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http://human-trafficking.tumblr.comTim Barrus:You Can’t Follow Me It is Not Possible So Stop TryingSo stop following me on the Internet. It isn’t possible. Such a journey will only give you a twisted neck and a skewed vision worn with gogglegoogles designed by algorithms, warped by haters, and mixed up with websites people sign my name to who honestly, sincerely believe (because they do not know me) that they are persecuting me by assigning me fake careers, fake jobs, fake locations, and fake identities.What they don’t get is how this is high entertainment. To me. They don’t understand that I am easily bored. The Internet was made for someone like me because individuals like myself find the constantly changing nature of it fascinating in the same way a person with autism will take to the flashing lights of a prism; such objects become fixations we find difficult to pull away from.Pulling out your cock from an asshole. What is obscene. A pile of dead bodies or the idea of a pile of naked ones.Your suits offend me. I can’t even look at them anymore.They build resumes for me (giving me a tie and turning me into a suit which is high satire) that never happened. I have never owned a tie in my life, and have no fucking idea how to tie one around my neck or any neck. They don’t understand how this fits right into the paradigms that build me jigsaw puzzles where it’s not what fits that is entertaining. It’s what doesn’t fit and can’t fit.When do I have your attention. What do I have to do to get it.I would like to build an entire international jigsaw puzzle corporation that makes huge, obscene amounts of money that I would drop from planes over cities so I might see (from above) people scramble, where not a single puzzle or a single jigsaw fit anything, and all the book publishing types, with their need for and love of boxes, and categories, and injunctions that nothing I think, and nothing I do, and nothing I organize, and nothing I construct, and nothing I write has any novelty (or value) whatsoever because its all been done before — it’s like this, or it’s like that, or the ancient Greeks did it — can spend the rest of eternity assembling the corporate jigsaws with the firmly-rooted belief that no one would make a jigsaw puzzle designed to fit into a structure (like an algorithm or a nuclear equation) impossible to define.If some idiot venture capitalist would give me the start-up cash for such an conglomerate enterprise, I would buy the factory tomorrow.Transparency: Most people (even the ones who know me) have no idea the extent to which I am this negative bitch who loves nothing more than to fuck with your orderly lives. So I might prove all of you wrong. Watch me.I am here to bring you satire.I am here to deconstruct. I am here to stick my tongue so far up your asshole, what comes out of your mouth is a pitchfork. I am here to spit in your face without having to suffer any of your stupid consequences.The operant word that is here is stupid.The operant word that is not here is arrogant.There is really nothing you can do to me other than executing me to erase my arrogance. It cannot be dismantled.My arrogance is bigger and badder than your arrogance. It is a defense mechanism. I employ it to survive the daily onslaught of your arrogance. Gravity and anti-gravity.You want categories. Let me give you bitches some.The inevitable book website run by the obsequious who are so polite they have no tongues, no cocks, no pitchforks, and they do not believe in the devil (like I do).Is one category. Of boxbuilders.Eat some irony, you cunts. I am here to tell you that there is nothing a book website can do or say (especially about moi) that hasn’t been done or said before. Nothing you do is novel. Nothing you say has any value whatsofuckingever. Because no one cares.You are not only ephemeral. You are irrelevant.There is no such thing as method. Only our perception of it.I might know about you. Other bookbaboons might know about you. But you are not a part of popular culture and never will be. It has passed you by. The book is an artifact of a culture that died in a culture war and has been dead a very long time. Your attempts to define yourselves as new and shiny (and creatures of the digital age) are nothing more than amusing stunts because a suit is a suit is a suit is a bookslut in Manolo Blahniks. My high heels are bigger (and badder) than that bitch’s high heels and so is my cock.Bookslut and her Maud Newton minions and Sherman Hydro-Hydro Hyper-cephalic Alexie and his moral-hyper-cephalic Phallic minions and Time magazine can suck my cock. As well.I don’t care. What can any of these drones drone on about that they have not droned on about before.Oh, woe is them yadayadayada.They don’t get it. As cultural gatekeepers, they don’t matter. How can a Native American be a cultural gatekeeper. An authentic cultural gatekeeper. Trust me.Anyone can set up that shop.Random House finds its beginnings in the German SS. You don’t believe me. Go ahead, follow that family trail.Would you like some other takes on reality.Protecting “Culture” (big C) is what Gatekeepers do. The last German standing will belong to the SS. In the entire historical blink-of-an-eye — the history of human kind — no other human enterprise was as efficient at