This work talks about itself. And, with every word, it explores the impossibility of its own existence.
“Won’t do no good to hold no séance,
What’s gone is gone and you can’t bring it back around.
Won’t do no good to hold no searchlight,
You can’t illuminate what time has anchored down.
[…]
Won’t do no good to sing no love song,
No sound could simulate the presence of a man.”
- “Carrion”
Meta-textualism is dead. It is a dead art. One that has died even before it began. The hands of many people contributed to its demise. And, we mourn you with every passing day.
Anne Carson has secretly become my hero, though I would never admit this publicly. It would mean loss. Harboring an obsession for Anne Carson is like harboring an obsession for death. For shame!
(The true path to creation is, at its essence, a hubristic challenge. The creator toils time and time again to prove to himself that he is still capable. He has chosen to rival the Supreme Creator. He will never prevail. At least not entirely.)
(Man is fundamentally impotent.)
The above is called an incipit. Used to set the mental stage, so to speak, of where I begin, and where I intend on ending.
* * *
The walk along the coast of The Sleeve is treacherous. The craggy wall of rock is high, the wind blows incessantly. One false step. One step.
Intention is a whirlwind of brain chemical and desire. I wonder, at times, if it weren’t intentional. It would be easy to convince myself otherwise from what really happened. To tell myself a story that would make it sound better. A story that would make it palatable.
“On the edge of love,
Like on the edge of a cliff
It doesn’t take much
For me to become
One woman like another
One woman amongst others
Or worse, like all the others.”
- Patricia Kaas
What do they have to say about it?
A life according to the liar: Clones will rule the world. Get the fuck out.
A life according to the plagiarist: This is not my life, fuck you.
A life according to the absurdist: Fuck fuck fuck! Pass me a carrot.
A life according to the pacifist: I don’t remember it that way, for fuck’s sake
A life according to the warrior: Jump!
Nobel Laureate in Literature and Pacifist Harold Pinter (1930 – 2008), The Bombs:
There are no more words to be said
All we have left are the bombs
Which burst out of our head
All that is left are the bombs
Which suck out the last of our blood
All we have left are the bombs
Which polish the skulls of the dead
Where my story picks up: It was after the inappropriate love, after the walk along the Seine, before Normandy, and before traversing the Ocean. The moment in between. (This is where every story takes place.)
It was a Tuesday. Claire called me out of the blue. She was at a café (L’Étoile Manquante) down the street (Rue Vieille du Temple). He was there. She was there. I went. Drinks were consumed, introductions were made, plans solidified. Thursday. Out. The scene as it always had been for us. Plus one.
Much later: He saw “Goodbye, My Warrior” and thought it to be about him. His name meant “warrior”.
Thursday. And then, there was one. That was the beginning of the end. Saturday also holds a special significance in this story. Or, the idea of Saturday, in a different time and a different place. I don’t think I saw Claire for some time after Thursday. She left without a word that night. No one knew where she was for at least a few days.
Then, there was the rest of it all. Fourth, fifteenth, moving, the sushi place, the movie theater, the apartment in the third, working in the tenth, the train up North, travelling all directions, calling back and forth. It all moved so fast. In a final streak of desperation, there was the Mairie du 15e. It took all of ten minutes. Papers signed. Fate sealed. There was no party. No celebration. Only silence. It had already become purely administrative.
Much much later: I received a letter from The Sailor. I was to blame. It was my fault. I ran away. I caused it all. I never responded, my words stifled.
* * *
Flash-forward to the Impossible City. In the concrete jungle: a life of penciled-in brunches, cocktail drinking, dinner plans in the Village (East and West) and outer boroughs, weekends in the parks, tea sipping, book reading, subway riding.
It is supposed to eat you alive, the Impossible City. It is supposed to spit you out. Only your own personal resolve and dedication can persevere. Take heed, be warned: The meek will not survive. It can be an extremely lonely place, and one of abundant decadence.
This part has yet to be written. But, I know why I did it. I know that I had to prove to myself I could survive, that I had something left, that the skeleton of myself could rise. Resurrection. That is why I did it.
* * *
What I have left from my other life: Books. Mostly books. Some clothes. Music. End of list.
At the end of Water Drops on Burning Rocks, a film by François Ozon based on a play by Fassbinder, the fabulous Anna Thomson (Levine) places her hands on the frame of a window of the apartment she is in. The camera, for the first time in the film, passes through the wall to the exterior of the apartment. The shot shows her shadow in the window, with her hands on the glass as she struggles to open the window which won’t budge. Quietly at first, then in full volume, Träume (Dreams) is heard. This German song is interpreted by Françoise Hardy with her strong, smoky, brooding voice. It is one of the best examples of cinematic allegory. It is the visual representation of the need to run away, the desire to flee, and the confrontation of these with the impossibility of fulfilling such a primal need.
Anne Carson, the destruction of art and an inventory of space
|
Labels:
Anne Carson,
creation,
destruction
"... the most exciting poet writing in English today."
- Michael Ondaatje
The entirety of art serves to tell one story, the story of loss. The story of destruction. The irony (read: what makes it art) is that the story of loss is inevitably told by means of creation.
Everything was fine until Anne Carson ruined it. She is a destroyer of art and dreams and integrity. For once, I had thought I was original (really, I hadn't) and unique (perhaps, I didn't) and singular (still true). The story: her story, and her (that of another) story and her (another, yet again) story told, interwoven, collected through perhaps nefarious means. The asexualization of sexuality by written word; the inevitable (because, by definition, inadequate) translation of three dimensions into two.
What you would see: A blue striped polo shirt (base color darker than that of the stripes), black slacks, orange socks, brown shoes.
What else you would see: A desk, a keyboard, a computer, two telephones, a book thrown to the side, a glass of water.
And beyond that?: Concrete, steel, glass, pavement, asphalt, cold biting wind, clouded skies.
Her story (Anne Carson) is one that we've all lived. At least in our own interpretations of events. The violence of sexuality and the endless road of trying to please one's mother despite the obvious impossibility.
This part is important: The city of New York comprises 468.9 square miles, located at a latitude of 40° 43′ 0″ N and a longitude of 74° 0′ 0″ W. It was officially settled in 1624 and contains 165.6 square miles of water. As of July 1, 2007, the population of the city of New York was 8,274,527, with a density of 27,147 people per square mile spread across five boroughs.
She (Anne Carson) is a literary demagogue. A destroyer of art and dreams. I don't think I had any artistic integrity before Anne Carson, Christine killed that long ago.
Her (Anne Carson) story is my story. The loss, the moor, pleasing one's mother. I do draw the line at the Brontë sisters, but she (Anne Carson) seems to understand them to the point of integration. I won't go so far as to call it appropriation, but one could successfully argue that point, I suppose. Obviously, plagiarism is out (citations are given at times, quotation marks used).
"She is one the few writers writing in English that I would read anything she wrote. If there's a magazine that has something of hers in it, I buy it automatically."
- Susan Sontag
Strong, eloquent words, Susan. (Not really.)
Here's what I see: Why do Susan Sontag and Michael Ondaatje both qualify/objectify her (Anne Carson) by means of labeling her (Anne Carson) a writer working in the English language? Is there a writer writing in French that Susan Sontag would read anything she wrote? Is there a most exciting poet writing in Japanese that Michael Ondaatje would care to recommend?
Here is why she (Anne Carson) is truly a destroyer: She does as they all do. She know what she is doing. She is using creation to close the doors on the past. When one writes about it, it becomes fiction; the brain can accept the non-reality of the written word much better than the (verisimilitude of the) reality of memory.
Here is why she (Anne Carson) ruined everything: I am forced to confront my own process, and admit that I am nothing.
* * *
When the sun came up on that day (if it came up on that day; I am ignorant of the weather of that day) there was one less. Only scraps of debris, of artifact and memory remained. These things lay scattered across two continents and traversed an ocean.
There wasn't much to see, which is why I never went back. Everything was sold or destroyed, I presume. Pieces of myself that I had already left behind, lost forever. Space empty, tidied, cleaned, scrubbed, shown, resold. The view for another to see. The cathedral and lights of the lower city peppering the nightly view so few times for us.
I lived on a mountain top. If I had wanted to be destructive, I could have watched it all from the heights and laughed an evil laugh as pandemonium set in and rioting occurred. From the top of it all.
Fred was the first to call anyone. Then, the chain continued. Over and over and over. I was called early in the chain. I called no one.
Things I wouldn't express: guilt, shame. (Just like the turning of one's back to an uninterested lover, as she (Anne Carson) did on page 12.)
I'd like to think it was cold that day. The wind was tumultuous. The sun, perhaps showing its face, even if slightly. Although, I would wish it a very sunny day, with the perfection of azure skies.
"Perhaps the hardest thing about losing a lover is
to watch the year repeat its days."
