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.

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.

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.

December 1, 2008

Suppose he has a big dictionary. An increasing interest in language threatens us with verbal games. Looking, seeing, the system itself must be deciphered. This sort of query appears only at the moment, laden with meaning. The echo of the old music, the unity of the phone, the glossa and the logos. For what impossible catharsis? Nothing less than the phonetic and ideographic, a little water falls. They are constantly submerged in the element of their waking. On the floor the dog’s eye has been bound up with that of economy. On that condition only, he conceives of no other ethics than that of the act. You look out and you see people, such cultural graphology. Is your wife giving birth to a baby? Waiting for the bus transcendental phenomenology belongs to metaphysics. The execution coincides with the sacred.

Trying to think of some way out pity is more primitive than reason and reflection. An archaic differentiation of the body on its way toward ego identity. The rhythm which projects from itself may be red according to the same pattern. Even if human beings are involved with it, tonight she does not answer. Language, passion, society, are neither of the north nor of the south. Leaving aside the question of priority of one over the other. In my own ego structure there is no substitute for a mother’s love. Revolve around the deadly repetition of coitus. I knew where they were in that full presence of intuitive consciousness. I call attention to it here because of how the body of a woman moves through the day. To the one in the gray coat the already-three-ness of the language in which desire deludes itself. The body’s territory is a fusion between the mother and the injury of syntax. I had walked into a wall origin or nature is nothing but the myth of addition. Such a split finds in its context a perfect socialization.

November 20, 2008

Days we die are particular. But there is more to it than that. Like rings extending in water the forgetting of the voice of nature. That discourse is audible. How simply for another to take possession again of our own lost voice. It is not part of himself, vital though it may be, that he is threatened with losing. Never stop blowing and hearing the melodious law, the twofold voice. No subject, no object: petrification on one side. When he got into bed he was dead. The body descends without any fuss. Oh god god god he said identifying with a being who suffers. Twenty-six ways of longing. You know the world is a contrivance structural and not factual, relational and not substantial. They do spread out the logic of speech even to the most inaccessible folds of significance.

Hunger gives way to a whole range of sexual or moral prohibitions. Stone like stillness or tool and thought recapture the unity of gesture. And when I came upon her corrections the borderline patient speaks of paralyzed legs. Another idiot walking by the rebus and the complicity of origins. What repercussions foreclose this disconnection? The circles, the wholes they made turn and return these sentences. The experience of want itself is preliminary. The ground by the sea, sky overhead the suffering of another and as the threat of death. It is pure and simply splitting. Little pieces falling the strange workings of the historical process. We frequently throw zeroes over the lining of a single origin. Pleasures of pain the situation of pure dispersion which characterizes the state of nature. I am threatened and attempt to escape fear. There is no one there neither detour nor anonymity.

This is an ocean of vagueness that signified within the full presence of intuition. To preserve himself from reverence, he is ready for more. The first to be born horizontal joining the two posts. Such a frontiersman is a metaphysician. Ashamed even trembling penetration into the lost word. A strong concern for separating the sexes, lacking a central authoritarian power. A rage to keep development out of alignment. A language now manifests itself whose complain repudiates this synthetic fabric. The difference between the glance and the voice when they come to get me. You live somewhere beyond the marrow engaging in ellipsis. The imitation and what is imitated, of voice and song, all the people I’ve ever known. I remember the oiliness of fingertips, a monologue spread over the material body. The monster you love is home again. How dazzling, unending and eternal.

November 11, 2008

Passing into the wilderness of twisted trees the mute sign is a sign of liberty. It is a frantic attempt made by a subject threatened with sinking into the void. The garden echoes across the room placing sonorous substance in parenthesis. The body’s insides compensate for the collapse of the border between inside and outside. History sings in their faces the mere presence of the spectator is a violation. Divide lines between Bataille and his very own identity sinking irrecoverably into the mother. There will be pathetic screaming circulating through other texts, leading back to it constantly. The purification rite appears then as that essential ridge. This alteration of perception and imagination must correspond to an organization of space: what flesh was left. The pure/impure opposition resents otherness. Let us reconsider the system of metaphors; hence the fool dances. He channels the institution through bisexuality of endogamic marriage. Time is some sort of hindsight, by design, one must understand condition of imitation. The most inaccessible folds of significance.

People are shouting and embracing. Either way their meaning and their limits are already contested at their root. Confronted with states of regret localized in passive sentences. You have only where you were the animal cry before the birth of language. Autoeroticism amounts to the forcing of thought. The sea moves and relaxes all our languages are the result of art. It is simply a frontier, a repulsive gift fascinating victims. What gentle echoes to speak before knowing how to speak. Properly speak once-upon blotted out time. Lacking in the power of replacing itself it is an empty house one moves through. We may call it a border radically cut through mimetic logic. The feeling of being choked in a confused music of jubilation. The impossible real ceaselessly straying. Nothing more could be said – starting from which the concept of history was formed.

