each moment is manageable only by the instants you look at me. each little death is the risk i take to make you better, and one more step i take to delete myself and become at one with your longing, i'm not sure about anything else. except. i know what it is to be incapacitated by love. and tough arrogance or lack of brings me closer to the pit of you of me. that place where we are no different. because we both dont know anything about the future s and our pasts mix so that... who becomes who? if i didnt recognise the longing i feel to recuperate your agonies i wouldnt come along looking for you thinking i am somethingyouve never seen nor met before. i know i know you dont know how to trust in what i am saying, so dont. trust your decisions towards me.

Well you burst on the scene
Already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You strayed into my arms
And there you stayed
Temporarily lost at sea
The Madonna was yours for free
Yes the girl on the half-shell
Would keep you unharmed

you blow the life around her
and let her dance in it

I do not think that the other is, I speak to him. He is my partner in the heart of the relation which to say, I have neglected the universal being that he incarnates in order to hold on to the particular being that he is.

who's he?

he describes insomnia in terms of experience of the horror of the Il y a, of the space not empty but filled with darkness, in which consciousness is given over to the night, submerged, depersonalised. In the night the things of the day are reduced to indeterminacy, they 'sweat being'

The sense of the human is not to be measured by presence, not even by self-presence. The meaning of proximity exceeds the limits of ontology, of the human essence, and of the world. It signifies by way of transcendence and the relationship-to-God-in-me (l'a-Dieu-en-moi) which is the putting of myself into question. The face signifies in the fact of summoning, of summoning me. in its nudity or its destitution, in everything that is precarious in questioning, in all the hazards of mortality - to the unresolved alternative between Being and Nothingness, a questioning which, ipso facto, summons me .The Infinite in its absolute difference witholds itself from presence in me; the Infinite does not come to meet me in a contemporaneousness like that in which noesis and noema meet simultaneously together, nor in the way in which the interlocutors responding to one another may meet. The Infinite is not indifferent to me. It is in calling me to other men that transcendence concerns me. In this unique intrigue of transcendence, the non-absence of the Infinite is neither presence, nor re-presentation. Instead, the idea of the Infinite is to be found in my responsibility for the Other.s

'Beyond Intentionality' Levinas

To love her is, in the Spirit of self-control, to allow her a free space of becoming. To love her is to remember that God gives her life and a task in the Spirit. To love her is to cultivate a free space of silence between us so that we might live and work together according to the Spirit's intention. To love her is to acknowledge the freedom of the one who lives and breathes in the Spirit.

says the philosopher, says the psychoanalyst, says the artist, says 'where's the all the music gone', says, has a bad time sleeping, says, feels at home in hospital, says caring nature, says adoptive tendancies - new children, says a new world is supposed to be opening, says there are people everywhere trying to guide me, what to do, says no sleep, no time, no time for un concentration, says its a figure of speech, I wanna dance, says I don't like the way you move your lips, we're done. says your a healer, your a unique personality, you'll drive him crazy, says you've wasted so much time, says time is the essence of squander.

old notes.

these wanderings take you towards the Other, towards others, be they your historical contemporaries, or, in the exploration of the 'I', those others others of the I itself. And within that journey lies another that tells the story of the quest of someone making her way in the dark, with her eyes closed, towards the light, in her joys, her suffering, her condition, her crimes too.

You take great risks along the way, entering territory where you don't know what you'll find.

listens to itself being written and retraces its own steps, that re-inscribes

We are feeding off ancient discourses

cultivated like a piece of land

throws out words like bait

What

As long as a woman is possessed and allows herself to be held, body + texts, the the interior of the old, paternal & capitalist structure that reduces and prostitutes her, and as long as a woman subjects herself to the law which recognises her only as a merchants object, she is forbidden to think, to progress, to produce the extraordinary, the original and the life.

the capacity that one has of being more intelligent than oneself

The unconcious strivings of ordinary life often hinder a person at a time when he ought to show improvement

How do you know action when you are not a man of action? We know action only by action. We can understand science only by science, form by form, meaning by meaning. There is no traveller on this road of action: if we act how can people perceive it and see us on the road? Indeed this action is not fasting and prayer. These are forms of action. Action is inward and deals with meaning.

the other is the main character

You talked about Dura's work as being something that you could hardly recall; a kind of writing full of power that was instantly draining away. And Focault replied, 'yes your right; it's a kind of memory without recollection.' I think then you spoke about loss in writing, that for Duras the loss is never ending, there is always more to lose.

it's about you and your relation to looking at something

To dance is to live. What I want is a school of life. 

