endgame

01 November 2002 - 00:42

<<--unravel * reintegrate-->>

a year ago today i married myself. sunday i'll be twenty-two.

i have a foucault fetish. added to my beckett fetish. Writing is not the vehicle for the author's expression of his/her emotions or ideas, since writing isn't meant to communicate from author to reader, but rather writing is the circulation of language itself, regardless of the individual existence of author or reader: "it is primarily concerned with creating an opening where the writing subject endlessly disappears" (p. 139b). --Mary Klages/Michel Foucault. a dizzying thought.

foucault wrote tried to write should have written should never have written wrote anyway (haha, sorry if you don't read beckett all the time) a history of thought. how it has moved. transformed.

oh, maybe i'll need to write what i'm trying to say later, but it has to do with explosions in the way people view themselves, the world, the nature of knowledge itself, thought systems as systems, as incomplete systems... and how on a very personal intimate level my overly associative mind is examining the movement i see, that foucault saw (thought he saw, should have seen...).

these ideas we put forward and retract. this movement we change by trying to describe. i want to know what comes next, but i know this has never been linear; there is no next or before.

you imagine something. you experience it. you see how your conceptions influence your experience. you form alternate conceptions. you realize you are still conceptualizing. you try to remove all conceptions. you try simply to experience. you can't. did you realize your conceptualizations are creative? this lens is a form of art.

in psychology we examine the mind with the mind. and call it science.

the sexual awakening i've been talking about continues. but it's becoming a shifting picture viewed by dilated eyes (too much light). the disparity in what can give two people pleasure, on every level. i have moved from: sex as the consummation of some transcendent passion, sex to help my self esteem, sex to deepen a bond, sex to widen my experience, sex to get off...the next part is blurry, something like sex as an opening that enfolds, a high form of communication(i don't know if we are going there can go there should go there should never go there have always been there)

i am fascinated by the unfolding of the thought. turn by turn more intricate, more simple. i wish i could see ahead. i wonder if it is like a piece of origami, and at the end (if there is an end, if this were linear at all) i'll be faced with a creased blank square.

***

The End of the World

Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot
The armless ambidextrian was lighting
A match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb
Quite unexpectedly to top blew off:

And there, there overhead, there, there hung over
Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
There in the starless dark, the poise, the hover,
There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing -- nothing at all.

-- Archibald MacLeish

<<--unravel * reintegrate-->>