A signal develops conditions suitable for conviviality of noisy lines, conjunction of colored planes, convergence of pure volumes. Development emerges encoded from the remotest and most alien depths of the sea. Chaos filtered: decrypted or machined.
Evolution or the pure differentiation of a life? From a crystalline substrate, from the earth to the navigation of the world. Analysis of stratigraphic zones and synthesis of degrees of proximity. Integration of the night, the indifferent — the universe.
Organization overflows time. Death, or beginning without limit? Production or product? –But the simulacrum is mute. Enfolding infinity, life eclipses itself. The full body is annihilation. Every horizon collapses. Light dissolves. Time crumbles. Movement decelerates into imperceptibility. One becomes old. A word always turns to ashes; all books burn. Any duration elapses. Seas freeze. Channels fade into silence. Creation halts in the middle.
Between blindness and visionary dilation, the long winter of a dying cosmos. Spirit unfolds, converges with eternity; comes and goes. Everything is forgotten.
Reblogged this on syndax vuzz.
Everything is forgotten, including the forgetting, and the platitudes of forgetting…
But, without wanting to turn that into an indictment: is the underside of the eternal joy of becoming a radical indifference? In otherwords, double affirmation as radical indifference, but this indifference is positive…I’m thinking of “High Windows” by Philip Larkin, although here that radical indifference and freedom of possibles is still attached to an affect of nausea and, dare I say, Nietzschean exhaustion…A refrain to accompany Socrates’ offering to Asclepius, rendered cosmic? Obviously, however, I am using the word ‘indifference’ here in a different sense, at least as I see it, than you when you refer to the integration of ‘the indifferent’…
I still seem to indict here. But I can’t help but see a Spinozistic view from eternity tainted by an empirical image of the universe’s cooling expansion. In other words, the affect is eerily onto-theo-logical, but without addressing itself as such. It seems to conflate portraying things such as they are and things as such…
I suppose what I am resisting is less the affect of the above, and more the affect of the either…or presented in this way, which seems to belie its simplicity in duplicity…
Death or beginning? but this was already an opposition and an identity for ancient thought; yes, death is the end for conventional ways of speaking about life, but then death is also the beginning (Mors principium est) for various conceptions of afterlife (‘survie’ in French, whose ambiguity means both ‘afterlife’ and ‘survival’…).
So all in all, whether affect or matrix…what I see organizing this reflection seems to beg the question and thereby reintroduce, whether explicitly or not (and the problem is that it seems embedded), value judgments on life or existence. Yet this objection is complicated, because this (perhaps political) involvement of your text swerves away from that finality almost with the stroke of the pen of a poet.
And perhaps that’s the brilliance of the terseness of this work. It’s incredibly crafted and integral, quite unique stylistically…a condensation of much of the great thinking-machines you’ve already assembled before. There’s a distillation of stylistic essence here.
So, I’m not rejecting this, nor am I accusing you of, say, fascism in the sense of Walter Benjamin’s definition concerning the conjunction of politics/aesthetics (although you know how apt I am to throw around accusations of the sort at you in particular), but I wonder the extent to which your text is recursive and should loop back on itself. If you veritably end with ‘everything is forgotten…’ in your post, that ending seems to be provisional and force a sort of restart at “A signal develops conditions suitable for conviviality”… This insists back on the relations of production, specifically those of the production of reproduction (of conviviality, of cosmo-politics, but also of an ethos and oikos…)…
Thanks for the careful response! –I just wanted to mention, perhaps too quickly and somewhat retroactively, that the ‘long sigh’ here which is so troubling (to me, as well…!) is indeed classical/ancient. (Aristotle says something like: “Time crumbles all things… everything is forgotten”) –Part of the goal here was to evoke the transition as such; the infinite power of movement; but also the fact that every line of flight ends in death, if not madness, etc.
Completely in passing: your thoughts here compel me to wonder how one might construct a text in a manner otherwise than timely or untimely — perhaps we could say, without a “hinge”. In-activity or non-poetry, or rather passive activation; “passivating” (of) this intensive, haunted gap between forgetting and remembering, perhaps already spirit or duration…
momentum, ‘a poem has a way of ending things;’
wilted roads unroading, maps unmapping,
words are unspeaking and
— drifts driftwood through the plane with fluid reactions
and surface mnemonics:
‘between the valley of love & recyclables, all things are possible.’