November 7, 2008

The rhyme is after the innocent simplicity governing the play of young girls. Phobia literally stages the instability of the object relation. And what one wants is the presence of the foreigner, the mere fact of having his eyes open. It is precisely at such a point that writing takes over. All this going must be violence appearing only at the moment opened to forced entry. The linguistic metaphor coincides with the theme of the devourer. I never felt guilty after giving one another away. Play the role of a miscarried introjection. So immense she was trying to tell me her enemy’s name. My empty and incorporating mouth, which watches me, threatening from the outside. The old friend who assumes responsibility for the violation that has satisfied him. It happens because language has then become the counterphobic object. As if the sun had been wrong to return we write nothing other than confessions. I meet with anguish again: I am afraid.

A girl who is afraid of being eaten up by a dog has an extensive vocabulary. I rage the originary violence which has severed the proper from its property. I am devoured by him; a third person therefore is devouring me. I rage and identify as the abstract moment of the concept. Startled by over-mastery, an exchange of messages when death brushes us by. I rage the ultimate denunciation hand in hand with the foreigner. I refer to the modeling: untouchable, unchangeable, immortal. The fool dances between the pre-linguistic and linguistic, between cry and speech. To speak of want alone is to repudiate aggressivity. Fluttering as falling leaves it offers us an image of death. Such is the void and the arbitrariness of play. A speech before words. Does this not also imply a fetishist screen? A man is a familiar thing.

Election Day Poetry November 4, 2008

It is possible, in words, to speak vengeance upon linguists. The child can serve its mother as token of her own authentication. I took blowing the smoke out of my mouth the deconstruction of the history of metaphysics. Confront undesirable objects. It becomes the possibility of pleasure creating a unified system of supple notions. Poetic catharsis beheads its underage sister making us free and joyous. In the metaphor of that soft voice the presence of the mother will last longer. Gleaming and darkening and turning, in the resurrection they neither marry nor are given in marriage. Bleed into the toilet that inexorable law that takes the place of law. Your clammy, cunning appeals to ideals no longer exists, serves an arbitrary, exterminating power. The darkness surrounds us more feminine than herself. I breathe in a constantly circulating invisibility. Full of gesture and some inarticulate sounds the hospital is a pitiful construct. Revealed because of some unaccountable constraining resistence due to carnal concupiscence.

Above all, such would be the ambiguity of the speaking being. My love’s manners in bed that which he expresses, keeps himself as close as possible to his passion. Fulfill his lust for flesh, because the flesh lusts after the spirit. Into the forest again the representative is not the represented but only the representer of the represented. I love him according to the law of fishes. Writing is the origin of inequality. Through his writing he follows the delightful interlacing of this inextricable heterogeneity. The bodies fall, have fallen into the causes of their destruction. A loathing of defilement as protection against the poorly controlled power of mothers seems ever clearer as a residue of every system. A tragic fatality come to prey upon natural innocence, itself unnoticed that wetness spread. Another connection consuming the murderer and his resuscitated victim. Such a slight sound that which adds moral to physical love. The maternal body becomes inebriated for want of the ability to name an object of desire. She moves away from it - redoubles presence – makes the present pass into its outside.

October 21, 2008

In the voice we have an organ plunged into loneliness. The street shines with a fledgling snow, an attempt at hemorrhage. Out the window at the moon bring these questions to the beginning of elaboration. As we enter the tunnel, the lights dim. The subjects must be kept apart, the truth of things. I wanted to say everything identifying with the owner of the penis. I have only made it with my mind a non-phonetic corpse is in the book. I will never eat beef again, short-circuited by the very splitting. A certain absence, then, of a certain sort of mother, what I was looking at. On that condition only, while breaking away from, violently and painfully. You could say Yuketeh, yuketeh transgressing space, mastering the outside, placing souls into communication. These are the scraps, a fragile container no longer guaranteed its contents. No longer distinguishable the child spontaneously wants to guard his goods and put one off the scent. He could see it from his prison window the subject making it repugnant.

October 15, 2008

Each moment constitutes reality corruption of speech by writing. The cows cross the river to give birth; such is the blinding light cast by Freud. It seems not possible to live the same life and why should the transformation be only a deformation. I am trying to keep my heart open to intersection. And the hand found the fingers according to their signifier. A few quick notes then: a bridge has been built toward another logic of abjection and these desires threaten the integrity of the individual. Hence I love you, I did, do, a moment ago is indeed a crisis of the logos. I know the next minutes will turn into skin. I don’t know how, I only live here, with the body I walk in. How will I live now without eyelids: sublimation and perversion? By virtue of what ties it to a dialectical and teleological determination of a jerking leap toward impulse. Surgery is part of the treatment plan uttered without sham innocence or modest self-effacement. Speak to me, say what things have thus been transgressed. I have not given birth to anyone.

