Thursday, March 5, 2009

March 5, 2009

What can a relationship to writing signify in these diverse instances of violence? The asymmetry of two repressions positioned to bruise easily. Tomorrow is felt in various places and various moments of the narrative. It stands to reason that one can say nothing banging on the glass with their foreheads. Still the same day; one should meditate upon all of the following together. Seen from that standpoint are the pangs of delight and masochism. Hanging leaves hang on writing as the possibility of the road. Its symptom is taking over where narcissism left off. I keep coming upon difference, the history of the road, of the rupture. Life and death, vegetal and animal, flesh and blood, hale and ill, otherness and incest, grid like a cloud. Days go by the space of reversibility and a repetition. While the ambivalent hostility it harbors benefits the schizophrenics. Traced by the opening, the place is many places. On that condition only I continued losing game after game.

Escaping all real and exterior influence, the imagination perverts itself. One must keep open the wound warping and pocked with industry. The sky is as blue as the suffering of another and as the threat of death. Loving desire is felt in the inner fold, a transformative property. Oh, how much we heard placing writing on the side of need and speech on the side of passion. Freud alludes to the fragile container of a peach. We just fell outside the grasp of genesis and structure. Discourse is being substituted for maternal care. As I said to my friend the abyss has always already infiltrated presence. I am being devoured by him. The words are messages exiled in the exteriority of the body. A single catharsis: the rhetoric of the pure. Water neither knows who drinks it nor denies. Such a void is the arbitrariness of play.

It absorbs within itself all experiences. Tunneling through the earth imposing reasons syntax upon follies silence. Thrust aside; different symptom patterns are presented. A hand pushed between the long legs. The defilement from which ritual protests. I am so happy to meet you and thus opens the possibility of crisis. Recourse to anal eroticism and gratuitous expenditure. Gray, without a sound, this is indeed a crisis of the logos. It tempers the fascination with murder. A feeling like being choked enters my throat. He must protect himself from that sinful food that provokes him. It still makes sense in the form of paradox and modernity. Particularly human sacrifice. Soon everything will be sold.

Monday, February 23, 2009

February 23, 2009

Lady, sitting on the bench there is painting a man’s portrait from his corpse. A contemporary literary experience pressed against a blood-speckled window. I want to lie down and die producing the signs of signs. The one that cannot be found goes somewhat like this: come by blood from that city. I’m worried about leaving the limits of a human universe. Writing is somehow fissured in its value—I’m going to beat everything I can. Full stop on non-stop thrust aside. The political order is applicable also to the graphic order, a big assed beauty. This is a map of my wanderings, fluid demarcations of unstable territories. I wish we could eat without masks. I am preternaturally still, a constitution of object relation. The supplement is neither a presence nor an absence sucking like mad to get fed. The compelling conviction throws a veil over primary narcissism.

The entire earth would soon be covered with nothing but trees and ferocious beasts. I remember the opening line only. The sight of the flames from which animals flee is attractive to man. Different symptom patterns are detected in migrants. Days, days, and nights and more of the same thing itself in tropical hieroglyphics. That condition only is cathartic. All in the mind it comes and goes, the possibility of its own repetition of its own image. Here is a story of schizophrenia, a demonstration circumscribed by thrust. I want to sing the signifier as broken or constellated into a system. Symptom is soaked commercially and covered in small cuts. When they come to get me I’ll give them an atomic itself entering into the composition. Only a few rare flashes of writing are beyond horror. Faded, last night’s dreams did not reduce the voice to itself it incorporated it into a system. This project makes me feel that I am not a writer at all.

Within the blanks that separate dislocated themes I put my fork down and feel my jaw. We break things in pieces like an organ of capitalization. Rotation, vertigo, or infinite quest, if you are not born you are not dead. At last walk out and into another existence the metaphysics of presence. The question remains within the rigidity of splitting. All words are a vibration within the horizontality of spacing. Perceive the imprint of that affect. Mouths nuzzling all levels of life organization that is to say the economy of death. It is the scheme of love, hatred, enthusiasm and damnation, a courtyard of red clay. In the light of the morning we must borrow our tools if only to destroy the former machine. It delegates phantoms, ghosts and false cards. How to call back, or speak forward the necessity of the already there. For the present object, petrification on one side, falsehood on the other. I cannot be more than the man who watches.

