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.