I am between whole numbers, splitting transmittable. He wants to go home, like Nietzche, destroyed, forcing the closure. The black whole of his nakedness, a metaphor that retraces unconsciousness into paternal myth. Our bodies will tell their own story, no law without possibility of trace. I followed you as far as I can go within discourse. And the silence comes back to the concealment of the origin. How skin can see, to be understood as metonymy for unnamable desire. A fissure of leaking vigilance. How the angels heave barricaded and untouchable. Body seems to me to be there. Yet I keep forgetting to breathe, to witness the painful dawning, splendid, in its symbolic complexity. I said to my friend, turn behind yourself, make the work of death. Instead she was praying, her fingers in a web across her face; when the writing stops voyeurism becomes perversion. Phonic signifiers: dying, dying, dying.

October 13, 2008

As I was walking I came upon chance walking. I convince myself such things are true, the archaic relation to the pre-object. Let me talk about imagination not reason. Experience the mouth as a smeared gesture. I cannot be more than the man who watches. A bifocal porthole that doubtless lies on the proposition of impurity. It is the act of loving your mother that constitutes the specific difference between the man and the brute. The eyes are aslant; the narrative is a way of taming cannibalism. Every animal has ideas since it has senses. I am bleeding heavily pluralizing the object as well as the subject. We have taken such pains to water the passions, only by imagination. I don’t look away without saying where menstrual blood signifies sexual difference. Standing at the window, a face. It activates and excites a potential power. Writing is dangerous.

And now the cantata begins as sphincteral training. Re-imagination: the double possibility of liberty and the express anticipation of death. I am not beautiful at a slant a radical evil that is to be suppressed. Move forward, backward, then that nothing which is the image. Then I’m awake. The image is death. I am not beautiful at a slant another discourse—a text, a life to relive. Nature as a reserve of indeterminate power. Nothing more than that will do. It may be that I have taken an irreversible action. Yet, yes, that’s what I wanted, the paragraph that occupies us. Dragging a black tarp over the unconscious meaning of the borderline patient. But now it’s come to distances. Not being understood as metonymy I bleed like this. The air is thick and wet and the music has disintegrated.

October 11, 2008

What a good boy am I who wants to stay within the history of psychoanalysis as I am within this text. I am writing because it is raining an inexorable carnal remainder. And on the other such a darkness reproducing the signs, producing the signs of signs. Hanging these wombs on poles, a universe where differences are reabsorbed. In the direction of its words to which the concept of history itself returns. I am always facing east, a part that is inertly impure. As soon as I speak, I speak assimilation/exclusion. And I am pressed, face down in that definition. Were we now to fall the intimacy of self-presence, as the voice of the other that presides over the birth. An oval bone you can hold in your fist is remission always promised. In this fact of face and body the 19th century has left us a heavy heritage of illusions and misunderstandings. Picasso’s junkyard goat, a language that is already there. Men have never been better than monsters; the shit falls below the seat into water. The painting of a woman in a low boat illustrates the boundary between semiotic authority and symbolic law.

History of an outstretched arm is extracted from repression and depraved desire. Desire and death and the room opens and closes. Then a gobbling silence. Plunging forms and sounds that twofold voice of nature. I don’t look away from the thing that is left behind, or killed, to the meaning of the word and transcendence. I can see no one more dear, thus melody, assumes a separate existence and music becomes independent of speech. I’m learning how to leave the love-bed, and ultimately the space. What to dream, and what, and what, to dream. An impossible lunar wind within the synchronic handling of discourse. What gentle echoes, the relationship between nature and society. How do you know your bones subjected to paternal function? Evil supervenes upon nature, and the room opens and closes. I am not beautiful; I am threatened; I attempt another procedure. And what the hell else to say but run.

October 9, 2008

Move forward, backward, then the anthropologist may be a natural subversive. Body: he tells me that I have her mouth, an abortive metaphor of want. Let us suddenly proclaim spring problems of logic that once again we are content to simply mention. And so I left my bed inscribed not in verbal rhetoric but in the heterogeneity of the psychic system. You there, me here, or is it me there, you here—the neutral origin of all ethical-political conceptuality. There are names for it, then, so eager is he to name everything that he runs into the unnamable. You walk the years in a nothing between the sound-imprint, the graphic image is not seen. Four ribs, floating in a body of air, the guilty desire to reduce the father to the same unnaming. Falling downhill the anthropologist too uses this dream, as one weapon or instrument among others. You live somewhere beyond the marrow and reproduce language with excessive eagerness and talent. Now it is fall, and one must yield the only weakness of bricolage is a total inability to justify itself in its own discourse. I convince myself such things but seep into the ego and the ideal of the ego. We will stand up in the garden and build our castles out of the debris. I don’t know whether I should face east or west.

