I'm ashamed of being alive: I feel rejected, judged, laughed at for what I am »
Hélène Blénet
Baptism by Fire
I am the damned archangel, forced to observe the decay of a world in which I feel a hostage among this lost generation. Life is destructive and uses the deceit of emotional traps to shed the blood of a being whose innocence was raped, who never had an existence. I was deprived and defenseless when they sacrificed me, which led me to the tear-gassed coldness of silence. Diminished, I haunt my environment observing the grip of hell around me constantly. My lonely condition – in which the suffering and scandals of the living belittle me, crucify me, and eradicate my soul marked by the seal of heresy – has driven me to the heart of apocalypses and existential desolations. Like a laborious and non-desired life abortion, my world is an illusion. I rule and take refuge in the kingdom of the dead, in order to find a mystical and symbolic identity opposed to that of the descendants of the Garden of Eden’s tree of wisdom. I am dead and alive at once. I confronted the limits of existence, the multiple scars of the spiritual and organic chaos, in vain. This forged within me abnegation; fear dominates me and now I reflect the apocalypses of what they call democracy. I call it the court of modern miracles. Humans hide themselves behind the doctrine of the politically correct while, deep inside, they do the opposite. While the living bend over backwards inside their hypocrisy, I await the ferryman to guide me towards hell in order to escape the product of this kingdom of flames, of agony and terror, to which humans have made allegiance. All this so that they can forget about the fault committed by Adam and Eve. This, humans seek to escape their responsibilities, the sinner’s responsibilities. They deny God; some perform a theatrical play to excuse the atrocities they commit zealously. This must torment Christ, bleeding out His despair of an eventually futile sacrifice. In my symbolic battle inside hell’s bible, where I turned into a damned archangel, I founded what I call Christian darkness. I used esoteric icons, Christian myths, ancestral religious beliefs; I used my wounds and dark philosophies, in order to spread my wings under the magnificence of the moon in front of the crucifixes. It is a type of protection against the social barbarity of the living towards me. I live in hiding, laying low. The art of communication was never revealed to me. Humans, during their crossing, have no awareness of the gift they possess of being surrounded, of being sentimentally accompanied. I cannot claim this gift myself. I wilt like a dead rose every day as I notice the distance imposed on me when a beautiful young woman with pearly skin crosses my path. Her fear (or indifference) symbolizes the mourning flowers of my own death. I am misunderstood and I drag my vulnerable guilt along with me, guilt both meditative and suicidal, in order to be absolved. Inside my archaic and age-old kingdom in which I stare at the crosses, the religious statues and the human beings who come to meditate among the tombs of their ancestors, I feel at home. Cemeteries are the only appeasing places where hierarchical classes are equal, anarchic violence does not exist. But cemeteries – places for praying – are mainly the symbol of respect, because when you enter them, you live with more dignity. The living finally listen to those they had neglected. Dying is the reuniting absolution, the host of peace which extinguishes the differential fires. When one dies one gets closer, through respect, to all the mental categories. In my kingdom I listen to the biblical chants of the dark angel who provides escape and illusion, the illusion of being a forgotten and rejected symbol of my invisible world in which I shed, in the silence of my soul, my acid tears. I cry for the aborted feminine sweetness each second of my existential eternity.
I miss believing in the occasional moments of interest which sometimes seem to appear, some interest in my desolations and my smiles, because they made my damnation less dull. The presence of such an interest gave me the strength which comes from spreading my wings and being in redemption. The absence of these moments of interest, the indifference, results in my recurrent chaos. Now I represent the void, the nightmare and the reflection of the temporal human deformation. I can read fear in the living when our opposing eyes meet. I am the damned, prohibited archangel when I manage to spread my wings and preach of the existential apocalypses in which humanity continues to turn around the circles of the celestial mechanics, like puppets blinded by the blindfold programmed from the beginning of their education. After all, they made me, so all I do is to send them the bill. Human beings bathe in their vanity, egocentrism, lust, aggressive violence and self-destruction. The Armageddon cannot be avoided; all they do is to try to conjure it away with their futilities. One should wonder why they are scared of what they inflicted on me and what I am. So they play Russian roulette unconsciously in their wariness and even mistrust of God. The relationship between human beings is deformed. They exploit, rob, betray with delight for their own profit. Nobody is sincere and their satisfaction is increased by creating hierarchical barriers. Why did Christ strive to give redeeming faith, the grace of repentance up to and including death, for infidels who renounce this precious gift? Those who were chosen by God to His kingdom, to share the table of the eternal Father, were chosen in vain, as decay reigns. Cemeteries are the sanctified places, purer than the places called earthly paradise which so attract the living. With my dark and aggressive music amongst the tombs, the religious statues and the archaic crucifixes, I contemplate my esoteric universe. My absences and memories pass by with nostalgia. Nobody listens to those who are dead to the world. If I cross the border of existence, will I be finally heard? Will I, damned archangel – founder of Christian darkness – in my despair, someday know a magnificent young woman with pearly skin, who will read into and through my chaotic soul? If this is conceivable, possible, and actual then: the archangel who crosses the valley of death will be baptized by forgiveness and will spread his wings again in this ambient apocalypse.
ANCESTRAL MEMORIES
Being one of God’s angels allows me to enjoy the ideal omnipresence of the invisible observer. Watching human behavior leaves me doubtful: where is the golden rule and love-thy-neighbor? They spend their time in chaotic isolation, political and religious anarchy. Christ responds with repentance, pardon as well as love from the endless depths of hell. Yet people fight, supposedly in His name. My role is to contemplate the decrepitude of this world’s souls, to study them throughout the millennia in the rhythmic dance of twilight before eternity. During the Christian wars of the Middle Ages, when they divided themselves into Catholics and Protestants, I stoically witnessed the esoteric butchery where stigmatizations accelerated as if in a fatal opera. The ballet of insults, the screams of pain, and the pleading to see wives and children again could be heard in all directions. The ant hill was fragmented. Eventually, when the moon lit the bloody meadows, the winners would kneel down to thank the Lord for having survived in His name. They would cross themselves and remember their civil lives. At dawn the church bells would toll and the soldiers of faith would gather in these places of prayer, trying to find security in their dogmatic entrenchment. The monks would preach for the religious heritage and for the new times. The soldiers would take the holy host and listen to the blessing from the ecclesiastic division before crossing themselves. Then they would go defy death, ready to die with the zeal of a nihilistic dancer for their convictions.
During World War I, I observed the terrified French soldiers praying for survival, hoping to see their children grow up in this new century of opulence. The trenches seemed transformed into confessionals of Christ. It looked as if these men were submitting signed petitions, asking to survive just as on submits an official complaint, meanwhile trapped in the midst of the muddy trenches, sweating fear and apocalypse. Before going to the front, each would cross himself and kiss his genealogical medals, load his rifle and close his eyes deploring this political Armageddon. Then they would charge without thinking on the battle path towards the hail of bullets whirring in all directions. They charged terrorized and nihilistically at the same time, yelling for the fatherland. Many embraced death after endless seconds in which fear was constant and prayer omnipresent. Those who survived would shoot like maniacs while waltzing with the bullets; the soldiers would formulate murderous plans of strategic attacks. The butchery was endless, lives were warped, and others were eclipsed and sent to hell, guided by a ferryman who is never on strike.
During the war in Irak, in the ruined strongholds of the rebels, the warriors could only count on their own means to stop the American GIs from shooting them down each time they crossed the devastated places. To better target their enemy and thus better answer to the hostilities, the jihadists used rocket launchers before retreating because the enemy was fierce but instinctive. In the evenings, Islamic prayers could be heard at the heart of the rubble; the fighters prayed in rhythm with the F16 raids. The butchery follows its own progression.
Today I spend my time following the religious and expressive battle of Marilyn Manson, the rock star. Each concert fascinates me. He risks his life with such incredible energy as well as the faith in opposing the multiple social conventions, knowing that a religious fan is likely hidden in the crowd and is aiming, with a telescopic sight, a rifle at him, to follow through with the death threats the rock star receives as surely as his tax forms. I admire him because he spreads his artistic wings with such a grace, while conservative associations slander him outside the arena. Also, the fact that he sometimes has fun and does not let himself be crucified, carries me away. Finally I have discovered a human being in this socio-cultural, hierarchical mess! When I observe him with his girlfriend Dita von Teese, a divine burlesque strip tease artist, I finally discover in this world, warped after millennia of bloody conflicts, the existence of pure love. Only then am I able to feel an attraction for my fellow for human beings and to understand the attraction which exists between my fellow and human beings.
Vincent Blénet
AD VITAM AETERNAM
We're in United States, invited to Ozzy Osbourne and his family's house for the evening. There's a huge crowd of guests. Marilyn introduces me to everybody as a friend and he offers my book to Ozzy, presenting the universe of my texts in a very positive way. He browses through it and hands it to his wife Sharon. They both congratulate me and ask me to sit down. « Welcome to the family, man, your writings are going to shatter those conservatives, provided there aren't any riots ! » jokes Ozzy. I see him talk with Marilyn about professional stuff, like the Ozzfest amongst other things, for which Marilyn is supposed to sing. I'm surprised and happy about this man's friendliness towards me and we have a few toasts and drinks together… with a glass of plain water! Indeed, I only drink plain water. The next day, Marilyn record my songs with careful implication, I assist at this with admiration and I stare him who master his voice to the perfection about the words that I had written alone inside my room full of dream. Marilyn takes me for a walk within the city of angels, after recording every songs in the studio. He plays the tourist guide and shows me the cemeteries and Christ-related places at my request. « what do you think about this crucifix with the Cadillac and these hyper bling-bling Uzis around all those rappers, quite contradictory, right? » he guffaws in front of a graffiti covered wall as we cross streets that are frequently used by home boys -the authors of this urban painting- at night. I smile at this contradiction and tell them that as they can't exhibit their art in galleries in Beverly Hills, they manage to make them visible for everybody to see; even children totally admire this inner city art, especially in Fance, where this cultural movement is very popular. « We've created our own graffiti, representative of our dark and mystic universe on the walls of Rodeo Drive; the cops are too busy making live arrests on Fox News, so nobody comes to piss us off! All we need is some balaclavas just in case!!! » he jokes smiling as I add « in the midst of our crucifixes, the moon, angels and cemeteries, we absolutely have to add Dita to our paintings. The queen of our darkness ! To mark the occasion ». Marlilyn smiles and out-does me « homes boys and other rappers, beware! We're still around, for God's sake. We're not bling-bling, but we stand out and our queen Dita endlessly surpasses Pamela Anderson, damn it! » Before bursting out laughing as he looks at me teasingly while I cross myself. Marilyn accompanies me into a cathedral which corresponds to the archaic magnificence I love to see outside cemeteries. Without thinking about the fact that it's time for service, masses of fundamentalists and Catholics attend. We have a look and by impulse, we look for a seat as Marilyn is curious about secretly attending mass. The worshipers stare at us quietly and remain perplexed. Marilyn confronts his timidity and displays his dark look circulating under the hostile murmuring due to our blasphemous presence in this magnificent church. Marilyn stares at two old fundamentalist ladies and hurls « don't worry, the Apocalypse is not scheduled for today! Nostradamus was drunk when he dreamt it, so the Antichrist superstar is going to remain seated calmly and listen to mass, so I beg you, don't be afraid » Then he looks at me smiling « my mailbox is going to become overloaded with apocalyptic death threats because of my presence here! But at least that's going to lower the unemployment rate for security guards and cops in charge of watching if there are any pro-lifers – equipped with napalm explosives and AK 47 – hidden in my next tours to kill me and appear non-stop on Fox News so that their buddies can jerk off while rewinding the reports. Besides, I'd have a hard time selling my discs and my record label would go broke if these morons gunned me down! » he jokes knowing that he's the main target for fundamentalist Christians, before watching the unfolding of the mass which is about to start. The priest says his sermon about the place of Marilyn in our cultural and media-centered society. MTV is a channel banned by the love of the Father, as it broadcasts non-stop the video-clips of my hero, who smiles and says « damn it, I'm popular everywhere in the world! Planetary rockstar on MTV and underground artist in churches. My parents are going to be so proud of me! » Then he listens with interest to the litany of verbal abuse directed at him. During the Priest's verbal orgasm, without aphrodisiacs, I stand up and scream « every one will suffer now, you can't save yourself. We are dead to the world motherfuckers: repent! We are not saints, we fucking fight our fate » while the Catholics stare at me troubled. Marilyn bursts out laughing while watching me with my frightful look of darkness in front of the embarrassed priest, who loses track of what he was saying, sweats and stutters. « Alleluya, man! » adds Marlilyn laughing and crossing himself. The worshippers are struck dumb, I sit down and the priest tries to take up his handicapped sermon again and is terrified, as my hero and I stare at him coldly joking. In the evening, Marilyn has invited Ozzy and his family over to his place; he tells our anecdote to all and Dita smiles at me. After the laughter subsides, Ozzy says « Fuck, you sure have a nerve, how could you biblically kick ass, man! » The next day, photo sessions with Dita in a magnificent archaic cemetery. During the breaks, we walk around and talk. I share my kingdom with her, for a brief moment I forget about my torments, my endless sentimental wounds. « When you think that people accept you and you give them your intimate and fragile trust. Then one day they coldly reject and abandon you. You die even more as you feel the pain, the absence, and when you bump into them, they give you the cold shoulder. Then a burst of gunfire from an automatic Tech 9 represents celestial peace and you deliver yourself to existential blasphemy! » I say to Dita – touched – who takes me in her arms and sheds some tears « Lord, how could you go through life being so sensitive despite the world's barbarity. Vincent, please look at me, Marilyn and I are your friends, you are in our hearts and won't be erased. You are part of our lives and if you could hear what I think of you, you'd be in paradise, your wings would spread! » She says to me smiling and looking straight into my eyes before hugging me again and offering me a kiss like a protector.
