In order to understand, I destroyed myself.
to understand is to forget to love. I know nothing at once so false and so meaningful as that saying of Leonardo da Vinci that one can only love or hate something once one has understood it.
- Fernando Pessoa

 

Fragment of an Agon - T.S Eliot

Sweeney: I’ll carry you off 

          to a cannibal isle.

Doris: You’ll be the cannibal

SWEENEY: You’ll be the missionary!

            You’ll be my little seven stone missionary!
             I’ll gobble you up. I’ll be the cannibal.

DORIS: You’ll carry me off? To a cannibal isle?

SWEENEY: I’ll be the cannibal. 

DORIS:                        I’ll be the missionary.
             I’ll convert you!

SWEENEY:                    I’ll convert you!
               Into a stew.
               A nice little, white little, missionary stew.

DORIS: You wouldn’t eat me!

SWEENEY:                   Yes I’d eat you!

                In a nice little, white little, soft little, tender little,

                Juicy little, right little, missionary stew.

                You see this egg

                You see this egg

                Well that’s life on a crocodile isle.

                There’s no telephones

                There’s no gramophones

                There’s no motor cars

                No two-seaters, no six-seaters,

                No Citroën, no Rolls-Royce.

                Nothing to eat but the fruit as it grows.

                Nothing to see but the palmtrees one way

                And the sea the other way,

                Nothing to hear but the sound of the surf.

                Nothing at all but three things

DORIS:                                     What things?

SWEENEY: Birth, and copulation, and death.

                That’s all, that’s all, that’s all, that’s all,

                Birth, and copulation, and death.

DORIS: I’d be bored.

SWEENEY:                        You’d be bored.

                 Birth, and copulation, and death.

DORIS: I’d be bored.

SWEENEY:               You’d be bored.

              Birth, and copulation, and death.

              That’s all the facts when you come to brass tacks:

              Birth, and copulation, and death.

              I’ve been born, and once is enough.

              You dont remember, but I remember,

              Once is enough.

 

How can I touch you if you are not there

I love you: I don’t quite know who, or what. ‘I love’ flows away, is buried, drowned, burned, lost in a void. We’ll have to wait for the return of ‘I love.’ Perhaps a long time, perhaps forever. Where has ‘I love’ gone? What has become of me? ‘I love’ lies in wait for the other. Has he swallowed me up? Spat me out? Taken me? Left me? Locked me up? Thrown me out? What’s he like now? No longer (like) me? When he tells me ‘I love you,’ is he giving me back? Or is he giving himself in that form? His? Mine? The same? Another? But then where am I, what have I become?
When you say I love you‚ - staying right here, close to you, close to me‚ - you’re saying I love myself. You don’t need to wait for it to be given back; neither do I. We don’t owe each other anything. That ‘I love you’ is neither gift nor debt. You ‘give’ me nothing when you touch yourself, touch me, when you touch yourself again through me. You don’t give yourself. What would I do with you, with myself, wrapped up like a gift? You keep our selves to the extent that you share us. You find our selves to the extent that you trust us. Alternatives, oppositions, choices, bargains like these have no business between us. Unless we restage their commerce, and remain within their order. Where ‘we’ has no place.

- Luce Irigaray; ‘When our lips speaks together’ 


From the ep ” Le Temps Partie I (Les jours se finissent à l’ouest)” (2012)

Open the so-called body and spread out all its surfaces: not only the skin with each of its folds, wrinkles, scars, with its great velvety planes, and contiguous to that, the scalp and its mane of hair, the tender pubic fur, nipples, nails, hard transparent skin under the heel, the light frills of the eyelids, set with lashes - but open and spread, expose the labia majora, so also the labia minora with their blue network bathed in mucus, dilate the diaphragm of the anal sphincter, longitudinally cut and flatten out the black conduit of the rectum, then the colon, then the caecum, now a ribbon with its surface all striated and polluted with shit; as though your dress-maker’s scissors were opening the leg of an old pair of trousers, go on, expose the small intestines’ alleged interior, the jejunum, the ileum, the duodenum, or else, at the other end, undo the mouth at its corners, pull out the tongue at its most distant roots and split it, spread out the bats’ wings of the palate and its damp basements, open the trachea and make it the skeleton of a boat under construction; armed with scalpels and tweezers, dismantle and lay out the bundles and bodies of the encephalon; and then the whole network of veins and arteries, intact, on an immense mattress, and then the lymphatic network, and the fine bony pieces of the wrist, the ankle, take them apart and put them end to end with all the layers of nerve tissue which surround the aqueous humours and the cavernous body of the penis, and extract the great muscles, the great dorsal nets, spread them out like smooth sleeping dolphins. Work as the sun does when you’re sunbathing or taking grass.

