“To reach, not the point where one no longer says I, but the point where it is no longer of any importance whether one says I…
…A book has neither object nor subject; it is made of variously formed matters, and very different dates and speeds…
…There is no difference between what a book talks about and how it is made…
…A book exists only through the outside and on the outside.”
– gilles deleuze & felix guattari –
3
“My relation to others is staggered all the way to the infinite;
from the bottom up, never horizontally, the distance from here to there…
…what you call ‘distance’ is but the time of breathing in, of breathing out.
All the oxygen man needs is in his lungs.
Empty, the space of life.”
-Edmond Jabes-
Passage to and fro. Fore and aft. Passing through. So many streams of signs and symbols, sounds, referents – in some pores and out from others. A long and endless middle.
If photons, neither particles or waves (or both) – packs of energized events. Here, then there, everything on its way. As if life (the verb) is journey. Booking passage in a network of traces. Slug-lines. Marking, evaporate, recombinant maps.
Convergences – sense/perception/neurons and quanta. Convergences – weather and molecules and thises and thats (write “I” and “you”) and light and air, ground and other conjoining disjunctive matters. Convergences – roving planets in orbital trajectories, distances sustained by what is near, all the kinds and classifications.
Descriptions and errors. Adapt, adjust, revise. And err. Trial err trial err, survive. For now. Temporarily. This way. The always-conditioning clause: Now. If.
A stone Buddha, or just its head, being drawn by an artist. A trace, remark, a transcription – transformation – another form. For now. And then…
Tracing convergences – our qualia – as events describe – the meeting and meshwork of lines, of motions, of pathways and bendings in travel, of stars and their dust. Refraction, reflection, sharing directions, constraints. Opportunities for pulse, for pattern, for wave.
To journey then, to map. Now, if. The long and ever-ending middle always already begun. Trajectories and knots, unravel.
Experience, anyway. Breathe in, breathe out, the trace. The empty plenitude, the pregnant space, and timing’s distance. We join.
All my Words are Silent 