The finished album will be out in every record shop in the world, the video clips of my songs are showing non-stop on the various outcast channels such as MTV and others. Marilyn emphasizes the texture of my writings, which he finds extraordinary for a young 27-year-old man. He draws out in a thoughtful way my existential questions through my writings and my world view. The media buzz about our mutual creation. “The goal of my next tour is to expose myself and to exult with all my strengths singing Vincent’s lyrics through his feelings but not mine. Regarding the message of this tour it will be question yourselves. Do you believe that because you go to church every Sunday at 9h30, that you confess loudly your sins in order to be absolved and when you go out your daily thoughts gain the upper hand and you sin and you come back at 9h30 the next Sunday morning for the absolution, this is called a cycle, one deserves forgiveness it’s nothing owed!” Said Marilyn to a French journalist. During the promotion tour in Paris. Marilyn goes to a Virgin store to buy me a CD. He scrupulously browses through all the aisles and finds the hidden treasure. When he checks out, the cashier asks him if he wants a savings club card, which he declines politely with a half smile eying his albums piled up on the adjacent check-out counter. The following morning the three of us go to Notre Dame de Paris. “It’d be great to have a concert in this place: the resonance, the paintings, the stained glass windows and the crucifix. A hellish biblical concert, for Christ’s sake.” Some devotees notice Marilyn and stare at him with horror. “The damned are back, the Apocalypse is near and we’re all going to die!” says Marilyn showing his chromed teeth and crossing himself. We walk away while the devotees stare open-mouthed. We get to the Père Lachaise cemetery and looking at the map at the entrance, Marilyn jokes “It’s the L.A. of the cemeteries, with a map like this it’s perfect to play hide-and-seek with the media: by the time you find me, get out of here, as your time’s up!” We see names and photos of age-old and archaic places, and take some photos, some of which include us in the photo. Marilyn notices some ravens; he smiles and adds, “Look, there’s even an air security team to chase evangelists away.” Marilyn goes back to the US with Dita. Sometimes, during his American tour, he gets really exited in front of his audience. While he sings my esoteric songs surrounded by general hysteria, religious demonstrators outside scream their biblical hatred. Between two songs, Marilyn hears them because of their megaphones: “Cadaver of the Apocalypse, die and go back to hell.” Marilyn smiles, stares at them and shoots them a bird “Let’s give a warm welcome to our modern Pharisees (the crowd whistles and screams). Come on you bunch of infidels; I don’t see a single sniper in the room. Are you on strike or did you forget to buy your bullets at Kmart? (He crosses himself and stares at them darkly, arms stretched out) In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I will die for my art. At my burial, my warriors of darkness will arise to seek justice. So, shoot me down now and apocalyptic blasphemy will haunt you forever: you, the pro-lifers. So be it (the crowd is euphoric)! Fucking cops! Fucking politicians! I’m going to dissect you. Fucking evangelical fundamentalists! Go protest at the church of the antichrist terrorist number one of your list, I will remain dogmatic America’s worst nightmare”, says Marilyn with a defiant smile.
Marilyn works on writing a new album. He visits cathedrals and cemeteries in order to write religious and dark lyrics, in the midst of offices and funerals. Some stare at him and Marilyn notices it and stares back at them coldly with his dark look, showing his teeth to scare them, then he concentrates on his lyrics and carefully observes the events while writing his songs. Dita avidly reads his work. “It would be a great homage if there was a song about Jean Marie and Sister Rachel in your new album to unite two clans, as in Vincent’s writings”, she says. Marilyn executes carefully, weighing his words to boost the impact. He spends some months recording the album getting deeply involved after working hard on his voice. When the album is released, he will promote it in Sharon Osbourne’s show. He arrives triumphantly and settles on the couch, she throws a funny remark at him to break the ice: “Here’s father Marilyn Manson, cross yourselves, please”. “Your show’s a nice change for me; everybody treats me with such care while on the conservative chains, the journalists drool with the idea of being tear-gassed and kicked out by the security. It’s a question of virility”. “Here you’re the king, right?” (Marilyn accepts the ovation from the crowd) “You see? You’re safe here.” “ So many long years where I have tangled with crazy fans who were throwing beer bottles and were shooting birds at me. But I was mostly the target of evangelist republican snipers assigned by their Baptist church! I believe that Sister Olga would make a very efficient bodyguard for my tours if I hired her. She would sweep away all these fundamentalists who are a pain on the neck protesting at my concerts. She would be capable of giving a good lesson to Afghan jihadists, so imagine what she can do to the evangelist puppets who want to kill me. Sister Olga would make them repent. You know as a kid Alice Cooper is an artist who helped me escape from my strict Christian school, the Heritage Christian School, a school which tried to brainwash us about the myths of the antichrist, the end of the world, basically about the Apocalypse. And Cooper was part of those banned artists because of whom we were condemned to lose our eternal life; even supermarkets were symbols of hell because our ultra-conservative Catholic teachers told us that behind bar codes you could decode the number of the Apocalypse. Now I am the wicked rock star who scares them and who is banned from their kingdom of heaven…we all have our cross to bear. I made the evangelist with their apocalyptic prayers shut up by means of an artistic and commercial bomb. Now my record company will multiply the security around me in my churches, so that I can spread the good word, that of the blasphemed antichrist, who becomes the Pope of Rock. At present I am a danger to my country, I’m moralizing America’s worst nightmare, but I’m also… profitable!! Sister Olga would be a millionaire ridiculing Who wants to be a millionaire? I’d rather be here than at a Snoop Dog concert where all those home boys whack a fan who insults them while the cops smoke up the room with tear gas. In my biblical services all acclaim me like that. (He shoots a bird) I hope my plane is not going to crash because of the evangelical prayers at church. But with this new album, I want to pay homage to Vincent Blénet and his religious friends who are fans of my music, which they listen to full blast in their convent. This album has a myth, a religion: the Christian darkness and in my concerts there will be a combination of rock’n roll and prayer.” (He makes the sign of shock rock) “The Christian heavy metal prayers”, Marilyn jokes smiling. During the first concerts, religious zealots protest. Marilyn watches them “Lord, hear our prayer.” (He crosses himself and recites The Lord’s Prayer). “”Now you can put away your guns, we’re in communion, damn it!! This is my preaching of redemption, this is my church of absolution, the goddamn-motherfucking march for your abnegation!” (The crowd goes crazy with euphoria. Marilyn smiles and looks at them darkly. Hands spread out). “Let’s pray to God for these infidels. Hey, you fundamentalists, the Antichrist salutes you. Kmart is still on strike, motherfuckers. Just like the home boys, here’s my special dedication for you,” says Marilyn while shooting a bird. They scream.
Marilyn arrives alone in Nice, to Jean Marie’s convent and shakes hands warmly with him. He’s going to give a few concerts in Nice, as part of his European tour. Marilyn would like, besides a few signing sessions at the Virgin Megastore in town, for Jean Marie to be his guide and host. Then they go up to the kitchen to prepare some food, they work together on cooking the pasta. Marilyn, while eating, looks at the picture of those present at the convent. One of the brothers comes by and greets Marilyn with ardor: it’s his hooked fan number two. “Hello, I’m Yves-Marie, you’re great; I love your songs. You are an exceptional artist. I’m a total fan, although less than Jean Marie and especially less than Vincent, who can’t stop praising you.” “Alleluia, my brother”, says Marilyn, touched, with a smile, then they exchange a few words. On his way to Jean Marie’s room he meets Brother Martin, who jokes with him: “Not another Archimandrite! This convent is becoming a true religious metropolis; we’ll end up embarrassing the Vatican. You are the second one I’ve met crossing beside Jean Marie” “ the other one was younger than me and bearded and his name was Vincent, right?” “Indeed, you came together to say mass this time?” “Not the same mass and not here; I already have my own church to preach my private service!” “Well then, keep it up, God be with you and have a good meditation of prayer with Jean Marie.” Marilyn laughs followed by Jean Marie. At the Virgin Megastore, Marilyn and Jean Marie sit down. The crowd is waiting frenetically for their collectors’ autographs. Marilyn is very attentive towards Jean Marie and asks for water for both. Jean Marie calls Mireille, a prison care provider and also volunteer of the association, as he is himself. They arrange a time to meet in the evening. The crowd is overexcited and screams rhythmically "We hate love, we love hate! Marilyn, Marilyn!" Jean-Marie watches them astonished. “It’s a change from the confessions of alcoholics and couples’ arguments who can no longer bear married life! But don’t worry; the security is there to make sure there are no riots. Welcome to my church, you’ll see the multiplication of signatures and fans completely borderline,” jokes Marilyn. “Bless me, reverend, I cut your initials on my torso in your honor,” screams a boisterous fan. Marilyn discretely looks at Jean Marie, who tells him: “Yes, I see! When I think about all the old ladies who had lustful thoughts while watching Temptation Island, I realize how lucky I am”. Marilyn laughs out loud before the crowd violently appears, almost crushing the security agents who are asking for their lives to be spared so they can see their families again. Marilyn signs one autograph and photo after another. Then he stands up and announces to his fans: “Today, I’m in Nice with the best friend of my biggest fan, who I really care for: Vincent Blénet. He is the author of the songs of my preceding album. This man sitting by my side is a damn good priest. He is a prison chaplain; he listens to the outcasts and whores. I want an ovation for Jean Marie and cross yourselves, bunch of bastards!” All do so without missing a beat; Jean Marie is slightly intimidated. As soon as they arrive at the association, Marilyn is introduced to the whole team: Sister Rachel arrives; Marilyn hugs her delicately. She says: “I’m very happy to see you again, I missed you very much. We could have used you in last week’s choir. Well, we both have a great affection for Vincent, who made me very sad with his painful letter, which made me cry because of his sufferings before going to the chapel in my convent to pray for him”. Marilyn tells her that he has invited them to his Nice concert with VIP seats for them. “That’s very kind of you and we will be delighted to attend. You have a new album, because I already have the one with Vincent’s wonderful songs. You are staying for a while, I hope?” asks Sister Rachel. Marilyn acquiesces and takes out a copy of his new album and writes a special and personal dedication. Sister Rachel smiles and says: “Thank you very much; that’s very kind to have thought of me. I promise I will listen to it tonight.” “Listen carefully to brother and sister, it refers to you and Jean Marie”, he says. Sister Rachel thanks him again warmly. Sister Olga asks Marilyn if he wants to have a drink. “Do you have absinthe…?” he says jokingly. “We don’t have that brand. Have a glass of water; it’s more simple and refreshing”. “Absolutely, ma’am”. Jean-Marie tries to control his laughter. He is getting ready for a service to welcome and listen to Marilyn. Jean Marie preaches with elegance under the attentive look of my hero. Jean Marie seats him on the throne. Marilyn gets up and looks at the assembly: “I am very intimidated and yet I provoke heart attacks with my fans; Jean Marie and I each have our own churches and we’re trying to join them together. In Jean Marie’s services, people shake hands, whereas at my church young people are completely off the track. I can do inappropriate gestures; the line between life and death is very thin and I have overstepped it by curiosity and undoubtedly for sake of play”, he says before shaking the hands of Sister Rachel and Jean Marie. Later on, he listens to Marilyn confide in him quietly. Sister Olga arrives and says vigorously to Marilyn: “Isn’t our water delicious? That changes from your brand Absinthe, eh?” “Absolutely, ma’am,” he answers politely. It is the evening during his first filmed and recorded concert for an upcoming CD and DVD which will appear at the end of his tour. Marilyn is on stage and makes the crowd hysterical. “Are you ready for the absolution, brandish your bibles motherfuckers.” (The crowd whistles; Marilyn sees the fundamentalists protest far away, stares at them darkly) “The Pharisees are protesting outside; let’s give them a fucking revelatory prayer: we will damn the fucking political dogma, we will damn the fucking Vatican mafia!” (The crowd exults while he crosses himself and stares at his detractors with terror). “I am a prostitute form hell, the slut who suffered. I’m the damned antichrist at the heart of your fundamentalist dogma. Repent, you assholes!” The crowd screams with joy. Marilyn smiles triumphantly with a look full of challenge for the furious fundamentalists and he incites them with his hands so they scream even louder. “Repent motherfuckers and watch my moonrise…Amen, amen, amen,” he says endlessly with the mic towards the crowd chanting Amen. After the concert, Marilyn and Jean Marie eat at Mireille’s. “Finally, I was able to defend myself without Sister Olga’s help” says Marilyn. “All this seems very positive to me,” says Mireille fascinated. After eating and talking, they watch the fireworks together.