- Anne Carson
* * *
Those who understand, as I do, do the same thing over and over again. They tell the same story. They relay the same information. I know this because Dominique Barbéris told me as much. It is a struggle of repetition and self-censure. It is the reflective nature of the writing process.
In the retelling of Anaïs Nin by Christine Angot (L'Inceste) and the retelling of the Heights by Anne Carson, one notes that interplay of reality, non-reality, and fictitious reality. Acquaintances are made, bond of friendship bonded, lovers exalted. Then, destroyed. Once over and again until the a new resolution is formed. This is called "conflict". Making the knot, then comes the dénouement.
In comedy, the formula is union, désunion, réunion. Hence, the preponderance of weddings at the ending. Tragedy does not allow for this. Fiction writing, devoid of such rigid schematics, can have any ending possible. It is up to the creator to determine the ending. The ending comes solely through the imaginative powers of he who blackens the page with words. The ending, so long as it is not a carbon copy of the beginning (which it could never be due to the journey in between), is valid either way.
- Michael Ondaatje
The entirety of art serves to tell one story, the story of loss. The story of destruction. The irony (read: what makes it art) is that the story of loss is inevitably told by means of creation.
Everything was fine until Anne Carson ruined it. She is a destroyer of art and dreams and integrity. For once, I had thought I was original (really, I hadn't) and unique (perhaps, I didn't) and singular (still true). The story: her story, and her (that of another) story and her (another, yet again) story told, interwoven, collected through perhaps nefarious means. The asexualization of sexuality by written word; the inevitable (because, by definition, inadequate) translation of three dimensions into two.
What you would see: A blue striped polo shirt (base color darker than that of the stripes), black slacks, orange socks, brown shoes.
What else you would see: A desk, a keyboard, a computer, two telephones, a book thrown to the side, a glass of water.
And beyond that?: Concrete, steel, glass, pavement, asphalt, cold biting wind, clouded skies.
Her story (Anne Carson) is one that we've all lived. At least in our own interpretations of events. The violence of sexuality and the endless road of trying to please one's mother despite the obvious impossibility.
This part is important: The city of New York comprises 468.9 square miles, located at a latitude of 40° 43′ 0″ N and a longitude of 74° 0′ 0″ W. It was officially settled in 1624 and contains 165.6 square miles of water. As of July 1, 2007, the population of the city of New York was 8,274,527, with a density of 27,147 people per square mile spread across five boroughs.
She (Anne Carson) is a literary demagogue. A destroyer of art and dreams. I don't think I had any artistic integrity before Anne Carson, Christine killed that long ago.
Her (Anne Carson) story is my story. The loss, the moor, pleasing one's mother. I do draw the line at the Brontë sisters, but she (Anne Carson) seems to understand them to the point of integration. I won't go so far as to call it appropriation, but one could successfully argue that point, I suppose. Obviously, plagiarism is out (citations are given at times, quotation marks used).
"She is one the few writers writing in English that I would read anything she wrote. If there's a magazine that has something of hers in it, I buy it automatically."
- Susan Sontag
Strong, eloquent words, Susan. (Not really.)
Here's what I see: Why do Susan Sontag and Michael Ondaatje both qualify/objectify her (Anne Carson) by means of labeling her (Anne Carson) a writer working in the English language? Is there a writer writing in French that Susan Sontag would read anything she wrote? Is there a most exciting poet writing in Japanese that Michael Ondaatje would care to recommend?
Here is why she (Anne Carson) is truly a destroyer: She does as they all do. She know what she is doing. She is using creation to close the doors on the past. When one writes about it, it becomes fiction; the brain can accept the non-reality of the written word much better than the (verisimilitude of the) reality of memory.
Here is why she (Anne Carson) ruined everything: I am forced to confront my own process, and admit that I am nothing.
* * *
When the sun came up on that day (if it came up on that day; I am ignorant of the weather of that day) there was one less. Only scraps of debris, of artifact and memory remained. These things lay scattered across two continents and traversed an ocean.
There wasn't much to see, which is why I never went back. Everything was sold or destroyed, I presume. Pieces of myself that I had already left behind, lost forever. Space empty, tidied, cleaned, scrubbed, shown, resold. The view for another to see. The cathedral and lights of the lower city peppering the nightly view so few times for us.
I lived on a mountain top. If I had wanted to be destructive, I could have watched it all from the heights and laughed an evil laugh as pandemonium set in and rioting occurred. From the top of it all.
Fred was the first to call anyone. Then, the chain continued. Over and over and over. I was called early in the chain. I called no one.
Things I wouldn't express: guilt, shame. (Just like the turning of one's back to an uninterested lover, as she (Anne Carson) did on page 12.)
I'd like to think it was cold that day. The wind was tumultuous. The sun, perhaps showing its face, even if slightly. Although, I would wish it a very sunny day, with the perfection of azure skies.
"Perhaps the hardest thing about losing a lover is
to watch the year repeat its days."
- Anne Carson
* * *
Those who understand, as I do, do the same thing over and over again. They tell the same story. They relay the same information. I know this because Dominique Barbéris told me as much. It is a struggle of repetition and self-censure. It is the reflective nature of the writing process.
In the retelling of Anaïs Nin by Christine Angot (L'Inceste) and the retelling of the Heights by Anne Carson, one notes that interplay of reality, non-reality, and fictitious reality. Acquaintances are made, bond of friendship bonded, lovers exalted. Then, destroyed. Once over and again until the a new resolution is formed. This is called "conflict". Making the knot, then comes the dénouement.
In comedy, the formula is union, désunion, réunion. Hence, the preponderance of weddings at the ending. Tragedy does not allow for this. Fiction writing, devoid of such rigid schematics, can have any ending possible. It is up to the creator to determine the ending. The ending comes solely through the imaginative powers of he who blackens the page with words. The ending, so long as it is not a carbon copy of the beginning (which it could never be due to the journey in between), is valid either way.
The digital novella, a shot of whiskey, and a concise history of the Alphabet
|
Labels:
alphabet
“I hope you can S-P-E-L-L
Nigga please you don't know me that well
I got a truck sittin’ on sprewells
My flow tight as H-E-L-L”
Missy Elliott
"When I dare to remember, I can share my deepest wishes …”
Nourith
“The world is Sound. The world is Sound. The world is Sound. The world is Sound. The world is Sound.”
Talvin Singh
Let’s just delve in, as if there were nothing else to do. Let’s just begin as if there were no end. Let’s just pretend for one minute that this moment will last forever. That the pleasure will not subside. That the intensity will remain. That your teeth will stay clenched, your face distorted, your muscles tight. Let’s just pretend.
Channeling the only thing I can channel. Hearkening the only thing I can hearken. Trying. Trying. Trying. Vainly trying.
The end of winter. March. Beginning of March. That’s when it all happened. In a town whose name I will never mention aloud. In a town on the coast. In that sleepy town on the mother fucking coast whose name shall remain tacit.
I’m sure the waters were cold. I often wonder what happened just before that. What could one possibly think of just moments before the cold waters of the Sleeve? Could you regret it? Could you rethink it? Could you, perhaps, reaffirm?
I can almost see it in my mind. The night, the scene. The film rolls and rolls and rolls. In super-8. That would be the aesthetic.
I can only (re-)collect. That is all I am left with. The end has already happened, and the beginning has risen anew. One too many times in a life.
A, b, cC, d, EFFFFFFFFFFG, H, I, JKLMNOP. QrSTUVWXXXYZ. The alphabet. Next time won’t you sing with me?
When the news hit, it was all over for good. Two minutes on the phone and …
She was it. The real deal. This, I am sure of. Dominique Barbéris. She was the one that told me everything I needed to know. In reality, she told me the things I should have never known. The difficult things that any writer should never know. She told me the secrets to it all. Dominique. In her sleek dresses day after day.
I met Dominique shortly after I had met Muzil properly for the first time. (And there I go, again, stealing identities.) Muzil had long been around in those circles. The literary circles of Paris. The BDSM clubs in the neighborhoods few went to. He was as he was. Spoke little to those he didn’t know. I should never have met him, I’m sure. That is, at least, what Christine would have wanted. She didn’t want anyone else to know Muzil. But, one day, Hervé told me all about it. He let me in on the secret. I never forgave Christine for that. I had so much esteem for her until I heard that. I began to hate her. I wanted to kill her. I wanted to ruin her.
Really, it was Hervé who had known Muzil the best. And to think, he didn’t live long enough to do what she did to him. He just didn’t have it in him.
Nuit Blanche. White night. I didn’t sleep that night. I went to the Palais de Tokyo to see Muzil. The walls were covered in gay smut. Grandmothers, little old ladies, parents with children all saw it but pretended they hadn’t.
(You see, Christine, in order ruin you, I have To Be you. You fucking bitch. That is the only way. Houellebecq the liar and David were there for a while, by the way. But, I feel badly for Anaïs mostly. Long gone. Long, long gone, and you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?)
