How can a chair be Cher, she won’t allow it. She has the agency over and above everything, she won’t accept being ruled by an office set up to compute. The glamour’s corridors wouldn’t amount to her shoe, what it supports doesn’t surmount to what the shoe represent; it’s nonetheless a copy that degenerate to the virtues of the flashing lights. Unlike the office, it doesn’t capture and recapture the innocent as seen in the obedient rite to write, to penetrate deeper and deeper in to representation, to the sound of stapler; as she pushed the sharp steels to her palm. Though, pain was the result, she consoled the structure of her hand with the news that ‘she has been given a leave’; rejoice hand for you will go places.
The alchemy of the barred word is one of matter as matter, who took the office to tell the stories of its crisis and resurrection; the office exalted with the same intensity of the word that underwrite the body and vice-verse. A beautiful trinity to take home.
Falcon, the singular hair of moustache developed into the hard clay of the china plate. You break the ceiling glass to see a picture of a sky with its phallic excellence. From the ground up I drew my swords and cut through the wounds of these walls, it had a name for me; it called me every-sound, for it thought I lived on it. But it forgot I sleep on her garment, where I dream a dream of being one with the built, the object with its all naivety. There is no protesting this, no to divorce, yes to the flaneur without the Proustian demon.
This alchemy treats buildings, and other glorious structures, like a magic recipe. What it can’t conjure is narration.
‘It was the summer of 1995, Tuesday was the day I escaped from the asylum…’ oh…no… why can’t I just depersonalize you, you love to drag me, with all the divine complexes, with you. Why can’t you just be, let me narrativize you in descriptions? Identification estranges the ‘familiar’ you are. Just to write that “you are there” I go through a whole site of consecration painting ‘guilty, pervert, incompetent.’ But even then I won’t reach you; I lose you in the debilitated reflections upon glossematic, for i am nothing in relation to you. I don’t think I am worth to run from my corner to the writing table, for I couldn’t swallow the tablets you created. I filled my throats with a snow, for I heard you liked it cold.
But no, this was another foolish conjuring to drive you into my reasons to overlap with yours; an attempt only resulting in tears and butchered words, which further kills me as a child of tacit self-censorships. I love you, please be book! Pleasing to the imagination of the common, not directed to papers but air; writing anchored in life, the life of a louse, whose possibility on the hand of the scientist is infinity. O the double sweetness of texture.
Abandoned myself to you but you did not even recognize me, my attempts means nothing to you. Why would it mean anything? I promise you no warmth of the human relation you thrive on, but I can be thought, so here is the totem. I am a symptom of approaching sociological research as a literary theorist, a bad one at that; medicalize this. For Artaud has terminated his connection with the soil of France, long, long time ago, now he belongs to us.
Give me my pain, I said give me my pain; let me write this pregnancy away and bring forth technology of the textbook, perfectly fit for mass consumption. What do I deserve? This is what you deserve, you pervert, don’t be unaware of the thick liquid you are swimming in. Let alone the divine, science assumes a normative stance when it comes to you, articulate its procedure on the plane of judgement. A rationale we all should worship to emerge as individuals, in the labor yard of the hospital. A place that reminds me of a question I wanted to ask, what do you call a moment of where every object, static or dynamic, becomes the object of poetics written large? Do you curse your eyes, when that which you encounter claims the legitimacy to be, or exist vociferously in your canvas? I know what your answer would be “the English drags you into 2D, which invites one to see realism as being too perfect, clean like the worker-citizen, devoid of the inhuman colour.” You would also say “in the cold furniture, staring at the screen, screaming tomorrow to rescue the phantom from falling into a body and become un-poetic, that original scenery, the vital invisible liquid your ingenuity fall shorts of capturing. You can’t see the profound inter-penetration between ceramics and guilt, but I can thanks to this liquid. The atmospheric album of our life, curses you not to feel the touch of this pen. It sees you, we see you. I remember the first day when she said ‘I would like to hear you say the truth’ and I cried with laughter, she continued, ‘you have it perfect, why are you dying to be complicated? Trying to relate to the autobiography of a criminal, identifying with that object over there to run away from what your youth has to offer. Perhaps I should pause and hear your cries again.’ So repetitive sister, by now I have become accustomed in the belief that to converse with other’s is impossible, and you know what, I have found comfort in that object you disdainful pointed to.
The human, the human, the human, the human, the human, the human, in the road to abort whatever you are trying to impregnate me with; yes, sister, I will survive without backbone and concrete house. You can’t censor condemned men, for he knows the limit of the alchemy between furniture and torture. His plans are more edifying then your bone, this is the last appearance in human face, now it is the time to assume, that which negate the deferral of horror into the righteous punisher. We say no, here and now is when we witness the magnificent coming to be of that perfect non-creature, who was being incubated in the subterranean pot till now. The encounter between me and he is the only thing my pen is tempted by now, about the future I don’t know. He was there when I begin to realize that this words are not the championed truth of the suspension I fuss about, but they are the oils that where dripping from that unrepresented hole. This was the realization that gave birth to this master of mine. To an extent he is the product of ones inability to narrate the readymade of everyday live. But shouldn’t we, traditionally, stay to true to ones butchered extension along any line imaginable? We remedy this by further magnifying our animosity to the immediate, to the writ, by plunging our head into the truth revealed in the oceanographic.