GOLD

Words by Christen Clifford


GOLD is a chemical element with the symbol Au. From the Latin Aurum. Its atomic number is 79. It occurs naturally, and is soft and malleable.  It’s dense. Not dense motherfucker, dense. As I get older I want more gold jewelry. Silver was for my 20’s and 30’s. I’m in my 40’s, I want some fucking gold. Like 90’s hip hop chains. Not this delicate stuff I see in all the magazines.  I want to take what meager savings I have and buy gold jewelry. I think it’s prudent in this fucked up time. I can shove it up my cunt when they come after me. Or up my ass. Or swallow it.  Oh I guess those delicate chains with initials would come in handy then.

What does gold mean?  The symbolism wiki tells me that GOLD contains the word “old.” We say, “They are in their golden years after their golden anniversary.” Wisdom comes with age.

I am the gold standard. I’m a noble metal.

I shine. I glow. I gleam.

Gold bar. Gold bullion. Gold coins.

I went to the Golden Nugget Casino in Las Vegas in 1990.

You can alloy gold with silver or platinum.  Or for rose gold you alloy with copper. Or cobalt oxide for black gold.vark is a pure metal foil.

I vark myself.

Remember Goldschlager?

I imagine Bannon is filled with pus.  Yellow, liquid, built up.  An injury. He is infected. He is trying to infect us. DT is full of urine.  The face, plump. I bet his skin is soft. Urine is a liquid by–product. It’s made of water and salt and urea and uric acid.  Your kidneys make it. Pus is also yellow. But it is yellowish or greenish.  It’s usually opaque. It’s made from dead white blood cells and tissue debris and serum.  But not like Estee Lauder Night Serum.

There is a Latin saying, “Ubi pus, ibi evacua.” It means, “Where there is pus, evacuate it.”

Trump and Bannon and Putin all sucking each other’s flaccid dicks with their softness’ exposed. A circle jerk with the constitution in the center. Putin’s the daddy in the leather harness, Trump is wearing the ball gag, Bannon’s getting spanked.

We have something in common. Resentment born of entitlement is something of a lower middle class disease.

I’m sick of you. I’m tired of you. Get out. You don’t belong here. I hate you. How did you even get in here? Die motherfucker die. How can I kill you without hurting those near by? I’m talking about my cancer. Duh.

One of the worst things about getting raped was that it made me hate him so much. I hated carrying around that hate.

Psychics and healers often told me I was carrying around something that wasn’t mine.  I believed them.

Can Patriarchy cause ovarian cancer? Can rape and PTSD cause uterine cancer?

Urine. Urine problem. Drinking urine. Urine trouble.

I had a boyfriend who liked me to pee in his mouth. It was difficult, I was afraid it would overflow onto the pillow and I know from the beach that stinky feathers are bad. Later I would pee into a pint glass on top of him and “make” him drink it. It was less messy.

I told my partner last night my shit video was showing at a gallery. They laughed. “I guess I never showed it to you,” I said. When I made it I was scared to show it to anyone but seriously after cancer who gives a fuck.

Urine can be awesome. Urea is in most expensive face creams. I remember a novel where the neighbors thought a widow kept her beauty because every morning she splashed her face with her night water.  I pee on my feet every morning in the shower. I heard Madonna did it. It's supposed to deter fungus.

Female Polish prisoners in Ravensbruek camp in 1943 and 1944 used urine to send secret messages to their families written in between the lines of the regular letters. They wrote in urine of the secret medical tests being done on them–such as being injected with gangrene. Thanks to their letters, the public knew about the experiments by 1945.

Last year, friends messaged me: “CD, aren’t these panties where you can menstruate on Donald Trump’s face awesome?” And I’m like, “No, he doesn’t deserve my blood.” My blood was thick. My blood was red and black and brown. My blood was delicious. My blood was chunky. My blood my blood my blood. I miss my blood. Now I chew on my thumbskin to taste it. My blood is strong and smells like metal, like gold.

Gold.

My mother took me to Trump Tower on my first visit to NYC in 7th grade. We went into this luxury boutique called “Martha.” Up, up, up.  My mother let me try on a dress that we couldn't afford. It was silk with a geometric print. It looked great on me. The saleswoman was rude to my mother, obese in stretch light blue polyester and a mauve cloth coat.


I tweeted my period at him after his “blood coming out of her whatever” comment.

And then twitter kept thinking we were friends.

Algorithms.

I used a composting toilet at the Museum of Motherhood Residency in Florida. They will use the compost in their garden. I want to turn my shit into gold.

Remember that golden showers story, later he said he was “ a germaphobe” so it couldn’t be true?  The report was that he had sex workers pee on each other on a bed that Barack and Michelle had slept on. That sounds like something he would get off on.
 
Christen Clifford is a feminist performance artist, writer, professor, actor and mother. She lectures about performance art, rape culture and contemporary feminisms at The New School. Her work has been written about in Art in America, Artforum, Bookforum, The New York Times and The Huffington Post.  She lives in Queens and online @cd_clifford. Her very safe for work website is ChristenClifford.info.