December 29
Emigres of all kinds overshadow us, their furtiveness, their eternal repetition in an age of illusions all the more alluring for being vague. Absorbed in a sweet, boundless sort of hallucination, supported by sustained chords, dangerous remarks, the simplest stories. Porcelains, iron and bicycles. (The relation of movement to rest.) Disguised words from foreign languages, a hidden structure necessary to deny the evidence and prolong the danger.
Writing in the hope of (corrupting) the time to come distinguishes it, the melancholy and misanthrophic train of ideas, vagabond symbolic passage of man’s image, transmits, shifts and multiplies, uncertain and inexhaustible, acquires assignable form in the confused result of accidents, the diseases and other accidents of human life repeated night after night, a decor that situates subjects in the climate itself, utterly superfluous. An entire war machine through which love passes, belonging to it under given relations that leave it mumbling at the altar. In the midst of things, throughout. Between particles. No form, no center of gravity. What is a girl? What is a group of girls? Each of us (everyone) in ourselves, immobilized and incapable of eliminating all that is resemblence. As a woman flees, disguised, helplessly into the depths. Choking, frozen, down a narrow road in among the trees, the mysterious world, the poison garden. Another specific instance of a greater or lesser number of similar operations whispered, whispered and indefatigably repeated, the same endless and tirelessly-repeated complaints, the harassment of an imagination sharpened by pain, its essence mingled with the criminal, led there to the last degree of curruption, the power to act. The slow death.
The slow death whose countless threads raise questions in the social sphere, in a world where the rigorously-executed mechanical work of dissension and shameful distress prevails and theories of economy and necessity are arbitrary in the last instance. There are rules, rules it constructs, the principle, the engine to it a personality whose powers borrowed from science only their disguise. Voltairean stories in different shapes emitting mournful sounds and piercing cries. Instincts adrift and out of history, a frightening picture of the future, the management of days by devotion towards error, towards the severe principle exclusive of its fantastic text, within the grandiloquence of ideas and continual sarcasms. Humiliated in an abandon by silence to transgression, after long hesitations eroded into monologue.
The unfailing plenitude of presumption. This then is the phase of abatement, simplification and discrimination, with the signature and sanction of the true and untrue around us, of shadows and prowlers, of gold crosses glittering in sunlight. A vague story ending in a suicide certain to be a failure.
Entering into the life of men to learn what goes on. Plunging from glowing emotions, from so low a level, movements which lie in the depths, over a sunken mouth. The power to represent actions, entirely under the pressure of wordless isolation appealing to the dark. Drunken scream and fused detachment, all finely produced to satisfy, to concede and release. Simplicity of heart like coming out of a palace into a ruined cottage.
The voices coming anyway. Shadows in daylight to be engulfed. Stuck and flickering. Vaguely in the dim light bodies falling, going in and out in the darkness. Vanished, come into view again. A mouthful of water and then setting down. Breathing without a sound. Into silence, each mumbling down the narrow passage to wish ourselves dead. Stupefying fumes of the heavy sea. No stars, no sun, no universe. Only the sparrows as sparrows.
In the center, ceaseless grief.
And all the buildings started moving, while doing nothing. Adrift somehow. Satisfied with the illusion. As people do. Easier to attain than to get rid of. To regard death, at some unspecified point far from the actual frontier, as rare transmutation to the rising of revellers, bitter and blind, wine gone, a dull wrack where all is dark. Below, experience is keeping silent under the constant effort of having to do something, the fundamental division of labor, the normal condition as beast of burden, crucified and murdered and let starve. The loot of every other great and lonely rising of millions.
The rising of millions with the parade of cannons. The little, impotent, mystical and sadistic, finally become capable. Crowds strolling the broad avenues in the mild April weather. An interminable procession of days. Weightless, lonely, going to seed in a distracted condition become beautiful. Afternoon light, glistening in amazement at the weeping face. Confessing two rooms and a kitchen deep. Minor disturbances begin to exhaust the good old days. Down with infinite precautions, fear of material consequences.
Truth as tactics.
Room for living as solution.
An empty room contains listeners.
The mistake one makes is to speak.
