will it make it?
a kind, or fainting, or stalwart affliction transcription?
The relationship with alterity is the original case
of this affliction of the present of consciousness with a past that
it cannot render present, represent. The present is afflicted with
a bond with something that comes to pass without being convertible
into an initiative of the present, and that holds one, and in this
hold distends one.
[READ IT TWICE]
fucked by you recently.
It made me think about modes of pronomial address.
And I pondered in that same eternity
whether the syntatic mayhem I could guess there
in the dark
might collapse the false alterity mocked in the unmeasured space of
bright adoration onto its flows.
underlined, boldface :
YOU [pl.] all want to lose yourselves in
sex. As if and didn't we invent ourselves for that we. That one, in
language. I wish you all lose yourselves. ... As spill,
I which am you wish you who are me all
But what if you which am I? wanted instead
to lose me?
As in, Fuck you, Susan. Sex as an act of forgetting
the other, may be.
It's this small room full of the last small room that's making me
not forget myself like this, standing, unforgotten, beheld, here.
With nothing if I wanted perhaps in response to
your curse to lose myself not you
for language or forget myself
(for you?) in language be where
you (/I) might have thought my fall'd be caught by some implicit palpable
eternal or other....
Try this as a writing practice after Levinas.
... I did.
I forgetting forgetting did. ...
Happy days! I adore you and you fuck me and the same thing
flows away from me. That I cannot dump but beyond me is only
a matter of time. It takes just time and courage to love nothing,
Its adorations unacknowledged destination
adoration has no idea that it is headed for this eating of the
flesh of that which has no flesh. ...
What is adored?
Repetition: Impossibility is that which is adored:
the delicate machine which is meaning but can't produce it.
The same kind of empty hope any syntax gives us, freighted
merely, light spilling from a flame, human. What happened to the night?
I mean, Levinas says language itself might be a “sovereign
waiting and forgetting” opposed to ontology. I call this a temporal
ecstasy after Lyotard. Were this sovereign waiting-forgetting adoration
and what kind of belief not wasting in heavy gauds by a high window
or low pew but properly doing nothing at all, ill-defined and brand
new, a marvel? Absolute waiting might be absorptive, blissed, personless,
unfinished. Where there is no possession, all wind, no constant light.
Where nothing recognizes us.
Adoration is that which renders impossible; its its
service side; just try to find an object. Adoration throws
No you, no I. Its “passive,” “hopeless,” “overexcited,” inexhaustible.
Lit which knows what's here, it; thanks. Adoration throws itself because
it has to. But I wouldn't waste your pity on it. It's reminding itself
of eternity this way. The, not the, sweet sink of many, every. Bidden;
oh. Crept ontos.
Tense and sudden: elapsed always so that I can lean into
it without any risk I recognize; what language structure am I? that
makes this tautology vivid as presence.
Its, too, the place where I pause; and pause. Aporia
total, mind-jammed, complacent if stood, desperate at midnight, ouch
divine; impossible chocked members, howling bliss. How can I say?
Slows thinking; it slows thinking; as it slows its content.
... i.e., no harm. No, no necessary harm. And youre
there, all of you. ... I adore you. ... I am distended in you.
As lit annihilates. Thank you! It, as its nothingness
makes me fuckable in it, is a way of perfection in waiting-forgetting
given time and courage for the decay of will. Nihilism is a common
mistake in the understanding of emptiness say the Mahayanists.
So, [tu] as lit x, you have bed x, or [tu] as
lit x, you've read x, in which abjection's just guessed itself
only a socially polluted experience of the hallows. To have
[infinitive] infinitely that bed which spells its own name, gouging,
gouging, infinitely spelled, x, where it can in the heavy wooden beams
of the frame over decades. Alas! Alas! Adoration has no time
for time in these yet somehow still filthy sheets. ... Its an
eternity of absorption [see below] you can nearly buy, its so
It is here-not-here. A loud and spacious helplessness.
A big and shamed transcendence which supplies without looking a deficiency.
... How can they jumping thoughtless their minds blank with joy
from small aircraft into war zones or droughts with their arms full?
... See, theres no locality; thats just the radio
on. The difference between self made in the other, distended in alterity
and being fucked.
& & &
abjection and adoration share the big, and stuck, ampersand,
the lovely and generous and, like Lucretius cows in their
female super-abundance all in vain; if theres
any eternity at all, thats it
“you love” reveals its thing, and
... Come teach me, dear dread abjected, you ghoul of womanhood,
curious, wretched, curious, unable apart from that which you can nearly
see. For the hero of my possibility said the abjected, that is the
jettisoned object, is radically excluded and draws
me toward the place where meaning collapses. Its a phantom
where sure where adoration is that collapse of meaning.