Dominique saw all of this in my. She knew what I was up to. She ran into me with Muzil one day. Away from our normal spot. She said very little, a quiet greeting, but I saw it in her eyes that she knew what was going on. The next time I saw her, she told me the things she was not supposed to tell. I know she told me as a lesson.
In the post-Derrida world there is (Re-)(De-)Construction.
At the end of White Night, I almost bought a T-shirt. It had electrical tape on it with the letters MF.
(I hope you read this, Christine. I hope you see what you are making me do. I hope you know that it is your fault. The whole thing. The beginning the end the middle in between. I hope you tell Léonore about how you’ve ruined me. I hope she sees you for what you are.)
In November of that year, I met Claire. That’s when it all started, the entire trail of events. I wonder, at times, how my life would be different without her. The running, the constant running. The sleepless nights, hopping turnstiles in the Metro, countless whiskey-soaked parties, the château near Vichy, fucking in the streets of Paris, the night I had a knife to my throat, hitchhiking throughout the country, taking the train North, then South. And of course, that month. The beginning of a new year in the arms of an inappropriate lover. Those are the things that I remember.
When I finally awoke, much later, I had nothing left. Muzil was gone forever. It was the unspeakable disease. Christine was indifferent, she had moved on. I didn’t speak to Dominique any longer. Hervé, Guillaume, Joël, Sébastien, Michael and the others were elsewhere. And what of the rest? I don’t think I care to know.
In the world of digital literary iteration, there is no form, no structure, there is only a chaotic web. A woven network made of thought and binary. Chronology has no place. Prose, even, is lost. There is no longer a need for anything but the word. The simple word. Back to the root of it all. This is how it all comes together. Read on. Read on. There is much to be found.
“Oh, shit!” was all I could muster when she rang.
Harlequin
It was already two in the afternoon when I emerged from my alcohol induced sleep. The window in Claire’s bedroom had been left open all night and the slightly sharp winter air penetrated into her Parisian apartment. She was still asleep. Deeply. I watched her chest rise and fall with each breath, her face as it calmly grimaced, perhaps wincing from a bad dream, her eyelids fluttered without ever opening. Her nipples were hard from the invading chill. I remained still, not wanted to disrupt her, fearful that she would wake up and notice me staring. I moved my left hand close to her face, never touching, never feeling her skin, my hand approached as close as possible without ever making contact. I was approaching infinity and felt the warmth that was emanating from her body as I continued to follow the curves of her entire face with my hand. I followed every curve, every nuance, perhaps every detour, in her nearly flawless skin. There was a thin film of morning oil that covered parts, around her nose, on her forehead near the hairline.
Claire was not my lover.
And it goes on …
There are three things of which I am highly doubtful: love, money and memory. The Pinter-esque reconstitution of memory leaves for an open-ended conversation. An epic battle of yeses and nos, of acquiescence and denial. Herein lays the verisimilitude that we have collectively agreed upon to call existence.
Opera
The back story to the story. This is where we are. The music behind the writing. The sound that engulfs the writer. The inspiration, even, of the word. The blank page filling up with situation. In Medias Res.
The last time I saw Dominique, it was at a cocktail party. The book had been finished and she toasted me for it. A few months later, her book came out as well. Something about running, about running away. I never read it. I couldn’t read it. I already knew it by heart.
Nigga please you don't know me that well
I got a truck sittin’ on sprewells
My flow tight as H-E-L-L”
Missy Elliott
"When I dare to remember, I can share my deepest wishes …”
Nourith
“The world is Sound. The world is Sound. The world is Sound. The world is Sound. The world is Sound.”
Talvin Singh
Let’s just delve in, as if there were nothing else to do. Let’s just begin as if there were no end. Let’s just pretend for one minute that this moment will last forever. That the pleasure will not subside. That the intensity will remain. That your teeth will stay clenched, your face distorted, your muscles tight. Let’s just pretend.
Channeling the only thing I can channel. Hearkening the only thing I can hearken. Trying. Trying. Trying. Vainly trying.
The end of winter. March. Beginning of March. That’s when it all happened. In a town whose name I will never mention aloud. In a town on the coast. In that sleepy town on the mother fucking coast whose name shall remain tacit.
I’m sure the waters were cold. I often wonder what happened just before that. What could one possibly think of just moments before the cold waters of the Sleeve? Could you regret it? Could you rethink it? Could you, perhaps, reaffirm?
I can almost see it in my mind. The night, the scene. The film rolls and rolls and rolls. In super-8. That would be the aesthetic.
I can only (re-)collect. That is all I am left with. The end has already happened, and the beginning has risen anew. One too many times in a life.
A, b, cC, d, EFFFFFFFFFFG, H, I, JKLMNOP. QrSTUVWXXXYZ. The alphabet. Next time won’t you sing with me?
When the news hit, it was all over for good. Two minutes on the phone and …
She was it. The real deal. This, I am sure of. Dominique Barbéris. She was the one that told me everything I needed to know. In reality, she told me the things I should have never known. The difficult things that any writer should never know. She told me the secrets to it all. Dominique. In her sleek dresses day after day.
I met Dominique shortly after I had met Muzil properly for the first time. (And there I go, again, stealing identities.) Muzil had long been around in those circles. The literary circles of Paris. The BDSM clubs in the neighborhoods few went to. He was as he was. Spoke little to those he didn’t know. I should never have met him, I’m sure. That is, at least, what Christine would have wanted. She didn’t want anyone else to know Muzil. But, one day, Hervé told me all about it. He let me in on the secret. I never forgave Christine for that. I had so much esteem for her until I heard that. I began to hate her. I wanted to kill her. I wanted to ruin her.
Really, it was Hervé who had known Muzil the best. And to think, he didn’t live long enough to do what she did to him. He just didn’t have it in him.
Nuit Blanche. White night. I didn’t sleep that night. I went to the Palais de Tokyo to see Muzil. The walls were covered in gay smut. Grandmothers, little old ladies, parents with children all saw it but pretended they hadn’t.
(You see, Christine, in order ruin you, I have To Be you. You fucking bitch. That is the only way. Houellebecq the liar and David were there for a while, by the way. But, I feel badly for Anaïs mostly. Long gone. Long, long gone, and you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?)
Dominique saw all of this in my. She knew what I was up to. She ran into me with Muzil one day. Away from our normal spot. She said very little, a quiet greeting, but I saw it in her eyes that she knew what was going on. The next time I saw her, she told me the things she was not supposed to tell. I know she told me as a lesson.
In the post-Derrida world there is (Re-)(De-)Construction.
At the end of White Night, I almost bought a T-shirt. It had electrical tape on it with the letters MF.
(I hope you read this, Christine. I hope you see what you are making me do. I hope you know that it is your fault. The whole thing. The beginning the end the middle in between. I hope you tell Léonore about how you’ve ruined me. I hope she sees you for what you are.)
In November of that year, I met Claire. That’s when it all started, the entire trail of events. I wonder, at times, how my life would be different without her. The running, the constant running. The sleepless nights, hopping turnstiles in the Metro, countless whiskey-soaked parties, the château near Vichy, fucking in the streets of Paris, the night I had a knife to my throat, hitchhiking throughout the country, taking the train North, then South. And of course, that month. The beginning of a new year in the arms of an inappropriate lover. Those are the things that I remember.
When I finally awoke, much later, I had nothing left. Muzil was gone forever. It was the unspeakable disease. Christine was indifferent, she had moved on. I didn’t speak to Dominique any longer. Hervé, Guillaume, Joël, Sébastien, Michael and the others were elsewhere. And what of the rest? I don’t think I care to know.
In the world of digital literary iteration, there is no form, no structure, there is only a chaotic web. A woven network made of thought and binary. Chronology has no place. Prose, even, is lost. There is no longer a need for anything but the word. The simple word. Back to the root of it all. This is how it all comes together. Read on. Read on. There is much to be found.
“Oh, shit!” was all I could muster when she rang.
Harlequin
It was already two in the afternoon when I emerged from my alcohol induced sleep. The window in Claire’s bedroom had been left open all night and the slightly sharp winter air penetrated into her Parisian apartment. She was still asleep. Deeply. I watched her chest rise and fall with each breath, her face as it calmly grimaced, perhaps wincing from a bad dream, her eyelids fluttered without ever opening. Her nipples were hard from the invading chill. I remained still, not wanted to disrupt her, fearful that she would wake up and notice me staring. I moved my left hand close to her face, never touching, never feeling her skin, my hand approached as close as possible without ever making contact. I was approaching infinity and felt the warmth that was emanating from her body as I continued to follow the curves of her entire face with my hand. I followed every curve, every nuance, perhaps every detour, in her nearly flawless skin. There was a thin film of morning oil that covered parts, around her nose, on her forehead near the hairline.
Claire was not my lover.
