31

Un, dos, there.

floor balck on the corner

weep ended weep

´till you can´t no see anyone else

but yourself right in front of

but your /face stunning/ right there

the skyline on your back left there

coming around soon will see

close, close, closer eyes are your own eyes

black on the corner

weep ended weep

black the corner

on floor

left ended right there

the skyline on/your face backwards

reversed from your face/

right ended left there

the model

your way

no you

but the redhead

left there, right there

hea(d)red.

+ 1

(Listening to Blaine L. Reininger's Night Air)

+1

With all the figurations and avatars of such a formula. From the first time we see it, to Nostalghia, and its later irreversible transformation in the ineroxable, unyielding negative.

Just 1, from here, which means separated, projected, after the most minimal difference. Just 1.

As the enigma of the necessary and the hazardous, truly a coup de chance. That is, from here.

Or perhaps just a desire, or the formula of desire. + 1. All as it is + 1.

Thus a form of cancellation, and then annihilation. Think it through À la recherche till the Phänomenologie. Having always the form of the novel. Always + 1.

Or perhaps precisely—which ends up being the same thing—what cannot finish, or what rather does not allow to finish. The end, + 1.

As just a simple ghost or the ghost that comes and complicates everything. As one is sitting on a bench, in a reverie, perhaps trying to fit the events of the last or the most recent night. One peers above one's shoulder, and there it is. No longer alone.

Or when we were explained, in the good old days, our name. (Don't fool yourself, yours remains a traitor). And the sensation or feeling overcame us, that there must be something in addition.

Something there watching, with or as the lamp above our heads. Before and after the last story, when we were wondering what happens in the precise moment before sleep. One is thinking, thinking, which is just another way of saying telling, listening to the words, one's own words, and then suddenly (+ 1).

11, 21, 31, 41.

Or that number that in your young days posited itself as the mystery. Certain all too real trinity. 111.

It is rather nothing, or the little rock or bone that impedes the sentence of nothing. What laid after L'être et le néant and Seit und Zeit, what still lays waiting. L'attente l'oubli?

Just one little hedgehog on the road, duplicated in Ireland and France, arrived to Mexiko on the exact date, 11.

Or perhaps on Mother's day. + 1.

Or, cette fois en français, d'où est-ce que tu parles?

Where does it begin?

1901, 1911, 1927 + 1. 1981. 1989. 2011.

As your most cryptic mo(ve)ment. If you could still speak of something yours.

“You have to get in line” you hear in your ears now.

Just one, one more minute, please.

That is until you find a deadline. You think you set it, but it is never the case. At least not for you.

And that is what you would call the incommensurability of the now. Or, it is always too late.

As you sat that day on the terrace of a café, reading and writing, asking yourself if you should have one more. Comment dit-on, wie sagt man? 2002, 2009, 2010, 2011.

You were alone (+ 1) that day on a terrace (+ 1) of a café, and as you (+ 1) were playing with the tongue (langue) (+ 1) in your head (+ 1) and on the paper, you asked yourself (+ 1), what was it (+ 1), and perhaps you remembered Burroughs last written words, or Beckett's. Love. What is the word.

to ashes

As I land. Into the land of ghosts. With stories of deserts, rivers and guns, denying them. With anecdotes of drunkness, eyes and violence. Bars. I deny them.
Into this room. Trying to support or stand, all the images on the wall. 1940, 1938, 2008. Observing my signature with a blotch, the inscribed doubt signaling nothing.
That nothing. Geist. As I survey that there is no gas, with my eyes--never the nose. As I try. Before the room, the roof in the middle of the city, stormed by images and lack of frames. Towers--yes, I'm lost. Grab a skinned lamb, cut the head, save the guts, and the lack of stench. Count down, with the negation of your belief. "Oh no, don't say it's true."
Rummaging schematically as if there ever was any kind of strategy. From the image the volume from the volume what, what I am trying to say. At the least a few voices, heureusement never enough. Until I halt, mark, and reproduce the missing journal. My book. Hold on.
Not so much the menacing confusion, as the lines and stings of the infatigable sights, gazes, vistas. Still the statue? Drop it, leave the image, or finish consuming it. A little more music and perhaps we can.
To your right, the bookshelves. Take one, read the inscription, read it again, erase it. Better yet keep the mouth open, let the color in, perhaps it will let you rest and the insomnia will be soothing. Keep writing, a few more lines before you cut your finger again. "I stained my fingers with ink" you read years ago, in the time when your hands were perhaps more rough.
"Look straight, even if I come too close." As usual you see only your eye, with a bright circle in the middle. Mortal fascination. "Do it again" you think, while seeing behind (where behind?) the veins over orange and the supposed liquid inside you. "I need to read him in order to go back to dry land" found yourself saying. Leave me my sterility.
A tragic activity, that is, if there ever was any visible ending to it. (Keep writing).
Singing? No, I never did. I just vent.
As I land. No, you're still on the plane, you can see the patches of white below, blotches, squares and flattened clouds. Keep writing. For now.

