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.