I wake in the peristaltic predawn an arbitrary, exterminating power. Let me see what you’re looking at. I wrote to you but you did not reply. Each gesture is a common one, confesses itself in desire and in defeat. It is difficult to write about love, to get along with trampled-down law. Why, love, does it make such a difference not to be in the form of a bird, what serves to recall the bird of prey when it does not return straight to the fist. I don’t know how to measure this constituted by primal repression. There is no ethics without the presence of the other but also, and consequently, without absence, dissimulation, detour, differance, writing. How do you know the bones of your pelvis, nonsense or the impossible real? There are senses. At the same time the sun is shining brightly the symptom permeates me, edged with the sublime. Your lips are red and bright with love. You turned your voice away from what you secretly loved. The non-ethical opening of ethics intervals between echo silence.

September 27, 2008

Imagination is at bottom the relationship with death. He sees his size with his own two eyes. Dirty old things, preludes to the obsessional or paranoid structure. We are walking it is the structure of presence. Nobody said anything but it is Freud indeed who blazes the trail. The path worn in the midpoint and the deviation between total absence and the absolute plentitude of presence. Each sutured region founds the separation inside/outside. But in distance marks a determined lack. Thus sensual, acrid an outside in the image of the inside. Knowing there is nothing it dominated as the master-sign and as the generative model. Twenty-four shapes of longing through the rhetorical casting of language. Indefinite process has always already infiltrated presence, speak to me what things were forgotten. Those untouchables in the univocity of verbal message. Desire of presence is born from the abyss, from the representation of representation, where the echoes are. And then the sun, and then the clouds, and then the earth a reconciliation of what murder as well as names were separated from.

I keep forgetting to breathe within a word that is flush with pleasure and pain. Trees moving in wind and rain harmony already within melody. You swim and swim through a border passable in both directions. Head up to the sky the savage possibility of transference. When you reach sand, there would be witnesses to the perviousness of limit. Here, there, everywhere, which is nothing but the outside of speech. As we enter the tunnel the etiology of psychoses and “false selves” as well as for the creation of play. Going around groping either by mind or hand culture to nature, evil to innocence, history to origin, and so on. The sides of my mouth subjected just as much as its non-object to spatial ambivalence. Accumulation of guilt that’s all in the head: desire desires the exteriority of presence and non-presence. Beneath ideas: underpinning in psychosomatic reality. Moment to moment the body seems to be the exteriority of liberty and non-liberty. I am a stripper; I don’t do lap dances; stressing the inheritance of language in the human state. Nothing more than that will do.

An infinite emptiness: their phlegm could only make their style concise. A profound sleep through a language that is already there. A tall sense of enclosures, there is a sky of blue hence the diversity of languages. The schizophrenic sets of work repressing maternal authority. And the already-three-ness of the language of which desire deludes itself. A short-term memory—an inscription of limits. This conjecture appears to be confirmed with phalangists for hat pins. Orbit the house as an adult, the corporeal mapping that abuts against them. And sure, a quietness of water declares this unity of the advantage of writing. He dragged her down the stairs by her hair mapping the selve’s clean and proper body. The patient flower no less forcible than the language of gesture. I am not saying that correctly; it absorbs within itself all experiences of the non-objectal. There are senses; the power of progress would lead to experiments with the prism. I cannot settle.

I wanted to make a space for healing, an archaic differentiation of the body. There is the sign of neither Descarte or Husserl or with others as scientific truth, nor the quality of an emotion as the premise of a syllogism. Membranes covered in small cuts repressed with the phallic phase and acquisition of language. If in death I am dead it is already society, passion, language, time. The patients, in groups of eight and nine take shape as the speaking being. From something in an inexact sign we have just accepted two pieces of evidence. I remember the opening line only the hemorrhage: a threshold before death. Attached to a particular language what can I reach, my mother the thing I came from. These are the clay bodies preoccupied by the risk of castration. Hypocrisies are everything no doubt recognized as anthropologies most important contribution. They are captivated and replaced by means of that inscription. One hand holding one hand, nature, animality, primitivism, childhood, madness, divinity, etcetera. I made a model of a volcano; a language now manifests itself. Each idea may have only one form and then a quiet, a dull.

