You, ordeal of writing, I prolong by putting off, put off by prolonging.
I began once, started off, squared up to the impediments, and like reaching through glass buried my hand into your heart of gold cinders. Poetry was the blood ocean, but that is not why I reached. One reaches down to think, to allow the other in its singular occurrence to come. Thus the avoidance: every mark means an encounter of the self with the unexpected, with the inappropriable, with what interrupts the self and disjoins it from itself; wounds it, “gives it a cut to itself.”
This strike down of the penman by the pen is interminable. The break that can’t be spoken speech calls for. Whoever suffers it is not one. “It just exists, we don’t think it out, we speak the failure of trying to speak it, we speak what is coming in the unworkable instant.”
–What it takes is a faith in the end coming now in the different beginning, in the form through which passes the irruptive force or power of “eternal life”–that which is not mine, was never mine, and if mine, is only mine in the other’s, mine shared with what is not my life, such that “me,” “I,” am pushed all the way to the other side of life, of myself, of the power that is the self of life, into the end, the finalized expropriation, which comes this split second in coming imminently, this death that I am to be.
“To be”: this death that I am and will be. It is the proximity of justice, running with a wild head off.
You, gasping idiodyssey of writing…
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