guarding culture (or their definition of it) than the SS. The entire Germanic quest for a superior race was actually a cultural attempt to create and maintain authenticity.There is NO SUCH THING AS AUTHENTICITY so put that in your pipe (I politely did not say peace pipe although I could have) and smoke it. They (most gatekeepers fall into this moral trap) are only keeping the status quo alive of the people who know them. Chances are almost one-hundred-percent that you have no idea who I am talking about or who I am pissing on. Here’s what is amusing about pop culture. It changes so quickly (their version of the Internet as a repository of culture and history is a self-induced illusion) that even the people who consume it, know it. Know what.The speed. At which it morphs. And renders the lot of us pointless.We are pointless.It is the purpose of culture and the job of history to distort that.History (no one is interested in history) is pointless (especially since everything has been done before which is the illusion that chaos does not exist and has no power) and has failed. Culture (an animal with as many spots as atoms) has historically failed.Book blogs and hydro-hyper-cephalism can blow themselves up like a big fat cock on viagra as pompously as they want. All dicks shrink back to their weeny sizes. (Even Sherman’s). Everything that goes up must come down. Speed is everything. So is inertia.In fact, inertia is an illusion. Everything that goes down must come up.Gravity is the weaker force. Or so human science (another stupid box of rhetoric) would have you believe.The evidence suggests that gravity and anti-gravity are equal down to the last sub-molecular electron that becomes a wave. Going neither up or down because direction only exists in a context.Thusly we in our pee brains call waves waves. Actually, they could be up and down and sideways and directionless. But we experience these kinds of electrons as moving in a wave. Because that is all we know.Which isn’t fucking much.Except for those of us (with our bigger dicks than your weeny dicks) whose universe has no beginning (the Big Bang theory is wrong), no end, and here’s the real gig: no center.All of this is nothing. In order for a head to swell with fluid, it must first be encouraged to blather on vacantly about nothing in Time. In order for a cock to swell with blood, it must be engorged with a pressure that originates in the brain unless that brain has no fucking shunt to it to shunt the vicious poison out at which point the brain just explodes. And in order for a book blog to find any measure of reality, it must first believe it is the center of a universe that revolves around an speaking asshole that is, in fact, a cockroach.Bill Burroughs was, in fact, a Nazi.You have no idea what I am talking about. That is because pop culture, the sperm you spring from to buy high high heels, is not nuanced.You are stupid and that is how it is. I don’t write for you. I don’t publish for you. I don’t perform for you. I only have contempt for you and any representation of a culture you might construct.You probably believe in god. Or God. Like the little g and the big G matter.I am here to tell you that God is a talking cockroach and that is how it is. He has no asshole.If you were to bother to read Burroughs, versus simply being amazed he got away with what he got away with, you might arrive (unless your brain explodes of its own weight) at the conclusion that what Burroughs actually seeks is uniformity.As does Sherman Alexie. All subgroups should look alike and pay homage to the authentic Sherman Alexie.A uniformity with rules. And a rock hard ruler. The Nazis were before their time. They would have loved Sherman.Drugs saved Bill Burroughs. They mellowed him.Thusly what he paints a picture of — usually in the complete satire of pseudo-science fiction — is a universe where the bugs not only rule, they’re having the best sex, too, and they have the best drugs.Everything takes place in a ghetto that has no beginning and no end and no one can find the center where the sound of typing and fucking is eternal.Or. Assholes. ARE the best drugs. Burroughs as late as the 1950s was suggesting that your asshole WAS a drug. Your asshole is speaking to you but you are so awe-struck with a chaotic world you do not understand; you can’t believe it. You only believe what you’ve been taught to believe which is what is brought to you in boxes. The bookbaboons do this the best. Scientists are right behind them carrying the water for your brain. Writers who scream that the boxes must all be uniform have hydrohypercephallic little pee heads.I went to Kansas. It was very fitting that Bill Burroughs lived there. He made tea we went out on the front porch.Slightly bizarre but telling. Story after story. Burroughs was a poet.Kansas is a state filled with Nazis. The stupid kind.Burroughs even wore a suit in his own house. Can you get it. He could satirize himself in private. Paris Hilton can’t do that.Britney Spears can do that. With pizazz. When no one is looking, she’s just plain old Brit. She was at her most interesting stealing Bic lighters at 7-11 and buying beer and gum. You can’t get more bizarre than fucking with photographers.I TOLD you I would bring you pop culture, and here it is. First, I insult you, and then we move on to bigger things