One of the two faces is the most ridiculous and miserable of creatures. In both instances the faces appear in order to uphold “I” within the Other. Can I eat what you give me? Membranes covered in small cuts. The sky is a sudden black cloud that gives more care to the image than to the object. As a result they were occasionally led to stray from literal translation. Thinking of Olson-if they desired to sleep with their wife they must enter from the foot of the bed. Priests collected the mother’s body, her breast, and thus threaten her with defiling me. Be the wake that produces itself in self-substitution. Let me bow and touch your feet while I am alive. On a velvet couch, red velvet, you sacrificed more for profit than for liberty. In such a case, pleasure has a beautiful geometric form. The great sweetness of nature fumbling at the mirror. I am not saying that correctly despite light pouring in from space.

Two seemingly contradictory causes are incarnations of speech. The life of the world seems to be approaching its own exhaustion. To speak of want alone is to be frightened. We will stand it up in the garden the entire field covered by the cybernetic grapheme. It is necessary therefore to stem the flow. What she says she wants she wants she says. That kind of confrontation appears. At the edge of the house the concept of linearization is much more effective. Contradict avoidance when filth becomes defilement. There was a path through the field down to the river with respect to the mechanisms of ethnocentric assimilation/exclusion. Bataille constitutes collective erotic existence. Root as rocks and trees to cry to sing to sigh. Lacking illusions, lacking shelter, our dreams are increasing anguish through depletion. Perhaps his system is false; but developing it, he has painted himself around the corner.

Let us conserve all the indeterminacy of the word for the moment. For the stray considers himself equivalent. The crowd milling on the bridge is the pure emotion of nature. And if one imagines, and imagine one must, the revealed subject is captivated and then replaced. That maternal law is a voice trembling with delight. Artaud is the inescapable witness smuggled across the border. I want to fuck the passage of virtue and good passion without pity. Translators tended to be squeamish. Walking down backward it is analogy itself. Again preternaturally still. Don’t go away mad there is harmony already within melody. Although we are interchangeable with temptation. The origin of the sign and the breaking of immediacy is in me like a hill. Nevertheless upon the body.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

February 3, 2009

But the supplement supplements a fissure of leaking it adds only to replace. Distinct from the crumbs on the word of Christ. But the scandal of reason is grease on the hands. One that prohibits ulterior aversion. Seduced by this fatal advantage he seized the stain of love upon the world. Ambivalent hostility harbors a tactile image. That edge of the black night sweeps into a sort of economy of aggressivity. The hemorrhage subsumes the others. All the grass dies in front of us. Every time a man touches those areas is carnal concupiscence. A crazy orange sun; we cannot conclude wickedness from non-goodness. Conception is confronted with inaccessible folds. The fall of feet dancing in the different situations of the larynx. I’m the buffoon at present.

This technique brings into being a full sentence. No wound deeper than death, not knowing, the cause of two kinds of voice. Statements bare commentary. Truth is a scrawl born of harmony alone. Mark lacuna in the clause. And what do distances have in common with our passions. Follow prayer or atonement. When the rain stops that violence is waiting. I disguise my slowness in the limits of identity. The sky is black leaving reappropriation breached until death. In one breath, cutting and chopping. Such a distance produces what it forbids, makes possible the very thing it makes impossible. Hold the unsaid effective meaning of text. Push against a huge and unending door, an economy of signs is organized.

He was the teacher that famous masturbator there’s pleasure deep with hands he has a philosophical wet dream. A language now manifests itself in a women’s dormitory. Over and over not your face not your simultaneous bundles termed phonemes. That symbolic law is not necessarily the superego. Some other experience deepens in the air of language, after having been its servant. Stop the hemorrhage by stressing taboo. In another dream I’m hanging on to the blank part of the text the index of a differance. To preserve himself he becomes incompatible, a forever irreconcilable term. Nothing to worship but myself, my own body and the closure of the episteme. What a fuss was made over the body being beaten. Moment to moment the body seems to me to be the battle of proper names. Accompany me to a non-object of desire. One’s come now to the graveyard in the theory of relationships. Does she not overly seek the surety of the professor?

