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