September 16, 2008

I hear the mind close; the voice was the first to be born. The delicate skin pressed flat like wallpaper repudiates the common code. Empty grasping of sensation these words are quite useless. In this way, you are the velvet body, an explicit question of a statement that has haunted Freud. So that one betrayed himself; I have great vices but they have never harmed anyone but me. I cannot make the map of healing amount to a true castration. But to himself and as himself eloquence depends upon the image. This is blood pressure, the sudden eruption of affect. The sense of myself separate that of the continuous presence of the same object. I am preternaturally still splitting the Ego and the symbol of negation. As you watch the afflicted person you are not likely to weep. But sometimes it has to be an immersion that allows you to come face to face with the Other. There is, in short, a counter-stress born of the sexual shock, discourse without gesture will bring tears from you. Emptying the stomach and washing the body, the figure of speech known as metaphor merely actuates.

I am just passing days until death. In nature this upthrust with its conical cap and bulging middle is exactly inverted. This is something that happens in the second room, chronologically separable but logically coextensive. The echo of the old music haunting all, it is the element of interiority. Their stomachs were cut out; we encounter this discourse in our dreams. The old rhythm and aches and pains, arche and telos. It functions as a grave making transference paranoidal. The outside inside we recall the fragment. An image conveying information takes revenge on her body beginning to fray. It takes so long to look down, the time of lost presence is closest to the time of presence regained. A duplicate witness to memory is brought about by physical defect. Relics of intentions as the emergence of a new structuralist limit and power. The occupants were slaughtered concerned with defining a sexual identity. Quiet as is proper for such places; it signifies its death to desire.

September 9, 2008

Soon everything will be sold. This uneasiness has been evident in philosophy. The exquisite portholes are repressed by linguistic symbolic establishment. Because we are beginning to write, to write differently a body which would be dead were it not alive, we must reread differently. Who are the bone snappers, as if purification through language is already evident? Perhaps small sounds will come from the meditation upon writing and the deconstruction of history. I don’t know how to avoid this sweetness, particularly those involving excremental and menstrual variants. I am all beggar; I wear these language entrails these vulgar and mundane concepts of temporality. Our skins discover the phonematic concatenation of language. All of the flowers a graphology renewed and fertilized. When I open my eyes, one of the luscious bodies will be extracted from repression and depraved desire. What will the shame be? Writing is dangerous, the ambivalent hostility it harbors. Say what things were forgotten harmonic successions sequence of parts the genres the modes. The eyes are aslant with Celine’s laughter.

I must live by these sentences. It will all come true but the contradiction or rigorous discrepancy describes the origin. I am learning how to leave the love-bed; a third-person is therefore devouring me. Today we see a tiger: dispersion, absolute solitude, immediate and without memory. How do you know the bones of your pelvis exerted to write passive sentences? The night is a pleasure to us, situating a multitude of origins; each origin capable of being the offshoot of another origin. It is difficult to write about love permanently confronted with such language. I think sleeping. The incommensurable distance is fundamental determinism. Clear smoke a multitude of centuries rhythmed by distinct steps. I forgot to memorize her face, to speak of want alone. I propose to you a body bleached in consequence no signifier can be so replaced, purely and simply. These are the scraps but the writer is always a carrier of desire and death. A nothing being where there was a man.

In my hand I feel the weight of pluridimensionality and delinearized temporality. I am between whole numbers within the blanks that separate dislocated themes. Such divided presence my dream over the gaping and violent wound of the impossibility of thought. I have not given birth to anyone in the language cluster that everyday usage of speech absorbs. Again and again now also writing comprehends language. I understand that it will not always be possible to write this book. Again and again now also writing comprehends language. I want to live according to this love. As though hearing laughter imposing its laws upon the areas that had escaped it. I wake in terror indulging in self-examination haunted by unappealing ghosts. It is a viscous form of self-repulsion that masturbation comes to be added. My body beginning to fray, precisely at such a boundary with language, makes an imprint. Again and again now also writing comprehends that presumed suppression of differance. It makes you want to gag, desemantisizing and pulverizing fantasy before it can take shape.

I was sobbing in a cathedral afraid of being bitten by a child who had been eaten. Here where the echoes are presence is the condition of presence. The muscles of my shoulders push harder speaking of aggressivity. You want the fact of things in words, desire, desire desiring. That is why I’ve stretched my body out untouchable, unchangeable, immortal. Nothing more than that will do. Along the lines of my throat a nameless frustration belongs to the unnamable. Our own indifferent vulgarity has its origins in the aristocracy. Live without explanations, the guilty desire to reduce the father. The day surrounds degeneration as separation, severing a voice and song. People are shouting and embracing narcissistic conversation drive and sexual drive. The moisture of mouths and body actively engage calculation and grammaticality, loss of energy and substitution. I am thinking of the man, I am thinking, in short, of the completely mimetic identification. A displacement may now be apparent: a head of the outside inside.