And it goes on …
There are three things of which I am highly doubtful: love, money and memory. The Pinter-esque reconstitution of memory leaves for an open-ended conversation. An epic battle of yeses and nos, of acquiescence and denial. Herein lays the verisimilitude that we have collectively agreed upon to call existence.
Opera
The back story to the story. This is where we are. The music behind the writing. The sound that engulfs the writer. The inspiration, even, of the word. The blank page filling up with situation. In Medias Res.
The last time I saw Dominique, it was at a cocktail party. The book had been finished and she toasted me for it. A few months later, her book came out as well. Something about running, about running away. I never read it. I couldn’t read it. I already knew it by heart.
A retelling, the beginning of a non-novel and the story of collective memory
“Now I don’t. I used to love him. Now I don’t.”
Lauryn Hill
It’s simple really. I just tell and retell the same story over and over again. Piece by minute piece. Moments at a time until something sticks. Until something becomes etched. And once I’m done, I pick a different piece and start over.
Pieces of oneself sometimes come together at just the right moment in the right configuration. These moments are called happiness.
I was in the 14th at the time. Windows open. The sun still shining. The same song playing on repeat as it is now. She stood in the square in front of the Hôtel de Ville, spinning, dancing. In the middle of wolves, just like the singer says.
It was an easy time then.
Story within a story:
“On n’y comprend rien, et on comprend tout.”
Christine Angot
After Angot
Christine Angot lives in Paris. I know because I passed her in the street last night. It was just around the corner from the Pompidou Center, rue Rambuteau. She was standing in front of a bookstore. I did not speak to her, but I am sure that it was her. Almost every one of her books has her photo on the cover, and I have seen enough photos to be able to recognize her. I have even dreamt about her before.
I had been at the library at the Pompidou Center before I saw her. It was a cold winter night. She was wearing a long black winter coat, white gloves, and was carrying a black Prada bag. I stopped when I saw her. I was sure that it was her, and I stopped in the street to watch her. She was trying to make a phone call. I, too, took out my cell phone and pretended to make a call. I was really just watching her. A moment later, she entered the bookstore, Les Cahiers de Colette, and spoke with the woman at the counter. I stayed outside and pretended to look at the window display as I surveyed her every move.
Christine Angot is a writer. I know her personally from reading her books. She writes about Christine Angot. I know her daughter’s name, her ex-husband’s name, where she has lived, who she has dated. Everything. I know that she changed her family name from Schwartz to Angot when she was a teenager. I know that her father abused her sexually. I know that she is an insomniac, that she has trouble relieving herself because of her past sexual abuse. I know that she had a three month relationship with a lesbian. I know that she has a psychologist, a masseur, and an agent.
Standing at the counter of the bookstore, Christine’s back was to me. I could not see her face, but I was sure that it was her because I had already seen her face. When she was outside. She was smaller than I imagined, but she talks about that in her books. Before last night, I had never heard her voice. It, too, was not as I had imagined. Before last night, I was only sure about her appearance. Now, I know everything.
There was a book by her in the store’s window. I should have gone in, quickly picked up one of her books and stood behind her, seemingly unaware that she was in the store. I should have acted surprised, and asked her to sign the book I was about to purchase. I should have stood behind her and pretended to receive a phone call from a friend. I would have told my friend that I was in a bookstore, rue Rambuteau, and that I was going to buy a book by Christine Angot. Then, perhaps, she would have turned around and I would have had an in.
A few months ago, there was a literary salon at the city hall. I was supposed to meet Angot there. Actually, there were two hundred well-known writers at the salon, but the only one that I wanted to meet was Christine. She did not show up.
I walked around the salon for hours. Unlike Christine, the covers of most writers’ books do not have a photo of themselves. With the others, I put faces to names. With Christine, I was going to put a voice to the face. A personality. Although, I already knew her personality. It was more the voice.
I know more about Christine Angot than anyone else. Herself not included, of course. I take notes when I read her books. I can trace her life all the way back to 1969, the year she was born at Châteauroux. I know that she speaks English, and where she got her education. I once wrote her a letter. I told her that I appreciated her writing and that I wanted to be her, but I would never steal her identity. I lied.
I got the idea to steal her identity from a Canadian writer, Roch Carrier. It was two years ago at a literary conference that I first met Roch Carrier, who is currently the director of the National Library of Canada. He told me of how he published his first book, under an assumed name. Actually, the story is more involved than that. Roch Carrier told me how, due to the numerous rejection letters he received from various publishing houses, he sent his manuscript, one last time, to be published. This time, he used the name of a prominent Canadian writer at the time instead of his own. The manuscript was accepted without hesitation. Apparently, the writer, whose identity has not yet been discovered, never said a word. Roch told me this story with a certain insistence in his eyes. Whether he was trying to challenge me to figure out who the author was, or he was giving me a hint on how to dupe the literary world, I still do not know. I do know, however, that his advice was well received.
There is, however, one crucial difference in what he did and what I did: Roch Carrier passed his own work off as that of another.
When Christine was in the bookstore, I stayed outside. I looked at her book in the window then at her. I stared at her. I watched her body movements, her manner of holding herself. I watched her interact with the woman that was standing at the counter. I watched a man approach her. A few minutes later, she walked out of the bookstore, a few steps away from where I was standing. I still had my cell phone in my hand and began to pretend to send a text message to a friend. This time, the man from inside the bookstore was with her. I am not sure who he was, but they seemed to be on a date.
As she walked past me, towards the Pompidou Center, our gazes met for a fleeting moment. It was one of those meaningful gazes, when everything that would have been said was, just without words. She smiled towards me, for a split second, as I looked her in the eyes. Through that gaze, I seemed to say, ‘I admire you.’ Her eyes replied, ‘I know.’
I turned and watched Christine Angot walk away, into the night.
* * *
She called me on a Tuesday. The phone rang only once before I picked it up. The writer, a woman, a feminist, a researcher. I knew it was her before I heard her voice. We only spoke for two minutes. Then, it was over.
Women (of letters) in my life: Marguerite Duras, Marguerite Yourcenar, Anaïs Nin, Dominique Barbéris, Simone de Beauvoir, Assia Djebar (Fatima-Zohra Imalayen), Nelly Arcan, Christine Angot.
Why?: (Re-)Collections of memories leading to an attempt at discovering self. However flawed it may be.
How do I feel about it?: … (See above)
Music: Irish, Celtic
Language(s): French, English.
What really happened: The end of it all. A new beginning of sorts. A stop before a start. A moment of hesitation. Shame. Undying something. Loss of self in a deeper way than ever before. Reinvention of new self. Reinvention of different self. Movement.
Who?: Harold Pinter, Samuel Beckett, Tom Stoppard. Mostly Harold Pinter.
Manifesto: The reinvention of the word, a coincidence with reinvention of self.
Words: In the right order, everything can have meaning.
Towards the nearing of the end of her life, I sat and watched her. Little was said aloud. We mostly whispered in her presence. When I was alone with her, for but a moment, I leaned in closely and whispered in her ear. “Please remember me. Please remember me. Please remember me. Please remember me. Please remember me.”
Lauryn Hill
It’s simple really. I just tell and retell the same story over and over again. Piece by minute piece. Moments at a time until something sticks. Until something becomes etched. And once I’m done, I pick a different piece and start over.
Pieces of oneself sometimes come together at just the right moment in the right configuration. These moments are called happiness.
I was in the 14th at the time. Windows open. The sun still shining. The same song playing on repeat as it is now. She stood in the square in front of the Hôtel de Ville, spinning, dancing. In the middle of wolves, just like the singer says.
It was an easy time then.
Story within a story:
“On n’y comprend rien, et on comprend tout.”
Christine Angot
After Angot
Christine Angot lives in Paris. I know because I passed her in the street last night. It was just around the corner from the Pompidou Center, rue Rambuteau. She was standing in front of a bookstore. I did not speak to her, but I am sure that it was her. Almost every one of her books has her photo on the cover, and I have seen enough photos to be able to recognize her. I have even dreamt about her before.
I had been at the library at the Pompidou Center before I saw her. It was a cold winter night. She was wearing a long black winter coat, white gloves, and was carrying a black Prada bag. I stopped when I saw her. I was sure that it was her, and I stopped in the street to watch her. She was trying to make a phone call. I, too, took out my cell phone and pretended to make a call. I was really just watching her. A moment later, she entered the bookstore, Les Cahiers de Colette, and spoke with the woman at the counter. I stayed outside and pretended to look at the window display as I surveyed her every move.
Christine Angot is a writer. I know her personally from reading her books. She writes about Christine Angot. I know her daughter’s name, her ex-husband’s name, where she has lived, who she has dated. Everything. I know that she changed her family name from Schwartz to Angot when she was a teenager. I know that her father abused her sexually. I know that she is an insomniac, that she has trouble relieving herself because of her past sexual abuse. I know that she had a three month relationship with a lesbian. I know that she has a psychologist, a masseur, and an agent.
