February 7
The night sky grows dim above the trees and streetlamps. Pigeons and dark courtyards. Lines seen, the geometry and monotony of colors after a night without sleep. This erosion subverts and perverts the breath, bare stars diminished, an impossible identification withdraws to make way for the body, and all the consequences in the senses, affects flesh and coincides with it. More subtle, more furious, more desperate, despair and blood in the sensory field. The rattling of plates and silverware with furtive gestures, the glow and accumulation of the elements, endeavouring to compose an impossible regeneration of the total subject without space. Bits and pieces of the sentence. Mathematical mask of roses. The whiteness of the bandage. Language, the peculiar little noise. A watery film over the graves down at the harbor. Aesthetics as history, for example, into the darkness of the entryway, muttering incoherently. These appliances, invented devices for filling up the crevices, shopkeepers and cats, bending underneath the weight of such an extraordinary array. Abolition subject to coherence arouses the thoughtless into uncertainty, space begins, the sound of a bell ringing inside an empty building. And the stupid law which follows. The unlit world where the leaf rots reinstalled in the absolute, rendered impossible, fundamental, absolute and terrible. The smell of flowers on the night air, the wintry heart of the world, the dialectic relativity of sensation torn from the forest and the forest yields a paradise all prepared for this ghoul. Tool, mouth and breast, down on us heavier than ever. The carnal fiction of translation, the rapture of ideology. My collection of valuable observations upon the true nature of human life.
An inexpressibly familiar gesture and then the conversation starts up again, atrocity as allegory.
Blood on a dark parchment announces nothing, recalls nothing. History some vast cocoon in the world of the dead. Enclosed, it expands, with the rapture of a book, too concerned with measuring its future piles of flesh in order to propitiate, in order to prevent escape. Incessantly measuring and enumerating so many phantoms, so many nullified beings, ritualized above humanity, having forever distilled the blood, as if the state were called body. A transcendent, absent, suggestive vibration, an abstract speed, slowness and degrees of all kinds, that turn and seem to occupy the total surface. The materialization of some sombre marriage with what it has pulled from the body.
Those interferences of absence and want which have at last asphyxiated the only means of saving us.
The grace to remember all the wonders by which he has resuscitated your heart. Buried beneath an animal response which has no more free play. Quiet, and a breath of dark hunched over the casket. The uncomfortable vigil. Suspended among all the forms. To sleep now, burying cowardice. The distance getting shorter and shorter every night and every morning. The silence and the bell. My way back to some strange hearth through these signatures.
In some nocturnal conflagration I am forever sleeping. An erotic world that swoons and burns to the division of all things, into which forever it continues to be plunged.
The night sky grows dim above the trees and streetlamps. Pigeons and dark courtyards. Lines seen, the geometry and monotony of colors after a night without sleep. This erosion subverts and perverts the breath, bare stars diminished, an impossible identification withdraws to make way for the body, and all the consequences in the senses, affects flesh and coincides with it. More subtle, more furious, more desperate, despair and blood in the sensory field. The rattling of plates and silverware with furtive gestures, the glow and accumulation of the elements, endeavouring to compose an impossible regeneration of the total subject without space. Bits and pieces of the sentence. Mathematical mask of roses. The whiteness of the bandage. Language, the peculiar little noise. A watery film over the graves down at the harbor. Aesthetics as history, for example, into the darkness of the entryway, muttering incoherently. These appliances, invented devices for filling up the crevices, shopkeepers and cats, bending underneath the weight of such an extraordinary array. Abolition subject to coherence arouses the thoughtless into uncertainty, space begins, the sound of a bell ringing inside an empty building. And the stupid law which follows. The unlit world where the leaf rots reinstalled in the absolute, rendered impossible, fundamental, absolute and terrible. The smell of flowers on the night air, the wintry heart of the world, the dialectic relativity of sensation torn from the forest and the forest yields a paradise all prepared for this ghoul. Tool, mouth and breast, down on us heavier than ever. The carnal fiction of translation, the rapture of ideology. My collection of valuable observations upon the true nature of human life.
An inexpressibly familiar gesture and then the conversation starts up again, atrocity as allegory.
Blood on a dark parchment announces nothing, recalls nothing. History some vast cocoon in the world of the dead. Enclosed, it expands, with the rapture of a book, too concerned with measuring its future piles of flesh in order to propitiate, in order to prevent escape. Incessantly measuring and enumerating so many phantoms, so many nullified beings, ritualized above humanity, having forever distilled the blood, as if the state were called body. A transcendent, absent, suggestive vibration, an abstract speed, slowness and degrees of all kinds, that turn and seem to occupy the total surface. The materialization of some sombre marriage with what it has pulled from the body.
Those interferences of absence and want which have at last asphyxiated the only means of saving us.
The grace to remember all the wonders by which he has resuscitated your heart. Buried beneath an animal response which has no more free play. Quiet, and a breath of dark hunched over the casket. The uncomfortable vigil. Suspended among all the forms. To sleep now, burying cowardice. The distance getting shorter and shorter every night and every morning. The silence and the bell. My way back to some strange hearth through these signatures.
In some nocturnal conflagration I am forever sleeping. An erotic world that swoons and burns to the division of all things, into which forever it continues to be plunged.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 5:53 PM
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