dealing with cinders

survival
Mimicry. The roots of this mirror-practice are deep-dug-down. In the echo of this echo you will hear Irigarays proximity Cixous flying/thieving Richs re-vision Mimesis as a discursive strategy. To bridge a gap, to leap across a chasm created in discourse, where the body dances otherwise, outside, ever eschewed, making up the margin, defining the territory with its back turned away. The body, the feminine, the necessary Others. The exterior against which every interior is defined, redefined, realigned in a common refusal. This disavowal, vital. Mimicry makes up the ground from which to sound rebellion. Defiance of Limits. Edges. I took this strategy to heart and act it out, repeatedly, in what I make. It is not a simple drawing of a reflective surface. It is not a reproduction line. It is a call to the radical wild in-between; it is breathing ecstatically in the space of simulacra. I have been unsystematically dismantling borders. Chasing echoes. Abandoning acts to my dybukks. Inhabited by... momentary hauntings. Losing, profoundly, my bearings. A directionless sense, or senseless direction, everything lacking. Lexical lesions. I have confusions/contusions/contortions. I have an impossible inertia. It is a complex, wiry torpor.

Learning to read differently. Navigating through nearness. Paroxysms of proximity and I bring my body to bear. I have not, Irigaray, taken (a) place yet. I am siteless, spaceless, lacking still. And call it longing call it yearning perplexed, persistent. I know (with) disastrously, desirously, deliriously. I am de-meaning myself. Shucking signification. The unspeakable, unrepresentable the survivor. (and dont drag your theories over me dont move the posts to incorporate me, incarcerate me I am incurring, at the edges) Surviving. How and in what ways am I still here? in what ways and how do I remain/am I remaining? An alterity, acute, picks at me nightly. I have been dwelling somewhere and now for a while now emerging, surfacing. It is not my own trauma that calls me back these days. This is not only my way (and not my only way, either) of dealing, dealing with myself. This is how I am choosing to deal with a history or histories I share. My past contributes to a fragile/fierce awareness of ----. And there are many things that could (and do, and will) overwhelm me. Sylvia, there are many terrible elements. I am trying to learn what to lie down and what to keep/hold/grieve. To know how to know, and when. My knowing bones, and the histories that (re)live there, in the hollows, ghosted. I am not ahistorical and this is not easy to admit. desire. Thinking

the return (a radical moment

A tuning fork, enervating silences. Disorienting myself making maps of a past land, this passed land, following faded footprints. So many things to lead me back. Back to this radical moment. When time veils are disturbed, perturbed. A rattling of rebuked bones. The kind of bodies reoccurrence wears home. Meanwhile, meantime, the hysterics bicker on. They made a mess of me, somewhere. Anna O. leaving her foot at the end of my leg. I put a finger to my head and feel a mute pulse. Tellings. The radically risked event, witnessed again and again. Reluctant breaking of quietness, the miserable pieces. Words that wrestle the body of recall and throw a blank sheet. The talking cure, settling scores, manning riots, hauling the body into the present and muting this calamity-time. Secretly preferring to live endlessly in the warped moment, scattering itself, riddled with incongruities. The violent throw-back, this brutal bodyloop of all that matters. Enthralled, engrossed in muteness. Wild impatience of flashbacks. My lightning body, forked. Dancing otherwise. My body of interruptions, insistences. And this revenge the telling takes on knowing bones. The toll. Dealing with cinders. Rediscovering sensation. The wound as a trigger.

An index, a trace. A signal. I am a scriptive thing, and the wound a way back. This is me waking up and telling you what I dreamt, with frantic fingers, and the dream body receding. I am working with lapses, thinking in relay, in delay making, lately, latently. Always late. And this lateness inscribes itself into the telling, and you will see everything too late, say everything too late. I am living amongst a diaspora of bodies that have been (becoming) mine. Within this shifting shaft, the well of my correlates, assembled identities. I am breathing always in the dust of my disappearing surfaces they leave me behind, they leave me behind. I am dancing in remnants, dancing in ruins. I am the wreckage. and I am reverberating and I am reiterating and I am remaining regaining consciousness remaining intact

The letter r becoming a habit. Inciting the over and over of things. I go back to reading the stitch in my side. I am a borderland creature, inhabiting margins, dwelling in limits, toeing thresholds, reading gaps with my fingers. A strained Braille of drowned things. Rifling through remnants, studying moth holes. The incomplete, inconsolable index. Ruins of records. I am porous, a body of holes and I am terrified, petrified of of

contact.

freighted time / tenderhooks

fraught time weighted time frightened time Archive Fever - Jacques Derrida How can a fever be a lie? - Georges Didi-Huberman

I am disturbed by time. I am temporally afflicted, and the fracture, the rupture, the split down my side, is temporal. But not temporary. History deranges me, has rearranged me, ravelled and unravelled me. Time organises itself in opposition to me. Archive fever. The virulence, the violence of time. The insistence of chronology, its straight lines and disavowal of returning. The archive, that claims to preserve the past in the present. The archive, that maybe merely names the past in order to preserve the present. An economy resting on the unrecoverable present. The irrevocable moment that can only remain in monument, in document. Assembling histories, drawing maps, making sense of things and at the heart of the logic is time in its neatness, time in its indefatigable, undefeatable, unreasonable marching forwards. The reliance on these segments, a belief in measurements. Trusting that a second is a second is a second and always has been. Trusting the interval between them to be perfectly replicable but never retrievable. Trusting the small death of the moment, irrevocable, impossible. Trusting that the past is the past, whats done is done, and I may catalogue my catastrophes but time will dictate the order that reigns there in

my books and books on myself. The index is framed, and time draws those lines. Identity adheres to chronology. But this narrative abhors the body. The body debased, defiled, debases and defies the stalwart structure of the archive. In its fever, in its fervour, the breathing body, debauching documents. Riddling times temple, ill-tempered, ill-tempo-ed. In the excessive moment. In the uncoded, unscripted scene unfolding always, outside. Hystericising this militant historicising. How can a fever be a lie? Translate my temperature. My heat holds many histories if only you knew how to read it. If only you knew how to take it. My body, lying in folds, will not be starched and stretched out over the rigor of historys measured lines. Times tenterhooks. This is the spool-body, syncopated. The tender hooks. Times are touching. Moments lapsing, collapsing contact. Contact. I am the ground, the overlap occurs over me. This body a beacon, a pylon. Limping, the dance goes on elsewhere. Contrapuntal, concentric, the eccentric tick, tripping. Still you dig your tenderhooks into me and into me. Times are touching, freighted, weighted. And my body is the site of this encounter. Times are touching, the drag, the drag. A temporal lag and a moment of forgetting, forgotten, a twist a jut, a jawline, jarring. The ridge. Everything in multiples. Still you dig your tenderhooks into me and into me. Times are touching and my body the site.