as technology increases so writing, but
whereas writing once had to negotiate spheres apart from technology to enter
itself, now its negotiations are those within. we trek into the traced tracing unknowns
of interior madnesses (no madnesses though, but reflecting unreflectings),
seeking what we imagine as memories of those spheres apart, but might rather be
the principles of the operations of technology itself.
writing’s dialogue with emptiness is more a
waiting in a plenitude of voices until they don’t cancel each other out but
become so accustomed to plurality and seeming contradictoriness that no-place (hardly a utopia,
hardly dystopian) becomes a ground and this ground (or rather a seeming lack)
becomes a dialogue (or rather dialogues) without resolution or resolve.
emptiness is a never-ending deluge of names, writing its film.
that writing and waiting are a letter apart –
and this the difference between a soft consonant and a diphthongian vowel – is
a mark of history: messiah never comes,
nor the antichrist, not equality or analogical collapse, not love or peace
except in measures of indifference and strife … but waiting and with it signs,
signs of waiting.
i have said in the darkness – and said too in
the light that darkness wears – that saying is looking through an unelectric
window onto orange clouds in canopies of infinitely nested canopies. (but in
the darkness saying looks at many things.)
i do not write. my body writes. and my body –
this i that other bodies call an i but at most seems some placeholder for the
collapse and choreography of innumerable i’s – is written by the non-sum of
confusions of these callings. so what is sometimes called activity and
passivity, i and us, flesh and word, calling and looking, in writing lose
distinction, and this losing seems what writing is or becomes or writes.
non sum qualis eram
that humans seem ancillary to writing, that
the book (in that other language) seems of origins or placement, and all this as
otherness, as writing and even humans seem ancillary to themselves could be
(for those who write anyway) not much … not much … if it weren’t for these
words rooted in a soiled heart.
the universe is made of words, not photons,
higgs bosons, waves, or whatever the physicists sing to us in their
incomprehensible and cloned ballads. or rather – the universe is made of
photons but these no more than pitayas or windmills. words are the elementary
particles and scientists just those who’ve deluded bulky followers into
accepting the false supremacy of their tiny dictionaries.
writing, it’s been written, at least of a
certain quality, is honest, attaining an honesty unachievable in society’s
discourse, love’s rhetoric, the academy’s presumed mathematics, and it might be
this unachievability it achieves – through a ruse not quite believable – that
the writer becomes addicted to. (addicted?
if so, an addiction so incorporated into corporeality that it can’t be
classified as such without a destruction of the classifiers.) the writer,
though – if it’s of this uncertain quality – doesn’t particularly feel it has
attained any distinction but is moved in configurations that from the perches
of other discourses, rhetorics, mathematics, could be called almost anything.
in other words, the writer’s speaking from
society’s non-speaking plays less on axes of truth and falsehood, more along, through circuits of non-speaking
… this writing of non-speaking a lipless
smirk, an unwept tear
the writer’s distance, if it be a distance,
is of such a function as to be an equivalence of the within it’s distant from
