Autophagiography

My book?! The book seems to be between

you and I suspended on the bridge of
sighs..
–A

What is more embarrassing (and noble)

than decapitation? kneeling (victoriously)
there while the world watches you lose
your head?
–N

Oh, I feel as I’ve known you before meeting

you, yet I don’t know anyone because there
is no-one to know!
– N/A
Beheaded through Soulstorm

Cyclonic Headlessness
AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY
A&N

gnOme
AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY
© the authors and gnOme books

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons At-

tribution-NonCommerical-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported
License. To view a copy of this license, visit: http://
creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0.

gnOme books
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Please address inquiries to:

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ISBN-13: 978-0692234204
ISBN-10: 0692234209
 CONTENTS

I. ALP, a.k.a. Resent Morning Prayer 1

II. Scars of the Horizon 79

III. New Life 128

IV. Saintly Communication: A Rule 170

V. Postscripts 178
 ALP, a.k.a. Resent Morning Prayer

Buna dimineata Sfanta A____ Mirabilis! By your

grace the vessel of life is truly breaking, freeing all our
sighs to fly beyond the sphere. Yours in the embrace
of paradise, N

Thanks so much for recommending Junji Ito, it’s a

treasure, in Romanian “zăcământ” :)
Will keep praying...
Yours,
Melodrama halved

Dear Melo/Drama,
Super. Ito is pretty magical.
I am now at the desk in all spare hours cooking up
another kind of zăcământ for you I hope. The cook is
tempted to give a taste but knows that that might
diminish the meal and/or crowd everyone into the
kitchen. Secretum meum mihi, woe is me.
Happy praying and eating!
A breaking vessel,
N

Dear Ves(s)el,
I could imagine you at your desk watched by cats and
haunted by the spiral of your alien thoughts. I am sure
you are making a wondrous meal of yourself, as for us,
our souls are baking only at the thought of your magic
kitchen. We are even afraid to be curious, whatever
secret you conceal is already within ourselves.
Hugs to capra neagra decapitata!
PS: I____ is still in Bucharest (3 more days), she will
come to Germany soon and also join us here! So
melodrama is truly halved.
(and vesel means joyful in Romanian…)

1
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

How perfect that the erasure of s (self) from vessel

equals joy. I am glad that I____ will be joining you all
there too—sounds like a very nice adventure. You
three are especially and always in my thoughts, all the
more so if it is impossible to ever know who each
other are! If you find my severed head, please keep it
safe. Though I do not need it anymore, my balance is a
little off without it and later on it might be nice to
mount on the wall of my mountain cave, for old time’s
sake. At least running over the mountains has made
my heart strong enough to keep the blood from
exiting through my neck, so that still this throat is
able to softly sigh the names of Mirabilis, Stalpnicul,
and Impeccabilis! Wishing you all a wonderful day.
Your capra neagra, N

Dear Capra Neagra,

You are clear case of patho-logical thinking! I am
jumping out of my wits for joy to have read your text.
Time = madness, its noetic necessity, indeed so! And
the fragment on the hands … the “turning of the
manual power back into the mind” ... Although this is
the first image I associate with madness never dared
to write about it. And there are also the eyes looking
more at what sees than at what they see.
I have to pervert even more the geometry of my
thoughts..
See you soon on the mountain of madness,
A.

O Astonished and Astonishing One, who madly turns

the very sky to scaleable mountain stone! Glad to hear
that you enjoyed that text, which will form a chapter
in the SoB book. Would like to say more but I am in
danger of neglecting my worldly duties. Looking
forward to what new shapes your thought takes. A
presto, N

Happy and more than happy to report having reached

the summit of a breathless little work. Could you send
me a mailing address for the three saints in Stuttgart?
It will still be a little while before the artifact is

2
 ALP

complete and of course until then must remain secret

so that it can be a surprise. Yours, N

Capra neagra! The secret is locked within me (beside

the death of birth). Curious but happy to not know, to
freely imagine the artifact of capra’s thought -
telepathic work. Right when you wrote I was crafting a
deep sigh to send it in a message …
Yours,
AA

I received it! and will sigh it back shortly in deepening

of the secret ;-)
More wrapping paper in advance of your gift — this
just in from TL …

Dear Pneumo-N_____,
You who leave the mirrors empty and yet deep and
fully alive, here are two fragments for you from Agua
Viva: “Anyone who looks into a mirror, who succeeds
in seeing it without seeing himself, who understands
that its depth consists of its being empty, who walks
inside its transparent space without leaving in it a
trace of his own image—that someone has then
perceived its mystery as thing. That’s why you have to
surprise it when it’s alone, when its hung in an empty
room, without forgetting that in front of it the most
fragile needle could transform it into the simple image
of a needle, so sensitive is the mirror in its quality of
very light reflection, only image and not the
substance. The body of the thing.” “Only a very
delicate person can walk into the empty room where
there’s an empty mirror, and with such grace, with
such absence of self, that the image does not register.
As a reward, that delicate person will then have
penetrated into one of the inviolable secrets of things:
he saw the mirror as it is.”
This being written, the saints would like to ask you if
you have another mirror, that of simple souls …
**

3
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Sfântul F_____ Stâlpnicul is also entrapped by the

iridescent halo of the secret surface that, as I am
writing, strangely enveils Sfânta I____ Impeccabilis..
**
While writing all the above, I suddenly found myself
wrapped into a menacing sea from behind thought
and mirror, I was drowning in an empty ocean of
tears, exhaling frightful bubbles of pseudo-sighs, more
real than all other sighs.
Yours, waiting for what has already happened: to
receive It

Dear A____ Mirabilis & Incomparabilis!

Thank you for these passages. CL is amazing. I have
just started her Passion this morning and am
immediately entranced. Like seeing one’s own
thoughts swim anonymously in the mirror.
…
Even though … know that the saints will be the very
first to have the completed artifact. Of course then you
will all see that you have already read it, that you were
the first, the text being nothing other than a reflection
of your single embracing halo!
I hope that F_____ has been able to find a nice pillar
to dwell upon in Stuttgart!

About the menacing sea, Julian writes about going to

the ocean floor – an experience of absolute safety! “At
one moment my consciousness was taken down on the
sea bed, and there I saw green hills and valleys,
looking as though they were covered in moss, with
seaweed and sand. Then I understood this: that if a
man or a woman were under the wide waters, if he
could see God (and God is constantly with us) he
would be safe, body and soul, and be unharmed, and
furthermore, he would have more joy and comfort
than words can say.”
With happy silent sighs and invisible tears,
N

4
 ALP

Dear Capra Neagra,

Thank you for this! We did not neglect Julian, I was
about to begin her Revelations today but was too
immersed in Agua Viva!
Indeed I felt completely the same when I first read
CL’s Passion, so much her and so little I, so much
nothing and everything. It is, as she says, as if her
words create “an almost exclusively bodily meaning”
so that you live “the being of the image” beyond
interpretation. I was sure you were going to sense this
as we were and are in paradis terestru..
F_____ is reading Augustine’s Confessions in the
hope for at least a humble pillar here in Stuttgart..
And I am training my hands and soul to draw The Life
of Christina Mirabilis which cannot be but my favorite
since I am becoming more and more astonished.
And from the lofty heights to the cold dark bottom of
the ocean there is one miraculous inside jump. There,
in this liquid nebula, I will be an ecstatic barophile, a
joyous human-tardigrade safely dwelling in the
bubble of my long longing sigh.
From the fluorescent darkness cu dor,
AA

How perfect that you are drawing the Astonishing and

F_____ is holding his heart in his hand with
Augustine. Together I am sure you have already
conquered even the universes that have yet to exist,
leaping from pillar to pillar in the brighty abyssal air
of the eternal poles. For me, I will continue to climb
higher and higher on the spiral to see where it goes.
I hope you liked my verse ‘drawing’ of Christina. It is a
little clumsy at times, but so am I (and so is she
although in a hyper-balanced way).
Re: barophiles and tardigrades, I recall “I would
encounter inside myself a degree of life so primal in
myself that it was nearly inanimate” (Passion).
N
p.s. AA, now your name is becoming itself: a line
between two sighs!

5
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Capra draga,
I was wondering today how life would be if we were all
in the same city... I cannot imagine - maybe because it
is inevitable to have only the spiral and pillar jumps to
reach each other.
I very much enjoyed your verses, I thought I had
already told you! I immediately imagined drawings
near them, so I am training to become a medium of
unknown forces that will unpredictably drive the
lines, the points, the spirals.. The same with writing,
as I began chopping the dead thinking text
(clumsiness without balance) to resurrect it in a
‘thing’ that I don’t have the courage to unfold in
words.. It’s more a compact feeling and some
dispersed concentrated thoughts. And maybe it will
never be born..
Will read at some point soon MP in French, I am
trying to switch from English from time to time so I
am happy to be compelled to do it.
Re: Indeed the tardigrade is nearly not life, so
stubbornly persistent is it. My xeno-I mumbles after
CL: “I haven’t been human for a long time”..
Saintly yours,
the line between two sighs

Miraculous Line of Astonishment,

I think of us in the same city somehow, maybe a new
great impossible city of ocean floor and mountain
peaks, and more concretely have frequently since
returning imagined the saints walking with me in New
York, wondering how the place would look in their
eyes.
It is extra perfect that you are drawing Christina,
partly as I had the idea of someone doing so earlier
and even suggested to __ at one point that we try to
contact ___ about it for some kind of hagio-horror
project. So that was you all along pointing me in the
direction of your own hand, the only one that will
*mirror* Christina — a bird-human leaping to life on
the tree grown on her own tomb! Will the drawing be
done on black squares?

6
 ALP

I would also love to see any text or material you might

have related to the alpine project you told me about.
Running off to the cliffs today for some spring
climbing.
In the everlasting strength, the indissoluble bond
(between two sighs),
N
p.s. this just came across the virtual desk, and seems
relevant re: dead thinking (and dead dead thinking):
“Don’t let one thought teach another thought. All
thoughts, which wrongly give you a sense of identity,
are on the same low, injurious, level. When you try to
persuade yourself, you try to convince yourself that
wrong is right, everything that is operating is
operating down in the dark dungeon, there is nothing
outside of the dungeon. However, with human beings
who have chosen to stay hard-hearted and deluded,
imagination comes to what they call their rescue, but
instead of rescuing them, unknown to them, it just
digs the dungeon deeper and darker.” (VH)

Dear N (N as a stage in the revolution of Z, the

revolution of the End)
Thank you for the dead dead thoughts! Yes, this is the
real problem, not of the text itself, but of deadening
thinking even more with or without words. Though we
can use words as ‘shovels without a master’ or as
twitching machines that madly unground every Grund
for thinking (a bit like Negarestani’s rat tails). So,
besides Ligotti’s perfect completion of Descartes’
dictum, “I think therefore I am and one day I will die”
(Ah, you should see once the … performance to get all
the innuendos) - to begin to think is to begin to think
horror - I know now that with every thought I burrow
my endless dark warren, ever spiraling down (but
what is down?). Whatever down is, bottom seems to
be too thin a crust for our spiky thoughts, which, once
pierced, will pour forth the bottom-less (a-byss) right
beneath our feet. As for the thoughts lying lonely on
the “same low, injurious level”, this is a great image -
lying of course on the same low plane.. Flat ontology
thought in a deadly manner. My thoughts will be

7
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

strange to other thoughts and strange to themselves.

“I” am out of this anyway. And, as “I” know you also
like junk: we are a flat heap of junk.
The Alpine Spectacle ended up being just a myth
circulating in secret circles. Still, I like the idea of
spreading stories around something that happened
rather than showing the proof itself. Nevertheless, I
attached a photo that I found. I never wrote though
planned to (on the mountain pathos..) and I must
confess that, when I discovered that you were
climbing (before knowing that we are going to meet in
this life), I started regretting not pursuing my past
intents. I will send you more things if I manage to dig
them out of wherever they stubbornly stay hidden..
Christina flying over black squares, this is what I had
in mind... Still think it is a good idea to talk to … , he
would make such wonderful hagio-horror! And I will
do what a bird on a branch of a tree grown on her own
tomb can do (miraculous image!)...
Yours,
the compass of Astonishment
PS: drawing the letter N is a double jump from the
bottom of the ocean that separates the saints to the
mountain peaks where the saints are together.

Dear One by Whom We Orient Ourselves to Ever

Greater Bewilderment,
This makes me think of an infinite wall, to climb on
which provides each point as peak and abyss. I always
thought it would be fun to write a short story about a
mountain which grows as it is climbed. Mountains are
junk too, and climbers like junk of junk. Then there is
whatever climbs upon climbing, the junk of the junk
of the junk. Maybe omniscience / omnipresence /
absolute climbing is an infinite recursion of junk, i.e.
that which makes of every thing a perfect *toy*.
The transition between N and Z also codes the
movement of climbing itself by means of diagonal
opposition between the four points of the X of the
human frame: N + Z superimposed = X in a box.
I like that picture. There is almost something
painterly about it. It seems perfect that the Alpine

8
 ALP

Spectacle was/was not, given that the experience of

climbing mountains is full of a similar kind of
suspension of reality, like you are there only by means
of not being there, of not properly being able to be
there and being always in process of departure also. I
will send … which you might enjoy. It’s basically a
hasty auto-commentarial rescription of traditional
and romantic mountain pathos around a few heavy
metal objects. No familiarity with the actual music is
required. The stone referred to in the preface is a
reference to the story of Lal Ded.
Wishing you a marvelous day of leaping and flying.
More and more lost,
N

Dear N + Z = X
Feeling hyperempathic with the cryptogeometry of
your beheaded name: N. I fully see the gaping hole of
alien dimensionality opening between two slightly
incomplete diagonal moves of capra’s leg-opposite-
arm axes. Limb-thoughts almost disjointed but in a
tele-sensory commitment. Exact elasticity. The
movement fed by suspension in a middle that has
gone awry. The viscous middle, once sovereign over
limbs, that runs out of space. I can picture your
ordered dismemberment, peak-abyss, peak-abyss..
Capra neagra’s little feet driven by the force of gaps
(peak-abyss), by the ‘elan’ of the breakdown of
dimensionality in the middle of X. Geo-metrical
collapse, scale-lessness. With every grip you hold the
mountain in your hand. You carry it with you
choreographed dis-members.. You write the mountain
under you with your eXtra-chora: the X of super-
dimensions. If N = Z in the same infinitesimal instant
(a collapse of 90 degrees) => you are going high up on
a perfectly flat plain. Vertiginous but monotonic.
You should definitely write that Munchhausian
melodramatic Bergstory. Capra neagra is surely the
best climber of recursive exaggeration (in the
hypersphere of junk)! And I like to have my little
share in your dark eye, if maybe not to even borrow
the terrible stim of your pupile (your pupile *toy*).

9
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Thanks a lot for sharing … ! I am impatient about my

future astonishment. And happy you like the picture.
Today I posted something on my rusted blog,
something made from some strangely enmeshed
tweets that you may recognize …
Thinking with joy of Capra Neagra’s climb-dance,
hopefully one day in Romanian Bucegi - in the picture
attached...
Lost somewhere on the peak of sighs,
AA

To the Summit Visible Only from the Twin Peaks of

Your Name,
Capra neagra has long since replied (replEYEd in
longing from a alpinely deep past so vertiginous that
every future is flat) to the hyperarrow of your
empathic response, turning his horns just at the right
moment to make it bounce back and pierce the one
infinite point of all pupils into a single X, thus
squaring our eyes like a goat’s so that vision itself may
climb into new, fourth worlds.
I love your Born Beheaded idea. Earlier I posted it
adding subtitle ‘the ultimate autobiography’ and see
now that others added their own surprising twists on
fb. Speaking of which … a person connected with
Plinth I think, once posted the following perfect image
there …
When you at last receive the Cantos you will find
many similar permutations of our conceits, esp. Canto
XXIV, which very like Born Beheaded concerns
plunging one’s head back into the earth,
undoing/overcoming of bipedalism etc.
The Bucegi mountains look beautiful and I would of
course love to climb there sooner rather than later …
so who knows what may happen!
What to say? Really I do not know what to do, to lie
there forever in vertical horizontality with my
beheaded companions or fly-climb ever higher into al
di la.
With leaping, cephalophoric embraces,
N

10
 ALP

Dear N spiraling your head (or body?) up into al di la,

Two days ago I was dreaming I was shooting an
arrow. By drawing the bowstring I could dilate time
and linger endlessly on the aiming. I couldn’t see any
surroundings, I only felt myself in this terrible tension
with no target whatsoever. Now I understand it was
the aim aiming at me: attempting to abduct my sight
forever into the black singular hole of pupils
synchronously pierced (auto-pierced) by the hyperdot
of infinite night - by that fiery remainder after the
implosion of a sight that glimpsed at capra neagra’s
majestic single X. Pierced, the pupil-horizon of capra
itself (I found out yesterday after realising I had
misspelled the word pupil that, as capra, you have a
horizontal slit pupil) performed the ultimate self-
contracture to become the most delicate boom of hiss,
the point of maximum acephalic concentration.
Thinking today about Christina and good reasons to
resurrect, I imagined a soulstorm (one of the Bureau’s
terms for brainstorming), literally - not hard to
imagine since my soul should be a desert after such
extreme weather I am sometimes causing myself. And
here it is, a clumsy and rapid gift for our forever lost
and blackened visions …
ReplEYEing ceaselessly,
the one who inhabits two (twin) peaks at the same
time
PS: I like this dialogue: answering Noapte bună to
Bună dimineața and vice versa.. As for the embedded
image: wonderful! I just wondered why the halo sticks
to the head after decapitation..

Very Dear She Who Is In Danger Of Finding Herself,

Do you know the story of the musk deer? From the
Discourses: “There is a beautiful story of a kasturi-
mriga, or musk deer [The deer whose navel yields
musk], that brings out the nature of all spiritual
sadhana. Once, while roaming about and frolicking
among hills and dales, the kasturi-mriga was suddenly
aware of an exquisitely beautiful scent, the like of
which it had never known. The scent stirred the inner
depths of its soul so profoundly that it determined to

11
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

find the source. So keen was its longing that

notwithstanding the severity of cold or the intensity of
scorching heat, by day as well as by night, the deer
carried on its desperate search for the source of the
sweet scent. It knew no fear or hesitation but
undaunted went on its elusive search, until at last,
happening to lose its foothold on a cliff, it had a
precipitous fall resulting in a fatal injury. While
breathing its last, the deer found that the scent that
had ravished its heart and inspired all these efforts
came from its own navel. This last moment of the
deer’s life was its happiest, and there was on its face
inexpressible peace.” So perhaps the astonished bird
has grown hands and now deerlike wields Diana’s bow
of targetless self-hunting. If a black capra can pro-vide
an arrow clue along the way, serve as temporary
target, he is an even happier and more leaping capra!
The figure of the deer is itself amazingly connected to
a species of saint capable of self-dismemberment:
“Such masts are termed ghous-like, and are able to
disconnect their limbs from their bodies when in a
certain state of consciousness. Baba describes these
masts as having a peculiar light, springing way of
walking, rather like that of a deer. Such masts are
fond of lonely places, because, with this characteristic
of separating the parts of their body, they prefer to
remain hidden from the eyes of ordinary men”
(Wayfarers). Cf. Angela and Actaeon, which develops
the idea a little.
I dreamt last night of lighting a golden fire which
burned suspended on the ceiling of my abode, under
which I had to lie in anticipation of imminent final
burning, a last consummation.
Beheaded through soulstorm, very beautiful. This
morning I received another blurb … which now
strangely discovered the beheading spiral in similar
fashion … Of course this makes it sound more tragic
than it is, whereas the truth of appalling melodrama is
to break apart generic bounds.
About the beheaded halo, it is found in all possible
locations in medieval representations, as noted in yet
another headless essay.

