day 100

It's hard to decipher those words - those onward marching words that do not end. It is not even a matter of subject/object or the consistency of the matheme versus the obscurity of poetry that some like to think is a music of the 'there is'.
There is, none. For the flashes of presence, always must disappear beneath language, the coffin that is the notion of material presence. What if, there is no Subject, or Object and only language makes the distinction. What if, poetry is not an operation but again the blind codification of a world that violently confronts you as much as it goes about with its own thing. And we are just blind men, finding, scavenging through the refuse to find suitable words to bring this world into our submission. So the lesson of alchemy can be useful here. There is no gold when we mix words together. It is, instead, an atheist's operation to counter the divine Sacred so that the Sacred can hide behind words, and forever be that elusive mystery, haunting us, tenderly, wearily or painfully. We endure words, so that we may die as words. Rest in peace - alas, there is no peace, forever those words shall haunt us, and tie us with knots of hybrids of categories.

If you think a child writing his or her name on a book is cute and sweet. Think again.
It is a submission to the word of the name that one has no choice - except he or she could in future change with exactly another word that the psyche can hide beneath.

The unnameable? Just another category, Badiou.

what we should think, if possible, is death that words teaches us through their repetition - there is no pure repetition. We die our own deaths and there is no way of thematizing that experience. And no way of naming.

I am on a redundant and paradoxical project. My words, fly up, and there they stay. They never once belonged to me. If those words disappear as my voice, it is only because I didn't have one anyway. And I won't have one after I die. So may those words serve as a disclosure - of death and the incarnation of traces, with a corporeality that always preceded me, and superseded me. Words were around before I came about. Words will continue to be around after I am gone. I might have arranged them in a particular order, but I am at their mercy. Perhaps, it is that violent interaction that makes life meaningful a la Job, and we can defeat words by pretending to submit to them after 7 days of silence. Is this economy of death through silence just my short-handed way of approaching life - yes it is. Life is short. Words are too long.

The many detours I make. The many words formed, will not bring me closer to death. This onward march, with faith, shall see me through (to death), with words, as a dance on needles and a pool of blood below.

Only through words do I deny myself. Only through words do I forsake myself. Then life after death can be achieved without too many words, except the name He gave.