And what, says the voice, is adored but what might be unthinkable,
permanently doesn't know we're alive, ought to pre-exist, get
invisible, gone. As it is beyond our [unthinkable] recognition
and our [unthinkable] memory, not just beyond them but beyond
their very capacities, bulkless, desperate: just slightly, slightly
beyond the greatest urgencies of our [unthinkable] attention.
... If I say “we,” you infer love. Adoration
can remember nothing.
... Its what belongs to it. Proper like a
rose to itself.
And even if it
still insists on something to look at, it's just a stage, dear.
It is use of the other as annihilation of the self. Distension,
as a beast has two backs,
always held in the mind. And to swallow
in the dark is syntax, willing
to mean its ruin. The ruin
of the mind it's made itself.
are getting somewhere, relief floods where I have abandoned its pronoun.
mind it’s made itself.
Lost, but enormous, that is to say, adoring, I threw myself,
wowed, there at its feet. If there is always an Other in language,
in, or after, Kristeva there's no I necessarily, and the more
so the more likely the I was feminine [gramm.] and a minimal condition
of language the negative including and so exceeding in size/meaning
what it negated is right there in the language. Not-apple more than
apple, e.g. Which is why the self-destroying machine is called “my
encyclopaedia,” written. Its poetic is straight praise, unspeakable
look at this mess! . . . Achiastics, wrecked, ma.
And its syntax must forever and forever be a syntax of
adoration which throws itself and goes nowhere passive, hopeless,
overexcited, inexhaustible, self-reflexive and useless, of course
like the finest poem in Creation. It is whats
eternity, cramming infinity, so
As lit the nomad, eaten at, a moving target.
No! no! no! (yelled).
To read what is written is to practise being held.
Uh, fat girl, what are you hungry for? St. Teresa,
once embarked on her The Way of Perfection, finds she cant
write fast enough and wishes she could use both hands at once. I
was writing Pandemonium all my life for you. ... cramming
the void to make it show as nothing but the abundance it brought
forth and it wont hurt to eat again, surely? Those are different
But today I find I no longer want to be in this ghetto
of immensity. I will teach myself a way to be where? outside?
Dear panic belief, a mountain is in the air.
Dear panic belief, a fire is in the earth.
These are not abstractions but they're still a bit big.
Abstraction? ... Oh.
In thiss Platos all goods heaven, it is stored
endlessly and beginninglessly abstraction.
It might-could fill up whatever; can't fill up whatever;
can fill it. It has nor is no grammar.
As if no matter how enormous a creator-God's universe is,
it is always filled by this bloodless and ahistorical praise, immortal,
This is the space of bad infinity. A nouns
I guess it had to be here.
Modes of attention as forms of address
Dread of will an avaricious one at least
Descartes an echo thought an excess of wonder harmful,
for “it freezes the individual in the face of objects... whose
capacity to do good or evil has not yet been determined.” (What
is he most frightened of?) And this is just what the syntax of adoration
does did do. Though I think slow thinking, which Augustine spoke
of, the slowness that comes through the eyes of sense,
and perhaps goes out from them, too, is part of the profound happiness
(that's my guess, not his) of the morally frozen individual, marvelling
in a chiasmatic, dyadic bondage to an irreal countersubject,
is here, too.
(And if writing is listening a distension
no less and listening is waiting is the lag on the ground, let's say . . .
if there's this much patience .
. . and if its adoration-syntax is anyway a possibility relevant only
to impossibility credo it is what anyone can know, what is of use
the thing that lies between.)
the marvellous, then:
As if lit, we or I or you are in a field and don't know
where the field is.
We are waiting-forgetting; it's of thought like
vision; plain and thorough sight you can walk in.
It's sweet here with the early bees. And it, and nothing,
We're made to be here in this very palpable self-forgetting.
In language in touch in sight we're gone.
Eternalism is a common mistake in the understanding of
emptiness say the Mahayanists.
A syntax takes the mind which must allow it.
Beatrice of Nazareths profounder delirium, guessing
the god she wanted, her abject chora, in an embrace of the erotic
and devotional path insania amoris, “love-craziness,” bent
her will to drive herself literally “out of” her mind as a way of
“following” where? Her rave over the edge, available in the
rupture of the mind-that-holds, the mind's proper impossible: its
particular, its formative, impossible: limitless, relational
and spatial: syntax.