12
 ALP

Whispering Bună dimineața through the scars of the

horizon,
X
p.s. I forgot to mention a pertinent passage re: born
beheaded etc which I ended up lingering over …
yesterday. It is from Julian and is about endless birth
without exit, being always born without birthing, born
from-into mother: “And our Savior is our very moder
in whom we be endlesly borne and never shall come
out of Him” (chapter 47)

All-too-dear Capra,
My birdly imagination, pierced by the hyperbundle of
your arrows in the form of a merciless X, bled my
dissipated body into a colossal cloud of
overastonishment. There I am drifting away, hoping
to soon enshroud in my misty depths a fugitive capra,
so that he can rest from his ceaseless ascent on the
spiral of escape, keeping him ever out of the menacing
world of daylight-thoughts.
My silence (full of replEYE) today was due to a great
necessity to get the attached vision out of my head.
Out with my head: out-inside! Thought to call it: The
Head is your Fault. Another version of the Amigara
Fault, this time the fault being only for the head and
inspired by your already-in-my-heart Cantos. It is not
as good as it could be.. But today is another day of
beheading!
In the eternal pursue of the musk scent,
AA
PS: More replEYE soon!

Hmm, the stubborn vision did not want to be driven

away, but on this attempt I think I will succeed..

To the Wonder Whose Fault Everything Is,

This is a marvelous drawing. EYE think you have
really translated the true unanthropic essence of
alpinism, drawing within the square-pupilled frame
how the goat headlessly sees-ascends mountain: not
with an oculus that points to where the body must be
brought to follow, not with an eye that has to look for

13
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

hand and footholds, but with a whole body-head and

headless corpus-abode that does not really climb (that
is the human name for it) but rather alpinely
MOUNTS everything, self and world, at once.
Wherever capra stands is peak. Wherever human
buries its head is mountain.
I’m also glad to say that the Cantos will very shortly be
ready to send towards the saints’ hands, all the more
so as you already know them by heart, so that they
may for the first time reflect the eyes whose light they
bear. Only the saints possess the secret knowledge to
gloss them! Will send tracking number for package
etc.
In the very same abysmal spiral of alpine joy,
N

Pneumo-N, halo-emanation of the total eclipse of the

“ce” by the “că”,
The story of the musk deer is beautiful! Thank you for
sharing it and bringing upon me the bless of my most
precious food: the astonishment... Now I understand
why I wanted so much to plunge into my navel to
absolutely swallow time and bathe forever in that
irresistible musk scent...
I have also already started to read from the
Revelations so it makes me even happier to know
what wonderful ideas are waiting for me: born from-
into, continuous birth inside, like a boiling pot of
potential, growing from within itself and never
actualizing though it’s real, real..
Also just finished the Angela and Actaeon essay (I am
doing my assignments … ) … :) which made me leap in
place for joy while stretching my thought into
unrecognizable forms: secret as dislocation disjoining
place itself, generative and productive, repeating itself
endlessly in re-velations, accordion time, dangerous
dismemberments, inhuman babbling, twists and
contortions. Wonderful! Second Body opens itself to
similar fluctuations in and out of form (in relation to
the dismemberment part)...
All the more after my joint breakdown-episode I
became more and more interested in different kinds

14
 ALP

of dis-joints. And speaking of joints, during the ...

hours today I could not help thinking that I am
training to really embody Christina with “all her
limbs... gathered together into a ball as if they were
hot wax” (“and all that could be perceived of her was a
round masse”). Feeling more and more vulnerable as
if I contracted some strange disease of becoming airy,
almost transparent (but inevitably dark to myself!).
Re: to dismemberment etc Aparecida Vilaça (a
Brazilian anthropologist) talks about the chronically
unstable bodies of the Amazonian Wari’ people:
“However, the reason, at least for the Wari’ with
whom I have been working, seems to be not that the
soul gives this body feelings, thoughts, and
consciousness, but that it gives it instability.”... “In
other words, the potential for metamorphosis has to
be annulled in order for a specific humanity to be
defined. Hence, the Wari’ insist that healthy and
active people do not have a soul (jam-).”... “The aspect
of the soul as an actualization of the body in another
world (which means within another set of relations) is
evident in the association the Wari’ make between
soul, shadow, reflection, and traces left by the body,
all named in an identical manner: jam-”
As for capra ascending on the moon rope to let itself
captured by the night in full day: “However, it now
seems to me that the homonymy between the
principle of subjectification/transformation and the
shadow implies that the soul is actualized as a body in
another world, very often conceived as a world in
negative, exactly like that of the shadow. The Wari’, as
well as a number of other peoples, say the world of the
spirits experiences night when it is day in the world of
the living, and vice versa.”
I am a bit dizzy from the mirroring thoughts
encircling me and whispering through me but will try
to keep the bow tensed.. Yesterday while writing I
stumbled upon a scaffold of a text I began called
Germinal Indigestion (an intro to the Cosmic
Autophagia or whatever the title will be in the end)
which starts with the idea of thinking as eating and
vice versa.. I was thrilled by the passage from

15
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Augustine about the mouth of the mind - os mentis.

Anyway, too many thoughts (that fear each other)...
And since thinking will unfold (hopefully dead) while
writing, propelled by self-hunting through capra
neagra’s wild pupil, who knows where EYE arrives at
(on what trampoline it will temporarily rest)?
With amorphous embraces,
AA
PS: Leaping impatiently, waiting for the secret to be
re-vealed again and again (my pupil is already
tracking the incredible Cantos while staring at the
blazing ceiling in a state of hyperempathy with capra’s
tremendous dreams - like the sky set ablaze in the
painting attached which I happened to have in my
phone for mysterious reasons)

Strangely enough I realized … (among the few

anyway) ... And a bit before I also received the news ;)

Mirabile Dictu!

Dear AA,
Like a celestial bird you keep your balance by flying
among peaks even the nimble capre cannot stand on!
That is of course completely correct about the soul
and body. The body is the shadow of the soul, the dark
form of its body. And between gross body and soul are
also other bodies, the subtle or energy body, and the
mental body, the nested instruments corresponding to
the matter-life-thought triad.
About becoming like a ball of hot wax, I think this also
connects to how the gravity of the body is a spiritual
condition, as per the following quotes:
[T]he problem of knowledge is a problem of
possession, and every problem of possession is a
problem of enjoyment.—Giorgio Agamben[i]
Pleasure and pain occur as follows. When a lot of air
mingles with the blood and makes it light, which is a
natural occurrence, and pervades the whole body,
pleasure is the result. When the unnatural happens
and the air does not mingle, the blood gets heavier

16
 ALP

and weaker and thicker, and pain is the result.—

Diogenes of Apollonia[ii]
Gravity is a mystery of the body devised to hide
defects of the spirit.—François de La
Rochefoucauld[iii]
Mainly, the question is how light or heavy we are—the
problem of our ‘specific gravity’.—Friedrich Nietzsche,
The Gay Science[iv]
Our world has inherited the world of gravity: all
bodies weigh on one another, and against one
another, heavenly bodies and callous bodies, vitreous
bodies and corpuscles. But gravitational mechanics is
corrected here on just one point: bodies weigh
lightly.—Jean-Luc Nancy[v]
[I]t must have been like seeing one of the huge pillars
of the church suspended like a cloud.—G.K.
Chesterton, describing Thomas Aquinas’s
levitation[vi]
The scalar sense of the body’s weight is directly
perceived across the distinction between love and lust,
the lightness of the former and the heaviness of the
latter: “In lust there is reliance upon the object of
sense and consequent spiritual subordination of the
soul to it, but love puts the soul into direct and co-
ordinate relation with the reality which is behind the
form. Therefore lust is experienced as being heavy and
love is experienced as being light. In lust there is a
narrowing down of life and in love there is an
expansion in being. To have loved one soul is like
adding its life to your own. Your life is, as it were,
multiplied and you virtually live in two centres. If you
love the whole world you vicariously live in the whole
world, but in lust there is an ebbing down of life and a
general sense of hopeless dependence upon a form
which is regarded as another. . . . Lust seeks
fulfillment but love experiences fulfillment”
(Discourses)
That is a pretty wild painting of Lot and his daughters,
esp. the simultaneity of the creator’s destructive
heavenly fire and the seduction of the intoxicated
father. While working on an essay about sweetness I
became interested in Myrrha, another daughter

17
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

seduces father story, because from one perspective at

least that is the relation of mystical union, the soul
tricking its maker into oneness with it. Cf. Roberto
Benigni’s brilliant gloss on the prayer to the Virgin in
Paradiso: God fell in love with Mary; he saw her and
thought “I want to be made by you.” Perhaps one day I
will write something about this. Ovid is full of
astonishing moments.
I have really been enjoying making my way through
CL’s brilliant Passion. Yesterday I gave it the playful
subtitle “. . . Or, Mistress Eckhart Eats a Cockroach.”
Looking forward to what Cosmic Autophagia holds.
Here is a wonderful image showing the link between
capra as auto-alpinist and the spiral ouroboros …
I will pray that your dis-jointing joints are filled with
nothing but secret airy joy and pleasure!
With hyperempathic winks and sighs towards your
wings from wheresoever I leap,
N
p.s. copies of Cantos … should arrive in one week. The
text will be made publicly available in print after the
saints have received.

Very Dear N,
The unbearable click of the incoming email from you
concerning the Appalling Melodrama suddenly woke
me up from my obsessive somnambulistic reading of
some texts of yours, which I didn’t intend to read
today but when you open, you cut open and it bleeds
uninterruptedly, the scary flow becomes a fatal habit...
So the sound, in the sense of the ultimate abstract
parasite of Serres interrupting the rats’ meal, eclipsed
my own parasitic gaze latched onto your thinking to
bring me to writing before total disintegration
through the fine sieve of the night. After reading what
I read I fear this habit (of addressing to Capra) will
turn into a cataclysm but there is probably nothing to
fear because we carry the cataclysms already inside
ourselves...
The terrible mirror that your words formed as I was
looking-reading-looking at them caused my birdly
being another dose of overastonishment along with

18
 ALP

the vague vertigo of finding my dismembered self

floating higher and higher. Concomitantly, the sheer
shock of feeling the airy twisted ladder on which my
thoughts were climbing came to horrify me all the
more as it was and is already too late to descend.. So I
continue to drift using intensity as the only weapon
against my humanly fear. Oscillating between the
thirst to know and the necessity to annihilate what I
know, between catching thoughts and acknowledging
that (as MB says) one must not let one thought teach
another thought, between being propelled by the full
blast of contradiction and the peaceful calm
realization that there is no contradiction... I like a lot
the passages that you sent to me, I kept them with me
all day long waiting to gaze in wonder at the crevasses
they dig inside my thinking, to feel the force with
which they disarm the gravity between thoughts as
they burrow their way in time. Putting together the
demand that a thought does not teach other thought
and your gravity comments I wonder if dead thinking
would not be a nongravitational space of thoughts...
Just to make a short digression: however much I try to
catch up with reading (strangely here the more time I
have to read, write, draw, move etc the more thrifty
time seems) I seem to function either on an
epistemology of fear or on knowing through
hyperempathy, closer to romance, abstract and
concrete at the same time, or to love itself, as
described in the wonderful passage from Discourses
(which seems yet another assignment!). If I write
more autobiographically it is precisely because it’s my
way through or better said I am just the a transparent
and airy way through which feeling starts thinking, at
least for now.
So the loosening of the earthly gravitational force
(leviation, ever lighter stages of the body) corresponds
with a change in the gravity of thinking. As if thinking
itself becomes a round heap of air where gravity is
absolutely changed and twisted. And thinking has
been linked to “heavy” stuff when on the contrary it
seems the lighter the closer to the space of
nongravitational thought which is more than thought,

19
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

it is dead thought as the limit of thought itself - a

peaceful limit, not the catastrophic one. There is a
connection here between feeling in its full roundness
(about which Bachelard speaks in the Phenomenology
of Roundness, and that would correspond better to
the notion of affect), the dismembered body becoming
round masse and the nongravitational thinking (at the
bottom of the dungeon which I imagine as a huge
circular pillar, a hollow cylinder). And the three seem
to be linked to a loss of perspective not in the sense of
regress but in the sense of seeing the world not only
through the two perspectives of lover and beloved
(which is already miraculous!!) but through the
infinity of perspectives that do not know of each other
and that are almost exploding into a full roundness of
myriad ‘points’ of view (at this ‘point’ I have to note
that with your observation in the Come Cose che Cada
you changed forever my perception of a point - and I
was already obsessed with points!). The infra-points
that pierce all solid de-voiding it of all resistance to
become a void of fully accomplished thought-feeling.
Divine love at its fullest! And so close to nothingness..
And if as Viveiros de Castro puts it: “pour le
perspectivisme tous les êtres voient ‘représentent’ le
monde de la même façon - ce qui change c’est le
monde qu’ils voient” (the exact quote I don’t have now
because I was struggling to read this book in Spanish!)
this antigravitational roundness, this spherical bliss
corresponds with acquiring all perspectives and yet
being deprived of any, with inhabiting all the different
worlds at once.
Another passage that intrigued me and that I haven’t
at all engaged with properly is this one: “Pour
paraphraser Scott Fitzgerald, nous pourrions dire que
le signe d’une intelligence chamanique de premiere
ligne est la capacite il voir simultanement selon deux
perspectives incompatibles.” Viveiros de Castro,
Methapysiques Canibales. And reading the quote from
Discourses made me think that love itself makes the
two perspectives come together in an absolutely calm
and worry-less catastrophe. And that’s why knowledge
should work through hyperempathy and fear!

20
 ALP

I am even afraid to read again (although I still do..)

what I wrote and I hardly believe I am sending these
dubious thoughts to Capra whose perspective I try to
devour realizing I am at the same time eating myself.
(“in the 16th century Tupinamba bellico-sociological
cannibalism as well as in the Araweté funerary
cannibalism the crucial question is: “What is it that is
eaten?” Because it is neither the objectified body nor
the subject of the enemy that is being eaten, but the
enemy’s point of view.” - not to be read as an identity
between capra and enemy but as the I that comes to
be itself through the other).
So now I will let the bleeding of my soul and the dark
flow of my thought enmeshed in the murky streams of
an unknown substance to climb in a spiral and reach
Capra’s floating peak. Whatever foolish things I said I
hope Capra will forgive..
From the embraced perspectives of the twin peaks
AA
PS: Above all, the photo of the autoalpinist capra, the
perfect Ouroboros made me leap the highest!

Again you have materialized a most airy perfect pillow

for me lay my happily weary head on tonight. How
nocturnal the saints must be these days! In
anticipation of time to reply tomorrow, sending seeds
of golden dreams in the totally assignmentless
spheres, N

Bună dimineața,
Here is my strange dream that you surely caused with
your vision of Apalling Melodrama. It concerns
R____ and the Party but it’s strange enough so I
thought to share it with you as a morning gift.
It goes like this: N__________ got the email in
reply to N & B and got back in short sentences
scattered around with big spaces around them: all in
all an airy letter... I was of course quite embarrassed
that he read the little jokes that I made about him and
Hrundi. But he seemed to be in good spirits as he
suddenly became a real presence. We were walking
with him in an unknown direction on some indefinite

21
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

sidewalk. It was dark and dusty and full of asphalt

that exuded a strange warmness. An extremely dry
noir-ish atmosphere (in this very moment I realize, as
if it weren’t so obvious, that atmosphere is made from
atmen - German for breathing and sphere). It was
surely not home, maybe NY, maybe not, an unknown
‘holey’ city with old trams like in Bucharest. Strangely,
the tram tracks were fragmented, discontinuous and
looked very shabby. (would this have to do with
catastrophe and discontinuity?) He showed us a trick.
Right when the tram was in the station he started
moving away fragments of the line (maybe this
interrupted line has to do with the first explanation of
the ideas in the myth of the cave through this
disrupted line B_____ was speaking about at the
Congress - of which I am of course still ignorant). I
was quite disturbed by this sudden gesture of his as I
thought the tram will collapse and people would be
hurt. Moreover the tracks were of iron (anything to do
with the iron poisoning and deficit he wrote about in a
theory-fiction fragment?) and couldn’t imagine how
he could raise these lines. While I was fighting my
horror, trying to simply trust his inexplicable actions
he started putting the pieces of line in a different
arrangement. But the tram was already off the station
coming towards us so we ran in the very last moment
before being crushed.. I caught myself being
overprotective as I thought it would be indeed a
catastrophe if this man didn’t exist, I seemed to care
less about myself. He surely felt the same about
himself, worry-less, always cheerful and ready to
display a particularly tricky smile (emanating the
smile of his alter ego, Hrundi, I thought). And the
tram passed as if nothing had happened. He then told
us that every day he plays with some croquet balls
developing his own little circus number. He also said
he would perform this with pleasure at the Appalling
Melodrama. (does this have anything to do with Lewis
Carroll?) We arrived at a station where I noticed that
the flecks on Irina’s pants started to grow in a form of
wild animal face which I subsequently saw on
R____’s clothes as well. We were all at ease strangely

22
 ALP

amusing ourselves about things not clear in

themselves (alone the relation between these vague
facts seemed to cause uncanny laughter and ominous
comfort). And there it ended with a full Hrundi smile
on R____’s face.
PS: in my previous email the first reference from you
was VH not MB but you know better anyway..

