dear Nail York,
Is it a good thing, ultimately, that we serve the purpose to secure our own distances thereby prompting further habits to blog? The chicken is in the oven, the potatoes are boiling, and the tea is blowing steam from out of the glass. I get dizzy and stare at a map of france tacked to the wall above a victorian desk, tracing the veins up to the english channel past the Dover Beach poem.
"Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night." 1867
Yes, let us be true in all senses of the lie. One gift a lie has to offer is the truth cloaked in shame. Like Eve when having been thrown out of the garden, I too choose to follow her, through the malls and supermarkets, and down the golden staircase of my psyche. We are anonymous and I was wondering what you think about that. What you think about being, what Nicholas Carr calls a "pancake people" that is "spread wide and thin as we connect with that vast network of information accessed by the mere touch of a button." I am not a pancake and neither are you. I don't think, therefore, I am a pancake sounds more accurate. If we are authors in a body we can't entirely inhabit nor live without then so be it. Or that every time I mistakenly grind my teeth do I hear the regurgitating sound of someone sending a message through the Skype. The once regarded notion of the author being dead is as old as the now defunct clothing stores we once frequented like Charlotte Rousse or Kids Mart. The difference to now anticipate is the silly idea that maybe the Author is trying on new perceptions and going back to bed with a syntax that is inseparable from the totality of an "author" that is "never more than the instance of writing [sure, yes,...] language knows a 'subject', not a 'person'. Though the subject is not "empty outside of the very enunciation which defines it, suffices to make language 'hold together', suffices, that is to say, exhausts it." We are only exhausted by the idea that there is nothing new.
The subject is not outside of her enunciation if there is a renewed sense of faith in something that is above, beyond, or beside herself. In order for the Author to come back, there must be a relationship to something other her own subject being "empty outside of the [...] enunciation [...] to make language 'hold together' " (in this case, syntax as a form of art). This "relationship to something other" points us towards that unknown thing which binds us here, call it the divine, the mystery that is life and death.
"To give a text an Author is to impose a limit on that text, to furnish it with a final signified, to close the writing[...] by refusing to assign a 'secret', an ultimate meaning, to the text (and to the world as text), liberates what may be called an anti-theological activity, an activity that is truly revolutionary since to refuse to fix meaning is, in the end, to refuse God and his hypostases--reason, law, science." The nihilist trend in writing to erase, bury, or distance the I from the text is the same gesture of anonymity we are faced with in the context of "blogging". In fact, the multiple corpses we inhabit in order to blog each other may be a consequence of this very ideology paired with the growing succession of the various writing slates, templates, and interfaces we are confronted with just to write something so simple as a letter, poem, or tweet. At the end of every blogpost we have our bodies to return to, despite that they may contain strains of media induced illnesses, its all we have to look forward to when we fall asleep in our separate cities and names. A return to God signifying science, mystery, art, or that vast space known as internet-nothingness is a radical thing.
More later.
heart,
Clipstick USB
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