Quelle musique

“Hören Sie, hören Sie… die Kinder der Nacht… Was für Musik sie machen…”
Wer sind die Kinder? How kids, how infants, what kind of innocence? Glaube. Of night, the Night, as if there were several, an infinite number of them, to each its own, unless or until we—the kids—start singing. A special music, sonderbare, unheimliche vielleicht. A music related to the night, related to that hiatus which is a beginning and an end, something—sometimes—unthinkable. Hence we must sing it. Listen it, listen to us. A different kind of ‘us’, perhaps just the different ‘us’ or the ‘us’ of the difference, when the lights go out. Here we always need some kind of special effect—the hearing and the music are the special effects—without a definite cause. But in order to listen, you must be silent—Stille, stille, hören Sie. This music can only be listened to in silence, as, being nocturnal, is part of silence itself, is made only of it. Hören Sie die Stille bis deine Ohren geben uns Blut. You’ve heard it, it’s always a matter of vampires.
In silence, as you listen, you have to give (up) something in your quietness, quietly you have to (sur)render, to give up/out what is most internal to you, most cherished (you beautiful chest). Dein Blut. An undeadly matter, since the curse is precisely the survival—überleben. Surviving your-self with the children, the kids that you listen in silence—was für das Unheimliches. A certain un-forgotten home—always inside—“du hast meine Ohren.”
Listen to the night, listen to this internal survival—as the root, source or fountain of all desire—certain going beyond your self. What kind of music does that—do you—make? Listen to your nocturnal self—to your kids singing and dancing, when all the lights go out—when the world disappears in flames—what kind of music is this? Wait. This silence is appalling, it almost takes all the colour out of you. Even your eyes go white, as you hark, as your ears prick in order to listen more, to listen better, to capture every nuance and detail of that most inward and nocturnal movement. Listen (in) silence, listen (to) the kids, in a lightless atmosphere, even in the lack of atmosphere, in the smothering of any stirring—any at the least besides the core (coeur) of this night, your chest, your treasure. Meiner Schatz. Hören Sie.

Papel carbón

We do not play anymore, at least any more than it would be necessary, to listen that is. We start by harking, to all the ghosts and all the phantoms, to all the choirs, and the rocks falling. We listen while in an insurmountable impossibility of blinking. The eyes so wide open that we ignore if they are not made of glass. We do not play, as everything does it around us, as we perceive and annotate the rules, while creating new ones. We do not play, unless this is a new kind of game, our kind of game, where we begin by naming, by calling the right names, adjectives, adverbs, and especially those magical unpronounceable words—shouts and whispers. We name by listening, by hearing the right, clever words—by, that is to say, inviting others to tell us the words, to whisper them in our ears. Yes, we are some kind of maze, each and every one of us. Our mazes, and their walls, are pure eyes and mouths, arms and feet, teeth but also tongues, especially tongues. (Nous sommes à la langue, et à ses paroxismes). We built our mazes with our bodies, by wallowing and swimming, by not avoiding but submerging our selves in the mud, by grabbing it, spreading it, licking it and swallowing it. By being mud. We are murky, and as clear and pure as ever. We do not believe that there is another way of thinking. The mud as the words have impregnated our ears, it has become porous too, and created so many new labyrinths—while remaining fluid, as fire. We hark through these walls, through these wholes, as so many fertile frogs. And yet we are not wise, far away from that. We are only here for you, to listen to you, and to return you your name, a new name. This is our game, which is not a game any more, just a matter of opening the eyes (and the mouths, and the arms, usw…) as we listen. We just, you could say, ooze. And yet we are hopeful—with a faith as fertile as our most vaporous words. We believe in these words, as we go through them, making them ghosts or showing how phantasmatic they always wear. Our method, we are the worms—and we know how to wait.



Toute l’âme résumée

Quand lente nous l’expirons

Dans plusieurs ronds de fumée

Abolis en autres ronds

Atteste quelque cigare

Brûlant savamment pour peu

Que la cendre se sépare

De son clair baiser de feu

Ainsi le chœur des romances

À la lèvre vole-t-il

Exclus-en si tu commences

Le réel parce que vil

Le sens trop précis rature

Ta vague littérature.

Mallarmé