Sunday, November 25, 2012



Sleep can look so much like death, Barthes might have recommended to put the author to sleep instead of to death. Sleep only has the surface appearance of death.

   In order to begin I speak. I have finished my work today, I am in my chair. I don’t say a word and or barely think a thought. I look straight ahead at motes in the air between my chair and the outside my window. And outside of this staring and around it or beside it I think about my staring out my window and wonder what it is to look through and at and through all at once. And I see my thoughts begin to fold over and over. Each thought acts out it’s role with each other, and each is a different character. Anxiety fights ambition, love humility, evil hunger, and asceticism fights reluctance. An indistinct sense of time flows and ebbs, and it is hard to return to a previous thought without losing my place looking back for some notion I passed on from. I seize on some sounds of the thoughts and begin to rhyme these thoughts into sounds. The tiny phrase I make from this sound back to thought is my seed for a thought with a language. I write the thought out, and begin to be ready to write. Only with silence can writing begin.
   I put my I to sleep, and myself is falling into self is my fall to sleep. My eyes although wide don’t see ahead, I see inside thoughts crossing over to words and whole sentences glide in from a hidden place and meet me in my sleep. My sleep is here before I sleep, it caught up to me. I couldn’t have written awake, so with I. In myself with myself questioning ceases, writing begins. The ink flows freely in my book on my knee in my chair. I am writing in the only way I ever do, I am writing about writing. Each sentence is self conscious, but also not conscious of itself. Just as in sleep I cannot say that I sleep, I disappears in sleep, self in self is the state of affairs. Self in sleep is interior, and everything is self, exterior waking life permits the I to be aware amongst all the other I's. Everything is in myself as writing goes on, I am every character if there were any, every thought.
   Already dreaming begins. Somehow there is a shift into other bodies while mine remains at home, somehow I can look at myself standing next to myself and be both selves at once. It is easy to forget here that all of this is my own creation, yet I have no hand in making this, my I is up to his chin in sleep and only vaguely knows that he is sleeping. He is I, but he doesn’t know himself here in this night sleep has pulled over him. He doesn’t write, he can barely even speak, if he used words at all they would be of the order of that which comes before speech. I write, I write what my sleeping self says, and must translate from the language that comes before language, the language that can recognize itself but can not articulate itself into that waking language with words, grammar, and syntax. And I am awake now, which is to say my writing is finished. 

Monday, October 08, 2012


Signification is the act of making a relation between a word per se and an object. The word is the signifier of the object and the object is the thing signified, this relation between signifier and signified is called the sign. Signification can only be accomplished by a subject, which is to say by a person. Signs do not occur naturally. The act of signification is the basis of language, and can only exist within language (whether spoken, visual, or otherwise). The study of signs which is semiotics must use language to understand language and as a result has become very cumbersome. In a sense we are trying to come to know ourselves knowing ourselves, and have found that intelligibility beyond language is not within our reach. Julia Kristeva says that we are, “speaking subjects” she equates signifying with speaking, and that this is can be a “capacity for enjoyment.” This is a humbling idea, and seems to complete the discourse of semiotics. If this is the end point of semiotics, then what comes afterwards must be writing, which is the greatest enjoyment one can derive from language.

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Writing Myself to Sleep

I am asleep now, even before I found sleep tonight. I feel asleep, my thoughts feel asleep, my eyes feel asleep. The lamp I turned on to write this is waking me up. The refrigerator's noises are pulling me back towards sleep, my eyes burning are evidence I haven't slept at all.

I haven't slept at all. I have been around sleep but I haven't been sure whether I want to sleep. I've been enjoying my fantasies and memories too much to let myself fall to sleep. I am becoming even more awake now. I am starting to feel my exhausted nerves and swollen eyes beat with my pulse. My heartbeat only makes me sure of myself. The tick-tocking of my bedside clock only makes me think of the night. So I can only think right now about myself in the night, myself in my bed, myself next to my lamp. Myself writing to sleep, writing myself to sleep.

Monday, September 03, 2012

Don’t Track Back Me/ And Unmappably Map Me

Don’t track back me, / and unmappably map me.
Don’t keep the collapse / Lastly, track me,
No evermore, lose me / Flash me with flashcards.
Back where you know / Force me to speak
Logically no no / Grab me from behind
Doh, don don / Don’t drag me out
Don’t do that / Don’t do that
Don’t drag me out / Doh, don don
Grab me from behind / Logically no no
Force me to speak / Back where you know
Flash me with flashcards. / No evermore, lose me
Lastly, track me, / Don’t keep the collapse
and unmappably map me. / Don’t track back me,

Monday, August 27, 2012

Regular Words With Broken Geometry

Rereading this stuff feels like sleeping on my dirty sheets. I am daydreamer, I burn away idle hours. I will write out my voice until I get hoarse. I'm writing and struggling to work back, to show myself a few things. I'm getting meaner and I don't really mind. Instruction to follow augments previous instructions, so please let contradictions glide past.

Monday, July 30, 2012

Monday, March 19, 2012


The Times' Whistle: Or, A New Daunce Of Seven Satires: And Other Poems R. C. (Gent.)

The Times' Whistle: Or, A New Daunce Of Seven Satires: And Other Poems
R. C. (Gent.)

Page 23.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

the science of 
and the right
of art,

the logic and
steel will of 

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Wednesday, February 08, 2012

A Way Through the Words

I have studied carefully how to speak in confusing and esoteric ways. How strange, my very literacy makes it harder to express myself. It was only by bumping into ideas about rhetoric that I could see a path through the jumble. It is now through my conscience I can recognize the tyranny of rhetoric...

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