writing x

only one thing remains reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. yes, language. in spite of everything, it remains secure against loss. but it has to go through its own lack of answers, through terrifying silence, through the thousand darknesses of murderous speech. it goes through. it gives me no words for what is happening, but goes through it

hardly any time between then and now has passed that i have not unfolded within myself

as christ has died and been resurrected, diffused, with increased powers in capitalism … so literature has died and been resurrected, diffused, with increased powers in communication

once – desert fathers and mothers

now – dessert authors and others

the book talks with the book, why would i talk with you?

you’re a writer?

   music plays me

so you’re an instrument of music?

   words are the notation system i use to manifest the sensations music creates in me

the body uses less energy than action; this greater efficiency is a circuit of writing

the writer as receiver (and what else is writing?) seems not to do much of anything, this unproductivity its productivity

everything has to go slower as it requires more time to keep up with the increasing pace of everything. the clocks are not in unison. writing is staying in these multiplicities of time

travelling is aesthetic foraging foragry forgery and aesthetic forgery is writing

only as i leave the book behind does it appear

writing transforms shit to words, words to shit, through an alchemical ecosystem tucked in history’s folds, time’s genitalia

dream is root and writing its flower

i exile myself in language to simulate apophatic affirmation, this hiding yes, to seek deserts i can no longer know except on the denudation of the page and the evolution of my feet on the city’s empty calendar