But adoration and I think we have it lauded
as a self-transcendence (even though my postman felt humiliated by it),
gets realer when you ask whether such enthusiasm or possession isn't
hidden in any activity, even in the originating activity of consciousness
and language; whether a delirium more profound than thought does not
The irreconcilable, restless, mindless, essential erotic
distance dynamic, empty, blissed, inhuman which puts an
other somehow beyond recognition as the self
identical, a marvel and self-same as if non-existent enclosing, indefining, projected, obliterating,
infertile, repetitiousness which uses us beyond our understanding might be our most precious distance.
Like we cant reach inside it and touch anything which
touches us. No one knows how the mind understands a sentence [true]
yet, say, Dickinsons apparatuses enact impossibility and impossibility's
necessity in us. All that time she spent sitting with the dying, watching.
So, if adoration's mind only wishes to drive our mind beyond itself,
its best hope is this syntax a machine only the mind obeys,
and exquisitely, to death.
Oh, I know that that “beyond itself” doesn't exist. How
many times have you told me? ... And isn't the State some dyad,
a kind of mirror stage, made explicit, then denied a model,
too, of our amorous inauthentic indistinction, a place where 'beyond'
doesn't exist? [This, literally.] The polis had one word for it:
not. I'm learning.
(NOTE: The idiotic the idion of the Greek
she who is beyond recognition or syntax politically
the idiotic of language something thrown beyond city's limits,
yet apparent inside it. That’s beyond. Like our language meets
us most emphatically now daily as law. It says its from us to
It, and the thing that lies between, it-and. No eternity
in sight but this is.
But it's stripped so far down, gnawing on its own heels,
it might love a fish, but it can't really tell. It is leisured, desperate,
idiotic, hugely self-satisfied, held by nothing, its own new world,
heathen and pure, stopped. (You can see what the female -and has
added to it glory, as my girl says.)
Nothing, for example, is given in Stein, but how many thanks
there are while she tries to “rid herself of nouns” she's Arab.
No given place, in which absorption or distension is what is being written,
in a circling and hovering motion, is made to appear. That the past
pours its recognition [of] our enslavement [as] its enslavement over
the objects and conditions of the world we know and did wish to name.
Or, we have adored whatever we have named: the other; co-temporaneous,
distinguished; the author in poetry “devoid of interest but inalienable”
embracing its other as an indifference Im not really
French enough to parse for you, yet “only in this way does love become
impersonal” or the self actualize as citizen.
we mention the State, we must mention passivity
Adoration does not recognize itself as passive but wows
like damp wood, lets say, in a space it conceives as passive.
We were just thinking how crucial abstraction is to adoration
the love of the self as unknown. As if time got through intransitive,
felt, and about space or showed itself to itself
there. Where adoration might imagine extreme distances the past,
eg and long to submit to what resembles it in no way
like any good field, lying under its sky.
The long time in the round space. ... That's not bad. Anyway,
“Nice To Be Able To Say Thanks To A Giant,” our virginity drama's
subtitle/last line slick, kind and still damp with a
heaven's dew, I write as one jealous of myself “You
were made for this.”
Self-satisfied? Bring on the Enlightenment Man who'll do
his own delirium using what he says he sees. (I want to be able to
refer to my absorption I am in that aboriginal dark
suckling all that is not he and the threat of theatricalization
that dogs me.)
Diderot, to the contrary?:
I was at that point in my reveries, nonchalantly stretched
out in an armchair, letting my mind wander freely delicious
state in which the soul is honest without reflecting, the mind exact
and delicate without effort, in which ideas and feelings seem to
be born in us of themselves as from some favourable soil. My eyes
were fixed on an admirable landscape and I was saying `The abbe
is right, our artists understand nothing, since the spectacle of
their most beautiful productions has never made me feel the delirium
I feel now, the pleasure of belonging to myself, the pleasure of
knowing myself to be as good as I am, the pleasure of seeing myself
and of pleasing myself, the even sweeter pleasure of forgetting
myself. Where am I at this moment? What surrounds me? I do not know.
I am not aware of it. What am I lacking? Nothing. What do I desire?
Nothing. If there is a God, this is how he is, he takes pleasure
The subject who speaks does not situate the world in
relation to himself, nor situate himself purely and simply at the
heart of his own spectacle. Instead he is situated in relation to
the Other. ... By offering a word, the subject, putting himself
forward, lays himself open and, in a sense, prays.
