(April 29/06)
I will never think straight, all of my thoughts, the process of thinking, are bent, twisted into an authentic doubt. I think from back to front, an a posterior that antecedes the first premise, a false hypothesize, a conviction that back is front and front back, an inversion of thinking. I think like a Ulyssean character trapped in a disinterestedness that is disinterested, twice removed from the thinker. I think circuitously, in a tangential reticulation of thoughts that has no beginning or end, simply a jumping in point, a junction between thoughts, a Derridian reconstruction of what has yet to be deconstructed.
‘These figures of speech, these awkward expressions for which you reproach me, I have noticed and accepted. Remember: I did not contest them. They stem from the profound uncertainty of my thought, I consider myself fortunate indeed when this uncertainty is not replaced by the absolute nonexistence from which I suffer at times’. (Antonin Artaud, June 5th, 1923)
If thought has a sound, my is cacophonous, a wailing disunity that begs dissonance and disharmony, a Banshee screeching at the top of her lungs. Words drowning in an amniotic rupture, a heresy of meddlesome nonsense, an agitation of text, syntax and meaning, an ensanguination. All thoughts, all thinking, is private, quarantined, a solipsistic detachment from being-in-the-world (the word).
Eleven Hours
I’ve only seen one dead person up close
and he’d been that way for eleven hours
his hands were gripped into fists
knuckles whiter than chalk dust
and his eyes were wide open
staring at something on the ceiling
or maybe at nothing at all
The Taking
the Taking of Christ
sparrow’s blood, golem-oil
and stale biscuits
Caravaggio’s skeptic gaze
Judah with rabbit-skin, ox-bile
and cadger’s glue
I will never think straight, all of my thoughts, the process of thinking, are bent, twisted into an authentic doubt. I think from back to front, an a posterior that antecedes the first premise, a false hypothesize, a conviction that back is front and front back, an inversion of thinking. I think like a Ulyssean character trapped in a disinterestedness that is disinterested, twice removed from the thinker. I think circuitously, in a tangential reticulation of thoughts that has no beginning or end, simply a jumping in point, a junction between thoughts, a Derridian reconstruction of what has yet to be deconstructed.
‘These figures of speech, these awkward expressions for which you reproach me, I have noticed and accepted. Remember: I did not contest them. They stem from the profound uncertainty of my thought, I consider myself fortunate indeed when this uncertainty is not replaced by the absolute nonexistence from which I suffer at times’. (Antonin Artaud, June 5th, 1923)
If thought has a sound, my is cacophonous, a wailing disunity that begs dissonance and disharmony, a Banshee screeching at the top of her lungs. Words drowning in an amniotic rupture, a heresy of meddlesome nonsense, an agitation of text, syntax and meaning, an ensanguination. All thoughts, all thinking, is private, quarantined, a solipsistic detachment from being-in-the-world (the word).
Eleven Hours
I’ve only seen one dead person up close
and he’d been that way for eleven hours
his hands were gripped into fists
knuckles whiter than chalk dust
and his eyes were wide open
staring at something on the ceiling
or maybe at nothing at all
The Taking
the Taking of Christ
sparrow’s blood, golem-oil
and stale biscuits
Caravaggio’s skeptic gaze
Judah with rabbit-skin, ox-bile
and cadger’s glue
