Sunday, 2 December, 1995

Better than this intolerable effort to manage crisis only through the outside, so violently. Inexplicable handfuls, oh scatter away, at all costs to discard the book: shelter, supply, movement, evasion and breakout; guests of the same house, contemptuous and disappeared.
Affairs, night, numbness: atrocious uselessness.

Injustice added to the exasperation. Discouraged, raised upon a marble surface and to hang without stopping writing. Steal in order to get caught. Blurry terrain here, like her legs tucked under her, indicating the sincerest affection, with such vehemence. There are only vectors in the most rudimentary form, forced to abandon their own line of descent in the hope of discovering the true theory, at once natural and artificial: the wide, sloping pavement back to the same second-rate. Belonging to it. Able to postpone until now, has gently taken place an inopportune attempt. Generated, it nevertheless survives. In winter and in the middle. The same applies to memory: act at a distance, come or return. To fire in unison. To remain in the embrace. Controlling, moved to sudden enthusiasm, slipped past. Reality is what aborts. No lilies, no battleships. External facts, as they were reported. In order to designate something exactly by suspecting it. Many a furor is able to express another way of not knowing ourselves.

Activity, the terrain again. The old walls, space. All the same from inside. Specific performances occurring within and upon allow us to experience what we are experiencing. A sexual act in darkness. Vision made monstrous. Veins breaking through the breast know who Dostoevsky is. One's own body the final resort. Silence may be an accurate remembering, where the flesh gives rise to mystical feelings of perdition, audible but not acknowledged. The base and body of undiscovered functions. At sunrise after a night of sleeplessness, monuments become the functioning part, the least difficult or dangerous still-believing. In other words, the movement of the problem clear enough. The long snake of red morocco. (As if by sacrilege . . . etc etc)

Yesterday and the day before yesterday side by side in a gesture of defiance, in varying relations of dependence. No boots made without leather, nerve, brain, etc.

Morning and evening fitting together very badly, as a set of emanations, scenery within which to discharge intensities over distance, to make the ritual submissions of tears. Duets and trios and quartets. And anything else, considering.

Humans acting in this world.

To go downtown to the habitual glare of the night. Among others right on to the scrap, on to a garden metamorphosed, configured among these hospitals in everyday theories of disorder in narrative. Questions of furniture and decoration. Those bourgeois optics which blind. Differences operating within behavior can be located within this trajectory and a property like everywhere else. Crysanthemums appear, perhaps place the battle on the ground. Science journals and the newspapers distinctly and bitterly name the effects. The often brutish speed of any fullness. Mechanically caressing, suddenly dispelled, like an assault or abandonment. Natural, justifiable and inevitable; triggered by these losses.

Any bare walls later on, inured to the absolute silence gliding past in the twilight of maps and the disrupting . . . and invisibility. Calling forth the simple feebleness which real rivers take on. Dreamy vassalage to time. The distinctive mark of human genius. Producing a fair imitation of the object. To seek entry into what it parodies.

All the dark, majestic charmers spinning in their wide circles. Reiterated, performative, occuring in structured attentiveness to citational references. Mechanically bisected, implanted and rooted. Syntax without color.

Strategies and structures for making nothingness. A small touch, no more insipid than the rest. An excess dispersal of moving gestures around a table, exchanging old-fashioned expressions clumsily restored. All societies shaken by antitheses, strewn to pieces at the same time. Lost, broken arguments that will be repeated down the ages. Sedative promises of activity through objects; procedures that permanently alter their new idiom, vanish from sight beneath the ruins.

Flaws located in the hard metal object, in documents, in projects and through modes. Dust, soot, magnetic filings, while the stammering grace cannot add much.

Go downtown, approach this uninhabited region. Embody and document a long scrutiny under artificial light; phosphorescent fires against a dull, complex spectacle of dissolving.