Marilyn and Jean Marie go to Garibaldi Square, cross the square where fundamentalist Christians are protesting against his concerts. He approaches them and says: “Oh Lord, I’m late! I just missed the parts where you insult me and damn me! What a pity! I could have enriched your vocabulary! But please continue with the debate, the apocalyptic antichrist is listening to you, you nihilists.” (He turns towards Jean Marie). “I have the impression we need to expand the promotional campaign of my music to your congregation,” he says while Jean Marie bursts out laughing. The head of the activist association is trying to find some wounding words to respond to Marilyn, but he can’t, he’s chocking with anger. The others cross themselves frenetically while looking intensely at him. Marilyn remains silent giving them his dark look: “You’d better get more trustworthy information about me and understand my art through my lyrics before throwing all those esoteric blasphemies at me face. Come listen to me preach in my church, you’re welcome, but if you come to kill me, Sister Olga will do you like you never been done before. There is no use attracting people with coupons or free pizza for them to insult me. True religion defends freedom of speech: the Dominican and Benedictine brother have shown more openness than you,” he says to them. Then they get to the association. “We still don’t have your brand Absinthe, so water it’ll be,” says Sister Olga to Marilyn. “Of course, ma’am, that’s fine with me.” (He turns to Jean Marie) “What a power of persuasion she has! The evangelist snipers should pray for her not to be in the neighborhood,” he says smiling mischievously to Jean Marie. Sister Rachel greats them and says “One thing is sure: you’re under attack. I assure you that, before going to your concert, I will learn all the lyrics by heart, so I can sing them along from afar with you. We’ll pray for you, I promise,” she says. Marilyn is so touched that he hugs her. “ Even though I’m a symbol of fear, the antichrist who reflects society’s nightmare to the point where I am made responsible of the world’s apocalypse, and yet you would still pray for me?” “Absolutely, all human beings deserve to be heard, and your creative approach will make things advance, I will pray for you,” she says. Marilyn smiles at her. The evening of the famous concert which will be marketed as a DVD, the cameras start shooting, the crowd whistles while Marilyn and Jean Marie appear on stage. “Nice, listen carefully to this man of faith,” starts Marilyn. Jean Marie preaches and blesses the crowd for this recorded concert. The religious zealots protesting outside cannot believe their ears. At the end of the blessing, Marilyn crosses himself while Jean Marie goes to his place in the audience. Marilyn starts violently “Alleluia, you are in a fucking church motherfuckers!” and Marilyn excites the audience under the admiring look of Jean Marie, Sister Rachel and Mireille. Marilyn uses all his energy before calling David up on stage. He films my hero like a professional, and Marilyn address the people: “Nice, tonight, a friend who is very close to my heart is not here; he must carry his painful loneliness bitterly. I want you to scream very loudly and with eloquence for him.” (The crowd follows his instructions, David stays focused on my hero, who smiles for me). “Nice, tonight, his friends are present, so say alleluia after me! For the magnificent Sister Rachel, who multiplies healings!” (The crowd chants alleluia rhythmically). “For wonderful Mireille who helps convicts!” (The crowd continues). “For my friend, the best Goddamn-mother-fucking priest on the whole planet, alleluia for Christ’s sake!” (The crowd yells even louder). “And for Sister Olga, who is more efficient than tear gas grenades thrown by cops, and who could be the image on the labels of absinthe: alleluia, motherfuckers ! (The crowd chants that leitmotiv energetically with the fury of the seven angels of the Apocalypse). This concert-service is dedicated to my friend Vincent Blénet! Welcome into my church, motherfuckers!” He crosses himself and adds: “Vincent, remember that I haven’t forgotten you. God bless you, brother. This is your concert. Remember that not everybody dislikes what you write, even if some assholes claim you’re trash or that you’re light years away. Tell them to fuck off because you are one of my new favorite heroes and my friend!” Marilyn inflames the audience with my songs. David continues to film the whole show. Marilyn unfurls all his vitality under the cheering of my ecclesiastic friends from Nice.
Mother and Jean Marie land in Los Angeles. Marilyn and Dita are there to welcome them and take them home. ”Are you ready to sanctify the TV studios?” says Marilyn jokingly. The next morning Dita takes my mother to go shopping at her usual places. They stroll around and try on dresses. Dita advises my mother and buys her new outfits to cheer her up. Then they go into a bookshop and find my book. “I found it well constructed, strong and intelligent. I even recommended that my friends and family read it and give it its due value,” says Dita smiling. Marilyn and Jean Marie set off for a promo tour for the release of the new CD and the ‘Nice Live!’ DVD. Before tackling the TV studios, they have a press conference inside a Dominican cathedral. All the journalists are waiting for them outside while the religious activists are loudly protesting such a media Armageddon. Marilyn and Jean Marie arrive and eye the crowd who are shouting apocalyptic threats. “You are idiots,” says Marilyn. “You’re going to miss the mass. Come hear the biblical teachings because I can perceive some serious theological gaps in you. In this press conference you will discover a redeeming and purifying preaching, so dump your slogans and recyclable signs and tell your damn Baptist snipers to go on strike. Come inside in silence and feel the faith of Jesus surrounding the church, for Christ’s sake!” says Marilyn to them. “Amen, Reverend,” replies Jean Marie showing his index and small fingers in front of the furious evangelists who are trying to push Jean Marie. “No, you’re not going to have his clothes! I am the rock star and we’re not on stage. Just go the Ozzfest like everybody else and Jean Marie will christen your frustrations,” says Marilyn. Inside the cathedral, they’re about to take their seats when a group of fans scream from the back of the cathedral, under Marilyn’s attentive, smiling eye, “Go Marilyn; you’re the Biblical Antichrist King.” Jean Marie shows his index and small finger again, “Alleluia! There are actually some fans here who don’t want to kill us with an Uzi or a local rapper’s Tech 9. Jesus must have liked my Personal Jesus and is going to bless my commercial religion,” says Marilyn, eliciting laughter from the journalists. The first question is asked and then the next ones come, one after the other. “I chose to release this CD and DVD because my last album dealt with the marriage between the faith of Christ and gothic poetry. I combined day and night because my French friend, (here he brandishes my book) had done it and nobody remembers it, and I wanted to publicize his message.” The photographers, with pops and crackles from their flashes, take thousands of pictures of Marilyn and Jean Marie at the speed of an AK47. Marilyn continues his much thought-out replies, “We have recorded and filmed this concert in Nice because I asked this priest sitting by my side to bless this show, because he is friends with the writer in question, and also because he is the first priest I know who has let me into his monastery without pointing at me with a Bible, a crucifix and a hunting gun while reciting Hail Marys! There are convents and monasteries full of people who are crazy about my art there. I’ve multiplied the number of nuns in my churches (…) The Religion of Christian Darkness, founded by Vincent Blénet and which I have interpreted, is more than a mere act of faith, it’s a Christian evolution of centuries long spirituality where dogmas divide people. Although our beliefs set us apart, there is the spiritual and religious myth which unites us (…) The paparazzi will be able to sell photos of the Antichrist in the communion of prayer to the Christians and write in their rags: Marilyn Manson is in charge of Baptism and is preparing the service with a Dominican brother in Nice, during his vacation, under the sulfurous details of Mariah Carey’s latest sex-tape and the number of lines of coke that Kate Moss has sniffed to keep her body slim for her public appearances. Jean Marie, here next to me, turns up the volume full blast with my music in his monastery; he organizes metal-parties after service, the whole brotherhood dances frenetically at a concert! Some even want to be disciples of my creative art. The spirituality I have mentioned follows its evolution (…) I hope those over-excited, Vaticanesque-Bible worshippers out there will stop stigmatizing my fans and that the religious snipers will go fishing with their offspring instead (….) The message is as simple as an email: leave us alone with your damn flea-market Evangelism; repent and pray because the dogmas are changing like the seasons do. In a nutshell, alleluia motherfuckers!” The fans whistle and scream euphorically, Marilyn holds aloft my book in one hand and with the other hand he shows his index and little finger before crossing himself showing his dark look. Jean Marie burst out laughing. With a gesture, Marilyn invites all to raise the exaltation inside the cathedral.
Marilyn and Jean Marie arrive at David Letterman’s TV studio. Marilyn crosses himself and utters an “amen” with a smile. “You have converted since our previous interview; what impact did this priest who is with you have on you?” “The person I owe this extraordinary meeting to is the author of this book (he shows my book staring at the camera with his gothic eye), and my friend.” Letterman turns towards Jean Marie and questions him: “You are a prison chaplain and you belong to the Dominican community in Nice, France. How did you meet Marilyn Manson?” “Well, I met him through Vincent Blénet, the author of the book. They came with Dita Von Teese to Nice. I’ve discovered talented people who know how to set themselves apart. They each have been very open-minded and acted with exemplary politeness. Since their visit, all the brothers in the monastery spend their free time listening to Marilyn’s music and interviews online; some of the brothers even have a Dita calendar in their rooms”. Marilyn interjects: “Virgin Megastore’s sales have literally exploded there! And plus I shot a commercial in the town’s churches saying that if I attend mass with them it is to show that fundamentalist are stupid. You should have seen the faces of the recalcitrant members of the congregation when they saw my face at the entrance of the churches, it was worth the whole trip,” says Marilyn jokingly. “What message does this album carry for you, and is it addressed to your Christian detractors or is it global?” asks Letterman. “It’s universal. We’re all God’s creatures. The symbol of Christ is that of forgiveness, so we have to accept it.” Most fanatics high on LSD who harass me should learn to ask the right questions. Religion is multiple but varied; it means acceptance and tolerance of each difference. This live album emphasizes the message my friend Vincent Blénet expressed in his esoteric narrative, (he shows the book again) and which I’ve already passed along in my previous two studio albums. You know, learning is an act in common. If you remain stuck in your beliefs you can’t advance but life is a continual evolving learning process.” “Be in contact with these priests and pray with them, that aren’t they opposed to your campaign about the apocalypse and your image as the Reverend Antichrist of darkness?” “It is much more stimulating for an evangelist to watch me on Fox News killing priests and the faithful during mass with a chain saw than to take a Viagra pill. Saying Marian prayers does not make them more pure and without sin, Sunday mass is now a TV show. The priest who introduced me to his brothers and sisters who are now my fans and who respect my art, this priest is an admirable man. He turns the volume up full blast in his room, to the point that the aged brother danced on Vodevil. And these people of faith are structured in their offices. My girlfriend, my writer friend and I have watched them during mass.” Letterman: “Do you go more often to church now?” Marilyn responds: “Yes, every Sunday old people believe in resurrection and yell: Lord, a corpse has escaped from the cemetery! Or My God, death has come for the Last Judgment. But the kids are funny; they even ask if Snow White is in fact a transvestite in everyday life. Of course I also get the usual eternally dammed, Bible outcast, fucking pervert…so I stare at them and tell them that the Apocalypse is near and that the apostles have forgotten to mention me in the Gospels. But in order to calm down this religious Sunday atmosphere, Dita is with me so all the wives have a hard time trying to re-orient their husbands’ attention towards mass.” Letterman: “What do your artist friends think about Jean Marie?” Marilyn: “He’s booked up! Slipknot and Korn are fighting over him to supervise the evangelization of their tours. Nice is at the top of their list of European tours; Jean Marie’s blessings are high in demand, for example he has promised to recite the Angelus at the Ozzfest for Ozzy Osbourne, but besides that I’m his main client.” Letterman: “Do you mention your writer friend regularly in your conversations with Dita Von Teese?” Marilyn: “Vincent doesn’t know this but yes; what’s more, she wants to celebrate a marriage of affection with him.” Letterman: “What is the next step?” Marilyn: “To have a gigantic concert in Jean Marie’s cathedrals and churches to awaken the dead and attract all the angels and archangels of heaven; Christian heavy metal prayers full blast,” says Marilyn with a teasing smile. Jean Marie bursts out laughing. “I’d love to, but I haven’t done all these years of Seminary to be fired now,” he says ironically. Marilyn turns towards him and says jokingly, “You can always say mass in porn films, bless and listen to confessions of those who are tires or can’t get it up; it’d be a reconversion.” Marilyn grabs him in a friendly way while bursting out laughing. Off they go to France. They have a stopover in Nice to give the album to my friends over there, and then Marilyn goes to see brother Yves-Marie’s paintings. Together they work on some paintings. Jean Marie announces to Marilyn that his monastery has prepared a special mass in which a group of people are going to be present to listen to a concert inside the church. Marilyn smiles and is then guided behind the altar. Jean Marie gives an introductory speech and Marilyn arrives triumphantly. “Cross yourselves for absolution and tolerance, Christian darkness motherfuckers: be obscene, be obscene…” he says followed by the priests of the community, before starting with Mobscene furiously. He continues with 1996, “For the forgotten ones, the damned ones by Benedict XVI, here’s your fucking answer: blind dead motherfuckers”. He shoots a bird to the crowd in front of him and sings, and then he continues with Use Your Fist and Not Your Mouth, “For those who talk during service and bling-bling politics that are sucking all our taxes.” Marilyn inflames and excites the whole audience in the church. Finally, he ends with Vodevil, “This one is for Brother Martin, who’s crazy. Just relax in this holy place for prayers.” Brother Martin dances, and to end, Marilyn greets the audience with “Christian heavy metal prayers, alleluia motherfuckers.”