And this is not all, far from it: connected onto these lips, a second mouth is necessary, a third, a great number of other mouths, vulvas, nipples. And adjoining the skin of the fingertips, scraped by the nails, perhaps there should be huge silken beaches of skin, taken from the inside of the thighs, the base of the neck, or from the strings of a guitar. And against the palm, all latticed with nerves, and creased like a yellowed leaf, set potter’s clays, or even hard wooden handles encrusted with jewels, or a steering wheel, or a drifter`s sail are perhaps required. Don’t forget to add to the tongue and all the pieces of the vocal apparatus, all the sounds of which they are capable, and moreover, the whole selective network of sounds, that is, the phonological system, for this too belongs to the libidinal ‘body’, like colours that must be added to retinas, like certain particles to the epidermis, like some particularly favoured smells to the nasal cavities, like preferred words and syntaxes to the mouths which utter them and to the hands which write them…. There is no need to begin with transgression, we must go immediately to the very limits of cruelty, perform the dissection of polymorphous perversion, spread out the immense membrane of the libidinal ‘body’ which is quite different to a frame. It is made from the most heterogeneous textures, bone, epithelium, sheets to write on, charged atmospheres, swords, glass cases, peoples, grasses, canvases to paint. All these zones are joined end to end in a band which has no back to it, a Moebius band which interests us not because it is closed, but because it is one-sided, a Moebian skin which, rather than being smooth, is on the contrary (is this topologically possible?) covered with roughness, corners, creases, cavities which when it passes on the ‘first’ turn will be cavities, but perhaps on the ‘second’, lumps. But as for what tum the band is on, no-one knows nor will know, in the eternal turn. The interminable band with variable geometry (for nothing requires that an excavation remain concave, besides, it is inevitably convex on the ‘second’ turn, provided it lasts) has not got two sides, but only one, and therefore neither exterior nor interior.

Jean-François Lyotard, Libidinal Economy (via foxesinbreeches)

Toute la science hasardeuse des hommes n’est pas supérieure à la connaissance immédiate que je puis avoir de mon être. Je suis seul juge de ce qui est en moi.
- Antonin Artaud 

Toute la science hasardeuse des hommes n’est pas supérieure à la connaissance immédiate que je puis avoir de mon être. Je suis seul juge de ce qui est en moi.

- Antonin Artaud 

For him sleep means lying as still as possible
for as long as possible thinking the worst.
Nor does it help to outlast the night—
in seconds after the light comes
the inner darkness falls over everything.

"The Man on the Hotel Room Bed"
by “Galway Kinnell”

I remember this scene almost everyday!

I remember that one day, when we were in a car tooling along at top speed, we crashed into a cyclist, an apparently very young and very pretty girl. Her head was almost totally ripped off by the wheels. For a long time, we were parked a few yards beyond without getting out, fully absorbed in the sight of the corpse. The horror and despair at so much bloody flesh, nauseating in part, and in part very beautiful, was fairly equivalent to our usual impression upon seeing one another.


- Georges Bataille, Story of the Eye (1928)

They thought death was worth it, but I Have a self to recover, a queen. Is …

Sent to you by do-l via Google Reader: “They thought death was worth
it, but I Have a self to recover, a queen. Is she dead, is she…” via
saturn rising on 4/13/10

They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?

Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her ——
The mausoleum, the wax house.

- From Stings, Sylvia Plath (via milktrees & neonmedusa)
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Things are, and human beings, gifts, and sacrifices are, animals and plants are, equipments and works are.
- Heideger
 
crashinglybeautiful:liquidnight:Hengki Koentjoro [via Fantomatik]

Things are, and human beings, gifts, and sacrifices are, animals and plants are, equipments and works are.

- Heideger

 

crashinglybeautiful:liquidnight:Hengki Koentjoro [via Fantomatik]

These days, one must fly - but where to?
without wings, without an airplane, fly - without doubt:
the footsteps have passed on, to no avail;
they didn’t move the feet of the traveler along.
 
At every instant, one must fly - like 
eagles, like houseflies, like days
must conquer the rings of Saturn
and build new carillons there. 
 
Shoes and pathways are no longer enough,
the earth is no use anymore to the wanderer:
the roots have already crossed through the night,
 
and you will appear on another planet,
stubbornly transient,
transformed in the end into poppies. 
 
 
- Pablo Neruda, one hundred love sonnets
 

garconniere: (via ewryan)

These days, one must fly - but where to?

without wings, without an airplane, fly - without doubt:

the footsteps have passed on, to no avail;

they didn’t move the feet of the traveler along.

 

At every instant, one must fly - like

eagles, like houseflies, like days

must conquer the rings of Saturn

and build new carillons there.

 

Shoes and pathways are no longer enough,

the earth is no use anymore to the wanderer:

the roots have already crossed through the night,

 

and you will appear on another planet,

stubbornly transient,

transformed in the end into poppies.

 

 

- Pablo Neruda, one hundred love sonnets

 

garconniere: (via ewryan)

The psychological basis of the metropolitan type of individuality consists in the intensification of nervous stimulation which results from the swift and uninterrupted change of outer and inner stimuli. Man is a differentiating creature. His mind is stimulated by the difference between a momentary impression and the one which preceded it. Lasting impressions, impressions which differ only slightly from one another, impressions which take a regular and habitual course and show regular and habitual contrasts-all these use up, so to speak, less consciousness than does the rapid crowding of changing images, the sharp discontinuity in the grasp of a single glance, and the unexpectedness of onrushing impressions. These are the psychological conditions which the metropolis creates.

On life and living

It seems to me that the only way one can be helpful is to extend one’s hand to someone else involuntarily, and without ever knowing how useful this will be. If love becomes all it can be through willpower, willpower can achieve even more when one wants to help. But the gods alone can procure help, and when they make use of us to accomplish their acts of charity they like to plunge us into impenetrable anonymity.

- Rilke, Letters on Life

My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
   What are you thinking of? What thinking?
         What?
I never know what you are thinking. Think.
- T.S Eliot, A Game of Chest, The Waste Land

My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.

Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.

   What are you thinking of? What thinking?

         What?

I never know what you are thinking. Think.

- T.S Eliot, A Game of Chest, The Waste Land

Of course, the movements have meanings behind them. If we were sure of the meanings, we would not need the dance. There is a great danger in trying to interpret the dance in words. Words get between us and the dance and the meaning behind the dance — just one more thing between us and the meaning. One must dance the dance and go through it to the meaning.