But we since by standing up
my face to your faces a blur here I have made us an institution
swallowing. (Involve: to swallow. Who is she?)
addresses who are beyond recognition. Mid-ocean on a raft palms
extended but a horizon but the open as hunger every which-way; and this
is perhaps one of them, this gap, across which you face me, absorbed,
spectacularizing. I, you, we use the text as our occasion.
Where there is nowhere to be out of, my thoughts flounder
as devotion and welcome as if to advance the cause of
nature in what fallow lost, but enormous, like Blanche Wittman,
“Queen of the Hysterics,” going without information at the
Salpetrière in Charcot's time. The “crédulité absolue,” he said, of
her under hypnosis. This crazed posed nearly past aching woman
benign misericorde that must not be touched. He is always on the
... You see that it's the beholding you're doing that's
holding me in this exaggerated pose. If you weren't there, Id
Where the beholder threatens to theatricalize what's beheld
by an adoration, and where the refusal of that theatricalization by
the beheld is a task or talent of her absorption which is a capacity
of the love of nothing, in it the beheld's own diffuse
attention to which she abandons herself, given to herself and nothing,
distended, sovereign as syntax takes the mind which allows
Tautologous but ardent!
Adore then the exquisite, the sentence as Blanche as tautology
as crédulité absolue which does not recognize the uselessness
which puts it beyond recognition and is a saint as to purpose.
There are times and places when such remarks are just. ... I said
“I no longer want to be in this ghetto of immensity,” but the fecund
desperation the mere mention of this condition arouses engages me
like nothing else.
tautology pure meaning s a very rich, impossible condition
occurring in the visual plane. It is repetition in the absence of space.
Repetition in the claustrophobic space of the invisible of the sentence
which is the no-perspective space of art where there is no room for
the viewer to stand behind the deer and no reason the hunter can't stand
on their heads at his distance. Which means it is a perfection, a mere
repression of everything, which repression we might experience as boredom,
or as the inhuman, as weighty, libidinal, limnal, or because unutterable,
or mine, adoration.
Hail [praise], bent, but lingeringly celebrating the self-abnegation
[see also], the abstraction [see also], absorption [see
also], hysterical evagination/gag response [see also],
the rapt attention, the poverty, chastity and obedience of adoration,
which maybe never does but means to leave the/her cell to give itself
as passage to what it does not know....
wish I wouldnt talk like this!
know you all want to be free!
understand that you are all free!
vow to save you all!
is the abstract
The other is always abstract, the self-same disappears.
My breasts are two loaded revolvers pointed at my chest; or etc..
But yet the compounded nature of women means they re
doomed. ... Take the body from the body and you have nothing but the
body; “I fall in a faint” leaves the body alone; see the essay the woman
on the floor; her consciousness outside her just as her passport is
spilled from her ample pocket; the abject is necessarily and by this
same system the unspeakable. What will not be discrete cannot be
TECHNICALLY: My act of adoration as idiotic syntax
my facing your shining face as its light inherent
might be “we” in what was an “I am” its not extra.
And-but it is the case that the proto-ethical and instantiating
situation of a being being faced counts not as plethora, indistinguishable,
borderless; must not be beyond recognition.
No “we” at all, then, no sum. Not even the political, sexual,
economic unit of “you” and “I,” ever, not quite. You
face me and/but thought.
Like abstraction is the mother of abjection: it takes all
cleanliness for its likeness. Viz: The female is inseparable
from the corpse. She could eat herself but only so far wrecked on
a desert island. She has eaten herself but cannot finish the job.
Loss, being earth, cannot clean itself but as dirt.
Levinas admits that the feminine and death are alterity.
Are alterity? How is alterity doubled?
... I said I no longer want to be in this ghetto of immensity.
Abstraction fails the bulk it needs to come to light. Dawdles in freedom,
ahhm? A white horse sketched rapidly in chalk over the completed scene.
We are beyond the recognition of our adored, outside. Viz.
when she died, her servant was with her;  my old lover looked right
through me like a beggar on the street;  Huguenot missionaries
attempting to freeze the moral imaginations of the Tupinamba in the
Bay of Rio in about 1557 report:
Adapting ourselves to their crudeness, we would seize
the occasion [of their intense fear of thunder] to say to them that
this was the very God of whom we were speaking, who to show his
grandeur and power made heaven and earth tremble; their resolution
and response was that since he frightened them in that way, he was
good for nothing.