During the Ozzfest, few months later while a new tour of my heros, Marilyn goes on stage and sets the audience on fire, Ozzy, Dita and I go outside where the evangelists protest in a group. Ozzy films the protesters facing my hero's fans. I turn up in the midst of a revival preaching, interrupting the guy's momentum and attracting the attention of the fans, who smile at my intervention. I get hold of the megaphone from the astounded evangelist and say into the device « OK, this was our Evangelical promotional break on Ozzfest TV, you can find this kind of specimen everyday during the Apocolyptical services in the magnificent cathedrals of Los Angeles, because in France we have smashed them down. Why? Because they piss everybody off with their cheap Cosmopolitan morals, even the tramps set their dogs on them to keep them at a distance! But let's be charitable in the name of our Lord, adopt these fundamentalist jerks! Any buyer out there? No, well them get the hell out of here, fucking evangelists! » Dita and Ozzy laugh hilariously, the activist is furious and puzzled, as for the fans, they are clapping at me. Dita takes me in her arms and can't help laughing. Ozzy stops filming and shakes my hand and compliments me. Then he shows the filmed feat to his family, they are won over. Dita looks at me and says « you sure made me laugh. You see that you're not the one they tried to hammer you into when you were younger. Even the fans gave you an applause, so you're not on your own and misunderstood in this world, and they all look at you with respect. So, you're not so disposable after all!” while she smiles at me and holds my hand. Marilyn has an interlude to introduce me before singing my songs in front of his audience, who are well aware of what went on outside with the fundamentalist by word of mouth. « Well, I'm going to introduce you to my prophet, who navigates the darkness and Christian mysticism. Vincent Blénet, a young writer of 27 who has a few things to reveal to us, the next songs have been written by him and he sure has some talent: he's my best fucking friend! » Marilyn grabs me amicably from the moment I get on stage. The crowd is overexcited while I stare at them stoically, I cross myself and scream « in nomine patris et fili et spiritus sancti. AMEN MOTHERFUCKERS! » The crows whistles euphoricly from the moment I shoot a bird at all the detractors and protestors. Marilyn invites the crowd to lift their fists as a rythmic wave, which they do and adds « the prayer is not finished, repeat after me: AMEN. » The crowd shouts « MOTHERFUCKERS! » They chant louder and louder this leitmotiv under Marilyn's cadence, then they stop and I use that glacier look, under the admiring eyes of Dita and my hero, both smiling, to add « message from the Christian darkness for all Evangelists and fundamentalists: repent, fuckers, your sins exceed your praises in church. We are different, we scare you, we are proud, we're not scared of your fucking system, we are what we are and you can blame us. Christ knows the value of our souls. So, you advertising catholics. We, the damned, crucify you and tell you FUCK!” « Alleluia my friend and fucking bling-bling! Welcome inside our church of Christian heavy metal prayers motherfuckers, Represent !» jokes Marilyn giving me a huge hug. Dita smiles at me and applauds for me intensely under the cheering of the fans, then she hugs me and congratulates me.
THE REVEREND’S POSTCARD
Marilyn lands in Nice to have a break and work on his next album. He spends some time at Jean Marie’s monastery. When he passes through the customs check-in he creates a panic at the airport security doors with the menacing gothic rings on his fingers. A security guard approaches him and looks at Marilyn, who stares at the guard with his gothic eye. “OK, Sir, have a good stay in Nice,” says the guard timidly, after a short silence. “Amen, Reverend,” replies Marilyn ironically with a mischievous smile. He retrieves his luggage from the baggage claim and goes to meet Mireille and Jean Marie. They hug and Marilyn learns that Yves Marie is going to exhibit his paintings in the monastery’s gallery and that he’s specifically asked Marilyn to be there for the opening. “I’m already drooling! I’m going to be such an exemplary guest star that I’ll blow the minds of the traditionalists as well as those of hellish paparazzi,” responds Marilyn. Once they get to the monastery, Marilyn settles into his quarters, visits with several brothers from the community, along with Jean Marie. All are thrilled to see him back in Nice. “Welcome monsignor the second Archimandrite. You can listen to our daily prayers,” says Brother Martin. Yves Marie is euphoric, he shakes hands with him. “It’s been an endless eternity,” he says. Marilyn holds his hand against his chest, touched by the adoration. Concerning his presence at and support of the exhibition’s opening he says: “It’s an honor, thank you so much for inviting the antichrist superstar to a Dominican gallery. It’s going to get people talking heavy metal on Sunday morning!” he jokes. During dinner they talk together: “Since personal Jesus, the media have been kind of cool; some have used the opportunity to treat me like a carnival side-show attraction. Others are afraid I’ll light their TV studio on fire or that I’ll sell heroin to their technicians, and with others I just joke around. Obviously I still receive many death threats, but those letters always end up in my fireplace. There always are religious activists who demonstrate during my concerts. But now, when on stage, I read psalms from the Bible between certain songs, which has provoked questioning debates on ultraconservative radio networks and, in the end, after mobilizing the whole radio audience, they still didn’t understand a thing. The antichrist superstar has given them the slip; I’ve created an arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon,” Marilyn explains, just as Brother Michel shows up enthusiastically and exchanges some words with my hero, the latter smiles at him and wishes him good night with a smile and his traditional military salute.
Marilyn wakes up at 5:30 am and drinks a coffee while eyeing the icons and the crucifix in the dining room. He hears small discrete steps and Brother Robert enters, disguised as a bling-bling rapper from the Bronx with his hooded sweatshirt. He greets Marilyn, who does the same by holding his hand against his chest, showing his gothic rings and says with a smile: “Alleluia, represent from the Dracula ghetto.” Then he calmly finishes his coffee before going to the Sacristy to observe (doing creative research for his new album) the morning mass where Brother Robert is leading the morning procession and who extends the time for this private service. Marilyn watches the scene smiling, and then he goes to the Sainte Réparate basilica. He sits next to a magnificent Christian painting and darkly observes it, exposing his rings, such a contrast for the astonished tourists. He sits pensively for a while and then he begins writing his album while listening to music through his headphones and observing the church bustle of tourists and true believers. He is calmly writing when the security guard appears, ready to pick a quarrel, armed with a machine-gun that looks like a Kalashnikov. Marilyn looks coldly at him. “Pray thee, monsignor, I believe you are part of the Evangelist network which is now proclaiming the prophetic arrival of an efficient Baptist sniper who wants to kill me on stage sometime soon, but I forgot the details because I burned my hand on the death-threat letter during my stage performance. My fans really appreciated the performance when I burned all your letters full of reform-minded insults. Tell yourself it’s the arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon, and please allow me to go back to my writing…unless perhaps you want an autograph?!” says Marilyn. He watches the flabbergasted guard cross himself, reciting Virgin Mary prayers, who then retreats and finally disappears completely. Marilyn serenely goes back to his writing.
Mireille invites Marilyn to her place. Her dog greets him happily and then begins humping Marilyn’s leg. “Bibi, leave Marilyn’s leg alone!” yells Mireille. “He sure is efficient!” exclaims Marilyn. “This would definitely destabilize any intruder! If I think about my home which is full of surveillance cameras….what a rip off! All I need is your dog Bibi to discourage the conservative journalists and the notorious paparazzi,” he says motioning towards the sign at the entrance which has a caption ‘I keep watch here’ under a photograph of a ferocious Rottweiler. They chat for a while over a cup of coffee and meanwhile Mireille’s daughter constantly bombards her mom with SMSs. However, the conversation inspires Marilyn to write, which he does later on while sitting in Jean Marie’s church. When it’s time for the usual mass, the regulars arrive on time and stare at my hero’s dark eye and flamboyant dark rings, who crosses himself and says, “Alleluia, represent the Dracula ghetto, my brothers, even the outcast have fun during religious mass at church. I have my eternal subscription, that’s how addicted I am to this monastery. Your sniper friends have deserted and I have survived, alleluia, praise the Lord for this grace!” The mass starts with a deathly silence. He observes the service with devotion and listens attentively to each sermon from the Brothers and he pays special attention to that of Jean Marie. Marilyn then helps Yves Marie prepare his exhibition.
The next morning, Marilyn greets Laure and Roseline, who are working in the library. They have a friendly and polite exchange, “Hello, you are going to stay here for a few minutes with Laure while I step outside to have a smoke. Damn, I can’t stand people anymore!” Roseline cries out. “I could actually smack some of them. I’m getting out of here or else it’s not going to take me long to kill one.” Marilyn sits down next to Laure, who suffers from temporary neuralgia. They hear Roseline far away, “Oh no, I’m taking a break now, you just pay like everyone does or else just go piss against that tree outside and you just leave me alone,”. And then, while leaving: “Dear Lord, I’m going to smash somebody. They surely deserve it, I tell you,” she says fiercely right into an aristocratic bibliophile’s face. Marilyn and Laure burst out laughing and in the meantime a group of home boys arrives. “Hey cousin, what are you up to tonight? Wanna have a drink with me in a quiet place so we can get acquainted?” says the leader trying to show off in front of Laure, who quietly replies, “Young man, it’s not a convenient time because I have other priorities which are far more captivating than listening to your ranting.” “Go take a dump elsewhere rather than talking shit here,” says Marilyn, looking at him sternly with his gothic eye in order to intimidate him. “And who the fuck are you?” he asks. Marilyn shows the symbol of the so-often encountered American evangelist puritan fear. “I’m the antichrist who is going to preach the arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon at your mosque during the evening prayer. You’re lucky, because although I’m starving, I don’t have the equipment with me to eat you during my coffee break. Nice fried home boys with onions, I’m already drooling. That’s better than going to a McDonald’s and yet I’m a loyal client there. I can always go get my chain saw from my minivan and chop you up for evening meal at the Stove,” he says showing his chromed teeth and smacking his lips in front of the home boys, who, petrified, leave the room, pushed along by Roseline, who furiously says “Watch where you’re going! I spend my days listening to these stingy bastards, and then I have to bleach the whole place.” A man crosses the room going straight to the restrooms. “Hey, mister, you pay first or else you step outside and relieve yourself against that sycamore tree.” The guy complains and explains that he needs to do number two. “More reason for paying, because when you finish I have to go after you and clean up your traces, so pay”, she continues, changing the subject, “the Apocalypse is near, I advise you to leaf through the Bible while you’re in the shitters. It’s an explicit survival manual to learn what to do when God brings the arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon to all sinners who don’t pay the public toilet workers. You’re warned about your repentance, that’s the least I can do for you, Sir”. Laure laughs while the stunned man pays. “Alleluia, you’ve just been absolved, so we’ll see about the Armageddon a bit later, ok? Check out the Bible anyway, it won’t hurt your manners,” says Marilyn with his gothic look, crossing himself and showing his tenebrous tattoos and rings. Roseline sits down, “I will punch the first person who complains,” she says.
Later, Marilyn arrives with his lap top and his neatly organized texts for Sister Rachel’s association. He greets all those he knows. “Hello, we close at 5.00, Sir, and there’s not much coffee left,” Sister Olga tells him. “That’s very kind but I have my absinthe chilling at my place,” he says ironically, sparking laughter from some people nearby who are playing cards. Sister Rachel hugs him affectionately. Before speaking with her, he types something on his computer while Sister Olga supervises the helpers. When he’s done Sister Rachel signals to him and he follows her to her office. They talk together conspiratorially under the clandestine surveillance of Sister Olga, who ends up showing her face to tell them that they need to get some food from a grocery store which is a bit far away. Marilyn offers his help happily. Later, in the car, she drives at top speed, maneuvering aggressively around the other cars, which amuses Marilyn, as her driving style contrasts with her habitual pacific gestures. “I have the same feelings that surface during my suicidal tours; this is when we ought to sing personal Jesus,” he says. “Amen,” she replies with a mischievous grin.
The famous evening of the exhibition opening, Marilyn makes an appearance and proudly stays close to Yves Marie. Marilyn brings grace and eloquence to the exhibited paintings; conversations move back and forth, they both take photographs for souvenirs. Dita lands in Nice, Marilyn plays her guide, they go to see Yves Marie’s paintings – delighted – before moving on to Sister Rachel’s association the economic stove. “We close at 5.00. But we’re out of coffee,” says Sister Olga. Dita looks at the clock, which says 3.50 pm. “Is she the famous nun who advises the anti-riot forces you told me about?” she asks to Marilyn, lowering her voice. “Absolutely, even anarchist and nihilist punks have nightmares when they see her at the ATM withdrawing money with her credit card. As for the home boys, they keep their distance. She’s as radical and efficient as a Stalingrad bombing”. Dita is introduced to the whole team, some of whom want to show her how to play their card game, belote. Marilyn and Dita accept. The atmosphere is festive and they have a lot of fun, which makes the noise level go up. “Please keep the sound low, you are in a public place and we’re about to close,” says sister Olga sharply. “My God, the arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon is around the corner! This nun is a juicy combination of a hyper-punctual Swiss civil servant with his hyper-accurate Swiss watch and a sanctified Rottweiler full of vitality guarding the famous cave at Lourdes where the Virgin Mary appeared, keeping away the hordes of tourists equipped with high-tech cameras who’ve come to see her. Sister Olga must have studied at the Seminar in Afghanistan during the Soviet bombings. As a child, I went through hell during my school years at the Heritage Christian School, which is a hardcore trash punk version of the Vatican. But, since I preach, there are masses of professional Evangelist snipers hounding my butt and death threats every Christmas Eve, so I wreck bibles on stage to challenge them. What an esoteric sinecure, alleluia!” jokes Marilyn. He talks with Sister Rachel for a while, who remains very attentive, in an atmosphere of complicity, and then they go to Jean Marie’s church. They sit down and contemplate meditatively the painting of Christ. Dita is charmed by the place. “It sure is a great change from Hollywood parties, where you run into teen idols that are completely plastered, drugged and deformed by the excesses of modern life. The same goes for the parties where home boys shoot at other guys who have parked their cars in the wrong space, at their dealers for being rather stingy or at their girlfriends for cheating on them in other BMW convertibles. I feel sorry for the guys who have to clean up the mess in the morning. This church is remarkable. Too bad they can’t play my music,” says Marilyn smiling, “it would create a goddamn motherfucking contrast!”