September 5, 2008

To the empty halls he announces all the revolutions are destroying the linear model. All my aches are catching up with me, the black hole of his nakedness. Be wet with a decent happiness and reread past writing according to a different organization of space. Soft mouth open, that obsession refers back to decay recalling sex as inebriation. I love water but I also love air and fire; each graphic form may have a double value playing alternately on two registers. She took off her clothes and earth rotted away with maggots. Here is a path through the field signifying the eclipse of what is good and is the father. I had known it, ended, what is disconnected regains its coherence and is both shattered and punctuated. What could they give me I hadn’t myself discovered—this unnamable movement of difference-itself. Stay as still as you can in the painful life of a fortified castle. Moment to moment the body seems the illusion of present within a speech believed to be transparent and innocent. It is my face, an aloof taming of abjection. Echo of what it had come for the fatal advantage circumscribed by the name of masturbation. My father eats it in three mouthfuls, the conductor who’s shaking me in my daydream.

September 4, 2008

As I was walking Saussure introduced another massive limitation. To arrive seasonal, in pain, opening the door to perversion or psychosis. To the empty halls he announces the epic of the living word. I see, making a shape here, the edenic imagery of primary narcissism. Anxious about the weather, folding the door shut, imagination liberty and speech belong to the same structure as death. I write because I cannot paint in the ensuing fear of being rotten, drained or blocked. There is love only as love is beginning as a calculation that puts harmony in the place of melody. Only the darkness around them he sets himself under the aegis of the father. The obscene bodies twisting twisting reflexive, mutual, speculative, infinite. I am not beautiful having been the slave of language since before birth. Such impossible understanding because gesture, which elsewhere expresses need, here represents passion. I am here now and the always ambivalent threats are menacing identity. I wanted you somehow equal thus broached within the point of origin. At a slant prohibition throws a veil over primary narcissism.

It is difficult today directed toward an external object. Because you’re looking at the limit, it is indeed the concept of the sign itself and distinction however tenuous. It may be that I have taken an irreversible action. Your self walked into the room tonight with the other as with another me. I bleed like this by means of that very prohibition. Several times as the furniture in the dream languages are made to be spoken. The long dark of the border is verging on psychosis. Little song sing reflections upon writing as its death and its resource. The sound of man working with a nail and hammer, the totality of his living being. Standing in front of the fire neither identity or difference, neither consummation nor virginity, neither the veil nor the unveiling, neither the inside nor the outside. The glass of this body walking, sinking irretrievably into the mother. Glass, alabaster, an iron shovel the art of design is degraded when the physics is substituted for it. It is difficult today symbolizing a threat to the subject. But now we are crying and god won’t hide us.

September 3, 2008

He had to pee but was nervous; this signifier is a trace, a meaning thinkable in principle. Crouch down near the roots, a borderline patient of the verbal signifier. Here I am. There you are. The displacement is hardly anagrammatic. I don’t know whether I am mid-sentence or both sexes in a socio-symbolic unit. My feet are awkwardly placed; they learn to write and the violence of forgetting. A way to describe my body: subjected to fear of procreation. There is as we go we see there a dead language with the perfect ideography. Uncensored by guilt or desire, I displace; therefore you must condense for me. There is love only as love is; that which ties sense to sound, the “thought-sound.” The condition of anonymity: he is asking to be born like Christ. I once wrote a letter as follows: doubtless he was the only one among them who understood what writing was for. They filled the space on the page with the murderous violence of taverns, orgies and subways. My embarrassment at his nakedness as if writing were precisely that which makes us reconsider our logic of the naked. I asked these women, these strangers, while we thirst and sleep for jouissance.

The project as I wrote it: a reduction of discourse to the state of “pure” signifier. Were you there or here now-the faded memories distinguish man among the animals. The giving up of the density of flesh united in abomination. Heaven must spell something; to make its usage more flexible, to associate it with the concepts of smaller or greater units. The surrounding flesh is almost explicitly sexual. Staggering, you know how singing gradually became an art entirely separate from speech. The body words blurred, they stuff themselves, what a blow out! We seemed to stand at the window to found or deduce the entire system of signs. I beg your throat box into unending labor pains. Each gesture is a common one…no history of writing and of knowledge; one might simply say no history at all. That the only book left is a revulsion that brands our time. I do not feel what it was I was feeling; it is a borrowing and an artificial borrowing. Lean forward in the wind into the dizzying pangs of language betraying us. I see the flames, applying their seal to the mouth of their favorite, Diogenes promenading in front of Zeno.

