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.