The congregation arrives for the mass and stares at Marilyn and Dita, who stare back at them. Marilyn’s gothic eye and malevolent gothic rings have its effect. “Finally! We’ve been waiting for the religious fanatics’ parade for ages. My dear girlfriend here with me didn’t want to believe me when I told her that you brought your palm branches only to shove them in my face, in the name of the holy Catholic Church. All this during mass, so that the priests had to call the cops, who in turn threw tear gas bombs into the church and beat us in order to divide us, before taking us to the police station. Because I attend mass with my girlfriend, forget about your tazers and esoteric insults for today, if only so I can keep her safe. So, please no riots today, give me a break for arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon’s sake. And no flirting with my girlfriend after your communion, please!” says Marilyn. Dita smiles while the worshippers remain speechless and settle down dumbstruck. The priests arrive, Jean Marie preaches with elegance under affectionate and impressed looks from Marilyn and Dita. In the evening, they are invited over to Mireille’s place together with Sister Rachel and Jean Marie. They take some souvenir photos, especially of Sister Rachel, with the crucifix around her neck protectively held by the tattooed arms and ringed fingers of Marilyn and the calm appearance of Jean Marie with the magnificence of Dita – the contrast amuses everyone. Upon his return to the USA, Marilyn unveils his texts to his artist friends, including Jonathan Davis singer from the band Korn and Joey Jordison, the drummer from Slipknot. They read them attentively and are amazed at Marilyn’s talent. “It’s been an excellent goddamn motherfucking creative vacation: Christian heavy metal prayers motherfuckers!” He smiles. Then, after some months, they compose some arrangements full of contrasts, a mix of religious and metal music. They record the CD, Marilyn excels in his interpretation, Joey Jordison has a frenetic drumming rhythm and Jonathan Davis adds his refined touch in his voice’s performance on some duos.
Jean Marie lands in Los Angeles and meets Marilyn at his place, after finishing his recording sessions for his new album. They talk together up in the attic and Marilyn proudly unveils some of his new paintings. “Obviously they wouldn’t be shown at the Louvre in Paris, but painting them was a very peaceful experience and I enjoyed exploring my expressionistic style! They don’t fit into the current commercial “masturbation art”, but they can be used for the marketing campaign of the record I just finished recording and which will come out pretty soon.” Marilyn smiles while pointing at certain paintings. “If the aristocracy saw my paintings they’d scream bloody heresy and burn me to death while holding their crucifixes in front of their face and tormenting me with Marian Prayers before exorcising the galleries. My record company would sink because for the time being I’m very popular, the antichrist is rather profitable, but if I sink it’ll be the arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon for the stock exchange in Wall Street,” says Marilyn to Jean Marie before showing him around the property. Later Marilyn checks the security cameras screens in the kitchen while chewing on a cheeseburger and drinking absinthe. “This is better than the reality shows which we’re bombarded with,” he says ironically. He finishes eating and keeps a watch with his tenebrous look, next to Jean Marie. Both watch the parade of fans who take pictures of the house, when a paparazzo arrives and prepares his equipment before climbing the property’s walls. Marilyn dresses up as a pope, takes his Bible, a crucifix and a chain saw from the garage. He appears suddenly and vigorously and promptly ecclesiastical and scares the paparazzo, who is startled at his sight. Marilyn looks at him with his gothic eye and showing his Bible, his crucifix and his tenebrous rings. “God bless you for this offering! Admit your redemption, the abnegation and repent because you are a sinner paparazzo, so here’s your arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon.” The guy is really scared but he still tries to get an exclusive picture, he machine guns Marilyn with his camera, Marilyn points at him and starts his chain saw while smiling sadistically staring at him fiercely through his lens. “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, the antichrist us going to have his little snack at home, cannibal fast food and fleshflesh are efficient, good God! My prayers have been answered by Christ, alleluia, motherfuckers, Jesus bless this freshly served meal,” says Marilyn to the paparazzo, who stumbles over scared to death and tumbles down head over foot. Marilyn approaches waving his chain saw vigorously. The photographer, by pure survival instinct, flees very quickly and manages to get to his car in one piece, looking behind him, because Marilyn comes out – armed with his chain saw – dressed as the pope and exposing his tenebrous rings and eying him glacially. “Reach out and touch faith, goddamn motherfucking amen, my son,” screams fiercely Marilyn, making the paparazzo leave running a red light and immediately being chased by the cops, rotating lights and all.
Sister Olga also lands in the city of angels, at Marilyn’s request, to supervise the Ozzfest security. The next morning she meticulously works at her post while Marilyn signs the CDs. The fans get excited and push each other around. Marilyn looks at her from the corner of his eye in order to get saved by Sister Olga. “Hey there, take it easy, ladies and gentleman, one at a time, respect each person’s turn. Otherwise Mr. Marilyn will be late for his concert.” Some people whistle and huff and puff. “Hush! Be quiet, I can’t hear a thing,” she says while making the fans step back a few yards, which calms them down. All the husky cops watch this scene and look affectionately at Sister Olga. “Alleluia Sister” jokes Marilyn “what energy, all the gym clubs should update their obsolete equipment! This nun could teach some remedial classes. Unfortunately she’s busy with her Economic Stove and she also trains police anti-riot forces. Too bad for you!” Sister Olga smiles and addresses the Ozzfest cops, “Marilyn, you old devil! I’m in charge of the welcome desk, the coffee shop, the surveillance and the closing of the Economic Stove in Nice” She fiercely pushes back the toughest fans. “Easy; stand in line just like the rest without screaming, please,” she says vivaciously. The cops spread the word about this nun’s efficiency, which reaches Marilyn’s stand, who smiles while watching the aborted attempts of the fans to pass Sister Olga. All the cops arrive to watch Sister Olga in action dealing with a massive exodus of almost wild fans. Marilyn watches the stunned cops and bursts out laughing, “This is a memorable day. You are being ridiculed by a charity nun. She’s kicked more ass than all of you together. She deserves to be classified amongst the top 5 security agents worldwide. They sure are lucky at the Economic Stove,” he says jokingly. “This is our dear Mr. Marilyn speaking. We love him at the Stove. He gives us great publicity and thanks to him we’ve collected loads of meal coupons,” she says proudly. On stage, Marilyn – dressed as a pope – violently inflames his audience staring at them through his gothic lens. “Is the Dracula ghetto here?” The crowd screams back. “Are there any Christians here?” The crowd screams even louder. “Well, then here’s the good news for you: we’re all brothers and sisters. My new album is coming out soon and it will make official the antichrist superstar’s sponsorship of a religious association: The Economic Stove. The arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon will hoot in the ears of the Vaticanesque dogmatic and heretic fundamentalists. Let me hear your Ozzfest praising!” The crowd is all excited. “Let’s send a religious bomb with a goddamn slogan to all the fundamentalist assholes: christian heavy metal prayer. That’s the goddamn motherfucking best church where I preach the faith of Christian darkness, alleluia in the name of God!” he screams with assurance while staring at the crowd through his gothic lens before crossing himself. After the concert, Marilyn is photographed with Sister Olga looking at each other with complicity. “She’s going to hang it up on the wall at the Stove,” he jokes, “with a gothic letter inscription saying: three cheers for the heavy metal newlyweds! It’ll surely trigger a lot of jealousy. Here you are Sister Olga now a rock star, »
The CD is launched some months later worldwide. Marilyn returns to Nice for the promotion and he goes from interview to interview in Jean Marie’s church, who observes the whole media waltz from afar. Marilyn is relaxed. He proudly shows his rings, tattoos and dark menacing stares, a paradox in the calm peaceful church. “I may be representative of the Dracula ghetto but I love this church and the magnificent millennium old Gothic churches very much. They have an immortal attraction for me. Besides, I’m a fan of Jesus Christ. The first marketing object that was massively commercialized was the cross. They are as representative of churches as of graveyards. Thus, part of the profit from the album will go to the association of an excellent friend of mine: the Economic Stove. What a goddamn motherfucking paradox for all those fundamentalist Christians when they view this interview which takes place inside this church! It’ll be hard for them to convince their kids that I represent the Armageddon, especially in those traditional Catholic schools, including the Héritage Christian School. My old teachers will be facing riots amongst my fans against those hard core biblical fanatics. All things considered, it’ll be the Armageddon in conservative America; it’d be surprising if in that case Christian heavy metal prayers motherfuckers doesn’t win the grammy awards! So alleluia for God’s sake,” he says smiling. In the evening he rouses his audience with an esoteric performance full of an aggressive energy. Among the audience is one of my friends, as well as all the association’s team. Marilyn spots them and smiles, he leaps to the front of the stage and mystically chants “stove (the crowd reacts), stove (the crowd continues as he raises his voice), stove, it’s extra hours and Sister Olga is not going to kick you out, so all those from the Dracula ghetto chant alleluia with me for the Economic Stove!” The crowd and my friends do so. Marilyn ignites the crowd inside chapel and plays his role, gracefully exhibiting his tattoos and his gothic eye. My friends are under his charm, they laugh amused and they are happy about this situation. The room is biblically in flames!
Vincent Blénet
EMOTIONAL APOCALYPSE
In a church, the priest gives the cadence to the passive congregation in a mechanical way. They sing the praying chants under the eyes of a strange being, invisible to their eyes. It is the Archangel Gabriel, dressed darkly but stylishly, sporting gothic rings, a crucifix around his neck, Christian tattoos on his arms with a female image dominating the top part of his left arm. The contrast is striking. He stares at the priest, the congregation as well as the whole service with detachment, with an archaic and age old look. He is trying to find sense in all this with some bitterness. When the priest prays for humanity, Gabriel spreads his wings and his esoteric arms out and screams: “Beloved children of God, are you thinking in His name? You destroy yourselves and you divide yourselves up in your decadence.” The congregation, who obviously has seen and heard nothing, prays and chants under the glacial but invisible gaze of Gabriel. “Times follow one after the other and human beings regress through the deterioration of life. I’ve been observing them for millennia, in silence; they puzzle me. It’s always the same timeless ballet. How can they be happy in their anarchy, which they seem to cherish? Have they lost all the values taught by Christ?” says Gabriel to himself. He wanders each day observing baptisms and burials. In baptisms, he looks at the newborn with pity, having to live its life through this social chaos. Yet, at burials, he smiles because the soul of the dead will finally discover eternal life. What puzzles him is when he stares at the funeral’s attendants, some of whom are not sincere or pretend a sort of illusory compassion or grief, while deep inside they just rejoice in the gathering together and the family fights. Gabriel stares at the crucifixes of the cemeteries, puzzled. “How can they pray while most of them don’t believe in anything?” he thinks. He wanders around for a while aimlessly then observes lifestyle of the living. Sometimes he goes to clubs and listens to heavy metal concerts, full of violent frenzy. He watches with his peculiar eyes how people play with their lives, threatening their balance, carelessly. He doesn’t care about the consequences of their actions and says to himself that they have chosen their own destiny. Gabriel has lost the notion of his own eternity; he feels neither joy nor emotion. His pervading essence is only rage and self-destruction. In the clubs, he loves watching the massive, disorganized rings under the deafening sounds of the frenzied DJ. He is also, even more often, at heavy metal concerts where he watches the singer scream his pain and his impulsive aggressiveness with devotion. This excites Gabriel’s adrenalin, who, even completely still, remains dreamy, recalling his existential pain. Just then he hears the heavenly call for the mass programmed in heaven, where all his peers swear allegiance to God and Christ. Gabriel is looked down upon in Paradise. Even there, loneliness is his only ally. During the Divine Service, he listens wearily – just like the congregation in their churches – to the angels singing the absolution for the mortals. Rage comes up in him and that can be inferred from his glacial and archaic look. Still he remains silent. While God preaches for the salvation and beauty of life, Gabriel stares at him with rage. “Still the same timeless ballet, hasn’t He understood that it doesn’t make any sense for the mortals, who just make fun of us?” he thinks again. After their pledges of allegiance, Gabriel goes to the top of his usual cathedral. He gazes at the tattoo of the woman at the top of his left arm; a bitter look, then he covers it with his ringed fingers, sheds some tears and spreads his wings before staring at the moon with rage, arms spread out. As soon as the bells toll, he screams ostentatiously: “Eternal Father, kill me and be satisfied!” endlessly under the sound of the bells. In vain, as he is an immortal in God’s service. The bells finally become silent; he stares at the moon coldly. These provocations attract Christ’s attention, who observes him. There is a certain fascination. During the Divine service in heaven, God preaches facing his attentive messengers. Jesus stares at the weariness and anger that emanates from Gabriel and stares as well as at his looks and tattoos. All swear allegiance and then go back to their eternal routine, while despising Gabriel, who sports his dark eye. During a burial he watches meditatively the ceremony and the sacraments of absolution. He still feels endlessly alone and puzzled. He watches a young couple flirting with mutual complicity. His lacerated heart painfully reminds him of his vulnerability and his present lonely condition. But he continues watching them on the verge of tears; these young lovers who tenderly snuggle up against each other. Gabriel cries and goes up angry to the top of the cathedral and repeats his suicidal prayer under the rhythm of the bells. The resonance doesn’t unsettle Gabriel in the least, who sports the tattooed portrait on his arm and screams to God in the silence of heaven. “You see her? Why do you impose your rules on me? You must erase me, what difference would it make with the careless mortals who deny us?” Gabriel stares at the moon with stoicism and nihilism, as his cries remain unanswered, under the frenzied rhythm of the bells. He senses a presence and turns his head to see Christ observing him with astonishment. He asks Gabriel why he has the need to provoke God in vain. Gabriel tells him that he already knows the answer. Jesus looks at the tattoo of this woman on Gabriel’s arm and smiles at the pertinence of Gabriel’s answer. They look at the panoramic horizon for a moment where the party goers are going crazy. “Emotions are the key to our impulsive, reckless or other actions,” says Jesus. Gabriel asks him how humans can be so precarious and reckless when they lose their redeeming essence to move ahead in the midst of this desolation of existence. “Mortals are complex and it has been like that for millennia. They don’t understand themselves and remain in the popular, dogmatic indifference they have created,” responds Jesus. He asks Gabriel the name of this woman tattooed on his arm. The latter stares at the horizon bitterly and with nostalgia, then he tell him: Aline. Jesus asks him whether he’s had special moments which have influenced his immortality besides Aline. “Perhaps the fall of the Berlin wall,” he says smiling recalling those historical moments. Gabriel had sat on top of the wall and had observed the violence of the Berlin crowd defying the police and hammering away at the wall. That’s when he spread his wings and stared at the redeeming anarchy with a smile. “Now, the mentality of people has regressed. Nothing compares to those new times,” says Gabriel to Christ, who asks him to tell him about why he’s always trying to defy God and about Aline too. Gabriel agrees and tells Aline’s story, feeling less ignored.
