(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.
