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.