It all happened some year ago. Gabriel was observing some services trying to figure out the mortals in vain. He attended all prayers and redeeming chants puzzled because, outside the churches, people were not at all pious. Each prayer chanted by the children from the choir left him with a feeling of doubt. He nonchalantly observed the congregations up until he heard Aline sing. Gabriel stared at her and couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was so blurred by her beauty and the fairness of her pearly skin that he forgot to say his prayers and his questions about people. This mortal captured his attention and fascinated him. He started following her daily routine. He memorized each expression she made and observed her when she was with her friends, when she watched a film, trying to imagine her feeling his presence. During the heavenly service, Gabriel listened to God preach to the angels about the strict duty of not intervening and appearing in front of mortals, underlining that those who didn’t believe had their redemption multiplied . Gabriel emotional heart bled. He felt detached from everything that had been given form the beginning. While God emphasized “Those are the rules, do not ever intervene”. Gabriel remained frozen in front of this celestial rule. He followed Aline’s actions and gestures every day tormented. When she talked with a friend about her loneliness and her need for being loved, her friend suggested to her some techniques to be loved under Gabriel’s silent tears. When she was home, Aline watched television; Gabriel would sit next to her and immortalize her face on his left arm. He’s put his hand on hers while spreading his wings. Aline would turn her head, Gabriel, euphorically believing she could feel his presence, would smile at her – not giving a damn about the rules – but she would get up and turn off the lights of a room where she’d left the lights on. Gabriel is desperate and sheds bitter tears but again surrounds her with his affection, without her being able to notice it. He sobs some kind of protecting prayer, spreads his wings and sighs recalling what he hears during God’s services concentrating his energy and canalizing his emotions so that Aline can feel his presence and his love, which splits him between two opposing worlds. He multiplies his strength until Aline shivers and begins to wonder. Aline is meditating on this while Gabriel listens to the Christian chants and God’s preaching: “You shouldn’t have any kind of contact with the mortals. It’s been like this since the beginning of times, the Alpha, this must be maintained and respected. Don’t feel any remorse, as they have chosen their lot, it’s up to them to prove they deserve eternal life.” Gabriel doesn’t agree with that. He stares at God and decides to become a celestial renegade, that’s how much Aline counts for this immortality. He decides to dedicate himself to protecting her. Back on earth, he follows her daily life. While she sings the churches praises, he surrounds her with his spread wings, illuminating his dark look and tries his best for her to feel his closeness. Aline shivers and smiles at the idea of his presence so close to her. Gabriel is euphoric and hugs her totally in love, not caring about the rules. Gabriel observes baptism from a new perspective; he sees one after another blessing of newborns feeling an affective shared implication
When she sings with emphasis, hoping to feel her protector, in church, she raises her eyes and perceives Gabriel in his dark splendor smiling at her and spreading his wings. Aline, frozen, looks at him and believes it’s an illusion. What she ignores is that he has broken God’s laws because of a strong romantic impulse. She stops singing and stares at Gabriel, who does the same. All the rational theories get mixed up in her mind, she falls in love with Gabriel just looking at him and so does he, smiling at her. This only lasts a few moments, in which both worlds connect, then he crosses himself with his ringed fingers; she smiles looking at this tattoos, his age-old eyes and his spread wings. She sees her face tattooed on his left upper arm, he smiles at her again before disappearing. Aline, touched, crosses herself, not believing what just happened. Now she knew her protector. She goes to watch a film thinking about him without knowing his name. In the meantime, he, the protector, rather proud, went to swear the oath before God during the Divine service in heaven. When she got home, fascinated by what she’d seen at the church, she found herself in front of some young people who pulled out a gun and coldly shot her to steal her money and credit card. While she suffers Gabriel hears her die, during the angels’ chants. He immediately goes to her side, in tears. He bends over her and listens to her last words. “Eternal angel, where are you, what is your name?” she says before her last breath. Gabriel collapses in front of her body and asks for forgiveness. He stands up, spreads his wings, lights up his archaic look, his tattooed arm spread out. “Father, why, in the name of the Holy Ghost?” he screams before returning to heaven, furious. He interrupts God’s predication, held back by all the angels. “She had no right to die like that, we didn’t even exchange a word, and she doesn’t even know my name! Why these stupid rules? The mortals ignore us and despise your teachings. We are not slaves without emotions. I demand the right to be with her!” “The mortals have made their choice, it’s all written. Exceptions cannot exist. As for this woman, she will be happy, but you can’t ever approach her. You are only a messenger; your only right is to observe the mortals, that’s it, it’s the rule!” answers God exchanging a glacial look with Gabriel. The latter shows him his silent but perceivable rage. Gabriel goes back to the top of the cathedral; he stoically stares at the moon showing Aline’s portrait and addressing God: “Father, do you see her? In her memory I will come here every night, after savoring the regression and annihilation of your children. Her name was Aline, she was my reason for living, much more important than your rules or the mortals.” He spreads his wings, tattooed arms out, his Gothic look staring at the moon; he waits for the bells to toll. As soon as the bells start: “Father, kill me and be satisfied. Father, kill me and be satisfied.” (He crosses himself). “In the name of Aline.” (He shoots a bird showing off his Gothic rings). “Fucking rules, fucking meaningless rules and I pray and I pay in your holy name!” he screams. Years go by. Gabriel pursues his hatred of himself and his enthusiasm for the world’s decadence. Besides staring at the crucifixes at the cemeteries, he attends God’s services, weary; he now focuses his attention on the violent, destructive and deafening anarchy of the electronic clubs, as well as the energetic heavy metal concerts. His popularity amongst his peers has greatly suffered. He doesn’t stop shouting his suicidal prayer under the sounds of the bells of his official cathedral, inhabited by the violence he imposes on himself. He observes human beings in their mutual aggression and doesn’t care. He doesn’t feel any sympathy for them; he must endure his painful dacryogenic absence; his loneliness and the detachment he has learned the hard way. After this confession, Christ feels sympathy for him and looks at Aline’s portrait. “This tattoo is all I have left of her. She could only see me a brief moment and she doesn’t know my name. I hate myself for not being able to have saved her. What kind of angel am I if I can’t protect her? I miss her so much, it tortures me, she haunts me with the depth of endless eternity” he sobs. “Whatever your pain may be, you are a different kind of archangel, not because of your contradictory though interesting looks. You are different because you have made a gift of pure love, not because you are God’s messenger. The sacrifice is a sacred gift in mythology. When you throw a bottle full of prayers into the sea, full of good intentions, even if it sinks to the bottom of the sea, God hasn’t forgotten it. I don’t judge you and I don’t blame our rules and regulations to your own detriment,” says Jesus. Gabriel smiles and asks if Aline is happy in heaven. Jesus reassures him: “Does she think I abandoned her during her death?” Christ reassures him and confirms that he remains in the positive thoughts of the one he loves. Gabriel smiles and cries. He is going to spend the rest of eternity observing the evolution of the mortals century after century with the thoughts of Aline satiating him. His dull immortality boils down to haunting violent clubs to let off steam emotionally. Then he meditates endlessly at the sound of the bells about his lonely condition. “The timeless ballet has no end!” he thinks again.
The Reverend Saint
After a twelve-hour flight I arrive in Paris. I quickly prepare my notes to be ready for my meeting with Reverend Manson. Indeed, I’m supposed to follow him during the Paris leg of the promotional tour for his new autobiographical book. I get to the hotel where he’s reserved a suite under the pseudonym John Constantine, a character from a graphic novel about an exorcist travelling through biblical myths. The name doesn’t surprise me, because the Bible is one of his favorite books. “I respect religious texts, but on stage I have torn bibles apart because that was my response to the many death threats by the numerous Christian fundamentalists who wanted, and tried, to cold-bloodedly kill me on stage, completely drunk with their theological dogmas. It was a potentially fatal game like Russian roulette, but I survived, that’s just the way it is. That proves that I came out of it as a greater person after risking my life trying to ignite the audience and entertain my fans.” He says this to me while smiling and sipping absinthe, after welcoming me to his hotel suite, putting me at ease as he feeds his cat Lily. Contrary to rumors, according to which it is a nightmare to host him in the various hotels he stays in, I notice that his room is very neat. “Yes, I used to be a real slob at hotels, but after having shared some daily routines with my priest friends, I’ve learned that there are very simple things that need to be respected. For example, the cleaning staff that meticulously rummages around my room when I’m absent. Now, the world’s hotel cleaning unions have no reason to send certain concierges to my room to ruin my clothes or steal them to sell on ebay. I stopped that vendetta.” He smiles. He finishes his glass and we go meandering through the mystic places of the French capital.
We tour the churches and cathedrals; he looks at each religious detail with devotion and reads the brochures “Just in case, caution is the rule,” he says. Inside an almost millennium-old Gothic cathedral, he stands pensive, staring at the great crucifix which dominates the church and he confides to me: “I was so traumatized as a child by all the Christian stories that, when I became an adult, the only way to punish my tormentors was to present them this image of the Antichrist. St. John’s revelations define the Antichrist as someone who does not believe in Jesus. The modern day Antichrist is a rock'n'roll singer who has become a superstar. The antichrist will always be a work-in-progress. The title Antichrist Superstar – which is in some ways my version of "We will rock you" – is a vision of apocalypse which came to me in a dream: it’s the last day on Earth and decrepit floats held down by monsters parade through Time Square. I was at the head of the parade, inaccessible like the pope, urging people to repent by forcing them to see the images of unhappiness, making them understand that everything was nothing but chaos already and that anyway it was too late…I explained to them that for the sake of seeing and doing everything, things have lost their values. I explained to them that breaking taboos had become a matter of course; that it was necessary to plunge into the abyss of the extreme in order to recover one’s innocence. I am fundamentally a Christian. Inside myself I have a great need for innocence and purity. The Antichrist is a nihilist who prefers to destroy everything rather than to witness the perpetuation of this decadence. I’m not against religion, but rather against people’s use of religion. I love the idea of being consumed by people who believe in this religion. I had lost all hope and I was against life. It’s the Antichrist who becomes human and begins to feel something, especially love. Love is something which destroys me. It’s a bit like the myth of the vampire you need to kill with a stake through the heart. I believe I’m more of a Christian than many others, more than all those Christians that hate me. I consider Jesus the first celebrity. The first rock star. He’s the number one product in terms of merchandising!” Young catholic devotees gaze at him while he speaks to me, emphasizing his words with vigorous gestures, his characteristic gothic rings adorn his hands, and he stares at the crucifix with his gothic eye. The murmurs from the Christians make him smile: “With the passage of time and because of my own experiences, I don’t take them seriously. When I toured for Antichrist superstar and guns, god and government I had to be determined to survive despite all these socially-conditioned terrorists. During golden age of grotesque I gracefully unfurled my wings facing the newfound attention I was receiving, without of course forgetting the massive media publicity. With eat me drink me I was a bit more conventional, because I was being carefully watched, but I felt a new type of adrenaline, more calming and satisfying. Then my wings were even more extended, I was able to resuscitate myself in peace. The lying libelous pamphlets and the blasphemous, and even criminal, accusations progressively disappeared. The evolution is finally perceivable, as if they had sprayed my surroundings with an air freshener named ‘tolerance’.” He whispers this, looking at the schedule for the Sunday masses and daily vespers before scanning the inside of the cathedral with his dark look.
