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The incessant sexualization of black people—of most of the decadent, skin-decked exports of that world yet-known until a few centuries ago (that is: the rest of it (the world)) for that matter, amongst ourselves and amongst others; the trauma which is known skin-deep, arising
out of, literally, a confrontation of The Past (not a matter of whose, for History covers most all of us in the same gangrenous, soiled robes) makes psychoanalysis, IN THE RIGHT HANDS, an apt rubric, fertile Grundlage for the examination of the intersection of love and death,
the failure of both, among black people. That we have, in essence, both maintained our mostly oral mode of communication, memorization, etc., due to the continued disavowal of Black literacy (although mass literacy, generally, which has given a dishonest sense of intellectual
security to most every American regardless of creed or station, has produced rather uniform results despite wildly variable material differences), combined with the blatant libidinality of the slur-as-sign, is yet more reason to give credence to the informal (contra formal-pharma
ceutical) method of neurotic release. A pill cannot forgive you—it cannot assure you of your humanity, in spite of the blatantly inhuman which rests within, above, beyond, you, which surrounds you at every corner, curve, and contour; stabilization is very little—almost nothing,
in a world whose every movement seems a subversion, a veiling, of the last. Lacan says that religion will triumph over psychoanalysis; perhaps. Should confession continue to take place between master and servant, and not suffering equals: perhaps.
