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 represents; it’s nonetheless a copy that degenerates 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 into representation, to the sound of a stapler, as she pushed the sharp steel into 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 underwrites the body and vice versa. A beautiful trinity to take home.
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 running from my corner to the writing table, for I couldn’t swallow the tablets you created. I filled my throat with 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-censorship. 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 in the hand of the scientist is infinite. OH, the double sweetness of texture.
Abandoned myself to you, but you did not even recognize me; my attempts mean nothing to you. Why would it mean anything? I promise you no warmth of the human relation you thrive on, but I can be taught, 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, articulating its procedure on the plane of judgement. A rationale we all should follow to emerge as individuals in the labor ward of the hospital. A place that reminds me of a question I wanted to ask: What do you call a moment 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 becoming un-poetic, that original scenery, the vital invisible liquid your ingenuity falls short of capturing. You can’t see the profound interpenetration 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 to the belief that to converse with others is impossible, and you know what, I have found comfort in that object you disdainfully 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 a backbone and a 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 than your bones. This is the last appearance of the human face; now it is time to assume that which negates 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 him is the only thing my pen is tempted by now. About the future, I don’t know. He was there when I began to realize that these words are not the championed truth of the suspension I fuss about, but they are the oils that were 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 one’s inability to narrate the readymade of everyday life. But shouldn’t we, traditionally, stay true to one’s 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.