At the Père Lachaise cemetery, Manson admires the ancestral architecture. “Was I only being provocative or have I transmitted a way of understanding the world through my art?” he says, looking at the flowers and reading silently the words of affection which decorate the tombs and archaic vaults. He continues “I don’t know what they’ll think of me in the future…this question comes regularly into my mind.” Manson follows at some distance the parade of tourists, busy with their disposable or digital cameras. “I believe that, seeing the way my albums sell and the crazy frenzy at my concerts, I have founded a sort of spirituality which is intrinsic to my own music and the fans that still support me. Most of them are absent from Sunday church but I want to believe that, when I’m on stage, we are at mass and they are cleansed of their daily problems. Absolution does occur in my concerts just as in church, although of course it has a very different quality. Mass is more trash, you must admit that,” he confides, “but at a different level it’s also an outlet.” We continue our walk through the cemetery and Manson looks and smiles at the mystic statues of angels and the resurrection of Lazarus by Christ. He admires the religious stained-glass windows depicting the annunciation, fascinated. It takes him back to his difficult childhood in which religion triggered a violent inner revolution which exploded in 1996, directed especially against his strict catholic school, Heritage Christian School, which seriously traumatized him. “When I was an adolescent, I had a lot of nightmares about the end of the world, the Antichrist and the Devil. And all because of the brainwashing I went through about religion, just like many other adolescents from any other country. It all depends on how seriously one takes religion. It is also a way of going further into the teachings I received about the Bible. I thought that religion should be founded not on fear but on something which helps us to live better. So, very quickly, I started questioning everything. It was like a head-on collision against a wall of resistance. I had problems at school because I always seemed to ask the wrong questions. I was not allowed to listen to rock or the bands I loved. I then justifiably rebelled. Finally, it became easier for me to become what I had always feared rather than to conform to the rules imposed by others. I don’t think I was a nerd because I was really invisible. I didn’t know anybody and I was maladjusted, so I tried to make myself as small as possible. That’s exactly the opposite of what I do now. Obviously because I had to create the person I was to become. This feeling of invisibility and incomprehension stimulated me to become Marilyn Manson. I also wanted to challenge people, I think. This is something I always feel whatever I do. It’s not revenge, but rather a wish to prove wrong those who didn’t believe in me. And that’s only possible through music or writing…when I was a child, I told myself that I’d be an artist or a writer. I didn’t think I would sing because I couldn’t sing well. And this is how I found my own way, I created my own world,” he says ironically. During our walk he sees the life-size statue of an angel, wings quite visible, sculpted in the style of Christian myths. “Here we have the completely efficient bodyguard, ready to unnerve all the conservatives who want to kill me right on stage. He’d be quite dissuasive. But if he was hired,” he says jokingly, “the cops sent by my record label would rise up in protest and found a dissenting union”. A tourist sees him and wants to take some pictures of him next to the angel. Indeed, the esoteric contrast is striking. Manson agrees to this little charade, with a friendly spirit.
During a literary evening during which he signs his new book, while drinking absinthe and sitting beside the writer Anne Rice, the latter says jokingly: “He reminds me of my character Lestat the vampire rock star! I find his voice magnificent on the songs from The Queen of the Damned,which were adapted from my book The Vampire Chronicles.” Manson laughs. “I sure have some great fans; seriously, it’s like they awarded me the French Legion of Honor,” he jokes back. You can tell he’s quite at ease because he’s wearing his T-shirt, showing his numerous tattoos and dark rings, while observing the promotional activity with his gothic eye. “Yes, this is an individualistic world. People think they have freedom of speech, but it’s a trap because they are enslaved to television, which tells them what they need to watch and the products they need to buy to please others. In the end, it’s as dangerous as if someone told them: ‘you must dress like this and drive that kind of car.’ It terrifies them and makes them feel guilty. You watch the images of war on CNN when suddenly the commercial breaks start telling you what perfume men need to use to attract young women. That’s how it works. I believe that it’s simple manipulation disguised as capitalism which eventually turns out to be more dangerous than any dictatorship, because it drives you to control and censor yourself. You can’t say what you want to say because you’re afraid they’ll never air it on the radio. You refuse to wear certain outfits because you’re afraid they won’t let you into a restaurant or admit you to a school where you want to study. That, to me, is the height of hypocrisy. The same goes for the classification of the songs broadcast on the radio. The radio host plays the most demanded songs, but who really demands them? They make us believe that we chose the songs but it’s the management who impose the whole thing. You can easily feel lost if you don’t watch the news every day. I’ve always been against the propaganda of fear because I suffered too much from it during the Columbine tragedy, when the lies snowballed into an avalanche of negative attention. Someone made the mistake of saying that one of the kids was a fan of my music and next I found myself being accused of something I didn’t do. In part it’s because that’s how the American media works. They need a bad guy. Someone they can blame on the TV shows. Thus, people can sleep at ease. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find the guilty ones. You can just relax and continue living your petty lives.’ And then, at one point, I was the scapegoat of the week. I’m sure it’ll happen again. So it is easy for me take a stand against America, because I think I need to remain faithful to my opinions and to myself, and I always have tried to do so. I have always questioned my country’s faults and praised its advantages, even if my ideas have nothing to do with patriotism. As an artist, I must defend democracy and fight for freedom of expression in a country where deceit is clearly the rule and where censorship is common. But if I must fight one thing, I choose to fight censorship. Thus, fatally, my work of artist becomes even more pertinent, especially these days. They continue censoring my words or images or my music, thus, in reality, there is a real hypocrisy on the part of the government, and my role is to challenge this. If America represents democracy, I represent freedom of speech. I didn’t invent violence. Nor did the Columbine kids. Humanity has this tendency, this self-destructive tradition and that’s something I’ve always mentioned in my songs. So, it’s rather curious they should point their finger at me because all I say, all I sing is just a comment about this sad reality.” He drinks some more absinthe. He seems serene and relaxed in front of the hordes of fans who knock each other about trying to get him to sign their copy of his book. “If I’m divided between being witty and talking crap with the journalists in a TV studio,” he admits to me during a break at his stand, “it’s because I’m different depending on how I feel about the hosts. If they are conservative, conventional and distant, I shyly huddle up and answer politely hiding behind my clothes, but keeping my self-control above all. If the guy’s really well-informed about me and talks to me as an artist who defends his work, I really relax knowing I won’t be judged by frustrated puritans and then I want to entertain the audience with humor, playing around with the reputation of my persona ‘Marilyn Manson’.” Upon returning to the hotel, he plays with his cat and looks at his schedule. “I’m rather busy for a rock-star Priest! In the US, in the conservative States, preachers always have their bibles on them when they go out. Even when they go to the mall, in case they find themselves with the dogmatic obligation of exorcising a Metallica or Iron Maiden fan at a record shop on the verge of buying some devil music….they must always be on guard! I confess and preach in front of the media cameras. There I don’t need my bible. The TV talk show hosts know me and call me Reverend when they greet me,” he says laughing. He shows me his bible, which he keeps safely in his luggage, and then we shake hands and take leave of each other.
Upon my return, while writing this article, I meditate on Manson’s words, and then I go to daily mass and realize that he managed to remain himself instead of succumbing to the typical numerous and intense excesses available to most celebrities. Marilyn Manson is quite well-considered despite an America which wants to kill him. It’s a shame the Vatican doesn’t recognize the saint in him. But that’s just the way it is in his song (S)aint which Manson, in the midst of deep sadness, wrote and sang.
Vincent Blénet
The chaos of the ferryman
Each day I zigzag between the earth and the hereafter, either to take a soul to the court of its Last Judgment, either to observe the decadent humanity or to drag on the suffering of not being loved by those who are haunting my eternal conscience during my crossing of the centuries. They never noticed me, but I watched them with careful attention until they passed away, and that is when they stared at me petrified as they realized their young lives had ended and that I was taking them away from their daily joys. They became aware in fear of who I was, the ferryman, death. While I looked at their beautiful faces all paralyzed I lead them bitterly to the other world before going to cry in the graveyards for a long time while their earthly bodies were being buried. As time went by, my attitude towards the human race in the end became cold. But those soft pearly faces are terrorized by my appearance: a young man of about 30, even though I count time in millenniums, dressed in a black suit, with archaic white eyes just like the cold transparency of my skin. Symbolizing fear to those that I love is my weakness. Therefore, I wander tirelessly and lonely and observe this chaotic world. In my wanderings, I watch man destroy himself with excessive partying in clubs, illegal concerts where drugs are available at a high profit. I see men killing each other in gang fights, for economic wars and for adultery. I love watching the shootings between revolutionary militias and the forces of order or the neighborhoods on fire challenging the police in violent riots. In these moments, I don’t lack work; from the moment they cross the border I take them to God. Afterwards, I attend their funerals where their relatives pray. Sometimes, when I have to take someone with me, they ask to let them watch their own funeral before crossing over to the other side of the river to the kingdom of death. I agree to their request. It’s in those moments that they realize how important they were in their beloved’s eyes, as we don’t really notice it in life. I saw Audrey at one of these burials; a beautiful young woman who made me feel vulnerable again. I followed her everywhere; I loved to watch her, her tender and so soft but fragile white skin, the fineness of her face to be pierced by her deep eyes. When I was not taking souls across, I observed her, invisible, for months, while she was laughing with her friends; and then I constantly cried at my graveyards, staring at the crucifixes, with my heart lacerated, due to her constant absence in my glacial eternity. She is happy, I’m not. Life is a toxic poison with these feelings that gnaw at me. When I see Audrey’s face, I feel like I’m shooting up mortal morphine, then later when she’s sleeping and I’m guiding souls, I’m a wreck. My tears could transform the graveyards I haunt into oceans of bitter sadness. Life is sadistic and I’m glacial.
I decided to appear to her and enter Audrey’s existence. From the moment she saw me, she was terrified before I could say a word. She started praying tirelessly and she kept telling me she didn’t want to die. I tried to reassure her and tell her that she had stricken my heart. “But it’s inconceivable, you can’t just love someone. You are death, the opposite of sentimental emotions. You symbolize chaos, fear and annihilation. How can you tell me you love me?” she told me coldly, trying to protect herself from humanity’s preconceived ideas about me without knowing about my tortured conscience; my vulnerability stabs me hard. It was a thermal shock; I lost all my joy and was left annihilated by the pain of her words and her look. I disappeared immediately and, destroyed, went off to guide a few souls. Her words kept laminating me every moment and violently took away any compassion I had. Life hit me, I now was the glacial image men have eloquently represented over the centuries where the sun is continuously taking turns with the moon with no way out. Every day I scream my rage in the graveyards, despising life and the destructive romance that is consuming me. I scream and cry even louder, for the first time I implore the apocalypses, I resign myself to God in vain, as my suffering is considered to be abstract. Thus, when a kid, hurt by the others, arrives armed at his high school and starts shooting, scattering bodies along his way because of vengeance before committing suicide and filmed by the security cameras, I watch this kamikaze adolescent and smile; life has made a monster out of me with its own tricks. One evening, Audrey gets beaten up and raped before her aggressor mortally cuts her throat. Once dead, scared, she watches me accomplish my task, I remain glacial and silent staring at her with my archaic Gothic look. I take her to God, look at her bitterly before leaving her and coldly continuing my work. Audrey will haunt me throughout eternity where I spend the rest of the time watching shootings and urban riots smiling. Apocalypses and anarchy are now my distraction and addiction.
Surviving the eclipse
Each emotion engenders a reaction of consequences. People hide them through social formatting. So what happens when pain reaches its saturation. They explode and lose their bearings. It is insane to support a world that sells us and makes us false promises, while condemning us to believe in it. Men have many faces; each has faith in his theory of life values. We stagnate each second hoping to be saved and freed from our chains; there is beauty in this world but we’re mistaken, the lights are out. Materialism and superficiality fascinate people, they’re not aware that there are people who evolve outside the system. Lives are being ignored because they’ve been labeled as marginal. These lives are pointed at by the lambda citizens, swallowing the hypocritical preaching of stars. They are there to dictate the absolute good and evil. They lie to us exactly like our governments and society. People spend their lives in a spiral of slaving jobs, multiple impositions lobotomized by the mass media without complaints. Do the media really tell the truth? How were these patriotic traditions filled with respect for the republics imposed? In spite of the people’s anarchy who resorted to revolution in order to survive and demand freedom. Only in destroying domination can we be saved. Faith allows some people to feel loved, for others it is a doctrine. Because dogma crushes faith. People are persuaded that, by symbolic gestures, they will wander into the Kingdom of Christ. Only God knows who we are deep inside. Suffering is what forges us in this hostile world; we try to fight with our own means with our personal mechanism of defense. We fight whatever the stakes are to exist and to prove that we get by despite the daily attacks from our enemies and sometimes from our circle of friends and family. We fight often to survive submerged by the painful absence of the loved one, who violently rejects us; we also fight because our storehouse of tears is dry. Thus, we resort to violence and abandonment out of wrath, for without it, life is intolerable. We stumble across faces which create in us a feeling of wanting to shine for them. But she remains indifferent and these wounds that dwell in our spirits are flooded with a destructive sadness. No much is needed for the notion of good to disappear. We are from different cultures due to choice, our soul, and to the consequences of our hectic lives. We live, accept or suffer from our choices. Sometimes we benefit from them, playing against others who are so different.