Sunday, January 18, 2009

January 18, 2009

The eye of the other remains indestructible. The hollowing out of anguish is the face of nothing. The incompetence of philosophy twists, to be apprehended. It finds its only stable object—death. Throw them so that they remain within that historical enclosure. Approach the hysterical body of the excluded. In a certain sense, thought means nothing. The unending and uncertain identifications disappear during the first elucidation of the problem. If the world could only be rounder. Every time a man touches on those areas he interferes with corporeality. I propose to you another’s presence is the self’s very origin. The former is already a closed heterogeneous state. Sit by the fire and nourish your imagination upon her. If phobia is a metaphor it has mistaken place.

It is as if the human being cuts short the temptation to return. Never stop blowing presence by language. Contrary to hysteria that is not where the subject is. Dance a trembling jig as if you’ve committed a crime. There is language instead of the good breast. Nero carried off the prize; so much air has gone away. We began the day under the considerable weight of symptom. Lovely roofs outside, the vowel sounds cover up the abundance and harshness of consonants. I shall attempt to question the other side. Our bodies will tell their own story by destroying the progress of the human spirit. Interpret as symbolic equivalent of preponderance. That wetness is the infinity of a repetition following a strange course. The blanks separate dislocated themes. Make passion go outside itself.

Everyone belongs to all the others. Forefront of science has always made the young men blush. Metaphor is want forsaking language. I will attempt to describe you. You are designed to survive and collapse. To come home to the lesson of the lesson. I leave my desire stranded in biting mouths. The room is quiet it is time to reflect upon the story it is the moment of wakefulness. Being and non-being are in the remainder. No wound deeper than those gnawed through by the consonants. Pulverize fantasy before it can take shape. Water air and fire already eaten by writing. Speak of a numbed body. Without industry, without speech, and without home in the forests I want to love everyone alive.

Dozens of generations trying to put the mind away. A certain Platonic stoicism condemning the mimetic. Lying on your back pity protects humanity and the life of the living. Be the center of conclusion. Oh the view is blue and no development is out of alignment. The execution coincides with fluid demarcations. Blood tells the necessity of interval, the harsh law of spacing. The beast is there like an inescapable boomerang. To come back to that concept of catastrophe like a sad old candle. Act on the strength of its power. All singing was according to duality’s measure. The nutritive opening fades, then reappears abruptly. For no good reason they are purer more alive more animated. One always passes too quickly over this word.

Friday, December 26, 2008

December 26, 2008

Imagination inaugurates liberty only from the back. The horror of that dual war is faced with strange correlation. “Go forth, go forth,” said the grandmother. Sexual impulse is not external and foreign. I want to grow in ground too. One is led to conceive the opposition. What flesh was left was writing like painting. Lay bare the object of boundary, participation in the symbolic. The value of a phonic signifier a body which would be dead if it were not alive. Burnt offerings were separated later in tempers of fascination and murder. What did you say to me around problems of definition and beginning? Nothing is sacred unfolding morals. It is like a monster come to dinner who was originally Saussure’s. The Celinian symphony is gradually decanted.

No thing less than one thing, the human understanding is greatly indebted to the passions. To speak of want alone is to repudiate. A wild exaltation, the silent language of love is a mute eloquent. Pulverize fantasy before taking shape. Undefined repetitions the theater itself is shaped and undermined by the profound evil of representation. Allow me to be more or less detached. As if the air did not hold me in, all landmarks on the psychical landscapes are natural. My own body is forfeited. I am mainly an idiot as a sleeper perceives the conversation of the people around him. The latter is sexual banality. My mind precedes and follows speech, comprehends it. Force metaphor to remain blurred. This opening allows the passage through a savage metaphor. In such a case, pleasure is a geometric form.

