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.