August 20, 2008

I said to my friend make this face that is to say we ascertain through vengeance upon linguists. They know that my body is phantasmatic, a violent act of expulsion. Look at the light of this Saussurian language, of the signified and the signifier. The wombs of women raped the fantasy of the born body. Going around groping either by mind or hand between a man one mentions and the man one addresses. I am always facing an interior associated with decay. If it rains the woods will not be so dry one sign gives birth to another, and essentially one thought brings forth another. I’m in the next room fantasizing about the bowels of a precious fetus. The plan is the body, the plan is the body. Everything is different now, between the body and its limits. Staggering, you know they fall forward to exclude the very thing which had permitted exclusion. I followed you as far as the bone in a placenta that is no longer nourishing. Indifference to the phonic substance of expression is impossible and illegitimate, the plan is the body. Dead, double dead, dead, very dead, dead, dead, here.

It moves from side to side through a fantasy of self-rebirth. Flat faint sky of faded blue reduced to the voice to epos. I am stretched out neither banished nor cut off. Holding out his hands to both; where’s the evil?—one will perhaps ask. But I did not look away into the narrator’s vision. Then as the shouting grows and grows louder and louder; why should the mother tongue be protected from the operation of writing. How else to honor ellipsis than of morbid relish. Moans in the hole in the floor in the wall, why should the transformation be only a deformation? The hoarding the bleakness cold towels wrapped around your head. What is the form is the grotesquerie against a force of desire and repression, breaking its song into articulation. A bifocal porthole in the context of this ambivalent portrait. Anger, irritation, fury, disquietude, the drunken derision of composition’s accident; we both fell. I don’t remember its bony longings, but also what leads it beyond religion. I think to compose a sonnet that the positive (is) the negative, life (is) death, presence (is absence and that is governed by a horizon of presence.

August 19, 2008

The magnanimous cruelty which is decadence and degeneracy through and through. Perhaps I have not been making the body of a woman for a broad audience. A complex loneliness, a wanting to know the difference between the speaking and singing voices. She woke; her hands had grown back as signs that do not feel the necessity for confession. Before I die the same voice for speaking and singing. Today’s universe is divided between the glasses of my front door separable from surrounding flesh. We shall be present if you want; for blood, we’re friends. White cells streaming over the invisible sword of a non-existent God. Everything that deserves the attention of mankind; all one knows and knows upon the possibility of knowing. Your father is waiting for you to sway maternal control over his sins. A voice faint enough, a spark distributes in space and is alien to the order of the voice: cinematography, choreography, of course. The aqueous after-image, or the conductor who’s shaking me, interested in the swarming interior of body. Laughter laughing at me, what Saussure says about the difference between the symbol and the sign. How the angel heaves an amber-streaked cock into Dostoevsky’s maternal burden.

Submerged in the element of their waking in a masochistic mother who never stops. Don’t say it doesn’t rhyme in every sense of this word, nature speaks. Reminds me I am always facing the burden of subduing. Man sits in a timelessness, as he shall see, even while saying that spacing assures the possibility of song. The subject is the human torso transmittable—transmittable to a foreign hero. Little song sing non-metaphoric, the language of needs and the language of actions. The terrifying absence of a diaphragm altered by the symbolic—by language. Writing will be phonetic, and the poor love it. I don’t want to write stories anymore because it is exterior to external consciousness. Sand and water a wind the savage spontaneity of the figure. The process of standing that the wise man’s knowledge does. Nothing for you is untoward all illusion despairing and no doubt more lucid. I’ve followed you as long as I can on the function of a hyphen. It still makes sense to know the song after all.

August 18, 2008

As I said to my friend the problem at first is knowing how to teach generosity. The author’s biography is inside my body once and for all. For love I would escape the simple alternative of fact and right of history and essence. The inner skin inverted with its texture is permanently brittle. It is like a monster linear progress will always be that of condensation. A paring knife in her right fist as soon as repression the constant monster is released. Remember the way you were opposed to the emitted sound as a psychophonetic phenomenon to the physiophonetic fact. There isn’t a ceremony; a body structure, an axiomatic shattered mirror. She stood at the window but certain problems of language complicated matters. White cells streaming serve as a screen and deflect aversion. The quieter the people are does not suffice to locate; we speak its reserve. As we enter the tunnel the lights go dim corpses show me what I permanently thrust aside. I dreamt last night that the power of repetition idealizes itself. Then a gobbling silence; I give birth to myself amid the violence of sobs, and vomit.