Standing at the counter of the bookstore, Christine’s back was to me. I could not see her face, but I was sure that it was her because I had already seen her face. When she was outside. She was smaller than I imagined, but she talks about that in her books. Before last night, I had never heard her voice. It, too, was not as I had imagined. Before last night, I was only sure about her appearance. Now, I know everything.
There was a book by her in the store’s window. I should have gone in, quickly picked up one of her books and stood behind her, seemingly unaware that she was in the store. I should have acted surprised, and asked her to sign the book I was about to purchase. I should have stood behind her and pretended to receive a phone call from a friend. I would have told my friend that I was in a bookstore, rue Rambuteau, and that I was going to buy a book by Christine Angot. Then, perhaps, she would have turned around and I would have had an in.
A few months ago, there was a literary salon at the city hall. I was supposed to meet Angot there. Actually, there were two hundred well-known writers at the salon, but the only one that I wanted to meet was Christine. She did not show up.
I walked around the salon for hours. Unlike Christine, the covers of most writers’ books do not have a photo of themselves. With the others, I put faces to names. With Christine, I was going to put a voice to the face. A personality. Although, I already knew her personality. It was more the voice.
I know more about Christine Angot than anyone else. Herself not included, of course. I take notes when I read her books. I can trace her life all the way back to 1969, the year she was born at Châteauroux. I know that she speaks English, and where she got her education. I once wrote her a letter. I told her that I appreciated her writing and that I wanted to be her, but I would never steal her identity. I lied.
I got the idea to steal her identity from a Canadian writer, Roch Carrier. It was two years ago at a literary conference that I first met Roch Carrier, who is currently the director of the National Library of Canada. He told me of how he published his first book, under an assumed name. Actually, the story is more involved than that. Roch Carrier told me how, due to the numerous rejection letters he received from various publishing houses, he sent his manuscript, one last time, to be published. This time, he used the name of a prominent Canadian writer at the time instead of his own. The manuscript was accepted without hesitation. Apparently, the writer, whose identity has not yet been discovered, never said a word. Roch told me this story with a certain insistence in his eyes. Whether he was trying to challenge me to figure out who the author was, or he was giving me a hint on how to dupe the literary world, I still do not know. I do know, however, that his advice was well received.
There is, however, one crucial difference in what he did and what I did: Roch Carrier passed his own work off as that of another.
When Christine was in the bookstore, I stayed outside. I looked at her book in the window then at her. I stared at her. I watched her body movements, her manner of holding herself. I watched her interact with the woman that was standing at the counter. I watched a man approach her. A few minutes later, she walked out of the bookstore, a few steps away from where I was standing. I still had my cell phone in my hand and began to pretend to send a text message to a friend. This time, the man from inside the bookstore was with her. I am not sure who he was, but they seemed to be on a date.
As she walked past me, towards the Pompidou Center, our gazes met for a fleeting moment. It was one of those meaningful gazes, when everything that would have been said was, just without words. She smiled towards me, for a split second, as I looked her in the eyes. Through that gaze, I seemed to say, ‘I admire you.’ Her eyes replied, ‘I know.’
I turned and watched Christine Angot walk away, into the night.
* * *
She called me on a Tuesday. The phone rang only once before I picked it up. The writer, a woman, a feminist, a researcher. I knew it was her before I heard her voice. We only spoke for two minutes. Then, it was over.
Women (of letters) in my life: Marguerite Duras, Marguerite Yourcenar, Anaïs Nin, Dominique Barbéris, Simone de Beauvoir, Assia Djebar (Fatima-Zohra Imalayen), Nelly Arcan, Christine Angot.
Why?: (Re-)Collections of memories leading to an attempt at discovering self. However flawed it may be.
How do I feel about it?: … (See above)
Music: Irish, Celtic
Language(s): French, English.
What really happened: The end of it all. A new beginning of sorts. A stop before a start. A moment of hesitation. Shame. Undying something. Loss of self in a deeper way than ever before. Reinvention of new self. Reinvention of different self. Movement.
Who?: Harold Pinter, Samuel Beckett, Tom Stoppard. Mostly Harold Pinter.
Manifesto: The reinvention of the word, a coincidence with reinvention of self.
Words: In the right order, everything can have meaning.
Towards the nearing of the end of her life, I sat and watched her. Little was said aloud. We mostly whispered in her presence. When I was alone with her, for but a moment, I leaned in closely and whispered in her ear. “Please remember me. Please remember me. Please remember me. Please remember me. Please remember me.”
(Parenthetical Thoughts) on Love and the Passive Voice
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When The Supreme One created the universe, He did so with a series of verbal invocations, enunciating each one a nanosecond before the creation process began. (e.g. “Let there be light.”) In the Hebrew text, these are written as commands, fact which begs the question: Who was he commanding? No other beings had yet been spoken into existence.
I was brought to the place of execution only minutes before my sentence was to be rendered. I was offered nothing in the way of hood or face covering. I saw the man who had the pleasure of killing me. I looked into his eyes. I knew what he thought of me. I knew that he believed in his own moral authority, his dominion, so to speak. His eyes were a rich blue, bloodshot. His left eyelid drooped. He spoke in harsh tones. These, my friends, were my last words ...
Traveling at a hundred can make your head spin, but traveling at two will set your body a-shake. Now, back to the beginning of it all. The place that I didn't want to go to. The thing I didn't want to talk about. The end of time in the backwards direction. Traveling at two hundred, shaking the whole way.
When the music hits just right, the high gets better. And, you can feel it, stronger, coursing through your body as your head begins to tingle and your legs keep going going going, breaking through the pain and the exhaustion of it all. The sun beats down on your shoulders, and you realize your place in this world. A small, quiet place.
Tears rolled down her face. Mine, too. It suddenly felt cramped in my apartment. I had never felt that way with her nearby before.
We walked along the quais de la Seine. Notre-Dame eyeing us as we turned our backs to her. The boats, docked, and little kids skipping rocks off in the distance. At least, I imagine they were. Blinded. Aveugle. There were no word remembered, and nothing unsaid.
"The use of the passive voice is not a grammatical error. It is a stylistic issue that pertains to clarity—that is, there are times when using the passive voice can prevent a reader from understanding what you mean. [...] While the passive voice can weaken the clarity of your writing, there are times when the passive voice is OK and even preferable."
(Relating to the world through literary concepts is not for those who are not intrigued by what the written word has to offer to the greater good of our own human existence.)
Run-on sentence: I want to go back to where I was at another time when I thought I was strong before he said anything to me before I lost it all forever when I thought I was invincible and could conquer the entirety of the world with a few words and a writing pad and a dream and perhaps some coffee with sugar cubes.
Fragment: In Rouen, France.
Metaphor: The whole of a thunderous storm came on quickly and I was caught in the eye of a mighty whirlwind.
Simile: It was like the end of time before it ever got the chance to begin.
Hyperbole: The world came crashing down, killing all those in stead, no survivors to be heard of. No one, even, to listen for them.
Quotation:
"It was me on that road
But you couldn't see me
Too many lights out, but nowhere near here
It was me on that road
Still you couldn't see me
And then flashlights and explosions"
Interrogative sentence(s): Where did that time of my life go? Did I lose it forever?
(My legs pain me after the run.)
At first, she didn't want us to know each other. She was weary of introducing us. She didn't want her friends dating. She didn't like the idea of seeing us together. She called each of us separately. She compartmentalized us. One plus one. Minus another. One and one. One next to one. One behind one. All of these things. We were not. Denied. Closed.
And then we were. She only saw us a few times, though. We had moved. We had become "old friends". The ones you see for dinner or coffee when you're both in town. 'Tis all, my dear, 'tis all.
(The train: everymorningeverydayeveryeveningRouenParisRouen. I slept, mostly. And I still associate that song with the gentle rocking of the train. "Ici, Paris-St. Lazare." "Ici, Rouen-Rive Droite." Same river.)
I left everything behind when he said: "I thought you were stronger."
He had left much earlier.
I was brought to the place of execution only minutes before my sentence was to be rendered. I was offered nothing in the way of hood or face covering. I saw the man who had the pleasure of killing me. I looked into his eyes. I knew what he thought of me. I knew that he believed in his own moral authority, his dominion, so to speak. His eyes were a rich blue, bloodshot. His left eyelid drooped. He spoke in harsh tones. These, my friends, were my last words ...
Traveling at a hundred can make your head spin, but traveling at two will set your body a-shake. Now, back to the beginning of it all. The place that I didn't want to go to. The thing I didn't want to talk about. The end of time in the backwards direction. Traveling at two hundred, shaking the whole way.
When the music hits just right, the high gets better. And, you can feel it, stronger, coursing through your body as your head begins to tingle and your legs keep going going going, breaking through the pain and the exhaustion of it all. The sun beats down on your shoulders, and you realize your place in this world. A small, quiet place.
Tears rolled down her face. Mine, too. It suddenly felt cramped in my apartment. I had never felt that way with her nearby before.