Isadora Duncan.

dance a different dance

you almost killed me honey

So live your life my queen, and don't be afraid

you are beautiful and you are alone

I'm going in

de·sert¹/dəˈzərt/

verb abandon (a person, cause, or organization) in a way considered disloyal or treacherous.

des·ert²/ˈdezərt/

noun a dry, barren area of land, especially one covered with sand, that is characteristically desolate, waterless, and without vegetation.

adjective like a desert.

de·sert³/dəˈzərt/

noun a person's worthiness or entitlement to reward or punishment.

Thus the gods fashioned her, delicate and ethereal as the mists of a summer's night and yet plump like a ripened fruit, light as a bird in spite of the fact that she carried a world of craving, light because of the play of forces is unified at the invisible center of a negative relationship in which she related to herself...

Regina and Felice - In repetition of Her

More than me

if i were with you
i would stay here
forever
i would need go nowhere
no mountain
would impress me
no culture
could interest me
more than yours

no touch could taunt me
more than yours
no look could make me at home
more than yours.

and i
i would make a promise
to be, every single mouth in the world

i would learn, every dance that ever existed
so that nothing, nowhere
no corner of the earth
would you find more exotic.

and nothing,

could seduce you to leave



/More than me

every little

If the mountain had gone up her skirt
he had come back down to create a storm -
her body could manage,
and keep the pain within her
for a little longer

live with her and through her
til the physical sensation had passed
and she were light again

she had felt his violence
like a cowhorn riche,
from the beginning

from the way he
spoke

from his every response

Don't let anyone see me here please.

Back to the dog, the fridge, the apron.
Back to bike. Back to the boring manner in which you speak to me
about, my future
Back to boomtown, caravan, back to
every last
inch
of my endeavour
back to lessons, back to skinny
back to paper records
of a trip long passed
.................................

you said, its all smoke
come with me
.................................

but back to the big smoke
the very big smoke
of my endeavour

back to coffee morning
gallery entrance
running
by the canal
of my accident
.........................

back to -
'by the side of your lip'
I cowered
on your big shiny balcony
I cowered

Vineyard Philosophies
I will see you soon.

There's a museum in her heart.
And she's trying to break the glass

What if, her stream of consciousness, was not anything that resembled a stream. And her tears could not be analysed by the temporariness of her disillusion. What if her feet sank into the ground like she'd never known her own weight, and that she bounced back up, without even the slightest change in temperament. What if the weapon they put up her had tangled her insides so that she could no longer be identified as a properly distinguishable person. What if, there was no person of her at all now, just a vase, a carrier of the tanks that taught her what she is, before she forgot everything and got washed out. Again. What if she were born and then killed so that she'd had to start over, learn how it is to be. And what if they wanted to then tell her that she had learned her behaviours from the rats she knew well, and she should say, did you know its possible that I am alive more, because, she had been born again truer. What if the trauma you had rubbed on her had arranged her mechanisms so that they were no longer recognisable by any of the books. What if her story were simple, and it were hers? And you knew nothing of it, no nothing of it, no, never never. What if, you tried to sum her up but fell for her instead. The love that you feel when you can't contain the thing you see so you cower, give up, and she tells you thats the last thing she ever wanted... to bear, to bear the weight of your heavy heavy head.

But what if her words fell through the gaps of what is dispel-able and stay sitting there, waiting for your happy hand, to get it all wrong. And what if she'd been through enough wars to tell you she's a warrior but she couldn't say so, she needn't say so because she can't remember, and she doesn't care. What if she nodded at you madly like a dog, and she pawed at you and she made you feel you should want to tear her world apart?

wearing your clothes

laying in your bed

she needn't have a history.

Because you'd punched it all out f her til she'd become collapsable, carrier, torn and wide open.

But she glowed, she glowed of it

and you thought it was all for you.

And so you stripped her and buried her in your tenderness, and blood. And when the morning took over her, she rose up, rose up and you realised... she might just be, something, like God.