My inability to write brought me here; not the God of my parents, no, no, what condemned me is the seer saying “life flourishes through work.”
This is a summer of reckoning. I was sitting on the window of our neighbor, in a cat form, what can we say about this creature but the very cause of the novel, looking down on that tree wall, that dirt, that field, where we galloped the oblivion. They now assume a mystical status, where an insect is an instinct.
Breton, you fly, woke me up to the sovereignty of the child; shook me like the marvelous, where my embodiment gives an ambiguous relation to the human, solidarity, and utter hatred; even the eugenicist is benevolent.
I will peel your skin, show it to my creatures, they are grinding their teeth, they will wear you inside out, and exhibit you to the horrified-enjoying public.
I think it is death that makes her itch; it is the grief of the female in the infinite possibility of biology, in the hand of poésie.
Growing up, I thought madness was what Duchamp said, “only other people die,” where, now, sanity seems to be in the cliche of ignorance. The innocence nest, where the French language phonetics expressed my will to escape, occupied that dull tree in the compound of the asylum, or the chair along the corridor.
Now I have to surgically replace my tongue for Artaud and Nerval’s, both intense flows produced by judgment, which is a sign where the esoteric torture their very being.
Bataille and broad daylight, Bataille and the cracking sky, raining eggs, Bataille and over-identification, Bataille and typology of horror, Bataille and dress born in Reims, Bataille and life through death, Bataille and finger nails.