THE CURE'S "FRIDAY I"M IN LOVE" FOR NIHILISTS
by Caroline Beach
I don’t care if Monday’s blue. God is dead. Or if Tuesday is utterly desaturated to the point where all choice is arbitrary, Wednesday too. Thursday, I will not make an effort to conjure you in my thoughts. I find you stupid and weak. It’s Friday, I’m in love.
Monday you will succumb to the eventualities of the second law of thermodynamics. Tuesday and Wednesday directly enact harm on my heart in a futile attempt to evoke agency, causing us both to suffer needlessly. Thursday, the processes won’t even begin. It falls into Dionysian horror. It’s Friday, I’m in love.
Saturday will be a period of cruel expectation. Sunday inevitably occurs too late to satisfy the bewildered and neglected child that lives within you, clawing incessantly at the remnants of your fractured psyche. It is not vorhanden. But Friday, never hesitate.
I don’t care if Monday’s the complete absence of visible light, as all perception is a delusion. Tuesday and Wednesday, I will have heart attacks, even after you have most certainly fatally wounded it. Thursday fails to set in motion what would be necessary for even an attempt at wish fulfillment. It’s Friday, I’m in love.
Monday, you can hold your head, perhaps because its ponderous size sits ill on your rapidly degenerating body that is trying in its own pathetic way to evolve to hold something so impractical and heavy. Tuesday and Wednesday, you are an invalid. On Thursday, you might watch the walls instead. I find them completely fascinating. It’s Friday, I’m in love.
As on last Saturday, this will be an empty day devoid of realizing your basically unknowable desires. And then, yes, on Sunday it will all be far out of your mortal reach. Nicht zuhanden. But Friday, never hesitate.
You are wearing clothes up until your eyes. I find this excellent. I have always hated mouths. It is a wonderful surprise in that it manages to briefly free you from the constructs that the Gesellschaft forces upon us thus entering a state beyond signifiers. I see your shoes and your spirits rise, a Sisyphean endeavor if ever there was one. You throw out your frown, knowing you will die ignorant as the day you were born. Though you have no mouth, you smile (an empty grimace signifying nothing) at a sound. It is sleek as the shriek, which is the true nature of reality. It spins round and round, which I find somewhat unnecessary. You take a big bite, which gets me back on your side. It is an admirable undertaking for someone in your position of near-total abnegation. If anything is beautiful then it is seeing you eat, mouthless, in the middle of the night. You can not get enough, enough of this screaming void of pure existence, which is stuff. It’s Friday, I’m in love.
I don’t care if Monday’s black. It is, as Hölderlin described it: “unfolding around its needle.” Tuesday is grey, the color and feeling of childhood. Wednesday as well. (“The weathercock crows silently in the wind” — more Hölderlin.) Thursday, I don’t give you a second Gedanke and cast you headlong into the abyss. It’s Friday, I’m in love.
Monday, you are entropy itself. Tuesday, Wednesday, I welcome you to destroy what is left of that dull pumping organ caged inside this flesh prison. Thursday, the thing that normally doesn’t happen will not even bother trying to happen, surrendering as it must to hard and final determinism. Das Nichts kommt. Das ewige Nichts. It’s Friday, I’m in love.