I could drink a case of you

“We must kill the false woman who is preventing the live one from breathing.” 

“The more I anoint the more my mind adheres physically to the mysterious fabric of love.
I am decutie. Worn thin. You know that word?”
― Hélène Cixoux

“An old cardboard box: you think it but you don't say it.
Leftovers, that are swept up and glued together.
I am your alipte, I say, I am your personal trainer and masseuse. I oil you.
But there's no ointment against the bad thoughts and phantasms.”
― Hélène Cixous

“It is essential to exchange the invisible ring for all that we call survival, survive, survivor.”
― Hélène Cixous

Yesterdays field notes

On writing

Obsessive innerness-

thing-that-writes is in a sense the thing-that-is-being-written

the method is often associatorial as with psychoanalysis. The meanings dormant in etymologies, sounds, permutations of letters, slips of the tongue are given creative importance.
SELF, LANGUAGE, MEANINGS, RELATIONS

It is because of this woven structure that Neutre has been referred to as a "chaosmos" The 'uni'verse that it encompasses has two earth and seas of many colours and textures. It is seemingly disorganized clutter of real and non-real beings in complete anachronism.

Neuter derived from the Latin ne-uter, means 'neither one nor the other' but must be understood to mean 'one is not without the other'
This translation rejects the idea of a neuter which would rise above sexual difference towards an undifferentiated totality towards a conception of sexual difference as a clear cut difference.

Reading as a participatory act
decode

soil-growing

If you skip anything, be it a step or a barrier, you're repressing

Skin is more precious than paper

Reading list
Kafka
Stendhal - the characterisation of Parma
Balzac - the girl with the golden eyes
Nathalie Saurraute
Maguerite Duras
Conrad - the heart of darkness


Kafka---- writing should win & so I lose my life

the value of life and the value of writing

throws out words like bait

cultivated like a piece of land

do I have the right to deprive the world of my embrace and to burden it with my writing or scraps???

Advancing in incomprehension

The book of revelations

Everything takes place as if a man had to achieve a precise goal and said to himself "Here is how I must arrange my weapons, my reserves, my supply, considering the resource at my disposal"

You touched me as if I wasn't there. You looked through me. You didn't answer me. You stayed staring.

Which is the greater gift?

Philosophical blind alleys

anxiety is the dizziness of freedom
infinite possibility despite the sinfulness of the world

oh the malaise of being the world!

In our relationship I built you and you built me.

anxiety stems from the subjects constant need to recreate himself, his responsibility to post a future self in the contingency and disorder of his freedom.

trace of the phantoms that might have been precarious

a school of thought which inspires irrelevance

Derrida in Exile

In or out (Cixous)

Lytords Algeria

Displacing Barthes

Estrangete (Kristeva)

Spivaks echo

La chambre Claire

The Motherland

pre-condition without home

YOUR DEATH is going to happen TO ME

Magic House

I want the world of pulses before destiny

realisation

You turn the dust into diamonds
I turn the diamonds into dust...

Please. Speak./ I will die if you don't speak.

At the height of which
Those vowels entangle me
Caressing, cradling, long letters
Warps and wefts, black threads
A minimalist embroiders dream.
And the soothing oval of his opening
closing mouth
Remedies my holes with speech
those worthy of only kindliness,
that fill me with a ringing ease

your own capacity to home me

peering back
the lethargic letter rests,
lay your head!
on the inside of a hip
an elegant line -
the crisp of the middletone
whom makes the soft heart notes
go sensuously through,
the cutting dark consonants,
thick ink fishtail
the curves and kinks

and, as he blinks, subtly,
its like his lashes were feathers,
of twilight chicks half asleep
and he utters casual letters,
of a God sung script.

Oh how I wake in me wakeful sleep
I need the letters to breath, I need the letters to swim!
Are you still with me?
I can't live without your twigs,
your grammar nest and your breath blanket
branching out into little nerve endings,
a b-boat, a c-cot, a d-dorm, and an egg.

These syllables, these sounds

They are protecting me from the never ending loss of the centre.

Oh man who plays, the men who sing! Words, losses

Full of ease, at pleasure, at yours - open door, 
bleeding speech, bending over... keep going
my little hut... your a boat and a parasol, 

and I collapse, sitting lowly, underneath 
the caverns of your speech.

I will die if you don't speak.

“I’M THE VESTAL PRIESTESS of a secret I’ve forgotten”  
Clarice Lispector

I know a woman

'I know a woman who is at second glance an ensemble of five little boys and one little girl. As for the following glances...'

Cixous