We walked along the quais de la Seine. Notre-Dame eyeing us as we turned our backs to her. The boats, docked, and little kids skipping rocks off in the distance. At least, I imagine they were. Blinded. Aveugle. There were no word remembered, and nothing unsaid.
"The use of the passive voice is not a grammatical error. It is a stylistic issue that pertains to clarity—that is, there are times when using the passive voice can prevent a reader from understanding what you mean. [...] While the passive voice can weaken the clarity of your writing, there are times when the passive voice is OK and even preferable."
(Relating to the world through literary concepts is not for those who are not intrigued by what the written word has to offer to the greater good of our own human existence.)
Run-on sentence: I want to go back to where I was at another time when I thought I was strong before he said anything to me before I lost it all forever when I thought I was invincible and could conquer the entirety of the world with a few words and a writing pad and a dream and perhaps some coffee with sugar cubes.
Fragment: In Rouen, France.
Metaphor: The whole of a thunderous storm came on quickly and I was caught in the eye of a mighty whirlwind.
Simile: It was like the end of time before it ever got the chance to begin.
Hyperbole: The world came crashing down, killing all those in stead, no survivors to be heard of. No one, even, to listen for them.
Quotation:
"It was me on that road
But you couldn't see me
Too many lights out, but nowhere near here
It was me on that road
Still you couldn't see me
And then flashlights and explosions"
Interrogative sentence(s): Where did that time of my life go? Did I lose it forever?
(My legs pain me after the run.)
At first, she didn't want us to know each other. She was weary of introducing us. She didn't want her friends dating. She didn't like the idea of seeing us together. She called each of us separately. She compartmentalized us. One plus one. Minus another. One and one. One next to one. One behind one. All of these things. We were not. Denied. Closed.
And then we were. She only saw us a few times, though. We had moved. We had become "old friends". The ones you see for dinner or coffee when you're both in town. 'Tis all, my dear, 'tis all.
(The train: everymorningeverydayeveryeveningRouenParisRouen. I slept, mostly. And I still associate that song with the gentle rocking of the train. "Ici, Paris-St. Lazare." "Ici, Rouen-Rive Droite." Same river.)
I left everything behind when he said: "I thought you were stronger."
He had left much earlier.
Things we are taught to say in a cacophonous world
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Labels:
cacophony,
cliché,
learned traits
That I was thinking about you, that it’s alright to ask if you were thinking about me, that I have to speak with you every day, and have you on my at mind every moment, that love is easy or not worth the hassle, that being together is more important than keeping secrets, that individualism has no place, that life is too short to accomplish things, that the windows must be closed during the winter months, that dinner must be eaten together nightly, that reading in bed is what one does before falling asleep, that headaches are a decent excuse, that obsession is dangerous, that no means no, that there is a time and place for everything, that is wasn’t meant to be, that it just didn’t work out, that I’m over the moon, that “I do” is forever, that there is always a price to pay, yet every man has his price, that two is all there is to life, that one should aspire to be, that it’s not alright to be different, that Santa knows if you’ve been naughty, and he knows if you’ve been nice, that you get your money back for every lost tooth, that it’s not worth understanding, that too much exploration is bad, that one mustn’t drink alone, that drugs are bad, that sex can be unhealthy, that moderation is the only avenue, that success lies in hard work, that money is success, that getting your foot in the door means something, that one should only be unusual in secret, that patience is a virtue, that there is always a meaning, that karma is a bitch, that violence is the answer, that beauty is an excuse, that it always happens, that breakups and breakdowns and breakaways are your problem, that I can’t, that you can’t, that he shouldn’t, that she couldn’t, that someone is always watching, that it’s too soon to tell, that it shouldn’t hurt, that conformity is the way, that you’re gay, that lesbians like to excite straight men, that it’s not alright to cry, that weakness has no place, that the wait is only six to eight weeks, that your call will be answered in approximately 14 minutes, that two and two make four, that it doesn’t matter, that life goes on, that the show must go on, that vice is destructive, that you don’t have a voice, that you must speak up, that I can’t hear you, that I don’t want to hear you, that that’s enough, that everything is going to be okay, that silence is golden, that one must follow the golden rule, that sharing is caring, that the names have been changed to protect the innocent, that one is innocent until proven guilty, that that music is too goddamned loud, that I’ll turn this car around, that we are not there yet, that good things come to those who wait, that observation is the key, that butterflies in your stomach are a good thing, that it’s not real unless you want it to be, that perception is key, that offensiveness is acceptable, that love is the bond that heals all wounds, that my word is my bond, that Moses lead the slaves out of bondage, that bondage is a dirty fetish, that one must be on one’s best behavior, that we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, that everything must make perfect sense, that logic is the way, that the middle path is difficult to find, that the path less travelled is more valuable, that a penny a day is a penny earned, that value is in a hard day’s work, that hello, I love you, won’t you tell me your name, that the things we leave behind are more valuable than the things before us, that true love never dies, that a diamond is forever, and a diamond in the rough is a find, that cleanliness is godliness, that one must never falter on their values, that moral character is more important than action, that I’ll always be there for you. That I’ll always be there for you. That I’ll always be there for you.
On Happiness and Joy or The Reprisal of The Spleen
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Labels:
#writerdep,
Happiness,
Joy,
Spleen
[N.B. This is part of an ongoing conversation about Writing and Depression. The originator of the coversation is @maantren. His blog and more about this project are available here.]
I'm told there is a tunnel underground that leads to another part of the world. It is dark, infested, dank. There are only two points of access, egress. Enter on one side and hope to make it to the other. The journey will forever mark your future.
It touches the viscera, the deep insides, and the profound. Beyond mere tears, beyond the immediacy of crying. Beyond the worldly realm of emotion. I remember it all, as one does with the things that we never leave behind. The things that mark us deeply and beat us to an unrecognizable pulp of self. Perhaps it's simplicity, after all: that it only changes us, that it is a natural course of things, that it is a process, that it is of the metaphysical. That is makes us human.
The daylight was faded most days. Mostly artificial. The touch of a lost lover never to be felt again and the cold murky waters of the English Channel (the Sleeve) swaying back and forth almost calmingly. Mockingly.
Whispers traveled across oceans. Screams, over wires.
Darkness is a fucking cliché and so is sadness and grey-hazed vision. Clouds, muddled waters are cliché. How, then, to describe it? How, then, to employ language for something that language does not dictate? This is the great paradox and the great impossibility. Language does not reign over anxietas nor fear nor vomitus nor ...
It was perhaps Kafka that got it right. The change, the grand metamorphosis. And Glass later, in a different discipline. It was Duras that new it really well, and even Saint-Exupéry. It was the liar Houellebecq and the compulsive liar Christine Angot. It was Foucault and Kundera and Mishima and the ladies with the white painted faces. It was Ravel and Hugo. The cockroaches come out in all of these, at times more visibly than others, but believe me, they come out.
I remember that apartment. The one we lived in. The red carpeting. The view just as Monet had seen it. The cathedral, the clock and the virgin. The sounds that didn't travel and the heights. The bar on the corner that sold cigarettes on Sunday.
Silence. It is definitely marked by silence. A profound silence, an inability to speak, a non-usage of language. A taciturn existence. Waiting. It is definitely marked by waiting. Of the slow passage of time, tick-tock, tick-tock, over and over and over again. Solitude. It is definitely marked by solitude.
Solitude is an interesting case. The one that is always there but we only think about in these moments. The one that we ignore most of the time. The one that we try to deny is part of our existence. The one that we push away with promises of communities and friendships and lovers and families. Solitude. Alone. One. (Which makes it that to which we aspire, as well.)
I am forever marked by the parents I have and the influence of my childhood. I am forever marked by the lovers that I have had. I am forever marked by the journeys on which I have been. I am forever marked by ...
When Claire called, I nearly dropped the phone. The room was spinning and I began to shake. But, it wasn't until some time later that I became an insomniac. That I was afraid of dying in my sleep. That I couldn't function. That I was ...
Anger can lead to it, and so can intense sadness, but it is neither of these things. It is cathartic. The tunnel, back to the tunnel, whose length is simply too long for there to be a light at its end. Until.
I'm told there is a tunnel underground that leads to another part of the world. It is dark, infested, dank. There are only two points of access, egress. Enter on one side and hope to make it to the other. The journey will forever mark your future.
It touches the viscera, the deep insides, and the profound. Beyond mere tears, beyond the immediacy of crying. Beyond the worldly realm of emotion. I remember it all, as one does with the things that we never leave behind. The things that mark us deeply and beat us to an unrecognizable pulp of self. Perhaps it's simplicity, after all: that it only changes us, that it is a natural course of things, that it is a process, that it is of the metaphysical. That is makes us human.
The daylight was faded most days. Mostly artificial. The touch of a lost lover never to be felt again and the cold murky waters of the English Channel (the Sleeve) swaying back and forth almost calmingly. Mockingly.
