To consider entering as a forgetting, an entering prerequisite on forgetting. Entering and forgetting: equal grounds for lucidity, equal goads of excitement.
What makes us capable of a fresh start? Isn’t it the impulse to speak as we’d never spoken before, act as we’d never acted before, believe as we’d never believed before? Isn’t it the attractiveness of what overpowers our past and our willingness to forget it? (Remember, no forgetting is for good; what really exists returns inevitably…)
What could it be to forget our being in a way that allowed us to surmount what it once was? What would it mean to ‘await myself as I awaited another’? And wouldn’t this be like standing before death, that one chance we have of forgetting ourselves one-hundred percent? (Even then, of course, we are no where near being forgotten…)
Forgetfulness of myself (perhaps even however slight) connects me to he or she with whom I strictly cannot connect: another, a friend. It’s in this way that communication, self-forgetfulness, and (re-)entering myself coincide spirally, each one vying to outdo the last. Forgetting myself, as a mode of being, cannot help but leave traces; it happens to the extent that it leaves traces. And it leaves traces of forgetting as such (for no one ‘owns’ either forgetfulness or the one forgotten); these traces of forgetting, while proceeding from me, nonetheless can only correlate to someone whose been forgotten; and thus the traces form a kind of machine-for-forgetting. It is in engaging that machine that we communicate and become friends thereby, united in our forgetting to the extent that we are united by our entering-forgetting, coeval with entering ourselves.
This interaction never bridges the gap over the impossibility of connection. To recognize this impossibility is to dawn upon the first inklings of connection nonetheless: the inscription of self-forgetting (and likewise the making-available of its traces) makes it possible to establish a ‘rapport’ between us both as entrances. In the round-about of this impossible stretch, you cross a threshold that no one could have prepared for you, and you cross it through the dumb machine of my self-forgetting trace, by which you remember who you are. But this is not the remembering of what was, but a memory-in-reverse: remembering your potentiality actually, and thus creating it there where no one could ever say that it had been before. It is a dumb machine with which you can identify and then reject; but the identification is so total that in rejecting the dumb machine, you reject whatever it was that could so easily identify it. Ad infinitum: the work of philosophical mourning (forgetting: the work of truth) creating retroactively the ground of poetic imagination (entering: the work of literature). This ground grounds the meaning of the mourning; but the mourning tears the ground out from under itself. And in this? The truth of literature and the literature of truth withdraws, drawing isolation to its lucid and energetic core like a magnet, generating yet again a work that goads, an imagination that grounds.
In this dawning friendship I come towards myself, without ever coming to close, never absolutely, and never all at once. That would abolish the reason for it: its temporality. For linked to making-traces-of-forgetting is the temporal process of communication’s purification, its distillation down to this one ‘use’ of making-forgetting-available: allowing for self-entrances.