The greatest strength of any human or mystical being is to be loved and be fulfilled to the deepest part of one’s soul. Renunciation, negation and absence engender a devastating chaos and push us to the extreme excess of our fatal fall. To love, and especially to be loved, gives us the strength of existence whatever this may be. We are complex beings and distort the joys of our laughter. Even if we evolve from the technological point of view, our nature and the sense of orientation of our relationship with others are greatly deformed. It is easier to belittle and to play with the feelings of an invisible hurt life. But do we know how to love and forgive? How can we understand each other when we impose upon each other a type of behavior that lacks reaction? If we plunge into sadness, madness, anger and excessive wrath, it’s just natural, because we are flesh and blood; we have a soul and a brain full of emotions. We are human and our guilt is to lose ourselves or to deceive ourselves about our existential acts. If we help someone out selflessly, even if we think ourselves damned, we can be saved. The love of our circle of friends and family and of that which stays in tune and in rhythm with the circulation of our blood can give us the dignity which we thought lost. To shine in the eyes of the loved one is more saving than any medicine; this is the love which some take as the holy host in religious ceremonies. To make the loved one laugh and so connect with and express their emotion saves us from our chaos. To protect children by presenting oneself differently from the image we transmit to our fellow human beings, to pay attention and make them smile, surely that is most valuable of all divine trademarks which has been bestowed on us with time. However some among us value themselves according to their bank accounts, their provocations, their community identities. Who are we really besides the fact that we are complicated and distant? We constantly highlight our multiple distinctions but they hide our true nature. We regress and rush headlong to our loss. What have we done with our existence besides distancing and despising ourselves? Nothing, we have even accelerated the rhythm of our distancing. Why proclaim all our so-called good actions and false prayers when we actually proclaim them to reassure ourselves and to believe that the past venial bill has been paid…..or to attract others’ leniency to us? Nobody can pretend to be holy and pure. Those who say so are vain, therefore sinners, while others think themselves damned and sink into abandonment, isolation and nihilistic chaos. These, the self-damned, are often brought to redemption through their gift of love and protection without expecting anything in return. We can only die slowly at the hands of those we love or we are loved by to become insensitive when we get hurt. Even an antichrist can be vulnerable due to the blade stuck in his heart. Only love distinguishes us: it is both our strength and our weakness. Through it we create something fascinating, mystical or self-deprecating. Sometimes the one we define as an antichrist can reveal something more resourceful and sympathetic to others when indeed we didn’t think this possible and perhaps the one we define as good reveals nothing.
It is difficult to define one identity for oneself amongst social codes. Some integrate here or there to belong to a movement out of protection. These decisions put us in opposition to our immediate circle and make cataloged people out of us. When a community rejects us we lose our bearings. We find other alliances and we integrate, but what do you do if you’re not admitted anywhere? You’re nothing. Two communities are constantly opposed and judge each other. One blames the other; one lives according to an orderly doctrine and discipline, the other is just drifting towards abandonment and sometimes even debauchery. One lives in light, the other in darkness. Between Christians and the Gothic it’s the same as between cats and dogs. Neither one accepts the other by conviction or futile prejudice. If only there were people who had both convictions and both faiths, without espousing the extremes of either one. Life and death are linked, as day and night. It’s a balance. Why are Christians so negative about the Gothic and vice-versa? They lock themselves in their lapidary judgments. Only in death do religious people become saints and then they pray for their protection. Christians excel at praising life in order to feel the grip of existence and to sympathize with Christ’s suffering. The Gothic on their part excel at the excess of life in order to feel themselves. They get drunk on marginality and display, in their own way, that they exist outside a defined norm. Their marginality is, if one can say so, their signature of rebellion against a decadent world. Christ was a rebel in his own way. His love created anarchy within the chaos of his environment. He said to love one’s neighbor, but he expected to die in order to save us. The Gothic are fascinated by death, but not at all in a harmful way. They have faith in it as deliverance. What if it were true, that dying is the only way of not cheating in front of God. In fact, the Gothic only display the reflection of society, while the latter hides its shadows. Christians pray for solidarity and try to fight against hostile perversity. While one crosses the valley of death proudly, the other one crosses hell praying. They both live and recreate themselves in a separate union. Why couldn’t they share their knowledge? They are brothers and sisters after all. The Gothic and the Christians are united by mysticism, thus these two communities could get acquainted instead of passing judgments and blaming each other. Even if the Christians blame the Gothic for being condemned to hell because they consider life as treason, the Gothic blame the Christians for being too dogmatic. Yet, instead of labeling each other violently, let’s all remember something: in life and in death, we are all equal before Christ.
Vincent Blénet
PRAYERS FOR MY GIRLFRIEND
Confidence of a God’s messenger
I’m an angel, for the humans I’m invisible. I observe their decadence and their condolences. In the church of entire world I hear every prayer of the others toward the Father and after I deliver it because I’m a God’s messenger .When someone dies I become his guide. I assist at every funeral that exposes the fact that the deceased exist in this planet before he died. I watch the Taliban using AK47 against the American to reach their paradise who terrorise the population paralyse. I’m alone in my existence. I have no one who returns me my romance. But Christ I see her and I became her secret lover.
My lover is the queen of the “Burlesque performer” and I’m an anonymous God’s messenger. During the age I gave every message to the Father, forgetting to subdue to him my suffers not to touch her. I must do my mission without asking questions, that’s my submission. When I am with her I observe every gestes of her. She’s my sweetness presence; I am the witness of her existence. Each of my cry for not reaching her make me die because the rule of God’s faith is my suffer. I desire hear her breath on myself. If I could touch her and feel her fingers, which cure my bleed deeper, hold her fragile face on my shoulder, I would be safe. Her trust and affection is my obsession. But I am a messenger who delivers the prayer of the others toward the Father. Nobody knows my bleeding, I feeling the blow of my soul erasing.
I observe the life of a husband who killed his wife, after being fired one day, then he pray before suicide. Face the fucking system full of disorganisation, he lost the faith and appeal the death for accelerates the cadence for his deliverance. Unfortunately, God will have not condolence and give His sentence. I have no word to say, I must lead the way. After I return for see my lover. I want to protect her, my suffer to never feel her between my wings, only watching her sleeping, listening her breathing, abstract. Make me screaming to the Father a prayer: “SHUT THE FUCK UP, Kill me, I’m not in her life. Kill me, I’m not in her life. Kill me; I’m not in her life. Motherfucking Kill me, i am not in her eloquent existence” I’m in fucking death, my routine’s faith. In nomine Patris et Filli et Spiritus Sancti, Amen
. Damnation and Rédemption
We are Christ’s lost children. Crucifixion/Absence/Redemption/Penitence/sins lost and abandoned/ claim your presence/Resurrection/your faith cure this earth and our soul’s health/Absolution for the sinners thru their prayers.
- Fucking birth, fucking faith, I exist in my fucking death. Fucking mom, fucking dad, my existence is already damned. Fucking innocence, fucking romance, nobody will cry for my condolence. Fucking girl, fucking hospital, each second I assist at my funeral. Fucking child, fucking faking glad, I’m still crucified. Fucking life, fucking breathe, I am an useless presence. Fucking infancy, fucking enemy, I suicide the fact to be. Fucking expectation, fucking resignation, I must do an execution for my life is an abortion. Fucking drugs, fucking sun, I must let her gone. Shut up fucking crowd your campaign slain my veins, now I’m burying in Death Valley underground. I preach the suicide in my life for not commit a patricide, that’s my faith and if I kill myself I will be safe. Goddamn I was INNOCENT. I always be your ENTERTAINMENT, in your motherfucking GOVERNMENT. All my life I paid my PUNISHMENT, now by your rape I am fear each fucking day I must REPENT.
We are Christ’s lost children. Crucifixion/Absence/Redemption/Penitence/sins lost and abandoned/ claim your presence/Resurrection/your faith cure this earth and our soul’s health/Absolution for the sinners thru their prayers.
- Fucking critic, fucking archaic, I am a soul Gothic. Fucking dream, fucking blaspheme, I am the sinner to blame. Fucking nigger, fucking gunfire, I’ve wander the night always alone as a Vampire. Fucking theory, fucking immortality, my soul’s haunted for reflects century. Fucking loveless, fucking loneliness, I am an endless Scarface. Fucking racist, fucking fundamentalist, I became your terrorist on your motherfucking list and now the antichrist cut his writes. Believe this for I die, believe this for I die. For they lie.
- Goddamn I was INNOCENT. I always be your ENTERTAINMENT, in your motherfucking GOVERNMENT. All my life I paid my PUNISHMENT, now by your rape I am fear each fucking day I must REPENT. . Believe this for I die, believe this for I die. For they lie.
BELIEVE OR DIE
Since 99 I’m fucking dead by their provoked suicide for saved your life declared so slide. Fucking repent motherfuckers, your sins feed my anger so pray and pay its Repent Day fuckers. Today my campaign is the result of my suffers; today I became the Repent Day after die in 99 at hospital like the gunfire in Columbine. I’m a fucking corpse of 27, antichrist lives 24/7, if I could choose and rewind my life’s sentence I were a miscarry. My existence is my penitence. Look, listen, pray, commercials we are consumer. Repent for the eclipse, repent for the apocalypse blasphemers. We will feel die on our face, we will feel the presence of the death that’s strength our faith. We‘re not saint, we fucking fight our fate.
Feel suicide, feel American, feel sell, feel hell, feel alcohol, feel haldool, feel IRA, feel Al Qaeda, feel NSDA, feel distortion, feel impulsion, feel inspiration, feel creation, feel abortion, feel her sweetness face, feel her breath on your chest, feel her perfume, feel be consume, feel the death, feel the confess, feel the excess. Mister Gorbatchev fuck this goddamn wall and let they see. Are you fucking scared about me. So be afraid : fear communist, fear terrorist, fear fundamentalist, fear journalist, fear Constantine, fear magazine, fear thorazine, fear disposable teens, fear neo-Nazi’s Uzis, fear tear gas, fear Kalashnikov, fear cocktail Molotov, fear blind, fear Tech 9, fear dogmas, fear medias, fear breathe, fear faith, fear crucifix, fear taxes, fear hostages, fear brain damages, fear greed, fear bleed, fear dream, fear blame, fear press, fear bless, fear police, fear fucking human nature. Look, listen, pray, commercials we are consumer. Repent for the eclipse, repent for the apocalypse blasphemers.
ABORTION
I’ve wander in every different cemetery, where I’m watching the tomb’s family. I observe the crucifix focused and be perplexed by the fact that people inflict themselves to pay taxes for have the right to survive in your punishment called your life. I lead the soul of the deceased faced to the eyes of God to be judged. Every day after my routine accomplished I returned in earth to fallow the parade of the “beautiful damned” addicted and fascinated by this decrepitude who feed my solitude isolated for I’m the death and this is my life.
People inscribed on the tomb the social class of the deceased and described at the funeral the magnificence or the repentance fallowed by family and friend’s condolences. They did it for usual conventions, I call that bullshit hypocritical abortions. A life is a life, when you’re dead it’s finished. People around talked, criticized, testified, crucified, classified, blamed and damned you. Without a defence you’re fucked. Never mind who you was socially before you die, you were a presence and an expectation for your parents, now you’re an absence and a definition of condolences for your friends.
Be there at all death or murder, see fucking fear, people who supplicate the faith in those multiplicity suffer make me thinking at my bleeding to be alone face the tombstone. Day by day I pray that the beautiful girl who across my immortal shadow feel my presence. I’m anger to stay in the middle of the others. Life try to piss me off like a fucking nasty game for bring me suffering anymore and I stay her whore. So goddamn STAB ME fucking violently, STAB ME fucking violently, STAB ME fucking violently, STAB ME fucking violently. I belong to the cemetery, my holly motherfucking patria.
QUESTIONNAIRE FOR MARILYN MANSON
- What is your relationship with, and your philosophy about, death? Does playing Russian roulette with fundamentalist Christians exhilarate you, having the last word by brushing against, even flirting with, death during your concerts?
- Between your multiple hospital stays during your childhood where death frightened you, and the death threats by Evangelists, as well as the letter bombs during your exhilarating tours, how would you describe this contradiction and have you had a kind of suicidal adrenalin?
- As a child, you observed from the shadows, now you deploy your wings in front of millions of people worldwide. Are you surprised about this paradox?
- Do you say all you have to say in your recordings and interviews or do you need to write your feelings in books like you did in your youth, when you used to write your impressions of this world?
- Do you think that your musical and visual signature and your art are a form of spirituality?
- Do you see yourself as a modern prophet and are your recordings and your universe a sort of religion or myth?
- Do you think that you can only exist in the American counterculture thanks to your sinister appearance?
- Has the work of Anne Rice influenced your lifestyle, the forming of your band, your fear of emotions and your separation from the world?
- The fact that you can juggle between jokes and seriousness in your interviews: is it due to a sort of feeling between you and certain journalists?
- With hindsight, how would you define the crusades of the Antichrist Superstar tours, the much praised tours of The Golden Age of Grotesque and the resurrection of Eat me Drink me?
- Do you think that your concerts are a sort of religious service and that the people’s faith in you which excites your fans is like the purifying power churches have?
- What attracts you and fascinates you at night?
- Is there a particularly attractive frenzy at night that you haven’t been able to find during the day and is night-life a subtle rebellion against the strict rules of the Heritage Christian School?
- Where does this paradox about life and death come from in your writings?
- You waltz between the desire to survive and a flirtation with suicide: what do your parents think about this contrast?
- Do you find it ironic to buy your Antichrist Superstar CDs with American dollar bills on which you can read in God we trust under the omnipresent eye of God?
- In your opinion, is it ironic that you have become the King of Shock Rock, when you were forbidden to listen to rock at The Heritage Christian School?
- How do you feel about learning that I have converted priests to your music; that they play it full blast in their convents; and that they are real fans of yours and would love to be good disciples of your creative art? Do you see it as an unexpected recognition?
Vincent Blénet
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