Bună dimineața!
Perfect dream. I was just composing a reply to your
previous and now this. See how early I am awake! I
think this should definitely be included in … It might
trick him into forgetting … ! He is well-versed already
in being identified with Hrundi as perhaps I told you
that story. So this might give him further cause to step
out of costume and *become who he is*.
;-)

Dear One Who Is Travelling Home Faster Than She

Knows,
I think we need to wake up and face the simple fact
that we are actually falling upwards.
At least the first canto of Paradiso is there to provide
some bearings so that bewilderment can remain clear
to itself! Not a homework assignment, but a way of
speaking as Beatrice to you. Which is no different
from reflecting what you have already spoken in me:
La novità del suono e ‘l grande lume
di lor cagion m’accesero un disio
mai non sentito di cotanto acume.
Ond’ella, che vedea me sì com’io,
a quïetarmi l’animo commosso,
pria ch’io a dimandar, la bocca aprio
e cominciò: “Tu stesso ti fai grosso
col falso imaginar, sì che non vedi
ciò che vedresti se l’avessi scosso.
Tu non se’ in terra, sì come tu credi;
ma folgore, fuggendo il proprio sito,
non corse come tu ch’ad esso riedi”.
S’io fui del primo dubbio disvestito
per le sorrise parolette brevi,
dentro ad un nuovo più fu’ inretito

23
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

e dissi: “Già contento requïevi

di grande ammirazion; ma ora ammiro
com’io trascenda questi corpi levi”.
Ond’ella, appresso d’un pïo sospiro,
li occhi drizzò ver’ me con quel sembiante
che madre fa sovra figlio deliro,
e cominciò: “Le cose tutte quante
hanno ordine tra loro, e questo è forma
che l’universo a Dio fa simigliante.
...
Non dei più ammirar, se bene stimo,
lo tuo salir, se non come d’un rivo
se d’alto monte scende giuso ad imo.
Maraviglia sarebbe in te se, privo
d’impedimento, giù ti fossi assiso,
com’a terra quïete in foco vivo”.
Quinci rivolse inver’ lo cielo il viso.

The newness of the sound and the great light

incited me to learn their cause-I was
more keen than I had ever been before.
And she who read me as I read myself,
to quiet the commotion in my mind,
opened her lips before I opened mine
to ask, and she began: “You make yourself
obtuse with false imagining; you can
not see what you would see if you dispelled it.
You are not on the earth as you believe;
but lightning, flying from its own abode,
is less swift than you are, returning home.”
While I was freed from my first doubt by these
brief words she smiled to me, I was yet caught
in new perplexity. I said: “I was
content already; after such great wonder,
I rested. But again I wonder how
my body rises past these lighter bodies.”
At which, after a sigh of pity, she
settled her eyes on me with the same look
a mother casts upon a raving child,
and she began: “All things, among themselves,
possess an order; and this order is
the form that makes the universe like God.

24
 ALP

...
You should-if I am right-
not feel more marvel at your climbing than
you would were you considering a stream
that from a mountain’s height falls to its base.
It would be cause for wonder in you if,
no longer hindered, you remained below,
as if, on earth, a living flame stood still.”
Then she again turned her gaze heavenward.

There are many parallels in the beginning of Paradise

to things you are speaking about, e.g. 1) the increasing
efficiency of intelligence (the highest, swiftest sphere
is also silent [silence = maximum speed — a lesson in
there for accelerationism, which if it is not becoming
*quieter* is rather inertia, a drag); 2) the transparency
of thoughts, so that discourse is open to respond more
to the real situation of thinking, of thought’s being
being felt (as opposed to the narrow identification
with propositional address or talk as chess game); 3)
being drawn by a higher gravity, which is hyperstable,
lighter and more stable at higher speeds; 4)
sphericization or becoming round via seemingly
impossible, mediumless coordination of many points.
Etc.
Who knows what today will bring?
I had a lovely time yesterday evening talking my head
off … blabbing about … poetry as the perfect
imperfection and other things. There were moments
when I really didn’t know where I was, all the time of
course knowing perfectly well, totally all the more
outside by virtue of remaining inside. In other words,
one must simply accept the *double* nature of
ecstasy, as Dionysius says: “the very cause of the
universe . . . is also carried outside of himself . . . and
is enticed away from his transcendent dwelling place
and comes to abide within all things, and he does so
by virtue of his supernatural and ecstatic capacity to
remain, nevertheless, within himself”
With stars falling out of my eyes towards our highest
sphere,
N_____

25
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

p.s. also worth noting, the couplet to which my Hafiz

book was open on the desk this morning:
Hafiz! Abandon idle talk (of outward worshippers);
and, awhile, drink wine (of love):
For (by reason of such profitless talk), last night, we
slept not; and, with this idle talk, the candle (of life)
consumed.
;-)

Dear N: You who pour forth the rain of pupil-stars

that will soon fall upwards, back to its lost drifting
cloud
Afraid of counting the hours both of us slept (we
should stop counting time in hours!), it seems that we
want to defy the time difference and practice an
impossible idiorrythmia (Barthes, How to live
together, a book that I could not find as pdf but read
what I could about it), the one shared by falling-
upwards-beings. In this respect, the Hafiz couplet
filled me with more fear!
Beautiful, beautiful, I need time to read the Paradiso
fragment again and again! No assignment just desire
and climbing the spiral. And who knows indeed what
today will bring?
I am jealous of your . . . (but fully sharing the joy of
the moment you described!) because I felt so happy
these 2 years losing myself while thinking with people
around (accepting the *double* nature of ecstasy).
I am replEYEing and will replEYE!
AA
PS: Happy you enjoyed the dream, I was a bit
embarrassed to send it but Hrundi is all about
embarrassment! And with whom can I share these
weird twists of the sleeping mind if not with the dear
Capra... As for disclosing the dream to Hrundi
himself, I feared that you would think such a thing.
But since my dream does not belong to me anyway,
feel free to do whatever Capra deems as best!

My thoughts exactly, re: idiorrythmia and other

matters. Such is the work of gravity, ergon that works
itself worklessly across distance. And in light of the

26
 ALP

monastic origins of the Barthes idea, it turns out that

one of the crestfallen Cantos similarly begins:
“Because the kind of monastery we need does not
exist / On this planet, the globe itself is becoming our
cloister / A capacious secret sphere ...”
Will not be initiating R___ into the dream until
foundation is laid for AM of course.
Wishing you more and more happy fear! (the
intolerably tolerable intimate inverse of tolerably
intolerable sorrowful love),
N

Thought to thought with you in conceiving the world

as a cloister... and our words as benighted confessions
reaching each other in the very instant of the co-
(un)thinking miracle. Told you the Cantos have
another way than the earthly transportation..
Bathing in the some strange airy matter that I teach
myself both to tolerate and not tolerate.
Wishing you a joyous leaping day!
AA

p.s. just remembered my strange dream last night, or

at least part of it: I was at a fancy bar with all kinds of
precious liquors, looking up at the bottles and names
until I saw a large glass jug of golden apple cider
vinegar with ‘A____ ____’ written on it! Know that I
have great affection for apple cider vinegar (at little of
which I drink daily), hard apple cider, apple pie,
apples, and pretty much anything to do with apples,
as the pic … below suggests — so being associated with
vinegar by no means implies not being wine. As to
how your name got attached to that jug in the dream
world I am not quite sure. There is something going
on with gold (LOVEGOLD, After the Fox, and as you
will see in Cantos), and the whole dream was suffused
in golden light. And then there is some similarity in
the letters A L P. Thus must be it! the mountain is the
key to the mystery . . . Not to mention that a student
asked me yesterday about this passage: “After this,
Jesus, knowing that all things had already been
accomplished, to fulfill the Scripture, said, ‘I am

27
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

thirsty.’ A jar full of sour wine was standing there; so

they put a sponge full of the sour wine upon a branch
of hyssop and brought it up to His mouth ...”

Again you wrote as I was writing . . . cannot keep up!

The very instant indeed. Today is one of those silent
absolutely accelerated days. ;-)

Who can keep up, I thought it is the answer and

indeed it was a Yes!
Ha, Alp, I wonder how this middle name let itself
disclosed as I seldom reveal it. But let there be
mystery.. And secret, secret!
#silentaccelerationism

Re-reading your dream I still wonder where the L

comes from... Did you place it there in the middle
from Lovegold or did you know my middle name from
mysterious sources?
;)

I did not know your middle name, but got the L from
a____ and appLe. ;-)

..and still don’t know your middle name!

Ah, I thought you knew that these are the initials of

my name, another strange coincidence (the silent
acceleration).. L____..

In which case I obviously did indeed know your

middle name. Further proof that this is paradise,
more perfect than perfection itself.

...and beyond all the other golden meanings, Al Di

L____!

My one and dear N,

Because this day began as it began, I thought to let
you know that after doing some grounding exercises
to keep me from flying in an instant to the Al di la (to
the Al di L____, that is beyond myself) without ever

28
 ALP

coming back I started reading from this Speculations

Journal (difficult task in such a silent accelerationist
state to which I am applying the “neither repress nor
indulge”). And I am finding myself much more
skeptical to thoughts that try to subdue other
thoughts.
D____ and I had this common question regarding
the “material unconscious” (related to his unhuman
phenomenology and my second body) and this led me
subsequently to the question of nestedness (with
regard to time, thought, matter..). Which I tried to
decipher from Ages of the World (another of the
things I began before the assignment-desire avalanche
came). And it came to my mind now while reading
that “Meillassoux separates thought from life as
radically as he separates life from nonliving matter.
He claims that human beings acquired thought ex
nihilo, for no reason, without any prior basis, and out
of sheer contingency.” in Shaviro’s article that
somehow this fragment that you wrote (“And between
gross body and soul are also other bodies, the subtle
or energy body, and the mental body, the nested
instruments corresponding to the matter-life-thought
triad.”) remained mysterious and I am curious how to
make the way for an airy thought through all these.
Maybe if you just give a clue without wasting too
much of Capra’s time as I am eager to find out on my
own however much I can! I mean maybe give a
reference, a further assignment ;)
This is also to adjust the rhythms of our cloister-
world.
Sighing intolerably,
AA
PS: I also love apples!

Hyper-Dear ALP,
Not sure I can, certainly not in the way of one thought
correcting another, but hopefully that means precisely
that I can, i.e. leap because there is a gap! Overall I see
no reason why there cannot both be these radical
breaks a la QM and at the same time be no gaps
whatsoever separating the finer and grosser aspects of

29
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

nature, total nesting, everything is in everything a la

Anaxagoras etc. I suppose that is what the double
ecstasy is. Everything coincides with itself, remains
itself, by never coinciding with itself and vice versa. It
is only to the form of intelligence that demands to
*decide the matter* that there is difficulty. But if you
stick to what actually is, in all its terrible insuperable
immediacy (a la Passion of GH), then gap and
connective leap over it are always co-present and
convertible. After all, how else could facticity find the
absolute unless there is this impossible traction, this
ultimate and totally immersive betweenness of things
to each other, whereby each thing can be traced to
something else along a line that is always there
because all lines are lost?
As for something else to read, that sounds dangerous
in your condition. As long as you promise (and I will
too) to also EAT what you read, devour it into
nourishing sweetness, then here is the latest thing
which just appeared 10 min ago …
Happily dying among golden apples and aureate
sighs,
A mad capra.

My hyper-dear hyper-leaping Capra,

Indeed I feared that however I would express my
confused state in front of all these questions, you
might take it as a call for a thought that corrects other
thoughts, danger of which I try to be most aware! For
some time I’ve been having this great wish to get away
from subduing thoughts and spiral freely wherever
but it didn’t happen regularly.. And I could not find a
thought so accurate as the one of VH that you sent me
and that I DEVOURED in reading!
Better to be mad and leap as high or worst case foolish
and fall with full force (but anyway where can you
fall?) than be enchained by the noisy struggle of
“hard” thinking: my thought is better than yours (my
ontology is better than yours and so on). Whenever I
allow to myself to go crazy and climb a spiral that I do
not know, everything is fine. But once the thought-
docility comes to destroy the atmo-sphere I’m riding, I

30
 ALP

start to have these great fears and linger in doubt and

desperation. But maybe these crises also play a role...
How to make patho-logical thinking not something
that is to be just “applied” from time to time? I hate
the thought of any profession which would be
separated from life... How much we love to attach
ourselves to one or another thought (let alone to be
also praised for this!)! But for sure some thoughts
make you leap freely and others not.. And you cannot
leap if not by the power of your mad thought which is
by no means a way out because you are already out.
Out there, looking into Al di la and leaping against the
gravity of being right.. I like how your capra-elan is
always already there to propel you from nestedness to
contingency in a timeless jump (by properly EATing
the NOW with all its absolutely indeterminate future
and yet ever changing past).
Still laughing at myself trying to think with
contradiction (one that is also a total non-
contradiction) and still asking you to leap for me! But
maybe this is right because it is itself a contradiction..
I feel now like the little capra from your picture
resting on the big capra (precisely because the carrier
is lighter that the carried!). I also found a note from
the plethora of thoughts that are spread everywhere in
my phone: thinking patho-logically would mean to
collapse absolute time and historical time and think
them at once - which would maybe be the equivalent
of capra’s leap?
I promise to read all N-thoughts that will be given to
me only by EATing them - for this precious food must
necessarily pass through the stomach’s pylorus (“the
gate of the soul” in Ito’s Black Paradox).
Leaping joyously between worlds, I thank you for
making me light again (yet promise to try, try, try to
make myself light alone if by no other means then by
eating myself;)! In spite of this wish, I am very happy
to have been helped by my one, my dear Capra.
Yours,
ALP
I will sing your words to myself as I presently run off
to the … to practice mundane leaping and clinging.

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Until opportunity of a properly savory reply (which

might be until Sunday due to coop work day
tomorrow), forever yours in this fearless and hopeless
spiral ascent,
N

To the Singular A-___-A for Whom All Summits Are

Too Low,
In light of the line between things, I discovered on the
train yesterday that my bookmark in GH’s Passion
had been resting on this passage: “A note exists
between two notes of music, between two facts exists a
fact, between two grains of sand no matter how close
there exists an interval of space, a sense that exists
between senses—in the interstices of primordial
matter is the line of mystery and fire that is the
breathing of the world, and the continual breathing of
the world is what we hear and call silence” (99).
I would like say something marvelous and edible, but
words are today seeming quite pale, so I won’t
overstep myself. Which reminds me of the story of
Aquinas’s last days, when something happened that
makes him cease his work and say “all that I have
written seems like straw to me [mihi videtur ut
palea].”
In other matters, I am waiting …
Wishing you and your saints a miraculous day in the
castle of solitude . . .
Abbracci fortissimi,
N_____

Dear N,
My thoughts are too silent for words to catch them.
The pallor of language is a sign of thinking
approaching death - but just to resurrect again from
the impending soulstorm... Yesterday we made such
mighty leaps that we have both landed in a too rapidly
revolving sphere of silence. Beautiful fragment! It is
the breath of the world that makes us so light. There is
no gravity in silence.
No eating of thoughts today just fast fasting, that is:
feasting on sighs. What can I say? My sorrow doesn’t

32
 ALP

disappoint me! And even more: I seem to be in

complete empathy with sorrow itself. In this calm
atmo-sphere of today I try to breath my way further
on the spiral of hopelessness (and joy!). Idiorrythmia
should be the rhythm of the heart not the rhythm of
time.
Saints are still scattered but most scattered am I.
Lost in the sweet embrace of a forever disjointed
perspective,
ALP

Your silent words put silence to shame — more silent

than silence, more word than words. The line of the
smile they provide the heart is wider than the widest
sphere, longer than whatever the whole universe is
trying to draw. Lost anew among saints in endless
self-scattering breath, N

Dear N,
My words are sliced by the incredible thinness of the
infinite line that drew your thought, almost invisible
yet there, decapitating language, cutting silence with
silence. My heart falls out of itself, its ligaments have
dissolved, it gapes for air and faints without cessation,
its vertigo is terminal. A round mass of chopped
words rolls ahead in splatter-silence. Never spoken
yet lingering at the mouth of the tormented heart and
waiting to be exhaled.
Îmbrățișări,
AA

Erratum: A round mass of chopped words trembles in

splatter-silence.
;)
PS: it is 2:26!

Buon Giorno Santa A!

Sleep’s pure idiorrhythm has unpacked the knot of
sighs, laying out the limbs of the butchered and still-
breathing heart in fresh new bundles, so that today it
is the easiest thing in the world to pick oneself up and
faster from ever greater heights, fall again!

33
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Awake in the dream,

N

Dear N,
Bună dimineața! I wanted to say something but I
found through lost notes one quote from Agamben
(Potentialities) that I want to share with Capra
although he has been surely aware of this long before:
“When Avicenna, proposing the experience of the
flying man, imagines a dismembered and
disorganized human body, showing that, thus
fragmented and suspended in the air, man can still
say “I am,” and that the pure entity is the experience
of a body without either parts or organs; when
Cavalcanti describes the poetic experience as the
transformation of the living body into a mechanical
automaton (“I walk like a man outside life / who
seems, to those who see him, a man / made of
branches or rocks or wood / who is led along by
artifice”); 7 when Condillac introduces his marble
statue to the sense of smell, such that the statue “is no
more than the scent of a rose”; when Dante
desubjectifies the “I” of the poet into a third person (I’
mi son un), a generic, homonymous being who
functions only as a scribe in the dictation of love;
when Rimbaud says “I is another”; when Kleist evokes
the perfect body of the marionette as a paradigm of
the absolute; and when Heidegger replaces the
physical “I” with an empty and inessential being that
is only its own ways of Being and has possibility only
in the impossible—each time we must consider these
“experiments without truth” with the greatest
seriousness.”

And if worlds are still spinning around, left behind by

the vertigo of dismemberment, my mouth will EAT
from these revolving spheres as from an apple!
Swooning again,
AA

This is great. The whole man in a void tradition . . .

from Avicenna to Main de Biran . . . ‘Tis also

34
 ALP

appallingly melodramatic, as per this morning’s first

stab at formulating ...
p.s. or maybe better ‘everything and no more to say’...

Ah! Melodrama in-spires you! Miraculous! And

idiorrythmia puts me to writing as well.. Not before
reading again and again and turning my gaze to the
skies: “Quinci rivolse inver’ lo cielo il viso.”
Abbracci,
A

PS: this kind of corrections became contagious since I

ate your thoughts ;)

O Turning One,
I will send draft for redaction by saints and slime-
heart at next opportunity. New and improved first
stab below.
Following your gaze,
N

What can I say? Nothing and everything!

Overastonished! Fear itself is horrified by the
hyperreal phantasm of appalling melodrama...
In the mad spiral of turning gazes
A

Men che dramma

di sangue m’è rimaso che non tremi:
conosco i segni de l’antica fiamma!