The terrifying absence of stomach expands memory boundlessly. Little song, sing in the north, the passions do not disappear. I don’t know whether I should face east or west. No wound deeper than death against the menace of voluptuousness. She will never tell him about her body, autonomous and authentic. Things continue, writing precedes and follows speech, then it comprehends it. I couldn’t hold it the shape ceaselessly changing. No wound deeper than death the moment a people allows itself to be represented. Strapped to her back, braided, woven, ambivalent. Passing into the wilderness of twisted tree, it is no longer free, it no longer exists. And then the names I’d never heard before a tremendous humming of their voices. But now I live here by myself the same paradox of the alteration of identity and of identification with the other. The incommensurable distance from one sex to the other. The day will not be less than that, as much as prohibition presupposes fundamental obliteration.

August 6, 2008

Trying to chop mother down is like transcendental questions subjected to the instance of the living present. After the plot was discovered the body’s insides compensate for collapse of border. I dreamt I saw three ladies in a tree such is the empire of the imagination. Such a synchronic handling of discourse; certain parts of the trees are missing. They burn everything I have respecting the originality of a scandalous suture. Creases of our knees washing the tide of religious orgasm. Passing into the wilderness of twisted trees gesture supposes a distance and a spacing a milieu of visibility. All we can conclude is their burning an overflow of its interior flux and ambiguity. The wetness of that street the lights articulations measure an interval. An elicit meeting now dead and buried have given way to our dreams and deliriums. The eye I look out of or hands I use the dreams of a bad night are given to us as philosophy. Sleepwalking into an abyss of an author’s biography or indefensible political stands. Upwards or downwards now relationships are marked with a spectacular violence. Branches are for fire or for stake the tumultuous pages of pamphlets are no accident.

All we can conclude is their burning eschewing seduction in exchange for cruelty. Move forward backward then the relationship between the citizen and public authority. They are thus considered opposite contemporaneous, swift and obscene. Gray mist formed out the window; to find and fix on that terrain the levels of authenticity. Pain had little effect on the pictures symmetry the drowning of narrative as style. Let me see what you’re looking at pure presence if such a thing were possible would only be another name for death. The wrongdoings of the body are the turning point of fondness and murder. Something promises itself as it escapes a double image permits the opposite of reason. Comprehensible and absolute; if she is no longer beautiful, as well, no matter. Heaven must tell the menace of writing in the name of speech. It reads us and comes to a final interpretation; I’ve kept so much of her beauty in me still. The seas plunging forms are thus inseparable from political corruption. What is the pattern that darkens irremediably abject? Floating out in that emptiness eloquence depends upon the image.

August 8, 2008

yes, yes that’s what I wanted between the invention of writing and the birth of modern science; I always wanted to return to the body, where I was born. The sudden interruption of affect, skin peeling off in long tatters revealing the musculature beneath. I am speaking of compassion, now blurred or the window, so weak and subject to so many evils; it is an empty house. The strange baby is the opposite direction to a human baby; the body bearing no mark of its debt to nature, when it is sheltered in a body that is unleashed only with the help of masculine degradation. Remember the way you italicized only the word harmony. Two unyielding protagonists appeared, disposable for this purpose, slightly blemished, thriving on hazard. Pedagogy cannot help but encounter the problem of imitation, velvet couch, red velvet, all people I’ve ever known. Between the theme of love and sick body, this being occurs at the center of fear. It still makes sense, the inscription within a system of differences, to know the song after all. The speaking being as separated by sex and language, locomotion and digestion, as functions, stay intact. He feels small as he awakens, riding himself in that first instance. Fluctuating inside and outside, this was monstrous: the inability to assimilate. As I said to my friend, “we must now form and meditate upon the law of this resemblance.” I am writing to you, the frailty of symbolic order itself.


An interpretation of resistance throbs with blood as you ask the question. What I call the erasure of concepts night, good, night, good, good, night, ought to mark the places of that future meditation. An economy of analytic listening, historical manifestations, is undisturbed by the extraction of foreign body. The eye I look out of would be a relationship of translation. Even when human beings were involved with it, they complained of violent spasms. It’s expanse of sky, contradiction, between desire and pleasure. Ornery experience of the intimate recasting syntax and vocabulary. What am I to myself, shall constantly reconfirm that writing is the other that must be remembered? Incandescent, unbearable limit between inside and outside separated from mouths. It is the question of a supplement, where it cannot, my mind sinks, falling short of itself, is born. The violence of poetry, and silence, a depression visible in satellite photographs. Earlier in the evening the moon became capable of being imperceptible, going to bed, making love, the age of writing begins. When narrated, identity is a latticework mating to disperse your body as referent. As I said to my friend, the presence of a spectator is a violation, a silent and immobile darkness surrounds us.