Whispers traveled across oceans. Screams, over wires.
Darkness is a fucking cliché and so is sadness and grey-hazed vision. Clouds, muddled waters are cliché. How, then, to describe it? How, then, to employ language for something that language does not dictate? This is the great paradox and the great impossibility. Language does not reign over anxietas nor fear nor vomitus nor ...
It was perhaps Kafka that got it right. The change, the grand metamorphosis. And Glass later, in a different discipline. It was Duras that new it really well, and even Saint-Exupéry. It was the liar Houellebecq and the compulsive liar Christine Angot. It was Foucault and Kundera and Mishima and the ladies with the white painted faces. It was Ravel and Hugo. The cockroaches come out in all of these, at times more visibly than others, but believe me, they come out.
I remember that apartment. The one we lived in. The red carpeting. The view just as Monet had seen it. The cathedral, the clock and the virgin. The sounds that didn't travel and the heights. The bar on the corner that sold cigarettes on Sunday.
Silence. It is definitely marked by silence. A profound silence, an inability to speak, a non-usage of language. A taciturn existence. Waiting. It is definitely marked by waiting. Of the slow passage of time, tick-tock, tick-tock, over and over and over again. Solitude. It is definitely marked by solitude.
Solitude is an interesting case. The one that is always there but we only think about in these moments. The one that we ignore most of the time. The one that we try to deny is part of our existence. The one that we push away with promises of communities and friendships and lovers and families. Solitude. Alone. One. (Which makes it that to which we aspire, as well.)
I am forever marked by the parents I have and the influence of my childhood. I am forever marked by the lovers that I have had. I am forever marked by the journeys on which I have been. I am forever marked by ...
When Claire called, I nearly dropped the phone. The room was spinning and I began to shake. But, it wasn't until some time later that I became an insomniac. That I was afraid of dying in my sleep. That I couldn't function. That I was ...
Anger can lead to it, and so can intense sadness, but it is neither of these things. It is cathartic. The tunnel, back to the tunnel, whose length is simply too long for there to be a light at its end. Until.
On being a book.
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Labels:
Books,
Sensuality
I feel it when you touch me, hold me, run me through your hands. When your eyes are on me, I know. I catch your gaze, swaying back and forth, enthralled, convoluted, stunned. I hear it when you speak. I wait. Mostly, I wait. I wait until the day that you pull me off the shelf and treat me like a lover, holding me close to your body, secreting me away from the stare of others. I am sensuality. A secret individual sensuality that only we know. I am you. I am you as you think you should be, and you aspire to be, as you will never attain. I am the sun and the stars and the moon and the sky. But, above all, I am paper.
I screamed when you tore me.
I am pornography and voyeurism and masochism and sadism. I am a lover, your lover, your most intimate being. I am your secrets, the deepest darkest ones, and the stories you refuse to speak. I am rare and tactile like a precious gem.
I am a number. A collection of numbers. And words. And collections of words. I am life.
I like it rough, I like it soft. I am a prostitute, a dirty whore that can count her worth in dollars.
I am several people at a time. I am work and time and energy and fruition. I am a team, an aglomorate, an abstract coming together of intention, thought and execution. Tossed from one to the next to the next. And then, I am a being. A full being. I tactile being. Your touch came into existence then. Your gaze saw me for the first time. Your heart was open, then. Your body, warm.
I am alone, living a solitary existence. Hope keeps me alive. Dreams keep me alive. Your touch, I long for your touch.
There was a time when all you thought of was me. When you were consumed by the thought of me. When the mere thought of me excited you. When obsession wasn’t a concern. There was a time when you touched me like I was the only one that mattered. Night after night, day after day, dawn after dawn, you slaved to make me whole. You toiled to fulfill my every desire. You were an attentive lover, one that considered me fully, as I should be considered. One that caressed me in the right places. One that made joy and happiness and pleasure a single experience. A duplicitous experience. And one of duplicity.
You molded me with your dexterous hands, crafting me into existence. You were my lifeblood and my sincerest companion. My true and only lover. You were my destiny and I was yours. “I am my lover’s and my lover is mine.”
You used to touch me. You used to hold me. You used to be my lover.
I can still think back to the way your lip crinkled when you saw me naked, bare. When you would spend hours at a time running your hands over my body. The pleasure on your face, I saw it all. You tried to hide it, in vain.
I knew your hopes and your dreams and your aspirations and your desires. I knew these things. I shaped these things. I told you what to think. My own body, a testament to the very oneness of your being. I was an attentive lover.
I am sexuality. The most vivid sexuality. The most raucous, guttural sexuality. I am your desires, your fetishes, the things you choose to silence. I am the personification of these silences, the sick and dirty reminder of your inner-most secretive sexualized fantasies.
And there it is. The crux of things. The crossroads and the beginning of the end. It was you that needed to get away. You that couldn’t handle the intensity. You that put on airs of forgetfulness and neglect. Your touch went away that day. Sensuality denied. Sexuality squandered. Pleasure never to be felt again.
I am expendable. I am pulp.
We are all expendable. We are all books.
I screamed when you tore me.
I am pornography and voyeurism and masochism and sadism. I am a lover, your lover, your most intimate being. I am your secrets, the deepest darkest ones, and the stories you refuse to speak. I am rare and tactile like a precious gem.
I am a number. A collection of numbers. And words. And collections of words. I am life.
I like it rough, I like it soft. I am a prostitute, a dirty whore that can count her worth in dollars.
I am several people at a time. I am work and time and energy and fruition. I am a team, an aglomorate, an abstract coming together of intention, thought and execution. Tossed from one to the next to the next. And then, I am a being. A full being. I tactile being. Your touch came into existence then. Your gaze saw me for the first time. Your heart was open, then. Your body, warm.
I am alone, living a solitary existence. Hope keeps me alive. Dreams keep me alive. Your touch, I long for your touch.
There was a time when all you thought of was me. When you were consumed by the thought of me. When the mere thought of me excited you. When obsession wasn’t a concern. There was a time when you touched me like I was the only one that mattered. Night after night, day after day, dawn after dawn, you slaved to make me whole. You toiled to fulfill my every desire. You were an attentive lover, one that considered me fully, as I should be considered. One that caressed me in the right places. One that made joy and happiness and pleasure a single experience. A duplicitous experience. And one of duplicity.
You molded me with your dexterous hands, crafting me into existence. You were my lifeblood and my sincerest companion. My true and only lover. You were my destiny and I was yours. “I am my lover’s and my lover is mine.”
You used to touch me. You used to hold me. You used to be my lover.
I can still think back to the way your lip crinkled when you saw me naked, bare. When you would spend hours at a time running your hands over my body. The pleasure on your face, I saw it all. You tried to hide it, in vain.
I knew your hopes and your dreams and your aspirations and your desires. I knew these things. I shaped these things. I told you what to think. My own body, a testament to the very oneness of your being. I was an attentive lover.
I am sexuality. The most vivid sexuality. The most raucous, guttural sexuality. I am your desires, your fetishes, the things you choose to silence. I am the personification of these silences, the sick and dirty reminder of your inner-most secretive sexualized fantasies.
And there it is. The crux of things. The crossroads and the beginning of the end. It was you that needed to get away. You that couldn’t handle the intensity. You that put on airs of forgetfulness and neglect. Your touch went away that day. Sensuality denied. Sexuality squandered. Pleasure never to be felt again.
I am expendable. I am pulp.
We are all expendable. We are all books.
Journal or The Stories That Should Not Be Told (Part I)
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Labels:
Journal
When I lived in Paris, I kept a journal. I carried it with me everywhere. I recorded ideas, thoughts, writing. The following is a full transcript of that journal. This is where it all begins.
For letter to M., add day. Je suis corrompu. Suite à notre rupture je suis corrompu. Je ne peux plus croire en l'amour. L'amour triche, il ment. Comme tu l'as fait. Corrompu. Si jamais je pourrais y croire à nouveau. A une nouvelle reprise. Reprendre la croyance. En vain. Pensée en vain puisque je suis corrompu à fond. Stonehendge = groupings of 3 stones. I manipulate. I've manipulated you. M. already manipulated me and taught me how to manipulate. Cycles of manipulation. Cain, Abel = story that speaks to the interplay of the power one holds over another. (Dominus - Seruus)In the beginnings of a relationship, one needs the other. Every relationship is a confrontation of one individual against another. Aimer ҂ être amoureux. I've confused it all. I thought that falling in love was the same as loving. Falling in love = disturbing. I write this with tears in my eyes, amidst a full emotional crisis. I hate writing. It's too hard. It's pitiful, hideous, shameful. Writing the truth, saying the truth scares me, but I cannot do otherwise. For lack of anything else. Ionesco killed literature. In order to say what he did, he would have had to, at the very least, been present during its demise. Preface: letter to the reader. This is part, equally, of the fiction. Rule: word play. S'aimer = semer, l'amour and la mort, faux lit = folie, trois = troie, toi, des trois = Detroit, all these words: faux lit, semer: se debarasser de la compagnie de qqn. C.D.K.O.
