A kind of a "dangerous supplement", marked, scarred on a body, post-orgasmically, always, already in anticipation of (a) crisis OR for a desert avec 'agape'. Mindb(l)ogg(l)ing Noise. "Avalanche, would you share my last pursuit?" (Baudelaire)

Wednesday, March 10, 2004

and let’s start from scratch [again] or after we start, let there be more night

'Who am I
where do I come from
I am Antonin Artaud
and I say it
as only I know how to
and you will see my real body
bursting into fragments
under 10,000 notorious looks
as a new body
which you'll never be able to forget
for it's me
the Man
who will be judge
in the final reckoning
it's to me
that all the elements
of body and things
will come to be referred
it's the state of my
body will shape
the Last Judgement...' - Antonin Artaud, a little postscript to a poem on the Theatre of Cruelty

‘Coudre: 1. "I could ... stitch", and to do this I will have to pierce the skin of the figure with a needle or a pointed lead, to perforate it, to penetrate it, to riddle it with holes, but I can stitch 2. in order to close the wound, to stitch it up, to scar it, and I can do this even to the wound which I open up while stitching. I wiled the thread which repairs, reassembles the tissues, ties them together; i adjust the garment which, covering the surface of the body, moulds to it in its natural form, reveals the form in covering it.

Couturer, in fact, shares its ambivalence with coudre (to pierce but also to tie together the tissues, skin, canvas or flesh) but it still adds its own ... To be occupied with seaming means to cover incessantly with scars. For this is the sense of this verb which applies the stitching or sewing of a seam exclusively to the flesh. Having a seamed body means being able to show it covered with traces, scars from cuts and injuries.

Gratter: 1. "I could ... scratch" because I could irritate the surface, attack it by friction using an instrument attached to the edge of the hand, and this may be the fingernail. By scratching it I risk inflicting injuries, I cause the body on which I thereby lay hands to lose substance. I want to get my hands on it.’

Excerpts from Jacques Derrida, "Forcener le subjectile".

Romeo and Juliet envisaged as a bunch of fucking creeps

Gaze at stars. Werewolves and ghosts and books, paper bag travel into void, words twitching here and (t)here, all over the place, growing darker each day, bolts scattered, that machine (we have no time left for angels) that steamed its way, its topos (ouranios) where She had stolen the take take, take away cheese all American Apple pie made from [imported apples], guts splashing out and look at that that’s my hand, but my hand is here, no his hand is there (heard of this thing called some ancient name, when you lose a part of your body, you get a phantom/ghost part in its place that haunts you now and then before you get used to it) and She bites and bites and again, and when you get the other Other telling you its allright then you go for it, we’ll beat the bad guy later on, when we break Him into pieces – no no St. Augustine, the Archon had been unable to provide us with the straight, highway, always there, no turns or pages missing, yeah yeah we got him in the corner now let’s take him down, no no he’s managing an amazing recovery and then, She runs ashamed, tries to pick out a nice dress from the cupboard [obviously made of fig tree] and he puts on his clothes back, that was good sweet-heart, and look now big daddy is coming down from upstairs and he’s fucking mad, you know, She had made a little deal with his little angel there, what the fuck was he meant to do, say it’s allright, have another go, but she hadn’t left a single piece, She had crossed the line(τομή), went a little it too far now, what you think you doin’ in there, huh, hiding in the cupboard like a stupid fuck, that’s She we’re talking about, and the clouds roared and the heavens wept and the light was cast away and there came wrath and the problem of evil was in sight, are you there already, great deceiver who hath made my woman engage in several acts of cannibalism over the last three years, is it true that you and the you who ‘who are you who who who who’* were acting a little strange and information shows that, repetition, repetition, I have lost my repetition, maybe he’s getting a little juvenile, we’ll fix that up for good and then his wife got pregnant (M.F. kicked them out of his house for good, no more playing mister wise, actually omniscient, omnipotent and, of course, or to draw your attention to, omnipresent [and omnibenevolent] guy, you fuck with the One and you find there are parts missing, all those warnings and look what they did, he/She fuck with something as fragile and he/She know its going to break and that other guy, who let him loose, turns round to his goons, είπα σας shίλιες φορές, εσείς εν ακούτε, βαόννετε το κανjέλλιν, εσείς τίποτε, and he sent them off to do his dirty laundry with Julius, he was doing time) they had I dunno how many kids and lived happily ever after as their genes would move on from generation to generation, too bad about the old one, Babel was it, something like that. Which of course is not true. [Except maybe for the phantom leg that was definitely (t)here.]

*The Who

‘Χρεώνει βαριές ευθύνες στους κομμουνιστές αυτό το εκλογικό αποτέλεσμα. Να γίνουν καλύτεροι, ποιοτικότεροι, να κάνουν περισσότερα ώστε αυτός ο πυρήνας να απλωθεί μ' αυτά τα χαρακτηριστικά σ' όλα τα μέτωπα. Διά ταύτα: Η ξεκούραση του πολεμιστή μετά τη μάχη, αναβάλλεται. Γιατί έχουμε αγώνα... σήμερα. Για να μπορούμε να βλέπουμε τον μπούσουλα να παίζει καρτίνι με καρτίνι όλο και πιο κοντά στη λαϊκή συμμαχία, για τη λαϊκή εξουσία και οικονομία που έχουν ανάγκη η εργατική τάξη και τ' άλλα λαϊκά στρώματα.’ - Rizospastis, 10/3/2004

‘Once, in 1946, while still an adolescent, I was to sign my name on the other side of the sky during a fantastic "realistico-imaginary" journey. That day, as I lay stretched upon the beach of Nice, I began to feel hatred for birds which flew back and forth across my blue sky, cloudless sky, because they tried to bore holes in my greatest and most beautiful work.

Jonathan Swift, in his Voyage to Laputa, gave the distances and periods of rotation of the satellites of Mars though they were unknown at the time;
When the American astronomer, Asoph Hall, discovered them in 1877, he realized his measurements were the same as those of Swift. Seized by panic, he named them Pbobos and Deimos, Fear and Terror! With these two words - Fear and Terror - I find myself before you in the year 1946, ready to dive into the void.
Long Live the Immaterial!
And now,
Thank you for your kind attention.

Hotel Chelsea, New York, 1961’

["The Chelsea Hotel Manifesto"]

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