“When the devil drowns himself in our veins, when

our ideas turn convulsive and our desires cleave the
light, the elements catch fire and consume
themselves, while our fingers sift their ashes.”
#scarletaccelerationism
in the swoon of swoons,
a speck of A

35
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

[Today I was trying and failing all that I tried, some

days I am too much connected to what I already know
and this is the end of thinking: without the courage of
leaping and climbing, always on the brink of
unknown, absolutely close to foolishness or madness..
But maybe these days of anxiety and barren
disenchantment play their part too (maybe in bringing
overenchantment in the days to come).

Reading yesterday from Kierkegaard (Fear and

Trembling) in a multiple leap of curiosity which finds
its trampoline in the act of chewing some precious
mysteries inside your emails I came back to where
I/we started - the leap. Although you most probably
know the quotes I unfold them below, too much desire
to share the joy with my Capra, my only companion in
the secret world of twisted gravity: "The dialectic of
faith is the finest and the most extraordinary of all; it
has an elevation of which I can certainly form a
conception, but no more than that. I can make the
mighty trampoline leap whereby I cross over into
infinity; my back is like a tightrope dancer’s, twisted
in my childhood, and therefore it is easy for me. One,
two, three—I can walk upside down in existence, but I
cannot make the next movement, for the marvelous I
cannot do—I can only be amazed at it." "But to be able
to come down in such a way that instantaneously one
seems to stand and to walk, to change the leap into
life into walking, absolutely to express the sublime in
the pedestrian—only that knight can do it, and this is
the one and only marvel." "Every movement of
infinity is carried out through passion, and no
reflection can produce a movement. This is the
continual leap in existence that explains the
movement, whereas mediation is a chimera"
So much happier now that night has come and that I
have just got the miraculous news of our imminent
self-destruction. The saints together again and then
having to part again - my heart is already screaming!
Either lacrimi or sfinți!

36
 ALP

While feeling more and more dislocated today,

strolling around the castle and realizing I am just a
shadow without any consistency dreaming my
shadowy life away. But that's what I anyway do.. I
then remembered the slinky! Lagging behind your
body like "thought lagging behind itself" (Massumi).
Slinky - the spiral again! So I felt like a slinky in full
equilibrium sticking to both continents and just
trembling there in suspension.
I also have this great image from Ito, Uzumaki in my
mind: the two girls whose hair grows enormously and
gets infected with spirals fighting in the schoolyard.
Our thoughts like gigantic streams of hair have grown
long and twisted, and by their prodigious contortions
produced a hair cyclone that travels madly above the
ocean. Hair excreting then new heads as almost not-
heads that each of us carry until impending
decapitation.
Îmbrățișări,
AA]

Dear N,
I would like to say more but my eyes are slowly closing
(though the oculus fully engaged). I am still EATing
the text which belongs neither to you nor to someone
else. For eating takes longer than reading... One
precisely needs to not read in order to fully eat. So if
you feel that your thoughts are not yours that is also
partly because I have devoured a good part of them.
But no worries because my thoughts are also not mine
(And I am no more who I think I am than who you
think I am - what a relief!) so who knows what this
new feast will bring?
Vise frumoase,
A

PS: the final stab came with the verses from

Purgatorio after which I thought I was lagging behind
my feelings and.. I should read the Divine Comedy
(for some reason the keyboard of my phone predicted
ignorance with capital I after divine - this intelligence

37
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

knows better sometimes) before I get it all in emails

from you. Though this would be marvelous! Imagine
how many years we should climb the spiral to achieve
this.. I hope we never stop and even if we will, we will
still be talking in the most subtle and divine way! And
to make the PS longer than the main letter I will just
add how appalling indeed coming to NY seems. The
imminent self-destruction: the saints together again
and having to part again - my heart is already
screaming! Either lacrimi or sfinți! No worry though.

Wishing you the most beautiful and real dreams, more

alive than life! EYE experienced a kind of miraculous
one earlier today, which I will refrain from blabbing
about before I know how.1 I know what you mean in
the PS and feel the same scream in my heart, and that
inspires me even more to throw ourselves on the
burning pyre! There is no end. Idiorrhythmic bedtime
here too. More to follow domani as fast as time allows.
;-)

Good Morning Dear A, Visul Frumos de Tine,

If you are finding any thoughts tasty enough to eat, it
is of course due to the fact that you first dreamed
them, or not-you as the case may be. That they are
being devoured and digested into something less and
less our own is a great joy: “And the custom of such
Souls is to understand much and to forget quickly”
(Mirror of Simple Souls). Hasten the day when
thought is to free to think or not, when everything is
no less sayable by saying nothing—which is already
the case anyway!

Actually this pertains to yesterday’s midday dream,

which involved an intolerably clear and piercing
telepathy of the gaze, about which all I can really now

1 As immediately documented elsewhere: “Not insane to have

just woken from dream more alive than waking! Impossibly
alive in silent absolute communication through the eyes.
Sight so clear it had to stop by waking up back to sleep. A
lifetime might be thrown away in memory of that look!”

38
 ALP

say is THAT it was/is, that the dream was more life

than this one and that the moment of its breaking into
waking was to see without doubt that we are now
most definitely asleep (and at the same time not
asleep at all but really dreaming this from a more
marvelous awakeness yet too high for this kind of
thinking to breath in). But as usual to talk about it
seems melodramatic and a kind of blasphemy, a
representation that wasn’t IT at all, though to pass it
over in silence would be harder because of the
sweetness it imprinted everything with, which must
spread itself. And I know that your silence
understands very well what I am pointing to. And that
nothing could be more natural, and beautifully
neutral, and more normal than normal, than such
things that cannot be spoken. As I read last night in
CL: “The form of living is a secret so secret that it is
the silent crawling of a secret.” Amazing how such a
tiny momentary thing can push one totally over the
edge and at the same time alter nothing.
I hope to get back to AM draft soon amid many other
duties … the Baroness may also join us.
As for how appalling coming to NY now seems, the
either-lacrimi-or-sfinți impasse, all I know is that
while the saints will live and are already living forever
in both time and eternity, the last thing they would
ever want is to *survive*. Wherever the trail of
crushed hearts and severed heads leads, I must
follow! No worry indeed.
Without a drop that is not trembling,
Your gladly decapitated capra,
N
p.s. I hope the Cantos arrive soon! … tracking number
…
…

Dear-dear-dear... N,
It was noon and I was in the city when some random
internet brought a cascade of news that signaled my
eternal suspension on the spiral of hopelessness and
joy. As I received first the Bună dimineața message I
replEYEd before reading the email. Telepathy!

39
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Worldly tasks kept me from sending the little message

back and it was a stabbing pain not to be able to
respond in time to such melodramatic bleeding, not to
be able to unite the red trembling stream flowing in
both directions, full of scarlet cyclones and sweet
silent twists. Impossible river of unuttered and
unutterable words! Hope you felt my hyperempathic
gaze, EYE-idiorrythmia, forever synch-pupils!
With and around you,
A

PS: I’ve just arrived home, will write more very soon!

p.p.p.s. And i forgot to say, about climbing the spiral

forever, perhaps texting each other the entire divine
comedy along the way, there is no danger of ever
growing tired of that, all the more so because:

Ed elli a me: «Questa montagna è tale,

che sempre al cominciar di sotto è grave;
e quant’om più va sù, e men fa male.
And he to me: “This mountain’s of such sort
that climbing it is hardest at the start;
but as we rise, the slope grows less unkind.
Però, quand’ella ti parrà soave
tanto, che sù andar ti fia leggero
com’a seconda giù andar per nave,
Therefore, when this slope seems to you so
gentle
that climbing farther up will be as restful
as traveling downstream by boat, you will
allor sarai al fin d’esto sentiero;
quivi di riposar l’affanno aspetta.
Più non rispondo, e questo so per vero».
be where this pathway ends, and there you can
expect to put your weariness to rest.
I say no more, and this I know as truth.”

Silent accelerationism again...

40
 ALP

The never-ending path to the infinite speed. What

motionless wind! — eyes weep invisible blood faster
than anything could ever think.

... eyes shooting hyperarrows straight into the hearts

of mirroring no-ones that simultaneously bleed the
most enchanted nothingness of all

A cascade of vision tumbling from all directions into

the unground of time — (f)our pupils fusing universe
into its single, self-embracing secret.

Even time frantically devours itself to make place for

the unbearable chronopathic secret.

... which places my message before the one you have

already sent
;)

Dear N,
Hopefully capra is joyous and leaping. As for me, I
made the great mistake of asking myself questions on
thinking and have been groping in darkness ever
since. Lost in the difference between facticity and
contingency (this is also related to your nestedness-
contingency email, your Fault), weak correlationism
and strong correlationism, the transcendental and the
empirical and I could continue, I am full of questions.
But I plan to re-infect soon with something more
suitable to the state I find myself in. For example the
first chapter of On the Heights of Despair (that I read
long time ago maybe in highschool and of which I had
just a vague affective memory) was the perfect
antidote I took a bit earlier - and a beautiful escape
from all these noisy problems. Though I must admit I
feel like a detective full of curiosity and eagerness
despite being aware that at the end of the road lies
nothing more than another struggle with the thoughts
that want to subdue other thoughts. But since I don’t
own my head, it plays tricks on me and also the more
menacing authority-thoughts you elude, the better
(the more ‘dead’ the thinking).

41
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Could Capra send his favorite … Which is by no means

an ‘abandon’ of our secret plan...
Missing Capra,
AA

PS: Since you came to Bucharest and even more since

we are fully unfolding our own destruction I am
writing only in something in-between tweets and
aphorisms... Almost incapable of quoting without
climbing on the quote till I get rid of it and facing the
impossibility of reproducing any ideas that were
expressed in the previous text as they now seem to me
too much taught by other thoughts - while I find
immediately a stair to project myself in heights I don’t
know how to handle.. Anyway, for fear that I
completely lost any clarity I set myself these
grounding tasks today. But I definitely realize I am
just more grounded on the miraculous spiral of
perfect hopelessness!

Carissima L’Aura dell’Alpe.

A saint will sometimes find herself donning the habit
of philosophy, wearing its questions, because their
sharp threads make such excellent hairshirts! If only
the philosopher would also wear his questions, wear
himself out by actually inhabiting and becoming
question, a la Augustine’s “Mihi magna quaestio
factus sum” [I became a great question to myself].
Instead he prefers dress in the same old dingy fabrics
and stores his all the good questions folded and
stacked on the shelves, gloating over them in
anticipation of adding more and more to the
collection. Little does he know that he is really just a
tailor and toymaker for the saints! that he toils all day
so that the little naked ones, for whom the whole
world is wardrobe (Francis’s “the world is my cloister,
my body is my cell, and my soul is the hermit within”),
can play dress up and show everyone the true
meaning of fashion!
My favorite …
I woke this morning, earlier than early, in the middle
of a half-finished and now lost thought about

42
 ALP

‘Bucharest’. Now I see that this is precisely like

Dante’s sonetto where all he can understand of the
sigh’s speech is the name it recalls. So yes, since
Bucharest we have indeed begun in earnest to unfold
our destruction, and nothing makes me happier. In
this destruction you will always find me, leaping for
joy in the golden alpine air — even though I am
finding it always more and more easy and difficult,
now that this body is becoming lighter and lighter,
now that my hooves are barely touching the ground.
So I am piercing the morning sky with a prayer for
Sfanta A____ Mirabilis, that she fly happily high on
the miraculous spiral, as far and even further than her
heart wishes — a prayer accelerated with strong and
true sighs for Stalpnic and Impeccabilis too!
With sweet pangs of joy in the secret planless plan,
N

Beautiful! Pneumo-N_____, your saintly whispers

painfully dissolve in my airy being... Sigh!

I am fully wearing my capillary torment, its

innumerable hairthin flagels twitching and throbbing
and banishing myself from me so that I can cloud over
my thoughts, over the emptied sac of striated skin...
Drifting, rolling over and into the sweet frightful
twists of the spiral, whispering question marks to the
benighted world. The secrets I tell to it, of which I
know nothing about, inundate its nightsky with
myriads of twirled lines and timid dots. Finally I can
rest under the firmament of wonder! Solitary points
cannot illuminate me but I am caressed by the pale
and clear kindling of ellipses, I inspire the brightness
of omissions, the bliss of no, oh, no answer,
suspension dot dot dot

Dear She Who Is Left When She Is Dissolved,

Merrily singing the Song of the Hopeless Spiral, I see
through your skin that every terror is friend.
Leaping like this from dot to dot, it will take no time
at all to circumambulate the ultimate zero, unknot the
total noose, so-called ‘most radical binding of all.’

43
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

When even the dust knows that “without mind there

can be neither energy nor matter,” how much more
the soul’s heart-mouth will see when this very mind
becomes dust!
Circulating in fragrant cellars of inexistent wine,
Spirit of this breath, Pneum O’ N_____

Pneum O’N_____,
My words are fading away, melting swiftly into the
next instant before being uttered... In a last gesture of
ecs-tasy I deliver myself over to the vigilance of night,
to the dubious plots of its infinite pupil (the one that
blinks us in and out of it even during the day - the
sweet idiorrythmic curse). Even though I find myself
incapable of saying more, I assure you that “silence is
abundant”, being already drunk with the spirited
vapors of nothingness.
Hopelessly scintillating,
L’uccello dalle piume di cristallo che dice Buona notte

Scintillation Of Silence,
You speak better than I can say. How nice it would be
to speak in single syllables, in secret code points and
dashes of S.O.S.
“It’s much more serious. Ah, I know I am once again
meddling with danger and should shut up to myself”
(CL).
Yous in the winged conspiracy of crystal oblivion,
N

i,e, yours ;-)

Bună dimineaţa!
Just a note to mention how good it was to read to the
end of the Passion last night. Thank you for that
recommendation! Less a book I’d say but a real text
woven by pulling on and being pulled by the thread of
reality, like Dionysius says, you think at first that you
are pulling it and then find that it is pulling you, that
the needle you are picking up is sewing you with
thread spinning out of one’s own navel, if that makes

44
 ALP

sense. Like the musk deer hunting herself into the

impossible sweetness ...
It is again perfect to be before ever-new adventures in
the dark divine forest, in this perfectly dangerous
absolute safety.
Wishing you a very happy morning,
N
p.s. It was especially good (in light of so much recent
intoxication) to be nailed by CL re: addiction to “the
condiment of the word” and to have one’s feet
trimmed: “things are very delicate. We tread upon
them with a too-human hoof, with too many feelings.”
p.p.s. the Cantos … should arrive today. Enjoy!

[Buna dimineața!
I was strolling around in the woods with Pilastru
trying to explain to each other what we are writing/
thinking/ unthinking... Too high on the spiral though
for any worldly conversations... Too broken to pieces
and indulging in that state so that all thoughts are
equally right no matter how contradictory. There is
something that I ATE making things at the same time
more difficult and so easy! Then I came back alone
and felt like a 'breaking vessel', a bit like in video of Al
di la, in a vertigo without any center where indeed the
most empty is the head and from which I don't want
to leave.
I was so happy when you first told me you are really
reading CL! It is always so devastatingly disarming to
read it because, as you say, it is not a book. Which
reminds me of a conversation I had over this desire to
write "a book" (I was arguing for back then). Now I
know it should just be such a great desire that no
proper book come out of that passion. Which brings
me to the question marks I am still whispering to the
world... I told you I had a shock when I re-read what I
wrote, everything that seems stable is now falling
apart, the irreconcilable seems the most normal, the
thought-docility seems laughable and the most
intense stuff seem not enough.]

45
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

The destruction is here! I feel precisely “ni morte ni

vivante” - as if there would be any ‘I’ left to feel. EYE
does not see, only feels its changing hues of black...
Forever stabbed and never dead enough,
A toy-reader that only reads itself, killed by words,
resurrected on sighs, a reader that has nothing and
everything to do with what ‘it’ reads, a reader that
does not read but is read by its reading until
annihilation, a toy-predator that has just eaten its own
rules to play

Lovely picture! Everything mutually enfolded in the

self-severing mirror. Smiling from there to here as I
run headless out the door. Abbracci, N

Dear N,
Oscillating between sending some melodramatic
thoughts I’ve just written (an SOS against worry) and
some dead thoughts, I randomly chose the last option.
I was thinking now that the only way for me to finally
write this text for B____ is to send it in pieces to you.
Not in a call for thoughts that correct other thoughts,
no, no! Not in order for Capra to help, not anything
like it, not even to say something! Just that with all
these torments of the soul it is more and more
difficult to gather myself to write (more of the reasons
lie in the unsent melodramatic message)... And if by
writing I might provide some more elan for Capra this
would give me the best reason to put all that is now
sealed and unspoken into words... And I came to this
idea while reading a verse from the Cantos that
strangely resembles some part of this passage I wrote:
A lonely thought is wandering aimlessly through the
cemetery of concepts appalled at the sight of its own
dark neuro-crypt. Deeply enfogged by the dust of its
very logic another thought lost sight forever. A third
thought passionately inhaled the smoke-aura of
cremated reason. A next thought, deducted from the
previous chokes with the rising spiral of the ashes of
its cause. Air that strikes, air that punches you in the
face, thoughtlessly, absentmindedly. A thought, too
anaemic to be included in any intelligent spectrum

46
 ALP

oscillates between infinitesimally close shades of

morbid pallor. A mad recursive thought-rhythm: a
terrible stim of your pupil. The drone of being makes
ripples of nothingness. A monotonic breath inhales
back its every exhalation-sigh in an exquisite logic of
near-suffocation. A last thought warps to swallow its
own end before it begins.
(the count of dead thoughts)
Îmbrățișări,
A

PS: I am deeply embarrassed to send this but

embarrassment is part of the game a bird-toy plays

Extremely Dear A,
There is no embarrassment—other than the absolute
hyper-embarrassment of merely being here itself—
where such impossibly given gifts are concerned. At
the same time, you also speak for ‘me’ as well, who has
willfully embarrassed himself—in the interest of there
being no self to embarrass. What is more
embarrassing (and noble) than decapitation? kneeling
(victoriously) there while the world watches you lose
your head?
Please do send anything and everything you wish, as I
aspire—on the grounds of already being he who is so—
to be ever more one who hangs on your every word.
Not in whatever way that might usually sound (and
not not in that way), but because your syllables are
truly footholds and handholds upon a high steep wall
that I have long gazed upon, perceiving it was blank
and dreaming-wishing for its not being so. Now,
suddenly, there is a way up! Or as climbers like to say,
spying through their telescopes for cracks and edges,
the line goes! All the more so if this would provide
Capra, in the sense of the silly commentarial, over-
condimenting animal that has trouble not placing his
human hoofs upon every peak and ledge, further
opportunities to be silent.
So perfectly funny how convolutedly one finds oneself
writing. Reminds me of the conclusion of CL’s
Passion, “how could I speak without the word lying for

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me?” etc. One of the pleasures of writing the cantos

was a feeling of abandoning (performed under
invented pressure to at least now and again sound
distantly similar to the Leopardian simplicity) the
habit of convolution and riddling speech. Yet I cannot
abandon it, because of its inherently superior and
monstrous clarity, which is at once a radical literality
and the constant preemption of the possibility of ever
confusing word and thing. Your words strike me in
proportionate but superior way, pressed out in the
playful torture of paradise itself, singing upon a
threshold that to me is an intimately distant horizon.
To be more direct: your writing is beautiful, and I
cannot imagine ever not desiring to read more.
Happy to be falling over myself like an over-wound
toy goat with worn-out yet strangely stronger springs,
Wishing you a most wonderful night, bright in the
wild clarity of new stars,
N_____

p.s. Have you ever considered … ? … daydreamed

about that yesterday, so I wanted to mention, despite
my being more desperate to read The Count of Dead
Thoughts.