Formes: Vague airs of love (3 waltzes)
I. Initial situation; style: short story
II. Meeting; style: magazine interview (dialog)
III. The happy days; style: epistolary
IV. Beginning of crisis; style: screenplay
V. Crises; style: Oulipo!
VI. Break-up; style: philosophical paper
VII. Aftermath; style: dramatic monologue
VIII. Attempt to regain; style: writing of insanity, desperation
*Story of a person known as "The Writer" which is, in fact, the story of the process of writing a novel. This story is juxtaposed to the different forms of novel. Most personal stories written in third person.
The impossibility of love, collection of short stories:
I. Meeting
II. Flame
III. We're well
IV. Beginning of problems
etc.
Break-up
Questioning of literature. What is literature? Title: This is not a novel. Normal style, Screenplay, Interview (?/response), POV changes (narrator), reporting (maybe)
T-G: 9 vesale, St. marcel, 1XXXX, 6th floor
L.'s: M., 209 Daumesnil, 5XXXX, 5th floor right 06.XX.XX.XX.XX
169 rue de Rennes, 8XXXX//XXXX
K.: 27 rue Campagne Premiere, metro Raspail 14th, code: XXXX, Code 2nd door (on right) XXXXX, 2nd floor to the left.
C.: 19 rue Camille des Moulins, XXXX, 1st floor
Why do I do this? Why do I search for a justification, to a life, to love, to hate? A justification that I will never have. A dirty word.That which is already written (catching), that which is being written (catching up). Book in which there are two parts: first part = story, second part = psychoanalytic analysis of the first part. Violence can only create peace and calm. Confronting the violence of the past leads to a peaceful future where the violence has been erased. Artistic creation = creation of love = creation of the world. Means of finding the happiness of our childhood, the happiness of the Garden of Eden, the Earthly paradise. [See Freudian definitions in C.A.] Torah = taking a drug, creation of love, artistic creation. Initial happiness = horrendous struggle to reclaim this happiness (another way). Eden = Exile = Israel, Alone = Love = Collective happiness. "Conversations with Monique". Living is learning to die, dialog between us two, which ends in agreement from two different directions.
Egocentrism, chapters:
Ego (N.) = I am subject
Me (Acc.) = I am object
Mihi (Gen.) = For me??
Mei (Dat.) = I am indirect object
Me (Abl.) = I am device
Inabilities to love: M., T., M., Threesome with A. and B., A. These situations are easier. Sexually everything functions properly. Sex ҂ love David Lynch Falling into impossible love: I met C. while drinking heavily at a party in Paris. It was a Saturday. She arrived near 11:30; she was the last to arrive. Falling in love with the wrong person: love nonetheless. True love can occur in the worst of situations. C. = an inappropriate love. Dads, men, and people in general. Uictus es! Second part = the flood (Noah)
I cannot let go of triplets. They exist everywhere. Just like the manipulation, like the corruption which can be found in my profound self, I am absolutely incapable of getting rid of them, to expel them from my life. I would have been better off never having remarked. That is the futile stuggle, the cause of the larger human depression, of which I am part. Happily at times.
J.K.: 9 Gunterstone Rd., London, W14 9B, UK
St. Lazarre - Oissel: 2:23 - 3:35, train 13107
Classified: leaving message from one to another. C.'s birth in a car at the red light. "It's a girl!" and hop! let's go!
Relate emotional things through literary explanation.
D. Family: 6, rue de la Mare d'Aulne, 27370 Thuit-Anger
It's love that strangles us in the most violent of manners, which cuts us off at the throat, leaving it dry and without words, and which makes us endure an inexplainable force. It's this same love that reveals us, little by little, to ourselves so that one day we become truly capable of loving another.
For letter to M., add day. Je suis corrompu. Suite à notre rupture je suis corrompu. Je ne peux plus croire en l'amour. L'amour triche, il ment. Comme tu l'as fait. Corrompu. Si jamais je pourrais y croire à nouveau. A une nouvelle reprise. Reprendre la croyance. En vain. Pensée en vain puisque je suis corrompu à fond. Stonehendge = groupings of 3 stones. I manipulate. I've manipulated you. M. already manipulated me and taught me how to manipulate. Cycles of manipulation. Cain, Abel = story that speaks to the interplay of the power one holds over another. (Dominus - Seruus)In the beginnings of a relationship, one needs the other. Every relationship is a confrontation of one individual against another. Aimer ҂ être amoureux. I've confused it all. I thought that falling in love was the same as loving. Falling in love = disturbing. I write this with tears in my eyes, amidst a full emotional crisis. I hate writing. It's too hard. It's pitiful, hideous, shameful. Writing the truth, saying the truth scares me, but I cannot do otherwise. For lack of anything else. Ionesco killed literature. In order to say what he did, he would have had to, at the very least, been present during its demise. Preface: letter to the reader. This is part, equally, of the fiction. Rule: word play. S'aimer = semer, l'amour and la mort, faux lit = folie, trois = troie, toi, des trois = Detroit, all these words: faux lit, semer: se debarasser de la compagnie de qqn. C.D.K.O.
Formes: Vague airs of love (3 waltzes)
I. Initial situation; style: short story
II. Meeting; style: magazine interview (dialog)
III. The happy days; style: epistolary
IV. Beginning of crisis; style: screenplay
V. Crises; style: Oulipo!
VI. Break-up; style: philosophical paper
VII. Aftermath; style: dramatic monologue
VIII. Attempt to regain; style: writing of insanity, desperation
*Story of a person known as "The Writer" which is, in fact, the story of the process of writing a novel. This story is juxtaposed to the different forms of novel. Most personal stories written in third person.
The impossibility of love, collection of short stories:
I. Meeting
II. Flame
III. We're well
IV. Beginning of problems
etc.
Break-up
Questioning of literature. What is literature? Title: This is not a novel. Normal style, Screenplay, Interview (?/response), POV changes (narrator), reporting (maybe)
T-G: 9 vesale, St. marcel, 1XXXX, 6th floor
L.'s: M., 209 Daumesnil, 5XXXX, 5th floor right 06.XX.XX.XX.XX
169 rue de Rennes, 8XXXX//XXXX
K.: 27 rue Campagne Premiere, metro Raspail 14th, code: XXXX, Code 2nd door (on right) XXXXX, 2nd floor to the left.
C.: 19 rue Camille des Moulins, XXXX, 1st floor
Why do I do this? Why do I search for a justification, to a life, to love, to hate? A justification that I will never have. A dirty word.That which is already written (catching), that which is being written (catching up). Book in which there are two parts: first part = story, second part = psychoanalytic analysis of the first part. Violence can only create peace and calm. Confronting the violence of the past leads to a peaceful future where the violence has been erased. Artistic creation = creation of love = creation of the world. Means of finding the happiness of our childhood, the happiness of the Garden of Eden, the Earthly paradise. [See Freudian definitions in C.A.] Torah = taking a drug, creation of love, artistic creation. Initial happiness = horrendous struggle to reclaim this happiness (another way). Eden = Exile = Israel, Alone = Love = Collective happiness. "Conversations with Monique". Living is learning to die, dialog between us two, which ends in agreement from two different directions.
Egocentrism, chapters:
Ego (N.) = I am subject
Me (Acc.) = I am object
Mihi (Gen.) = For me??
Mei (Dat.) = I am indirect object
Me (Abl.) = I am device
Inabilities to love: M., T., M., Threesome with A. and B., A. These situations are easier. Sexually everything functions properly. Sex ҂ love David Lynch Falling into impossible love: I met C. while drinking heavily at a party in Paris. It was a Saturday. She arrived near 11:30; she was the last to arrive. Falling in love with the wrong person: love nonetheless. True love can occur in the worst of situations. C. = an inappropriate love. Dads, men, and people in general. Uictus es! Second part = the flood (Noah)
I cannot let go of triplets. They exist everywhere. Just like the manipulation, like the corruption which can be found in my profound self, I am absolutely incapable of getting rid of them, to expel them from my life. I would have been better off never having remarked. That is the futile stuggle, the cause of the larger human depression, of which I am part. Happily at times.
J.K.: 9 Gunterstone Rd., London, W14 9B, UK
St. Lazarre - Oissel: 2:23 - 3:35, train 13107
Classified: leaving message from one to another. C.'s birth in a car at the red light. "It's a girl!" and hop! let's go!
Relate emotional things through literary explanation.
D. Family: 6, rue de la Mare d'Aulne, 27370 Thuit-Anger
It's love that strangles us in the most violent of manners, which cuts us off at the throat, leaving it dry and without words, and which makes us endure an inexplainable force. It's this same love that reveals us, little by little, to ourselves so that one day we become truly capable of loving another.
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