like Britney.I saw her pussy in a magazine.I get it, Britney, I really do.I went and displayed my pussy in magazines and got investigated by the Reagan administration for pornography. The universe is a topsy turvy place. In reality, the sky is falling.Because we have weighed it down with carbon. Nevertheless we get all turned on my Brit’s pussy, an idiot in Time, and porn. Is there anything else we need to study.I was fucking a lawyer in the ass in the basement of the Federal Building in San Francisco. It was surreal. The place was a huge warehouse of video equipment. Hollywood doesn’t have that much video equipment. I can’t imagine why the government has so much video equipment, but it does. I assumed it was a discreet spot he wanted to get fucked in so I fucked him (the whole time scanning the video equipment) because he was paying me to fuck him in the ass. He was a suit and wore one. His little dick always got quite hard whenever he imagined himself getting fucked in the ass by someone wearing leather (me) in the basement of the Federal building.I am here to tell you that reality is one more gatekeeper whether you understand it or not and whether you believe it or not.He had a surprise.It wasn’t what you’re thinking.“You’re being investigated by the Meese Commission,” he said.In any other scene, I would have assumed this was part of the scene. A fantasy.But no.This WAS the basement of the Federal Building and he WAS a lawyer who worked (I didn’t really care where) for the Feds.Now, he was really getting off. All over the floor. I pulled out.My price had just gone up. I might need a lawyer. A good one. A First Amendment one might be nice. He wasn’t the only one with a surprise up his ass. “I need more money.”Some scenes can turn on you.They were carrying Britney out on a stretcher bound for the looney bin when I fell in love with her.And you schmucks think I make this shit up.When I wasn’t fucking Assistant Attorney Generals in the ass (or whipping them), I was either editing Drummer, or writing a book I published called Genocide.People really hate my book titles. Maybe even more than they hate my guts.What they don’t get is that the SATIRE is ON THEM.I shrug.What people get and what people don’t get is not my problem. People are mainly irrelevant.They think they can piss in my mouth from the safety of a blog. Poor me.“The Blood Runs Like a River Through My Dreams” is a terrible title,” Peder Zane once told me. We were appearing in a bookstore. I have stopped participating is such masochistic SM scenes.My eyes to the sky.I write the books for me. I make up the titles for me. I just assume you won’t get it. Get it.The devil makes me write them.I do not know how else to explain the universe. If I use physics, you won’t read me. If I use religion, I won’t read me.You are thinking: I don’t believe him.It’s quite true. You would not believe my life.Mary Scriver (quite innocently) came up with a Tim Barrus resume and asked me to review it.There is no such THING as a Tim Barrus resume whether there is a center to the universe or if the only way a life can be imbued with acceptability is to put it into boxes.I didn’t read it.The point is: print whatever you want. Say whatever you want. Blog whatever you want. There IS no way to put my life in a box. The box will not hold. The center will not explain. The electrons will not make sense.There is no method.Everything is chaos.It’s the devil.I AM what I believe in. I believe in chaos. The order you believe in — the gates the gatekeepers keep — are only there to the people who believe in them.Example: editors.“I would like to thank my editor for making my work so much better stupid people in the fourth grade could read it.” The next writer who writes that must be shot.“We would be nothing without our audience and our editors.”Then, you are nothing.I would argue they are nothing without us. I would argue that it’s the reader who has a responsibility to stretch himself.But no. I was recently on some blog where I make the mistake of writing what I think. “You really need to understand that when we write for ourselves, it doesn’t mean anything, and when we write for money, they pay us,” the blog gatekeeper responds.Queen, I didn’t know that.Britney reaches more people from a looney bin than all the writers on drugs combined.Your gatekeepers suck.I believe in evil. Fervently.It’s why I wrote Genocide. It’s why I tried to make a correlation between genocide and sex. It’s why I went to Kansas.“People never got me either,” Burroughs said. And then he shrugged.“I liked Genocide.”“I thought you might,” I said.