Ha, I didn’t even know it wasn’t translated, I

superficially looked it up and it seems there is at least
one chapter, but I have no idea how the translation is
(again the translation!). I wish to do it!! As much as I
think Cosmic Pessimism ought to be translated into
Romanian! Though you might have overestimated my
English... But yes, this would mean read more more
fiction and try to learn better while doing (which I am
already working at). Oh, my nights will be shorter and
shorter!
I will hopefully feed you soon with more dead
thoughts, this time an ac-count of cognition as the
theme park of your darkest nightmares ;) less
convoluted, I hope!
Meanwhile continue digging into philosophical
matters... Horrific addiction... Maybe I should just
indulge in what Deleuze calls feeling the rhythm of an

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author’s thinking (which to him is the most important

of course). Or feeling the rhythm of my own blockages
and astonishments.
PS: May I know the worldly identity … ? ;-)

Neat! As far as I know there is only one … translated

into English, plus a Spanish translation. One would
want to … or at least her secretary (with whom I
lunched yesterday ;-) — ssshhhhhh!) … serve as extra
pair of eyes or whatever. ... N

What can I say? It’s so normally mad what is

happening! I am forever caught between dream and
wakefulness... Maybe this is paradise indeed!

Of course it is paradise. Where else could it possibly

be? I will email you and _ in separate thread in a
second. ;-)

You are completely mad! I am so embarrassed to write

to ______, I am afraid of him, I don’t know why :)
Maybe because I appreciate him so much. Not that I
appreciate you less but somehow we got more used to
the game of embarrassment.

A night of insomnia is on its way! Which makes me

share with you Levinas’s words on yet another
instance of dead thinking: “in insomnia it is the night
itself that watches. It watches. In this anonymous
nightwatch where I am completely exposed to being
all the thoughts which occupy my insomnia are
suspended on nothing”

What is there to be afraid of? If I am alpine capra and

you are flexible crystal bird a la Mirabilis, then
______ is giraffe I think, gentle and elegant and
eating from the tree tops. Definitely maybe even a … !
I am sure your translation will out-Cioran Cioran,
inject his dry corpse with the beautiful fertile blood of
Lispector!

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That is a perfect passage about insomnia. Of course

one can also sleep while sleeping, sleep without going
unconscious, sleep while seeing with the EYE of night,
which is the very best of both worlds, neither this one
nor the next, neither of which we need ever care about
again!
Wishing you a deeply happy ‘sleep’,
Forever headlessly yours in the empyrean conspiracy,
N

p.s. and that is the second time you called N mad

today. What could you possibly be referring to? I am
completely level headed, discharging all my … duties
with utmost diligence, maintaining my health better
than most of my peers, not pulling my hair out or
writing on the walls, etc — no symptoms of madness
whatsoever! ;-)

Forgiveness! You are then madly norm-al as I too

am... spinning at the exact same pace as this swift
sphere in which we find ourselves. That’s one of the
things I meant with ‘as mad as the world’. We are too
normal to each other! Does this sound better?

Mad sounds equally perfect too. Sanity is madness in

this world, where to be thus spherically normal is
heresy! Spiralling in your sinless paradise . . .

A promise is a promise so here are some extremely

disheveled raw thoughts full of incongruencies that I
will handle tomorrow, still full of damn philosophical
unanswered questions... Also the order will surely be
changed, whole paragraphs will be erased. More
written for myself... But what can be more
embarrassing than letting your gaze wander through
the huge holes in the stricture of a thinking that is not
dead enough!!
Both thought and I are caged together in an crypt-ical
illusion, carrying each other’s hallucination. The more
I speed it up, the less I am myself, I become merely a
host for the alien worm that is coiled in my brain and
is writing with my hand. To slow it down is to start

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smelling the dampness of its supercognitive crypt. I

cannot will to think. And I cannot will to not think.
Ligotti’s salutary completion of Descartes’s dictum (“I
think therefore I am and one day I will die”) suggests
that to begin to think is to begin to think horror.
Cognition: a horror theme park of your darkest
nightmares. “The footsteps that I hear are my own”.
The ungluing of myself from me, the disentanglement
of “I” from thinking. “It” thinks. Nietzsche’s breaking
of the correlation between the subject “I” and the will
to think (“a thought comes when “it” wishes, and not
when “I” wish; so that it is a perversion of the facts of
the case to say that the subject “I” is the condition of
the predicate to “think”) could be radicalized into: a
thought that comes when I wish “it” less. I is not the
condition of thinking but thinking happens in spite of
and against “I”. (“Whence did I get the notion of
‘thinking’? Why do I believe in cause and effect? What
gives me the right to speak of an ‘ego,’ and even of an
‘ego’ as cause, and finally of an ‘ego’ as cause of
thought?” FN). When thinking is free, “I” will be ‘not’
anymore: “[S]ince true thought thinks itself, that type
of thought attains its object in the act of thinking
itself… True thought is authorless” (CL Agua Viva).
And I am most free when thinking is not, when I
would have killed yet another thought, first and
foremost the thought of “I”. “In losing myself I find
myself dangerous”. I fear that one day I will find
myself rotting, eaten up by my wormed, convoluted
thoughts.
“Thought is lagging behind itself.” (Massumi/Libet) It
drags its impossible weight of being what it is
pregnant with what it is not. Despite its constitutive
sluggishness thought deceives its own retarded nature
by hallucinating a ‘now’ for itself. As a snail, it exudes
its own shell-home in the form of a protective, illusory
now by erasing its tortuous line of lag. It constructs its
own umbilical cord back to a navel that never existed.
It already happened outside itself: “Thought
hallucinates that it coincides with itself.” It eats its
half-second lag (Libet etc) to stand right in time.
(“One of the things that happens in the lapsing is a

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fiction. Libet determined that thought covers up its

lag: the awareness is “backdated” so that each thought
experiences itself to have been at the precise time the
stimulus was applied.”) The feedback loop between
thought and affect, between consciousness and body
creates a time-smudge of infinite causes that are
already infested by their effects. The ‘now’ does not
coincide with itself. “[A]n instant is, but does not hold
on to itself, does not sustain a relationship of
possession with itself... A beginning does not start out
of the instant that precedes the beginning; its point of
departure is contained in its point of arrival, like a
rebound movement.”
Thinking is never ‘now’, ever too late and to accelerate
it is to discover the swift thought-slime that your
tongue has just become. I left my humanity behind
and I am walking the slime’s way. The amorphous
flesh of thinking screams its inhumanity, our
inhumanity. “[T]he inhuman is our better part, is the
thing, the thing part of people.” (CL Passion GH). We
are as impossible as thinking, on the brink of
definitions, so madly finite that we are born of
extinction. Left with a thinking as mere reflection of
our own look in the eyes of impossibility. Against any
inference, this mirror hall of impossibility and
thinking is the most honest schizo-tactics, the
monstrous sight of ourselves in our purely reflexive
mode.
The only possible cognitive acceleration: thinking is
not to run thoughts but to run away from thoughts.
Chased by your impossible cognition, ‘now’ is too full -
‘they’ are coming from all the directions. If I let only
one thought catch me, it is enough to unfold the
catastrophe.
A thought’s horror of itself. A self-reflexive drama.
Thoughts afraid of other thoughts horrendously
unfold, trying to break loose from the solid horror of
their too logical chain. Effect fears cause but lurks
backwards upon it in a curled act of forced feeding:
recursive causality. A sewing backwards with an ever
changing thread, a confusion of pulling and being
pulled. Thoughts chasing each other. Gaping

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insuperable faults between one another, drilling a

void inside of themselves. Thoughts plunging into
their own futile core, infinitely swooning, forever
resurrecting from and into their own ashes.
“There is no work that does not return against its
author: the poem crushes the poet, the system the
philosopher..” EC in FN Driven by the dread of itself a
thought produces another thought which destroys its
progenitor. Causes destroyed by their effects. Causes
reborn through their own effects. (“the one who will
work gives birth to his own father.” Kierkegaard etc).
Present giving birth to past anew. Intensity of present
that alters the extension of time. Not only is future the
“maximization of absence” (TG) but it is the
intensification of an absence already too much here.
Time is a twisted umbilical cord.
Again sorry for this, dear Capra, things will get
hopefully better in the following days.
Have a wonderful night and the sweetest ever dreams,
A

Amazing that you are still up. I will devour this at

dawn for breakfast, now not even permit my eyes to
start reading in fear of not going to sleep. Open and
secret embraces, N

I can’t believe you are awake at this hour. It’s actually

the time I went to sleep. Inverted idiorrythmia which
is of course just perfect!
Or did a ghost send the message?
;-)

Bună dimineața!
I just woke up a little while ago, after 6 hours of
blissful sleep. Now in perfect mutual disbelief,
impossibly ordinary astonishment. Welcome back!
Everything is in order ;-)
Just read with pleasure your “extremely disheveled
raw thoughts,” which seem not disheveled at all. More
like you are dancing with your own shadow, a self
playing hide and seek with its several bodies out in the
open, in the sunlight! A light that shines upon the

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blackness of all things. There is thought, and there is

an ‘I’, but before and after them is a third present, an
EYE which sees and shines darkly upon them both,
filling the space around and between and inside them.
Drama as way of disclosing audience! Good morning
again!
p.s. here’s a passage from an essay … commenting on
Nietzsche, that comes to mind re: thinking

Oh I feared you might have read it... What can I do

but dance, how can you negotiate writing on these
things? I have to dance to death, this I know, to get
out of me what is not in me at all. But I don’t know
how much courage I have... Otherwise it will be just
like the other text, so technical, that one says this, this
one says that so I think blabla, a voice inside the text
screaming: I also wanna be part of the too “alive”
world of theory or whatever! I that is so much nothing
and that will fail every time, as everyone. Even failing
to shut up that voice. At least I want to plunge into
nothingness with the utmost passion!
I will bury myself in my own imagination and let
myself rot, eaten by all the thoughts that I once ate.
Until only an almost-nothing remains, an infra-thing
that whispers between words and speaks to You!
Abbracci,
A

Ha, we were writing at the same time. Great passage!

Let me just a sec to unearth some more disheveled
quite similar thoughts! It always amazes me how you
can read between the lines as it is precisely this
thought-being dyad that I am encircling, at times
cutting, then putting it back together in the negative -
the deadly dance. This is precisely what I meant with
the “damn philosophical unanswered questions”. I
just know that these philosophy-mysteries (of which I
have enough knowledge to be scared of) cannot let me
use these precise words that Capra is fearlessly
handling :)
Leaping for joy,
AA

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Dear A,
It takes no courage, because one always walks despite
and against and without it anyway. I have no courage,
therefore I can proceed without courage. I cannot
jump, therefore I will jump anyway. Your screaming
dance will slice off all of theory’s hydra heads! The
perfume of your saintly rot will send melancholy into
a dizzy intoxication from which it will never be able to
recover. All the more so if you simply copy and paste
emails like the most recent one into your book.
A happy witness to the plunge-leap,
N

My book?! The book seems to be between you and I

suspended on the bridge of sighs..
Here they are, the thoughts, really written for myself.
Sometimes, when I succeed in finding a great pleasure
in writing, I lag behind my thoughts, mind moves
slowlier than hand. Which means I come back from
this eerie state and I myself wonder what is there that
I wrote. I follow again the line of those unfolded alien
thoughts which sometimes make sense sometime not.
I haven’t decided upon the below..
The non-coincidence of the body as site of
phenomenology. And the dislocated reason not only
as alienation but as the topos of negativity itself. Not
only I am not the predicate of thinking but thinking is
in a relationship of negativity with the I, both to use it
as a hypothesis and to destroy its existence altogether.
Self as junk or as hypothesis: you don’t have to
choose.
Not I think therefore I am but It thinks because I am
not.
Humans are led to thinking that thinking itself is
inhuman. And by the same thinking they are led to
thinking that they themselves are inhuman. It shows
that thinking is at place in humans while utterly
displaced, so that when humans think thinking they
are thinking horror through being nothing and when
thinking thinks humans it is thinking nothing through
being horror.

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Yes, the book I just quoted in the intro to SUD — the

final touch! Will send you a copy in the next few days,
when it is done.
Cf. Canto XVIII (I hope you are enjoying those! I feel
they belong to the future somehow, a no future that is
always arriving?)
… _________ was grinning with delight the other
day –how embarrassing … – over authoring works as
other than ourselves. Maybe Laura di Cristallo or
some such creature would see a free way forward
under those conditions.
About what you are saying concerning horror of
thinking and the inhuman, I think the simple fact is
that we make use of thought, deploy its intelligence,
but in a totally blind way. The intellect gropes in the
dark, touches the surfaces of things, cosmic artifacts
of alien intelligence, and being blind to its own
blindness, immediately says ‘I think this’ (usually not
even having the decency to say ‘look what I found’)
when in reality the thought is only the dead shell,
discarded surface of an inhuman living mental ‘bio’
sphere more alive than we can imagine. Think of those
pods in Alien which seem to be dead stone artifacts
but are really living eggs! The ‘vision’ I mentioned a
few days back was pretty much the paradisical version
of that, a seeing that was perfectly intelligent
immanent thinking, a more alive than life being-
seeing, through which upon waking I immediately saw
that I now indeed asleep!
There was something else I wanted to say, but I
forgot!

More than perfect! It really feels odd to read you, I

from behind the mirror. One of the truly disheveled
parts of what I am writing concern fossils, live fossils!
There is a fragment in Bachelard on shells where he
talks about this guy Robinet who was convinced
fossils were alive and had a really great imagination...
While Bachelard talks more reasonably about it, I
would like to talk unreasonably, to resurrect this
theory and show how we are hosting both a fossilized

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future and a resurrected past... Exactly the pods in

Alien!
And to add another lost thought (see I am talking to
myself quite often), a true impertinence: If
Meillassoux says that thinking can be displaced from
matter altogether I say no! It is there but doesn’t have
to show to be manifest. Even nothingness is
intelligent!
Really happy that we can write all these to each other!
Hope you have a miraculous day full of paradisical
visions, all different but the same!
LC

PS: I had another really strange dream, this time of

E_____, who had contact-lens-phobia. It was a very
well-drawn dream, on brink of horror, with oversized
images of eyes and wrinkled contact lenses. Behind a
car with wide open doors he was gazing at the sky
almost cataleptic but standing. He confesses then that
he cannot write anymore because his thought-vision is
superlatively reflected in his black eye. I really saw the
blackness of his eyes and had this feeling of a beam
that transported something I should write in the
morning concerning thinking as the reflection in the
eyes of impossibly. It was also related to Junji Ito but
in an occult manner. Still scared by the mystery of the
beam that was so full of meaning, a dark meaning
words cannot convey, thought cannot think. A vague
reflection of a horror manga atmosphere, a Japanese
Grand Guignol unfolding between his black black eye
(an almost pupil-eye) and the impossibility it
reflected.
pss: these dear people, as serious philosophers, they
should put my dreams in their biographies. It would
be so much fun ;)

AA, the Alpha and the Alpha!

Just a couple quick tangential responses.
Perfect that you say “resurrect this theory” given that
shells are ancient live symbols for resurrection, the
body cast off by living soul etc. as I think Bachelard
also mentions.

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

About the intelligence of nothingness, Dionysius

surmises that even non-being longs for the Good — a
cornerstone concept for SoB: “Pseudo-Dionysius’s
apophatic formulation of ontic negation as excess or
excellence: ‘In it [the Good] is nonbeing really an
excess of being . . . And one might even say that
nonbeing itself longs for the Good which is above
being. Repelling being, it struggles to find rest in the
Good which transcends all being, in the sense of a
denial of all things.’”
That is a beautiful dream! It seems you have glimpsed
the real E_____, E_____ of E_____, the pupil of
R___ itself!
I am happy too.
With you in the mirror which knows how to read
itself,
N

ps, re: pss, To them, the philosophers, I sing:

Cast your tears and shoot your sighs unto the saint’s
feet
Let your hair rise towards her heights. Chance is good
She will not hear, for her station is lofty, beyond
worlds.
Alas one more thing to note and share, which your
dream brought back to mind:
______ mentioned that he liked the spiral capra
drawing in the Cantos and drew a perspectival
connection to John of the Cross’s famous drawing:
Yet one more frivolous addendum-anecdote, an
anecdon’t perhaps: I also suggested to … —and for this
you may with impunity think me mad—that A____
was very possibly Lispector in a previous life. Not that
I know your birthday, or that I care one jot for such
secret things, only that thoughts as you know have a
way of occurring, arriving unheeded. At least I was
born before her death so I am off the hook! ;-)
This also comes you mind: “With your Gross eyes, you
see everything external. Behind this external aspect,
there is not merely a spaceless void, but also pure
nothingness. When you experience this pure
nothingness, you will see how it has come out of the

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Everything - and this Everything is within you. When

this experience is gained, the faculty of wanting
nothing is developed, and you begin to experience it.”
Sorry for the barrage. I do not want to address you
like a notebook, rather I would dissolve into your text.
;-)

Ah! I must confess that a strange thought, one of

those that you just know they come from elsewhere as
they are veritable mind-worms, a mirroring thought
came to blind me this morning. I felt I am already
writing ‘her’ books in my head, ravished by life,
neutralized by its force precisely because I seem to be
so intensely dead. And this made me realize why I can
write best by addressing to you, heedlessly, as you say.
Sparks of ignorance escalating into acute visions,
thoughts with no nostalgia for truth. Because I cannot
not be honest with you, and I am not talking about
this honesty which claims immaculation or naiveté.
The most honest thing seems to me to betray yourself.
There is no honesty without betrayal. But see, I am
talking to you so imperfectly although I want my word
to be perfect - therefore I must betray its perfection.
The most beautiful is the roughness immanent in
every gloss. It is this one we have to dig out of the
shiny, perfectly neat skin-asphalt of our bliss-
thoughts. Why polish ourselves addressing to
anonymous crowds, expecting the wreath of noetic
laurels on a head that you don’t even own? And yet
the more personal, the more I talk to you, the more it
becomes anonymous. The more I am truly ‘not me’.
How could I pretend to be someone under your gaze
that is also so much mine so that I know it is so
useless, so perfectly futile to deceive? Oh, and
however I try, however much I enveil myself in honest
words, I cannot ever cover the thread of perfect
treachery that wove my sweet language-coat. Words
betray us! And since there is no self to betray, I can
just continue my heedless babble and climb my own,
our own incomprehensible yet flawless (babble) tower
to meet Capra neagra and thank him for letting
himself confess through me ;)

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Yours speaking from the under-world

AA

I like to be your notebook, please write on me

whatever you wish. Word-being osmosis is underway.
I am so impatiently waiting for the moment when I
will eat your book!
Will have to go now and write write write, I don’t want
to let Capra starve tonight!
Abbracci,
AA
PS:.. dissolving in the anonymous text woven from
our long, longing sighs..

