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.