The Invisible Web

Your Trip Into the Chapel Perilous

Update on Genesis Breyer P-Orridge, founder of Throbbing Gristle and Psychic TV

Posted by invizweb on July 25, 2008

Written by Aaron Gell for RADAR magazine:

…Suddenly, Jaye came to. “What’s wrong, baby?” she asked, smiling.

Gen urged her to see a doctor, but Jaye refused. She’d been watching doctors in action for years at the hospital where she worked and didn’t want any part of it. Besides, she seemed fine—better than fine. She was full of life, invigorated, cheerful. The next few days were a whirlwind as she dragged Gen out shopping, cooked him special meals, ravished him. On October 8, after one especially passionate encounter, Gen dozed off, waking up to find Jaye slumped on the floor of the bathroom. He shouted to their handyman to call 911, and began giving her CPR. She breathed her last breath, he says, right into his lungs.

The cops were terrible. Okay, they wanted to know, who’s her next of kin? I am. No, we need someone who’s related to her. Me. We’re married. Maybe in California, honey, but not in New York.

In the end, they left Jaye wrapped in a white sheet, and assigned a young patrolman to keep an eye on the body. The kid had been a rookie beat cop in the neighborhood, and remembered Genesis as a friendly face. “You always used to say hello and offer me a cup of tea in the winter,” he said, repaying the kindness by giving them some space. Gen lay down on the linoleum floor next to Jaye, talked to her for awhile, and finally fell asleep.

Rushkoff has a theory about Jaye’s last days. Maybe, he says, she’d actually been dead when she’d had the first seizure. And maybe she’d been allowed to come back—granted a special dispensation—for a few more crazy moments with Gen, like Emily in Our Town. Stranger things have happened.

A few months later, as Gen and I walk beside the elevated subway tracks near his apartment, he suddenly stops, steadies himself with a hand on my elbow, and fumbles in his pocket for an inhaler. He’s having a bout of pneumonia, his third in two years. “She used to tell me to take care of myself,” he says, tears filling his eyes. “I’ve lost my nurse. I’ve lost everything.”

We make our way to his favorite local restaurant, a heavily mirrored Dominican diner that’s decorated with autographed pictures of local baseball players, and settle into a booth. “Corona?” asks a waitress, who seems to know him well. “Thank you, dear,” Gen says.

Pneumonia isn’t his only worry. The same healer who first spotted Jaye’s cancer has found three tumors in his brain, clinging to his pituitary gland—a diagnosis confirmed by conventional doctors. “They can go in through the roof of your mouth and try to cut them out,” he says, sipping his beer, “but that can blind you, which isn’t something we particularly fancy.” The tumors are presumably benign, but he’s planning to go in for a scan to make sure…

Read more.

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