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.