Emigres of all kinds overshadow us, their furtiveness, their eternal repetition in an age of illusions all the more alluring for being vague. Absorbed in a sweet, boundless sort of hallucination, supported by sustained chords, dangerous remarks, the simplest stories. Porcelains, iron and bicycles. (The relation of movement to rest.) Disguised words from foreign languages, a hidden structure necessary to deny the evidence and prolong the danger.
Writing in the hope of (corrupting) the time to come distinguishes it, the melancholy and misanthrophic train of ideas, vagabond symbolic passage of man’s image, transmits, shifts and multiplies, uncertain and inexhaustible, acquires assignable form in the confused result of accidents, the diseases and other accidents of human life repeated night after night, a decor that situates subjects in the climate itself, utterly superfluous. An entire war machine through which love passes, belonging to it under given relations that leave it mumbling at the altar. In the midst of things, throughout. Between particles. No form, no center of gravity. What is a girl? What is a group of girls? Each of us (everyone) in ourselves, immobilized and incapable of eliminating all that is resemblence. As a woman flees, disguised, helplessly into the depths. Choking, frozen, down a narrow road in among the trees, the mysterious world, the poison garden. Another specific instance of a greater or lesser number of similar operations whispered, whispered and indefatigably repeated, the same endless and tirelessly-repeated complaints, the harassment of an imagination sharpened by pain, its essence mingled with the criminal, led there to the last degree of curruption, the power to act. The slow death.
The slow death whose countless threads raise questions in the social sphere, in a world where the rigorously-executed mechanical work of dissension and shameful distress prevails and theories of economy and necessity are arbitrary in the last instance. There are rules, rules it constructs, the principle, the engine to it a personality whose powers borrowed from science only their disguise. Voltairean stories in different shapes emitting mournful sounds and piercing cries. Instincts adrift and out of history, a frightening picture of the future, the management of days by devotion towards error, towards the severe principle exclusive of its fantastic text, within the grandiloquence of ideas and continual sarcasms. Humiliated in an abandon by silence to transgression, after long hesitations eroded into monologue.
The unfailing plenitude of presumption. This then is the phase of abatement, simplification and discrimination, with the signature and sanction of the true and untrue around us, of shadows and prowlers, of gold crosses glittering in sunlight. A vague story ending in a suicide certain to be a failure.
Entering into the life of men to learn what goes on. Plunging from glowing emotions, from so low a level, movements which lie in the depths, over a sunken mouth. The power to represent actions, entirely under the pressure of wordless isolation appealing to the dark. Drunken scream and fused detachment, all finely produced to satisfy, to concede and release. Simplicity of heart like coming out of a palace into a ruined cottage.
The voices coming anyway. Shadows in daylight to be engulfed. Stuck and flickering. Vaguely in the dim light bodies falling, going in and out in the darkness. Vanished, come into view again. A mouthful of water and then setting down. Breathing without a sound. Into silence, each mumbling down the narrow passage to wish ourselves dead. Stupefying fumes of the heavy sea. No stars, no sun, no universe. Only the sparrows as sparrows.
In the center, ceaseless grief.
And all the buildings started moving, while doing nothing. Adrift somehow. Satisfied with the illusion. As people do. Easier to attain than to get rid of. To regard death, at some unspecified point far from the actual frontier, as rare transmutation to the rising of revellers, bitter and blind, wine gone, a dull wrack where all is dark. Below, experience is keeping silent under the constant effort of having to do something, the fundamental division of labor, the normal condition as beast of burden, crucified and murdered and let starve. The loot of every other great and lonely rising of millions.
The rising of millions with the parade of cannons. The little, impotent, mystical and sadistic, finally become capable. Crowds strolling the broad avenues in the mild April weather. An interminable procession of days. Weightless, lonely, going to seed in a distracted condition become beautiful. Afternoon light, glistening in amazement at the weeping face. Confessing two rooms and a kitchen deep. Minor disturbances begin to exhaust the good old days. Down with infinite precautions, fear of material consequences.
Truth as tactics.
Room for living as solution.
An empty room contains listeners.
The mistake one makes is to speak.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 1:08 PM
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