Here is rhetoric's glass hand. It is smashed if you don't
love fear. Syntax is inside. I'll give you what you gave me. And didn’t
the syntax of adoration empty simulacrum of agency return
us we, who are here, on the streets, in our deathbeds, in our
temporary local coherences an eroticized violence? Batter
Death, in Heidegger, says Levinas, is the possibility
of impossibility. ... And is a syntax that ruptures the mind-that-holds
a kind of impossibility of possibility? In the end, maybe, as he says,
belief only may go after whats too big for thought.
book, for instance
This book Bad Infinity for instance
drinks time. It begins with a “scene” (is it a scene?)
because it's hard, as Simone Weil says, to love nothing right away.
a TINGUELY machine made not
just to implode [explode]
but ceaselessly expand
maybe evolutionarily (i.e. to fail almost every time)
The content exists to perfect the structure
as if debating whether presence or absence will prevail.
It is its unwieldiness, its unrepresentable extension,
its infoldingness creating space. I want to depend enormity from no
matter what. Nearly everything from nearly nothing, from as little
as possible, humanly (which means no more than capable of fatigue).
The burden of it, the weight of nothing, is the thing I
want most of all. So that it will clearly be too much. So that
writing and thought may be seen to be too much which
: A BOOK
I. The decay of will. The demolition of rhetoric by
all that it may have despised.
1. METAPHOR: Woe to you who first dissed metaphor in my
hearing! that move across what is a delirium of destabilization
that feels like an abandonment inherent in language. I want to let
the beauty of its doomed effort show. What are you afraid of? Its
thrownness is yours. If we live like and as
whatever whatever, that's toxic; leave metaphor out of it.
A syntax, e.g. of adoration, might largely extremely deny
cause and effect. Instead there is faked tautology [metaphor], restlessness,
the reflexive. It may feel like destruction (of language) (of thought)
until you realize that language (thought) is what is driving it. It
being whether presence or absence will prevail.
Metaphor, glorying in its own clumsiness. Its own
clumsy toss across the chasm, its unworthiness, trad. squire, tells
it as proof of the glory nb of the object it
addresses why not?
2. TITLING: Depending anything from anything is a device
of thinking; what depends from words without context is understood
as their context. This is very strange. It's just a habit of course.
It came from ways of making humans responsible for "their"
pasts (when they went to V*** at the extreme north end of the island,
and the cop asked all the women their names, the first fifty said,
Woman; after a long while, he got it) and comes from metaphor's use
in taxonomy. Content is possession; and possession is more than nine-tenths
of epistemological law. What is contained is possessed by what contains
it. Sometimes what is uncontained [abject] is unrecognizable [stateless].
The "constituitive inside." If the outside is ripe and the
inside unknown, a title is a guess, an attractant, strangely unpromiscuous.
The text walks. The title hovers. It's outside.
3. Repetition, to release the strangeness as much as welcome.
The adorers' characteristic repetition of you You You
You You You You You You You You because a ten-fold repetition
is wont to please
4. When there is no place, anyone bursts into
5. BULK INCAPACITATING UNDERSTANDING: what is too much
to hold in the mind is what ruptures the mind-that-holds. To make
this show in language is all I want to do. Here is a description of
the archangel Gabriel from the Muslim tradition : "He has 1600
wings, with saffron colored hairs (bright yellow gold), from head
to foot, a sun between his eyes, each hair containing a separate sun
and moon, and he enters the Sea of Light 370 times in one day and
a million drops fall from each wing and from each drop God creates
an angel in the form of Gabriel that glorifies God until the Day of
6. Endless interruption, another enterprise of syntax,
7. The faux-rigorous, relentless, structuring devices
nesting, indices, supplements, footnotes, tables of contents, cross-reference
are to counter the fact that every successful page or poem
self-annihilates. They're the corpse of it. And I'm sorry but I think
that all the earnest apparatus is just funny and a bit frightening.
Like someone else's sex toys. Evolution?
8. BIO: Eden: nouns in crisis: first verb: to receive.
This blowsy nothing "my book" a result. The
agglomerative, endless, bulgy, insultingly, needlessly big, an actually
[word count] tiny book, made and unmade as fast. Made to be for
"everything" but not a container, much gooeyer than that.
And, I offer Jean-Francois Lyotard a little machine that does, or
may, suffer from the burden of its memory, as he wished.
Tinguely, who found that he was overcome with a dread sense
of stasis even in the midst of his great kinetic beings.