…can be summed up in one word: Elvis.

Official Elvis Presley Prayer rug

“Elvis is a man whose task it is to dramatize the fact of his existence.”
-Greil Marcus

“Is it a sausage? It is certainly smooth and damp looking, but who ever hear of a 172 pound sausage…is it a corpse? The face just hangs there, limp and white with its little drop-seat mouth, rather like Lord Byron in a wax museum. But suddenly the figure comes to life. The lips part, the eyes half close, the clutched guitar begins to undulate back and forth in an uncomfortably suggestive manner. And wham! The mid-section of the body jolts forward to bump and grind and beat out a low-down rhythm…As the belly dance gets wilder, a peculiar sound emerges, A rusty foghorn? A voice? Or merely a noise produced, like the voice of a cricket, by the violent stridulation of the legs?”
-Time Magazine, 1956

Second and Third graders on who Elvis was (as quoted by professor Charles Wolfe in 1990):
“He was an old guy who was a king somewhere.”
“He was a great big man and he invented rock ‘n’ roll”
“He lives in a big house in Memphis and he only comes out at night.”
“He’s this big black guy who invented the electric guitar.”

A Love Letter To Elvis: On the Anniversary of his Death- August 16, 1977
Joni Mabe, August 16 1983.
Dear Elvis,
You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt and wished that you were my lover – or father. But you died without a trace of myself ever touching your life. I could have saved you Elvis. We could have found happiness together at Graceland. I know I could have put your broken self back together. It’s as if you could have discovered that sex and religion could be brought together in your feelings for me. The hurt that you carried everyday, the passion that dried up with the years I could have restored. All of those women that sapped your spirit and gave you nothing but the simulation of passion. I know the secrets of the southern night. I worship you. My sleep is filled with longing for you. I try to make a go of daily life but all else fades before this consuming image of yourself always present in my mind. This image guides me to the places I want to be. I lay here now thinking, agonizing – in other words – masturbating over the impossibility of ever being your slave. Sometimes I feel I’ve been hypnotized that I can no longer bear existence without you. Other men in their fleshy selves could never measure up to your perfection. When making love to you in the later years, I could sense your throbbing manliness. You really touched the woman in me. I no longer know the difference between fact and fantasy. My poisoned spirit cries out for relief for just one caress to remind me that you really were a man and not a god. If God listened to my prayers you’d be lying beside me now. No matter who I’m with, it’s always you. Elvis, I have a confession to make: I’m carrying your child. The last Elvis imitator I fucked was carrying your sacred seed. Please send money. Enclosed are the photographs of myself and the earthly messenger you sent. Love-sick for you, Baby…Joni Mabe.”
(ed. note: day-um)

Elvis’ twin brother, Jesse Garon, is lost in the Mississippi soil– buried in a shoebox.
-Me reflecting in awe.

Elvis as Christ




Vernon and Gladys Presley.


Ghoulish, American, mystical– this image is a haunting. Southern legend has it that when his twin died, Elvis got two souls, which is why he had so much “for a hillbilly” (translation: white man). If the legend is true, then I declare this is a spirit photo of Jesse Garon Presley inhabiting the flesh of his brother, who becomes half-corpse.

Elvis lives. The conspiracy theories that the king still walks the earth spins out of the minds of those fans who saw something in Elvis that they couldn’t reconcile with death. But it wasn’t that Elvis can’t die–it’s that he was always already dead.

Therefore the slogan ought not be “Elvis isn’t dead”, but rather, “Elvis remains undead”.

“As [Elvis’] story found its twists and turns, as it made a labyrinth, as it picked up speed, as it moved with the momentum of a flood in a museum, strange creatures appeared: Elvis Christ, Elvis Nixon, Elvis Hitler, Elvis Mishima, Elvis as godhead, Elvis inhabiting the bodies of serial killers, of saints of fiends. Each was a joke, of course; beneath each joke was bedrock, obsession, delight, fear. “
-Griel Marcus

Wow. I’ve actually managed to make myself afraid of Elvis.

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