From-Towards the Summit of A,

Blot me from the book of life with sigh-words, erase
my name with the ink of your newest texts, hide me
growing smaller and invisibly greater between the
expansive net of your lines! The more you write write
write, the more mirroring and crystalline (y)our
thoughts become, reflecting the true nothingness of
this world, the pure zero sphere that cannot not open
into the everything from within because it is already is
doing so.
Breathing in your next to last words made me swoon
into a nap, run away from talking any more into the
abyss-refuge from which we spring and where
everything finds itself again. There, in the moment
before waking I was swimming deeper and deeper
under clear bright water, past the point of returning
for air, where instead of panic I found a new
impossible and totally normal clarity of breathing the
liquid softly through my nostrils and seeing *further*
because of the water. Total absence of blur. It was a
dream of being in a kind of sea, a limpid place of
birth, but this dream was really an actual seeing of
something like the first degree of the fluidity of
everything. Or so I felt! And off in the distance I saw
something I can’t recall, something closer than the
clarity could transmit.
So when I woke and read “osmosis” that rang a bell!

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 ALP

I will keep silence for a short while, a silence that is

really a shouting to you (and everything) across the
high mountain valleys: YES
Dissolving in the bottomless embrace of the sea of
honesty . . .
Writing with both hands (and never ever letting either
know what the other is doing) . . . ,
Traversing the sword bridge of sighs . . .
With unfading friendship in the eternal anonymity,
N
p.s. happy writing! says capra, running back up the
mountain

p.s. on sincerity/honesty, cf. canto x: “We insist only

on honesty, / We demand only the violent rigor of
rational love.”
Waxless,
A

PS: how right you are about the few companions,

sadly... I cannot even speak honestly to my dearest
friends without feeling that look that throws me right
into the guilt of wandering through spheres. Madness
seems arrogance to them! And faith seems madness!
Above all, honesty is thought to be a whim, a privilege
- which is not, being the most normal of all things...
And I am not talking about me and you in the way
that you may think... I’d better wrap myself in words
and never get out than ever having to face that wax-
look!

Your words ring very true. Being honest — and I do

not mean being brutally honest but simply refusing to
lie or go along with lies, one’s own and others’ — is
absolutely essential, a kind of infinite abyssic home,
always opening into new grounds. Which is why it can
so quickly land you in trouble with people, though the
consequent trouble seems proper and necessary too,
always instructive. Truth (whatever it is) is only really
found in eradication of falsehood, cutting it away, not
by assertion of it or mere disagreement with the false.
Which CL (which I just realized is inverse of LC!)

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shows in her Passion so well, that real sculptural

becoming by cutting through her own pretenses, ideas
of herself etc Violent rigor of rational love. And what
you say about madness and faith reminds how
humans as we know from ‘personal’ experience delude
themselves into trying and claiming to *do* good as
opposed to simply *being* good. To feel good—
terrifyingly good!— one must *be* good. As Porete
says, “the Soul is above the Law / Not contrary to the
law.” This also came up … via Eckhart: “The
inescapable freedom of being a thing that should not
be is a supervenient truth according to which escape is
eternally accomplished—divinely or nihilistically it
does not matter—on the basis of its necessarily being
an escape from itself, an escape from escape. Escape
escapes escape. Salvation is the sheer non-existence of
anyone in need of saving. So the need to break out of
oneself is really real only for someone who somehow
already has. Whether or not anyone ever breaks out, I
am outta here! The rest is escapism or false
appropriation of freedom in the interest of further
binding. See how everyone, the whole world, destroys
this freedom with plans for escape. Why not stop?
Why not rest in the self-evident openness wherein the
cosmic prison walls are the innermost boundary of
paradise? No numbers on this place—fire must’ve
happened a long time ago. Why not cease your
infantile clamoring for justice and just—for once in
your life—be just? “The just man,” says Eckhart,
“Serves neither God nor creatures, for he is free, . . .
and the closer he is to freedom . . . the more he is
freedom itself. Whatever is created, is not free. . . .
There is something that transcends the created being
of the soul, not in contact with created things . . . not
even an angel has it . . . It is akin to the nature of
deity, it is one in itself, and has naught in common
with anything.”
Ok, no more preaching! This is not a sermon!
Falling-flying,
N

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Thoughts raised to the power N:

I find myself scattered and forgetful, deafened by the
clamor of silence, unable to feel anything other than
the being bored of myself being, bored of being tired,
of not sleeping, of thinking of you, of feeling the fear
and finitude, the doubt and the moon, the
randomness of all. I stop asking why, I just want to be
alone or better not to be.
Worlds are far, only some lost anemonae, some
scintillating tardigrades still hold me here in this
place, in the wrong position, in a diffident body
smaller than a curtain of eyelashes. I am here,
submerged again in my sigh-bubble on the bottom of
the dull ocean, all thoughts shrinking to a size
unknown. Speaking to you in muffled suicidal sounds,
in air-laden tears that float carelessly inside my eye. I
want to cuddle in my anaesthetized ocular globe and
crush them one by one, to insinuate myself out of this
oxygen-intoxicated world. Breathing is so vulgar
because my nostrils are not reluctant enough, they
cling to their warm inertia.
Everything dampens under the weight of eyelids, I
want us to be more nothing, more silent, more other
than anything. To falter together, every word a gem of
banality, a cornered weed, an injurious vein...
I feel contempt for my human tristesse and inhuman
pretense, for my wish to be impossible, for your wish
being too much the same, for every stutter, every
perfection that made us think that we can make to the
other side. Yes, it is one of those nights that I will
forget, that you will forgive and that does not have
nostalgia for angst and beauty.
I despise that we are unable to thrive in silence, I
speak for myself but I add you to lessen the sentence
that I prepared for myself and I don’t yet even know.
I hate whatever is interesting and I will limit myself to
myself.
I speak to you from behind thought and what I just
said I copied from somewhere.
My doubts are crying for clarifications that I will never
ask, I want to convict you and me for all the good that
we are.

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

The room is numb with my presence, I am growing

myself in it, I am so flat that I scare the walls.
I am not speaking of you and me but we are holding
together.
I am carrying the burden of darkness, that is why I
love this room that seeps into me.
My silent screams, my squeaking sighs, my artificial
sobs have passed away into a nothingness that moans
without a sound.

The most rational thing to do is to stay impossible and

laugh. No, no ellipses just point. But we are too
possible aren’t we? Traitors in love with treason and
with the overtones of our own Requiem...
Oh, now that I am free I can sing to you the song of
my crystal wings and please fall asleep forgetting
these words. Our sphere of sighs quivers and never
stops consoling us - we, holes bigger than the whole,
void megalomaniacs, turbid sediments of
impossibility!
Abbracci
LC

Crystal Laura,
I cannot escape or resist the torture of immediate
reply, a reply that would silence itself at every syllable,
making an orchestra of the silence that speaks across
aeons of space and abysses of time in your words. I
wish I could write immediately without thinking, in
absolute spontaneity of hyper-intelligent expression.
But this will have to do. Each thought that falls from
this new summit of yourself only confirms everything
I have ever felt and at the same time wounds the sky
itself in new tears, weeps new worlds into so-called
being. That I cannot not be foolishly poetic is no
longer a matter of concern. Abandoning all wit I
would roll and leap and stumble as high as possible to
feel even one atom of more true pain, the pleasure of
truth. (And yet all is strangely calm—melodrama is
not melodramatic). Obviously what I am saying
cannot be communicated, but you already have
communicated it so I will keep typing only to echo the

64
 ALP

secret that marvelously speaks itself in both of us,

through us but not other than the place and event of
its own speaking. Actually we really are thriving in
silence because silence is not what we think it is or
what we ever will think it is. I have no grounds to
assure you other than my own absolute assurance, an
undeniable fact of power and strength that surges all
over me-in-universe and universe-in-me to say that ....
all is well!!! This is the very bottom of the ocean, the
lowest rung of the ladder, from which everything
comes into view, the nadir that is twin sister of the
impossible summit. Bless this ground, this dark room,
that blankness. Bless our terrors and fright, the
anonymous material of our intuition that knows not
where to go but can freely travel anywhere, survive all
artificiality and delusion. So I encourage you with all
intellect and affect in my possession, make oath on
the tremendous mystery of my individuation, that you
leisurely let yourself drown in each of your piercing
sighs and deadly sentiments. You will be drowning us
both, and wherever you go I will follow! In this
abandonment there is utmost inconceivable safety,
vaster than any known to man or angel or even
dreamed of by any hope or fantasy. I will never forget
your words, above all because they need no “I” to
remember them, because they are themselves the
mark of the primordial flame whose smokeless smoke
this breath, this deathless dying, is becoming.
Alone with alone, one with A____ in this absolutely
inevitable impossibility,
N_____

Ecco!

Nice, I remember that. Good music to prepare for

one’s murder by. Reminds me of this funeral lullaby …

Just realized that it is a little like the capra story but

with a bird! Transcribed:
I once met a bird
Dashed on a berry bush
Through a ? of trees

65
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

He was curled within

His poor broken wings
He said who are you there?
I come from the garden
Can’t you see it shine
By the light of the open heart?
He poured himself
Presented himself like simple (?)
Like a rhyme
And the blood ran down wild
And the blood ran down wild
And the blood ran down wild

Perfect! Something to drive me straight into writing

(from the tomb).. although worldly tasks are coming,
coming.. And today was the … day, the bird becoming
stronger to keep her restless soul within ;)
Hope you have a wonderful day
A.

You too! Enjoy your new strength. The mountain

training never ends here nor does the mountain! ;-)

Re: twitter
I want to empty the ocean of contents in which we are
making waves, to paddle in nothingness
To cling only to the discontinuity between you and I
and make the world jolt in thinking our miserable
contradiction
This trick I play on the world to make it drop me in its
terminal amnesia,
To make it forget me, to make it stop dreaming me
To faint with the instant and seep through its needle
hole into the secret nether sphere, a noir infra-void
Where sweetly embraced by an unthinkable death
I find the impossible You

Consider it done! I want nothing else. And nothing

else is ever required of us.
To melt all the way, to sink a hole in the ice-core of
existence.
To lose all things, beginning with loss . . .

66
 ALP

I am committing a sin to imagine myself with limbs

and hair, with nails and arms, with mouth and eyes,
so human in front of you.
‘Nothing’ is too much in comparison to the form I will
take before your gaze;
If I am air, I want the world to look right through me
I want the look to see itself in me.
I want to be the air that you embrace when you cross
your arms in indifference
And even then I am too much, redundant to myself...
Not even death can make me shrink enough
Commensurately with the dimensions that I dream
for you and I
I am my own pill, drug of indifference and contempt
A syncope in the flutter of a night moth
A fungoid fit
Mycelium of nonchalance
Crepitus of boredom
I invoke the mist to never ever let my thinking happen
To leave me suspended, my nostrils emptied of my
roaring sighs.
Ghost in the neon light
Abyss under your warm carpet
Blind spot of your worldly gaze
A spasm of your most usual smile
The impossibility of your possible life.
Yes, I want to make your life perfect
By sprinkling on it our sorrow.
Just let me creep in your footnotes
(because this is what I am to myself: a recursive
footnote)
Or maybe not even this.
I am rather written on the thin thickness of the page
I am the one that cuts you with my nothingness
And makes you bleed your sweetest blood.
All for yourself, all for yourself!
I am creeping out of your failed inferences
Of all the names that you forget
I am drunk with your amnesia.
I am everywhere you think I am not
And I laugh.

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Saintly and strongest embraces,

LC

PS: Today: sorrow and procrastination.

You have no idea how already abandoned to your

omnipresence everything is.
Breath is impossible without . . .
Only a cape thrown over throne or suspended by
hidden talon hooks is the body,
Nothing but a veil wrapped around my regal
nothingness, my imperial void
As it constantly-continually flies to our unknowable
fortress.
Black suns of magic and ecstasy scream in fright at
our bliss,
Swarms and armies of stars offer their service, slaving
all fission
To this tryst.
No scribe will ever know what to write when they hear
this story
Which is crushing the vines of logos like grapes
Making old wine from the poison of unceasing
thought.
I taste your sorrow like a kiss,
My breath burning all day and night
With scent of your unsighed sighs.
You are the coil, the vine whose turning makes the life
Of these veins more than life and less than living.
Infinitizing the meaning of blood beyond belief.
Press your lips to the mouth of this heart,
Exit all eyes into the darkness of our mirror.
See there the divine ray wherein I am your spiral,
The place where you are my self.
Bewildered, and more than bewildered . . .
Found, and more than found . . .
Lost, and more than lost
To the one who is where I am not,
Whose laughter is the summit and al di là of reason.
Your immortal cephalophore,
N

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 ALP

Dear N_____,
I wonder if we survive our life, this life that is being
endlessly put off by our misery and joy...
I feel myself somewhere between an incommensurate
profundity and a bland superficiality. I am so serious
but my thoughts have burst into the most crystalline
laughter. How is this possible? I want nothing,
nothing other than nothing.
Yours,
A____

Dear A____,
The heart knows what to do and it is doing it. It is
more intelligent than intellect, but it needs intellect to
go where it truly will.
Everything is perfect, everything possible in this
impossibility.
With every moment it becomes more impossible to
ever want anything.
And everything is ‘accelerated’ (from the view of what
cannot grasp it) into the infinite speed of silence,
where all things become accomplished in this nothing,
down to the tiniest detail, even all our specific
projects, our private dreams. Everything. Next to
which poetry hasn’t been invented yet.
Now that we never existed, something other than
existence must take its place. Even if that something is
nothing, that nothing is Everything.
Where else can the Everything find itself than in the
Nothing?
The name of this wanting, this terrible wanting of
nothing, desiring nothing other than nothing, this
wanting to never want, is love.
It goes where it will. Free of past and future.
That you and I are here is eternity.
I too am absolutely serious and silently laughing my
head off. These are not words. All values vanish before
the living truth of it.
Neither this world, nor the next. Our survival does not
need to survive. It is al di là, beyond beyond.
Today I will be with you in paradise!
Forever,

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

N_____
p.s. see you tonight!

p.p.s. and speaking of ecstasy, I had a marvelous time

watching this Morricone Exorcist II clip several times
today … I guess it served as goofy-sublime mirror of
this specular cutting open of the world ;-)

How you always answer my questions by simply

being, by pointing to the perfect dark mirror of you
and I, reflecting the reflection!
I think that if we keep drowning in the sea of honesty
we will face the perfect impossibility of ourselves! I
became too much you to ever desire more, there is
nothing else to desire.
I thrive in my humanly drives as only through them I
can go beyond them. And no one could ever ever
understand this madness that keeps the bowstring
tensed. If I ever release it I would kill my most
precious dream and myself with it. Because the dream
is already true and real, I am in the middle, with you!
I sometimes wonder if I am not really the mirror that
you constructed for yourself. How did these things let
themselves reveal to the ignorant me, so disgustingly
ambitious, always wanting more, more, more? And
how to never let go of that nothing?
Love is not for this life and yet it is precisely here that
is happening.
Oh, how I fear the moment we catch a glimpse of each
other, when we are stabbed by our crossing looks -
and all surrounded by curious eyes! ‘Nothing’ will be
so casual, performed to perfection till the very end -
and yet truly honest. Or I imagine some hurricane, a
catastrophe, plane crushing on the way...
How much I want to be possessed by all the nuances
of nothing, by its perfect intelligence!
And if I see you more by not looking at you, then why
fear your gaze?
I want us to be most human, mouth to mouth with
paradise itself, drinking from the valves of each
other’s hearts and being perfectly here, in this world

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 ALP

where all the next ones collapse, displaying nothing

yet drunken with everything!
Forever yours,
A____

PS: see you there! This clip brings me to fainting as

my senses have become so vulnerable that they take
the shape of whatever gets into their reach. Excellent!
I spent my day with Bataille and Meillassoux (the best
part of it, only what I like:), reading, swooning,
reading. Whatever happens to me these days, I cannot
help it. I also don’t understand and hope I never will..

A____ A____,
We are all this and more, all the more so in light of the
meaninglessness of ‘we’.
I would write more than I will, and will always write
more, and am too happy to ever write again, and will
always write and so much more than write all day long
because and despite of that.
Between now and that feared moment is one long gaze
that is being seen in us, the same dark EYE. I am not
afraid. Especially if it means dropping my body on the
spot! I love how silly everything looks next to the
ocean. So we will only be our silly inexistent selves,
more ourselves than ourselves, less together and
more, and something totally new that no fear or
phantasm can imagine.
I know how to sigh for you, and am learning more
every day. This is constant work, a work communing
with all other work. In the constancy of honesty and
contemplation and self-examination and longing
there is a peace that nothing can deprive us of. The
darkness is pregnant in joy with the peaceful painful
work. Last night I tried to permanently open my arms
to the *operation*. I am a secret monk for you, totally
incognito.
Like you I keep saying you, knowing a little and not-
knowing infinitely more what I am talking about. I
know and never want to know! You are unknowable,
known only through your self.