Utter a culture prior to sin. And the forest is dark. I attempt another procedure. After drinking and talking approached the goddess in the form of paradox and modernity. It is an alchemy that transforms death. Such perversity the opposition between nature and culture. Language betrays its transfinite truth. The tree cannot walk its extenuated features have been gnawed through by the confidence. Such are the pangs and delights of masochism. Little song, sing days of happiness to the suffering of the other as other. I imagine a child who has swallowed up his parents. Thus we note: that imagination, origin of the difference between power and desire is determined as. Reason with; thrust aside; the better to deny them. Another idiot walking by producing the signs of signs.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

December 9, 2008

Abstract – yes as two and two it has renewed the form of the eternal problem. We are no longer within the sphere of the unconscious. The diminishment that helped me remember gives rise to the execution. I think man ought to stop begetting children. Restrained by the ridiculousness of holding forth upon languages makes the shadows darker. Several circulating invisibilities should be distinguished. The frontier of passion and need no measure ever serves the blur of the language. A dialectic which becomes permanently brittle, relaxes. All this flesh, meat, the designation of impossibility. It is complacent to the resuscitated victim. Attached to vowels and the element of language you haven’t fucked for months. The child can serve its mother as a token of authentication. Raining here in little pieces speech is not speech. The signifier, terrified, flees the signified.

Borges relates his dizzying pangs to dissent. Let me walk to you backwards, and by doing so, find its resources from the logic it deconstructs. Separate the night you dreamed from your own hands. Here is the rain again being less constrained to clarity. Here are the monstrous snails you have uttered. Bodies can accomplish the simple exteriority of death to life, mask to face. Body does not separate inside from outside. Get me on with it years passed now within the horizon of presence and reappropriation. Get on with literature that dares to become body—tongue. One and one, two, three; thus writing is always atonal. It cuts short the temptation to return. We are as we find out we are neither a presence nor an absence. A representative of fear and fascination. Mud put on mud no longer seer or voyeur.

Friday, December 5, 2008

December 5, 2008

On and on and up and down the metaphysics of the logos must reflect upon writing as its death. The former is already a closed heterogeneous text. The negativity of the crisis is not a near accident the shadow’s darker and the fire grows dimmer. It is simply a frontier, a repulsive gift from the Other. The hands unable to hold this remorse that produces anthropology. Separation exists, and so does language, even brilliantly at times. The tiredness, the fatuousness, the economy of pity. Want and aggressivity have adapted to each other. The air is thick and wet acknowledging the presence of another intelligent being. Such a statement of the problem enables one to avoid all metaphysics. The cry the voice and the song think a several dimensioned locus. Meaning thereby is equivalent to rebirth. Waves break at the different situations of the larynx, the cause of two kinds of voice. I wanted to say everything, the inner skin bruised and falling off the bone.

Make geometry of murderous variants and confirmations. But that incredible idealism: even savages cook their meat. Forget want, amounts making transference paranoidal. A little water falls when we consider ourselves awakened. It is possible to by cynical without being irreparably abject. Bleed into the toilet the first and the last resource of the sign. Her asshole anchors her interiorly to the Other. The road goes out but we are no longer able to call it origin or ground. It jettisons the object into the abominable real. That insistent distance of irreducible difference. A devisor of territories, languages, revelation burst forth. I walked away from myself the integral and concrete object of linguistics. The shattered mirror is where the ego gives up its image. Borrowing pattern and content from writing, blood tells.

What do they put in the graves of repetition and the splitting of the self? The bodies inside a correlative function of bonding the subject. Let me stumble into the opening of the question. Introduce the dangerous object silhouetted by the smoothing of blood. Join bodies to minds in the transformation of the language. In the advent of each speaking being, the music does this to us. These sensations determined as the field of presence. At this moment the social organism was covered in synchronic speech. The associations you have for me pass from one structure to the other when the sign crosses the stage of the symbol. Integrate, assimilate, different languages recorded in discussion. To the empty halls he announces the old notion of peoples said to be without writing and without history. That such a murderous event could be mythical, the primal causality of symptoms. Tunneling through the earth this way – the originarily metaphoric essence of our language. Frail identity of the speaking being.

The boundary and margin are out of order. We love what we love, fearing it at the same time as a machine of death. The fascinating defilement of the social aggregate. Fires still burning in heart, the exchange of presences and absences. The human body is metaphor for exclusion and prohibition. Don’t ever refuse that which, separating it from itself, breaches the living voice. The speaking being is permanently engulfed. And what the hell else to say but I too am a dreamer; I give my dreams as dreams. The result of such is worth confronting. Echo of what it has come for it leaps over the text toward its presumed content. Without going into the details of the demonstration, note the following. There is a long stretch of sky before us. The speaking being is separated by sex and language. I want to fuck you in a classical shape that gives itself out to be a synthesis that faithfully restores.