The hands

May 4th, 2011

What happens when one stops writing? What happens when one starts again? If anything? Not writing. Not loving, dying. What one loses? A chance at becoming foreign and other to oneself? A chance at some life.
How are the steps of new life positioned?
How one marks the place of a new possibility? By listening to other, however distant, almost self-same, subsumed under concepts of oneself, which were layered through days of non-writing. By listening to almost nothing, but the urgency of a speech, grafting itself, making some self disintegrate, some same leave its throne, however dim and not-sure. Maybe, even better – facing this same through the possible coming of an other, facing this self to a death, a death of its own dying, and so – through figures marked with dead letters, half-sure concepts – comes to life some new life.
The foreigner already laughing and smiling, since he is good, by the right of the new force, already kicking, since he must be violent, with virtuosity of deleting.
But not so fast. A trace of death is too deep, too sure of its half-sures – the foreigner must do some work, here the same must lose to the other, and this loss is not easy. To lose, must loose. The same must enter, through its half-sure concepts, or marks, or cracks, or this always unanalysable void, into alliance with the foreigner.
Must become black.
And then, maybe, some colours, hence – some love or pleasure.

[audio:|titles=4. traSH piaNO thEMe]

Texts | Comments

Comments are closed.


Monthly Archives