“Whatever happened to the Meese Commission?” Burroughs asked.I scratched my head. “I have no fucking ideas.”And there it was: I. Have. No. Fucking. Ideas.It was not about ideas. It’s never about ideas. It’s about Britney’s pussy. I am serious. And I am slammed with “‘He’s really a gay pornographer.”Eat me my asshole out.Satire is the only way I can keep the demons from consuming me. So far, I’ve pulled it off. It’s a dog and pony show.Evil only is.So I went to Germany.Maud Newton didn’t get it. She was outraged when I said burn the books. All of them.I got denounced on a blog again. Jesus fucking christ.How is it that the person who wrote My Brother, My Lover and got his dick in a wringer with a Presidential commission on porn as he was fucking a lawyer with the suit’s pants down in the basement of the Federal Building could be taken seriously (gravely is more like it) from another suit in high heels on a book blog.Ignorance is everything.Germany only was.I don’t like Germany. There is something about the orderliness of it I find intimidating.That and I find the people big. In size. I’ve never seen a German cock so I wouldn’t know.Well, only a couple.Cock only is. It’s not like having sex is a political act anymore unless you’re dead.I performed Human Trafficking in front of a big statue at Sachsenhausen. Just north of Berlin. Even Berlin seems orderly. It’s ugly, too.The new white, impersonal concrete does not wash it all away like a bar of soap in the showers anymore than the old Reichstag was comforting. I honestly feel like they are going to come and get me when I am in Germany.The people ARE big because that is how I see them.Sachsenhauser was a concentration camp.It would be convenient — and very American — to say that this was a camp where jews and political prisoners (like the dangrous poet, Martin Niemoller) were murdered. Thousands and thousands of people were murdered here.And governments will tell you pornography is the problem.No.Ideas are the problem.Genocide only is. The title of a book. And we all love books, don’t we.Only bad people like me hate them. I only hate writing them. I am not sure that I have a choice.My books write themselves. Follow that.What is obscene. Genocide. Cyclon B. Bureaucrats doing their le jobs. Or sex in a concentration camp.The reality is that as the sky falls, you have no idea what is obscene. Order versus chaos.Your boxes are your order.Stop putting me in them.It really doesn’t matter because I won’t fit whatever you do or don’t do. The only tie that fits around my neck is a rope. I’m not tying it. I am not a suit. You can’t dress me up. I don’t take showers with anyone.And I don’t trust you or any of your disingenuous cultures. Mainly, they are all killing machines.I am not usually afraid when I perform. I do it on paper. In books. I do it in satire. I do it in video. I do it with boys with AIDS. All ex-whores like me. Most of them are far more brilliant than I could ever be. I am just a slug. I tell you to burn your books so you might WAKE UP.But you are dead. You can’t wake up. You are not better and no different than your human history.You are your history.Berlin blinds me with modernity. It hides nothing.Sometimes I perform Human Trafficking naked but I was afraid to do that in Germany.It would be so disingenuous to say all those people in Sachsenhausen died during the Second World War. But that is not where the story of Sachsenhausen begins or ends.Another ten thousand people were murdered there after the war ended. The killing didn’t stop until the year I was born, 1950.Where are your history books with THAT.Today, Sachsenhausen is a museum. You don’t believe me. Go there.Then. You will believe me.All those grim German faces listening to my words. The old people hate me. What is human trafficking. Or trains in the night. I spoke very slowly that day. I wanted to be understood.It is a fool’s ereand.I am a fool. I am a great, and enormous fool for even having written a single book. I regret all of them. All of them. I would burn them if I could. Not because they’re what you think of as porn (you have no idea what porn is anymore than you understand what an idea is anymore than you understand the terrorism in the concept of genetic purity), but there are just too many ideas in there for you to chew on and you’d choke on some old corpse’s bones (new graves have been discovered; they all appear to be dead children). In the end, chaos wins. Always. What does anyone have to write or have to perform to make you listen. You don’t listen. You are afraid to listen. History screams. It doesn’t whisper.All your gatekeepers and all your Sherman Alexies with all their genetic purity and all your Nazi book blogs and all your booksluts and all your museums and all your presidential commissions and all your Germanys and all your showers and all your dead gay men and dead Cambodians and Hutus and the dead are just the dead can’t prevent another genocide from happening because you can only see Britney and her fucking cunt and you will watch my play, Human Trafficking, understanding not one word of it, and all of it is pointless.Pointlessness is like a wave of electrons.All the smaller and the smaller and the smaller things all add up. Into an accounting that makes order and what you think is history into a body count.I am a fool and I am the devil and I am my satire and I am my anger and I am the characters I create and I stand before you naked and as impotent as a poet armed with just a poem. It didn’t save a single one of us. All your awards do not mean shit. You can’t follow me on the Internet or anywhere else so stop trying. The boxes that you build will never fit. I would challenge you to find the operant word in that.It isn’t Germany.It isn’t Native American. Genocide was committed by America, too.It isn’t human trafficking. Human trafficking only is.It isn’t nudity.It isn’t pointlessness.It is not regret. It isn’t evil. It isn’t Sachsenhausen. These things only are. The word I want you to understand is us.

• Release Date

  Jul 27, 2009

• Runtime

  00:21