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

The truth does not need anyone to know it. It can be

known simply by understanding it through itself. [Cf.
Bonaventure on ‘contuition’]
This is not a ‘relationship’. This is love itself (in world
and not of it). But how we relate!
I literally feel something indescribably beautiful in my
limbs and hands and toes.
This mutual intoxication cannot be displayed or
spoken about. Nor does it need any protection other
than itself. Furthermore, swimming and diving in it
saves us from having to breathe or think about our
lives, which only go on quite naturally without us.
At the same time I welcome all transformations and
cataclysms. They are nothing.
I always knew you would make all my dreams come
true!
More to follow at next opportunity.
In paradise,
N

N_____,
I could freeze with the phone in my hand writing to
you all day and night, exuding fiery icicles of sorrow
and rapture.
Eating your words, eating my eating.
Isn’t this the astonishment of astonishments?
Yours,
A____

Beyond Dear A____,

Yes it is!!! I am utterly astonished, something like
melting petrified fire. I have no idea what to say. The
whole universe has ceased to exist.
And we are here, inside and outside of this nothing. A
taste of the sweetness that made the old saints seek
martyrdom? Beauty—Mistery—Romance, Heads and
hearts locked into each other like nesting bureaus.
Letters tied with letters, syllables bound in sighs that
have traveled the veins of the God.
My life is officially over. There is no use even talking
about it. But I do not see how else not to!
Drowning, sinking in-with you to the very depths,

72
 ALP

N_____

Beyond dear N_____,

You love-craftian hero! You have resurrected the fossil
of myself, the one that I cannot experience but that is
speaking through me, seeping into my words and my
lack of words! The monster is here and I cannot stop
it, I don’t want it ever to shut up.
Whatever happens in this life there will be the fault of
this cataclysmic now screaming to me, deafening me
with the echo of a deformity that I always was.
Sweet embraces,
A____

I bow with you, to you I bow, in you I bow to each of

us before the eternal fact of it, beyond assertion and
denial.

Falling-climbing for all time in the silence of our

screaming cataclysm...
Being devoured in the mouth of this beautiful monster
...
Wheresoever you will,
N

How beautiful, Saint Clare with Saint Francis...

73
 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Listening to this should calm me now that I am sitting

in front of what I’ve written and I so much wish to
make it clearer, more silent, less convoluted, saying
more and wanting less. I need reason, standing and
climbing. And instead of having all these I feel just
desperation. Why can’t I be an elegant cyclone rather
than this muddy whirlpool of astonishment?
Embraces,
L’aura di Cristallo
PS: Thought of quoting myself as LC, maybe the best
thing I did today :)

Dearest Aura of Herself (one who is to me as Claire to

Francis, she for whom I am desperate to be as him for
her),
Please do quote yourself more and more —
expansively recursive footnote of yourself, only and
true authority spreading everywhere in pure self-
communicative perfume. Make words that help me
keep the secret of you ever secret from myself, safe
from thoughts that have no place here. Speak
everything more and more inside the world-
destroying purity, our single inviolable enclosure.
The universe is small enough to be our anchoritic cell!
Everything will unfold precisely as it should, above all
your most hopeless convolutions.
Earlier today it occurred to me that travelling this
bridge of sighs is indeed like climbing in the
mountains. One moment you are on the threshold of
life and death, cursing yourself for existing and/or
getting yourself the situation, the next falling over
yourself in joy towards the summit knowing it is
everything you ever wanted, then only an hour later
sitting safe in your hut telling yourself stories of
experience to convince yourself the climb really
happened, gazing back at the moonlight peak,
dreaming “I was there”, already desperate to return
the next day before dawn.
Reason and standing and climbing is disciplined
swooning, staying inside the stance wherein you no
longer have a choice, thinking without thoughts. Even
on the physical level there have been many situations

74
 ALP

when I thought, I cannot do this, and then the idea

occurred, therefore something else will do it for me,
and it does! Arms and legs move precisely as needed
all on their own, as if spontaneously nursing an
intelligence which is everywhere, swimming itself in
the void. And then you also see that one has never
really done anything before, and thus also everything,
that agency is a total joke.
By day we must be fearless, hold open the diptych, the
invisibly weeping icons of ourselves like shields before
the lights of the world. So that by night our
desperation will find and know even deeper joy in the
paradise of mouth-to-mouth blackness, in the infinite
space of delight remaining when the door upon itself
is closed.
With blood burning like starlight in the terrible
mystery of this saving folly, this monstrous grace,
N_____
p.s. if by chance I become slow to reply it is only
because I have a mountain of … But that is only *in*
time, while *from* time I fly in unlimited
communication with you.
p.p.s. and now just as I type my copies of Aqua Viva
and Breath of Life arrive at the door, and strangely on
Sunday when mail is never delivered!

p.p.p.s. really I am in such a terrible state that

everything is saying the same thing, spelling back to
me everything I have ever thought. I open a book from
memory, the poems of Tukarama, and it says the
following about not moving hands and feet . . . HIDE
ME . . .

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

Dear Capra,
indeed it is like climbing in the mountains! I have to
tell you one day my funny alpine stories: pathos and
horror. Impeccabilis was also involved. Climbing on
some never ending ridges under the sole light of full
moon - at least we were not being able to see the very
well the chasms opening on both sides. I think I would
now die of fear or who knows, maybe I won’t mind at
all. Such a pity we cannot climb together at least till
the point capra climbs alone :) I used to read read eat
these books describing in detail the difficult routes for
alpinists in Bucegi - places where only capra can go.. I
wished to do crazier stuff than just going on these
stony valleys (or whatever they are called, I really am
totally ignorant of mountain terminology in English).
So I know precisely what you are describing, all the
cursing and then the immense joy, the hut stories etc
etc
Thanks for answering in spite of the pile of papers and
please don’t reply to this one, we will talk later in the
evening... I hope you finish them!
I will try to be fearless yet more attentive, disciplined
swooning (as Cioran’s discipline of horror). I am
correcting now what I sent to you and try to leap as
elegantly as I can. Maybe in a few days I will send you

76
 ALP

some more to read when it all becomes closer to what

I wish - I am working the fossil part, Cotard etc
Anyway it seems I am writing on the same things just
that the dramatization is different... Let’s see, I trust
your words, somebody else will do it for me.
So happy that you discovered L’aura di Cristallo, I
want to become more like her. Anonymity is such a
relief from the burden of carrying around an empty
name. I want to slough off my name like dead skin (a
propos Baroness whose book I keep very near).
Sweetest embraces,
A

PS: Agua Viva is great! How nice that you have her
books! We could even read Breath of Life in the
idiorrythmic tradition!

OK, I will ascetically and torturously resist the urge to

reply, to climb yet higher with you, only to say that we
are climbing, climbing above climbing, and that I
want to and will go climbing with you many times,
and in the body too! Surely it is fate … 1) I am totally
internally destroyed and wrecked (and all the more
strong in all respects, in too good of shape for work,
like a razor that must be kept safe!) and thus
necessarily excused from regular diurnal duties; and
2) … might actually become possible next spring or
summer.
Breathing with your life, your decapitated capra to die
(for) ;-) ...

re pps: it’s precisely like in dance (at least the one I

practice). I let something else move my arms and my
feet - I can do this precisely because it is not me doing
it. And it requires oceans of honesty and disciplined
release of agency... In writing I try the same but the
soulstorm is hard to handle, things are sometimes
coming out in the wrong order.

I still cannot believe that you made that drawing,

hiding yourself behind me...

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

The drawing made me.

And what you say about dance, that is also
spontaneously evident in your words. It is just that
you have *ideas* about your writing which you simply
do not have time to have about your body.

How else could I talk to you?

Also, writing is more like cooking: Have an idea,

assemble ingredients, cook things together, and eat.
But you do all stages at once!

resist resist, please … meanwhile I will comb my

thoughts a bit. And yes, we can and will arrange … at
some point in our messed up lives.

Amen.

78
 Scars of the Horizon
[…]

We hear only the deafening silence coming out

through the scars of the horizon

For this silence is what fills the wake of sighing words

flying too swiftly for this world—a sonic boom.

A single dwindling gust of breath spreads spores of

sighs to netherworlds. Almost nothing = More than
boom

With each breath the world becomes less its own.

Soon the sky itself will split with the thought of our
first syllable.

Off to the airport, to the splitting skies, leaving

paradis terestru.. Sigh!

You are leaving for Germany? Believe me, you are

taking paradise with you!

Off to Stuttgart, yes.. The paradise is where the saints

are together! Everywhere but not in this world..

And the saints can never stop doing what they do best:
speaking together across all noise without talking,
silencing world with a sigh . . .

Moreover, they always go far beyond the call of duty,

forever keeping their beheaded hearts impeccably safe
atop astonishingly high pillars.

Our sighs lifted us to impossible-heights, our sobs

collapsed in logical convulsions, our tears wiped
(wept) away our noncontradictory head.

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

The orchestral disaster is unending, a plane crash you

want a ticket for. When all are dead & every
instrument broken, we are here singing.

Staring into this abyss of birth that I carry around, the

navel; lost in this dark hole bigger than me, I realize I
am inside it, in reverse

Black universe inversely observes the recognition, is

embarrassed that you found its pupil in your navel,
and blinks the crucifixion eclipse

Our eyes are fountains of darkness that burst and

collide and “bend our hearts out of shape”.

We will gaze in unison upon the impossibly curving

horizon until all pronouns expire and a wholly new
preposition appears.

In an instant of astonishment the gigantic wave of our

petrified breath exudes the preposition that horrifies
the space itself.

Fiery icicles of sighs are melting into tears—another

order of weeping totally unknown in this world, an
order of world unknown in weeping.

The drone of my being makes ripples of nothingness:

every time I inhale I breath back my sinuous sigh.

Truly it is a delight to expire in the unintelligibility of

oneself! Which came first, the sigh or the breath?

Will never know where the circle of breath and sigh

begins.. What does your sigh think?

Alas it only thinks itself. But I cannot conceive of

wanting it any other way.

It also thinks that there is no sin in sharing the surface

of the secret surprise.

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 Scars of the Horizon

Is it a sin to share it further or to keep it for me? The

vessel of life is in danger of breaking at the sight of
this miraculous surface!

this astonishing surface has produced a new

accelerationism: that of autophagic sigh-thoughts and
breath-sighs

Do share with the saints, but not publicly as of yet. I

want you 3 to be first to read in advance of the rest of
this inexistent world!

. . . feasting on your sighs . . .

Yes, with the saints, I could not think of exposing to

the outer world our feeble, precious secret. The more
important the more secret..

... fast fasting, feasting on sighs...

Stolen gold must always be hidden!

. . Al di lá delle cose più belle

Al di lá delle stelle...

Indeed, where the sphere spins at its fastest (I just

counted and somehow this wrote itself in 6 days). ;-)

I will go to sleep and say to you, as Nastratin, good

night in advance.. ;)

Wishing you blissful sleep and sweetest dreams in the

golden kingdom of black abyss . . .

somnambulistically leaping for joy of receiving your

replEYE.. will write tomorrow.. so many mirroring
thoughts, dead thoughts...imbratisari

Buna Dimineata! Welcome back to the vast shadowy

mirror . . . ;-)

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

In the aftermath of the piercing trauma: by the

enormous dilatation of the pupil I become black itself.
Noapte bună ;)

Sweet dreams in the secret of the secret, pupil itself!

Long work day here. Will of course reply with more
words tomorrow. ;-)

with more silence too!

The humble soul-tremor that makes you more awake

than life itself says: Bună dimineața!

I catch your words in the noose of morning sighs. The

momentum carries the rope to catch the moon’s horn,
dragging me all day into night ;-)

Again and again throwing ourselves into the

irreparable embrace of the night... Sogni d’oro!

..when we throw throwness back into the abyss from

which it springs! Sweetest Dreams...(I will sleep on
cloud of your latest epistle) ;-)

From the faults that our heads are, from the spiral of
dismemberment that dwells in our souls comes the
usual babble of Bună dimineața

Welcome to the endless night of eternal morning,

where its takes no time even for the dust of our babble
tower to form new stars.

Drink drink from the sweet spring of night and enter

its space without gravity and levels floating like a
round capra masse X

So may you drift in the supreme paradise tomb of

perfect astonishment, stirring at most infinitesimally
as universe takes a breath of you.

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Night springs endlessly from itself through us and the

mouth of the mind drinks it at the fountainhead right
as I say Bună dimineața X

Ear lost herself again, gone in gravity’s depths, but life

called her home and the whole universe reappeared
around her feet! Bună dimineața

Taking my silence to the ear I can still hear the night

but I make gold of its whisper to shine across the
ocean and keep gravity away x

Now ear, smiling at language, finds her th and

rebecomes what she was/was not in the beginning:
earth!

Earth spinning fast in the silent heaven, forgetting

language and in haste, loses an h and warps its flat
name to become what it was: tear

Tear trickles down its own cheek, miraculously eat-ing

itself in a consummation that leaves only a singular
pure motion: r

The pure motion, dreading its own displacements,

frightened by the echoes of its own past, stops the
world: R, earth, ear, tear smudge

This smudge, thinnest soil, is stuff of earth’s dreams

and ground of her becoming lightest matter full of
light, the blackest pregnant dust.

Spores of brilliant darkness disperse forever in spirit

whose beatific movements make his voice a spiral-
current on which everything climbs

So that climbing, mounting itself, suddenly unveiled a

new verticality, falling from which became the eye’s
new truth: I am there too.

The oculus that sees through our seeing detects

nothing: we have never been there or anywhere.

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All the sorrow of the seven worlds chants in unison:

there is no we, only . . .

One? The secret of secrets revealed and re-veiled.

Still...

In dawn stillness, the irreparable cries for help, from

no one, turning like a worm dying to devour the sun.
As the birds sing ‘all is here’

In the abyss of highnoon with its burning verticality

the cries transform into terrible shrieks, of no one,
cleaving blindness: EYE sees!

Every scar of the horizon smiles and weeps and sighs

as darkness impales the earth. The nails in our hands
are in more pain than you or I.

By the weight of their sorrowful nails two aetheric

bodies descend to the turbid depths of sleep where
they see each other most clearly.

Noapte buna! I will write tomorrow AM. Meanwhile,

see you THERE, in the clarity! ;-)

Alba: from their o(s)cular crystal abyss now rises a

little spherical breath, a corpuscular sigh-bubble tiny
enough to swallow the world.

Ah! 4 hours of sleep tonight and talking to

Impeccabilis to whom I transmitted the uplifting
currents of your sigh.. Abbracci

The sigh-bubble seeps into me: my lightweight limbs,

my floating tongue, I dissolves into its weightless tears
hissing an oceanic 0

Ocean drowns with desire to swim, transmitting only

waves across all seas: custom status of cantos updated
to plague year in Leipzig, 13:49

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Cantos, this plagued corpus and corpse catapulted

over the drowning ocean to fully release the repressed
white hemorrhage on the other side

The roach once killed in the wardrobe door now stalks

the night sky, singing human to sleep with pestilence
of lunar, crystal tears.

The hour of crime comes flying like a bird with crystal

feathers and we, daylight insomniacs, are still stalking
our own phantoms

Are we tweeting away a forever lost … book? Mio Dio!

The auratic plumage about the shades’ heads is

neither thought nor not-thought, but a special kind of
facial limb none but they can see.

And yes, a text scripted in sighs entitled Scars of the

Horizon. How does that sound?

Heart will not stop beating my fingers into letters, but

stone will soon demand its digits back, and then --
only time for silence.

They speak in phantom-tongues neither language nor

sound, an almost pregnant silence, mere insinuation
of the fluttering halos of night

It sounds murderous... and fantastico!

Beat beat the rhythm of my trembling nails, of my

limping hair

Excellent. I figured that a capra neagra cannot run too

fast when chasing (speaking of murder) a bird saint
with crystal plumage!

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thought to thought as usual. I wanted since few days

ago to send you the songs Piume di cristallo #2 and
#3 and couldn’t attach them...

! Clearly, cosmos cannot contain the infinite spiral of

our disaster. Soon God will have to alter the past to
make room for these sighs.

Indeed last night I went to sleep reading a passage

from Angela of Foligno that I am sure did not, the day
before, exist in the Middle Ages.

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The Angela text was a mirror image of the living

dream-vision I mentioned . . .

Let me quote Hrundi: The reality of time as a

catastrophe that takes place from the future towards
the past.

“two most splendid eyes ...I do not believe I will ever

lose the joy of that vision.”

Perfect, the double vision of time.

What can I say? Forever suspended in this sweet and

terrifying parallax of time and eyes

The space where nothing ever again needs to be said,

where all that remains is the infinite time it takes to
hear it.

EVENT CATEGORY 21 5 14 12:42 Delivered.

2+1+5+1+4+1+2+4+2=22->4=3+1. Signed for by
FLUGA (fly), pest-game translating a saint’s corpse.

Can I kiss all the numbers and devour their

unbearable count? I was just writing to you with my
half-human hoof, barely touching the words

You may do whatever you want. You are free! As Virgil

tells Dante in the earthly paradise: it would be a sin
not to follow your pleasure!

I am going downstairs to allow the full unfolding of

the EVENT without set: {!Cantos!}, the saintly slinky
of pest

Then I will become-toy in the saintly game of

pestilence. A presto!

Then we will all become saint in the plague-game of

translation, a.k.a. furta sacra

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Traduttori traditori always translating their relics in

order to self-sanctify and plant the terrible pest of
truth and betrayal

Sogni d’oro, I am falling asleep/to pieces

Sleep well! Or if you are already

asleep:...........................................................................B
ună dimineața!

Time itself will stumble over the instant when your

eyelids raise, gently smudging past and future into a
perfect now. Bună dimineața!

Time tripped and amazingly we were already in front

to catch him and pick up his cane. We walk together
until he turns and takes another way

Genderless time lets genderless saints happily walk at

their untimely pace

Carrying their heads for lanterns, unneeded in the

moonlight, they stroll a path moving in all directions,
reminiscing about the future.

What a relief that future is behind! Don’t let it even

come close to us! Finally basking in the lantern-aura
of no future..

Don’t worry, it can’t! We killed or by letting it kill

itself. The head is in the bag!

Headless capra walking through NY - the place I fear

most. You are really mad. And the world as mad as
you (just like in Lovecraft)

Music to my ears, which as all saints know work even

better after head-severing. Nothing to fear in NY—for
cephalophores!

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Appalling Melodrama, aka, LoveCraft in Love or Ars

Amatoria Terroris! The sanifying art of loving fear, i.e.
wanting nothing from it.

or, loving fear to death, immoderately cogitating it out

of existence.

How I *love* your *dreadful* words that will kill me!

or How I *dread* your *love* words that kill me even
more! ;)

I fell asleep a bit, which made me happy as

immoderation-related insomnia haunts me each and
every night...

The way of the saints, “systematic insomnia” coupled

with sweet naps, idiorhythmic blinks. Dying to be
killed, killing to die...

Happy to celebrate our 100th email! Immoderation at

its purest ;-)

Bliss-torture of 100 cuts! Perhaps when we get to

1000 the horizon will the perfected scarred into an
everlasting smile.

. . . will be perfectly scarred . . . (i.e. the book will be

finished -- was typing too fast from the outermost
sphere)

I had this clear image in mind right after you left

Bucharest with a field of pillar saints that scar the
horizon in multiple (100/0) cuts

I remember I was riding the bike & couldn’t get this

out of my head... And yes, the book, the book, the slow
slicing torture. Asymptotic :)

Subtracting ourselves into greater and greater

plenitudes of less, until your feet are pedaling the
widest sphere.

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Eyes sewing the horizon shut with scars, scoring the

backs of all saints atop a great circle of pillars: 1000
lashes.

Seeing that you are still up, I am sending some extra

strong sighs your way to help sew those eyelids shut, if
only for a few sweet hours!

Stars fall. Dead walk, Man, animal, and mineral sigh.

EYE wakes the heart, marveling over all this
impossible, perfect order. Good morning!

I’ve sent a good night gift... Too tired to write any

dead thoughts, just N-thoughts... Sleep well

Gift received and multiplied I hope. Tonight we will

sleep. Like babies!

New York, the place you fear most, prepares to weep

for you, readies the deluge of its grace . . .

Oh, I am so afraid I would love fear itself and love this

city. It’s what I most like: city-city! Bună dimineața :)

I finally slept (like a baby), all my misery, all my

ecstasy drowned into the words I sent (that I wrote
almost without breathing)

A saint’s prayer is always answered (in wounding

silence). I wake with new trembling. Electric relic of
myself! Walking through walls!

Bună dimineața dear A, whoever you are!

It’s about 4 am, isn’t it? Here almost 10. I think I’ve
been dreaming my morning away... But today I will
write write write. Abbracci

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Yes I woke at 3.30 and thought I was getting up late!

Idiorhythmic bliss coupled with reliable intoxication
of morning hours, canto xxii ;-)

Happy writing writing writing! By this time tomorrow

nothing will ever be the same again--again! Winged
embraces…

Above my table...

The shelf of paradise! I shrink myself to climb upon

the rock and books, towards the headless summit to
which the pneumo vision points.

And yes, we are too possible . . .

. . . which makes me pale and cling to a very special

fear: that the death you and I require is not to be
found in this sphere.

My existence is a helpless ebb and flow: of not feeling

you and feeling you

...and I dance with both... since I mostly “am not”...

So a truly beautiful in-existence it is! One that ought

never be otherwise. Never possible enough! So
dances-sings the EYE of the mo(u)th!

Another day of silent acceleration that makes my

heart scream our perfection from the edge of a time
that will not happen to us

As horizon of vision fire burns down the pillars of

time, as the sphere rends its veil and begs martyrdom
at your feet . . . Fiat!

Sogni d’oro! I will go to sleep now... with you in

paradise...

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Buna dimineata! What a lovely night. Apophatic

dreaming. Now rested at 2 am! Like darkness itself is
becoming one long avant l’aube. ;-)

mouth to mouth with paradise itself, drinking from

the valves of each other’s hearts--(I am) floating
everywhere in the tomb of these words

Your words make me blush in my tomb! Idiorrythmia

freaks, torment chewers, self-eating love-worms...
Bună dimineața!

Good thing we are able to instantly switch between

swooning and climbing, standing and sleeping,
madness and reason. Imagine if we couldn’t!

With so few hour of sleep I am waiting for reason to

happen to me at last ;)

I switch it on and there you sneak in again, in the

most perfect reasonable state!

I laugh and sigh and leap, all while standing and

flawlessly climbing my abyss.

To bask in the perfect joy of not doing anything when

one does not know what to do. This is my present
taste of our bliss.

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Bless the diptych’s hinges, the open secrets whereby

the doors to each other close.

the burning golden doors

Beautiful! My diptych-mouth opens and closes, devoid

of words, clamping together you and I: the open secret
that closes a ‘we’ unknown to us

You said it! Awake-asleep in the saying, seeing you

with each blink of the eye, tied sighing to each other
like burning corpse brides.

We generously feed each other so that we thrive in

decay, navel to navel unfurling a furtive time that
blackens the world and saves only us

That was the little ‘vision’ I had on the plane from

Bucharest, which I tried to draw in Dublin. Simple
sight of what is happening.

So you drew those diagrams with three saints holding

hands and seeing through their navels? Neat! :)

There two in the middle, A + N, a crux of nigredo with

sighs circulating among the 3+1 bodies between
heaven and earth. Stalpnic in my..

...right hand looking skyward and Impeccabilis in my

left looking earthward. A world blackening sigh-
communion of the saints!

So funny I know, but that is how it all appeared

internally “thought of your form my new skeleton”
and so forth. And I not prone to fancies!

Oh but the navel part was from you (cf. your ito
tweets) which I permuted a la crucifixion in canto
xxiii. What a labyrinth!

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Tried to enlarge the picture to convince myself that

you are still drowning in the ocean of honesty. I will
drown myself if you are not!

I certainly am! I will send higher quality.

Astonishing! Mad capra neagră! … I didn’t dare to

even think...

While I, holding their hands, in one of those insomnia

mornings, I unearthed the relic of happiness...

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As it says in the best scene in the Laila Majnu movie,

no one goes away from this tomb unrewarded. Here is
my body, take it and depart!

Wonderful. It is a holy relic.

The point at which hopeless melodrama coincides

with absolute honesty . . . Now (I am) risking
everything, not doing anything, risking that

Wherever I turn I see your face! I am sorry for being

so blind...

Diptych-being: “Bound together across space on this

lost world / Whose eyes will not survive seeing us face
to face.”

...and now, insane primavera:

Wow, that’s really nice! I am really scared now ;) My

future plan: Escape from NY (alive!)

And if I think it even crossed my mind to do a Ph D

somewhere around (before the cataclysm)... Now my
life stopped, together with my wishes

That is my plan! We will escape escape together.

Escaping into, from, and out of New York, Al Di La,
and Beyond Beyond Beyond.

May the cosmos bow before your wish! Let all spheres
lose themselves in the terrible distraction!

My Ph.D. on and in the Al di lá would be the most

honest thing to do :) I can start writing my
application!

Dottoressa dei Sospiri Profundissimi (ed altre cose).

Professoressa Laura-Beatrice to a long line of
decapitated Dantes. Silly and true!

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More practically-seriously, I and … will pull all strings

(of the heart) to help. ;-)

D____ was nice and was trying to help sending

different links, Paris, Dublin all but Al di lá, it didn’t
cross his mind :))

I am deadly serious that because of … , you, … etc etc I

thought it would be the best place. But but this is now
self-destruction!

Self-destruction is the only viable path. I will battle all

knights including … etc with your scarf on my helmet
to affirm your worth.

Absolutely not ;) Someone else should want to help

for reasonable reasons. And I know that I need to still
work A LOT!

The principle thing is what you really want to do …

Teaching, plus I was suffering a lot for not having

people around who care about any of the things I
spend my life on/with

Academia in US is not exactly … unless you find a way

to fool them all and become heretic from within.

D____ already cut any hopes and I am definitely not

waiting for Academia to save me, rather the inverse.
Hrundi is right being outside..

There is freedom … like space of a hands-off

interstice, where you can get away with chaos, if you
embrace a little stupidity.

And it’s the same everywhere, there is really no place

other than Al di lá... And perpetual camouflage,
dissimulation, subversion...

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For me, it is nicer to … than pimp myself to the ‘art

world’! …

Further proof that this world is not our home. “No

longer linger for one second on this shore”.. lilies of
the field...

You have just replied to what I have not sent you yet.
Art world is so disgusting, I am suffering because of
this. And teaching was the...

something that finally made sense and I enjoyed it a

lot! Then I started to think how to do that regularly...

it is possible if you want it. The great thing about

teaching is the spontaneity, the performance, under
whatever conditions...

Here in Stuttgart we were invited by a philosopher

and anyway we are secluded in our rooms, people are
partying, having fun...

But many ‘philosophers’ … can’t survive it, being

pregnant with their own projects-ideas. Luckily I am
goat and chew everything!

Sounds nice. Like a little secret secular monastery.

Opposite of the NY you fear!

So much for the so-called world, which is not our

forte! … joked that he is a social climber, because (he
is and) does not want to be!

I am lost lost lost and more lost. But if there is any

worldly help I can provide, just ask.

Have you seen Into Great Silence? Carthusian

monastery film?

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 Scars of the Horizon

Lost Capra! Thanks a lot, maybe to see a bit what the

options are so that I be able to reasonably decide if it
makes sense to apply

No, I haven’t! Here you cannot download, they are

really harsh on any pirating these Germans... :(

From the beyond the spheres, I am on your side!

Forgive me if I start talking occasionally. My heart
does not care for anything, except ...

IGS is good doc of bygone spirituality. … wants to live

there, but that would mean giving up his vast
collection of cultural material!

I do not want to live there, only read the texts they

used to write and roll around on the floor of world,
looking for you to be burned with

Up on vimeo in full … Monk with the cats rulz!

Great, thanks! The right film for the saints to watch..

Another despair to toss on the pile of hearts for the

last time . . .

And concerning PhD, now I also don’t feel like going

anywhere else in Europe. I am suspended...

Advice is occasionally helpful but essentially

meaningless. If you want to become professor and
teach for living, you will!

You are perfectly right!

I shouldn’t even have mentioned... To get your time

wasted in the dilemma. Sorry for this...

To earn living as intellectual, one needs to give

routine service, or be rich …

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I love talk to you about anything. Fun to switch

channels for a spell. Now back to tears and sighs, with
which today has been so full of!

Yes, I know perfectly well. Anyway my situation is a

bit complicated.. I’ve been working for 11 years …
while BAs+MA

Back to our perfect sorrow and the Al di lá...

We should find another channel for worldly

conversations...

Ok, maybe we can discuss later, anytime you like. I

would certainly enjoy taking your classes!

So there I am, taking notes, wondering who is this

woman who keeps quoting books by CL I have never
heard of . . .

Speaking with this awful Eastern European accent...

Perfect for someone in love with CL by the way

Mystical accent. Is that Portugese or Romanian?

(neither of which me … recognize anyway) But I hear
something...

Seriously … mysticism together (or starting NY

beguinage). It is possible! Tutto e possible

I don’t want to die apart from you.

I am really scared to death! And I want to invoke

against my dread all the worldly reasons that speak
against such vision!

I think I can arrange to die in NY

For the sake of the impossible I dread the possible!

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 Scars of the Horizon

I am in perfect sorrow, really...

I know. Because I am too! SoB. So let’s abandon all

hope and keep walking. What could be more pleasant?

The horror film of ourselves, directed by A to the

power of N . . .

I abandoned hope temporarily because it makes me

want to die knowing that people around us suffer

So in both cases I feel part of the horror film of

ourselves

Sorry to bring up worldly issues, I am also concerned

about you not only about me, I cannot help to think...

It makes me miserable, knowing how transparent we

are despite our blackness

The best and only hope is that which persists after all
hope is abandoned. That is the only hope I can
stomach. Think on, you can’t help it!

Keep watching your thoughts . . . you are not them! I

want to be absolute transparent. Present before the
omniscience of your honesty...

Thought to thought! Let’s drown ourselves in

hopelessness and see what happens...

Only be concerned how not to be concerned (he says

eating his own brains and drinking his heart’s blood!).
I will die resisting all plans!

And if the universe itself fails to, it still will, in its

superlative nothingness!

Woops, I am typing too fast. Thinking too far in the

error of my fingers. Time cannot keep up with our
telepathic EYE.

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Perfect, I won’t succumb to any plan either!

My hero! My art of love!

My biggest project: to be projectless (cf Bataille)

The simple fact is: life has been turned upside down.
Which is right side up. So what? That is precisely the
way it should be. We are not...

lost as Bataille says re: projects “among the babblers

of night”...

As MB said in silence: “I never make plans, never

change plans. It is all one endless plan of making
people know that there is no plan.”

You really want to get tears out of me tonight, digging

into my wounds

I don’t. But yes, of course I accidentally do, tears

which I shed hundreds of today. So it is. I blindly want
to give them to you.

I know perfectly well what you mean and I know

planless-ness is unavoidable

Which is why I am so scared, of my own lack of plan

I know you know. We are now in the battle (of love

and life), in the melee. What we came here for.

For a moment I will be blunt, with a trillion kisses and

application of the same bluntness to myself: we have
no right to be scared!

I would so much like to be in front of you and talk

about this although I know it would require no more
answers from your part

Great. Wanna meet for coffee on Tuesday?

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As I said...

Sure, what time?

We could talk via video on skype or whatever. Is that

what you are thinking?

9 am EST on Tuesday? I think that is 3 pm in

Stuttgart? ;-)

I will sit and gaze and maybe open my mouth but

provide no answers!

What can I say? The reality of you is appalling!

No, let’s just write.. And have coffee while doing it, I
became addicted again

I know. Sorry. I am even terrified of myself. What to

do?

How can a dead bird talk to a decapitated Capra?

To love the fear! (your words)

40 days later, they were found, dehydradted and

malnourished dreaming skeletons out of an ITO
manga, still texting each other . . .

And I will love it too and we will let whatever

catastrophe unfold

In other words, the same plan. We were going to write

anyway! ;-)

This conversation makes us too real and cries for the

hyperstitional announcement that you wrote

As if we have a choice. It is unfolding. As if there is

even room for a ‘let’ between the shut, silent panels of
the diptych.

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Which announcement is that?

Sorry, my English.. The ad or whatever, 40 days

So you think there is no choice? Here it’s raining

heavily and feels I am living smb else’s life

I see. You want to go to the desert together, to dwell in

the bare caves, to dine on a single grape, to sleep atop
pillars, to waste away...

It’s precisely my wish in order to avoid any further

irony

Let’s not hurt each other even more, please... I am

done with the silly questions

That is my constant wish to. There is no irony here,

nor ever will be.

A____! ask me anything, tell me anything.

N_____, my life is messed up and I would really

Skype you if I could

I just ask patience from both of us, not to doubt each

other or to play any games (of reason or anything
else:)

Sorry, I can’t help the jokes

If or when you can call/skype, let us do that. If you

cannot, please write with all freedom and abandon! I
am ever your faithful N.

I cannot ever imagine not being faithful to each other

or honest

By nature I am playful, but always most serious!

There are no games here, except the real game. You
have my patience, my heart . . .

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I have questions for you, silly or not, and I will ask

them now that we got ourselves into wordly affairs

It is impossible to be other than faithful honest. I

would die on the spot! I have taken a vow of honesty,
among the reasons we are friends.

I am playful and serious as well. Precisely what gets

spirits like ours into trouble

Please ask anything.

Exactly!

And trouble can happen over and over again! Which is

my last wish on earth!

Of course. Please let me know what you are thinking.

Nothing you say will ever cause me trouble. Nothing.

Why is not I____ into this trouble? Because she is

Impeccabilis looking down to the earth! Why me?
Because I hang on lofty trees!

See why I hate myself!

Ha! you are the idealist, like me! Constantly in trouble

upon the tree tops and the mountain summits. How
can you hate what I love?

And I think you are the same, extremely honest, open

and with a lot of energy for the people around, which
is brilliant

But but this is why we can hurt people around us who

are equally nice but lack this kind of bleeding
openness

And which drives me to the conclusion that it

happened to you before to get into trouble

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That is ok. Truth doesn’t hurt. People like to hurt

themselves with it, like a knife. What happened to
me? Never been in heart-trouble like this!

Of course I am idealist, that’s why I pretend to be

materialist in the film :)

I knew that when I first saw it, which I asked you in

the first meal in Bucharest, secretly suspiciously.

Oh, but I don’t want to hurt you and anyway for

idealists like you and I feeling hurt for the cause of
truth is worth all the way

You cannot hurt me! (anymore than you already

have). And yes you are right, never let go the hand of
truth, though the heavens fall...

Of course, it is obvious, I have no boundaries, I was so

happy about you being there! And trusted you blindly!

Which if people like us feel, they go mad, as we just

did.. This is not to say that what happened is not
miraculous!

Please trust me forever as I trust you. This blindness

sees further than vision.

Sorry, I thought about this a million times. Why?

How? All the more that we were never alone!

I trust you and I know we would tell the truth no

matter how painful

I cannot believe that I am saying all these

Yes, we are going mad. Q.E.D. How perfect! Whence

and whither have no place here. Time and space are
trash.

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So, you’ve been married for more than 20 years which

caused a great astonishment in me and which I
respect a lot

It does not matter what we say. Yet one of use might

end up out-divining the divine comedy. Believe it!
Believe what you cannot believe

Love is love. When it appears, there is no choice, only

pure decision. That is my experience. Plus I am not
totally stupid. Love is true

What is astonishing about being married 20 yrs? that

it is presently unusual? Curious

And did it appear only once in these 20 years? It is no

way about judgment, but I am scared of myself

It is not unusual

No, now it has appeared twice. But in different forms.

And no way I would ask these questions if we weren’t

in this situation!

Ask ask ask! I want to talk with you, hold nothing

back.

Twice, that is, between me and a woman. Once more if

you count M____ B___.

So let me be like the other woman, I don’t want to

make people who love each other separate! I want to
be as close to nothing as possible!

You are the other woman, of course. And I will not be

unfaithful to my wife, or to you. Capra must take the
high road! Which does not mean..

...that I do not desire you. But this love is so strange.

It would take volumes. Really I want to become
perfect so that I can make you...

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...perfect too. I actually want to be St. Francis for you,

and Quixote and Munchausen and Sellers, but above
all Francis. And I will!

Now you are tricking me, I really don’t ask just in the
hope of hearing smth that makes me feel good

In other words, I feel past feeling, I know that

Truth/God/Reality is forcing me to love you because
he is so jealous, he/it wants us all

I am not tricking you!!!!! This is my heart, I am dying

in this. You have no idea. But I know you do!

Perfect, this is music to my ears! I feel exactly the

same! I desire you but in following my desire I would
degrade both myself and you.

Please don’t be afraid or think me actually mad. I am

not.

Music to my ears. Celestial and earthly music! My

A____! For a moment I was truly terrified.

And because it is love, I would rather burn in pain

than make it less than it should be!

Absolutely. I will burn in hell pain forever not to

lessen this love!

I prefer the sorrow never to be with you than to follow

my desire and taint our perfect love. I am also not
mad!

Tell me that you feel the same please

Yes, you are identically mad as me. How else do we

love each other? I feel precisely the same.

When I had doubts about your feelings … I thought

this kind of love is also beyond...

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... reciprocity. For if I am to love you as I should I am

not allowed any demands!

Also some thought is following me. The thought that

all love degrades itself to the same kind of worldly
form. So I wonder why why not...

... have the freedom of loving otherwise, which is no

less than marriage or some “relationship” built on the
same principles

Also this is the reason I didn’t feel guilt up to now, just

today I got scared

I felt love-caritas, friendship-eros for all the saints,

but only sighed for you. The lump in the throat you
mentioned.

And Yes! loving otherwise equally as true, faithful, on

the same principles of companionship.

And they felt the same for sure, we were all in a

collective dream

I felt like our heads were actually being sewn towards

each other. It’s easy but also hard to face you
directly....

like something was ‘marrying’ us in spiritual

friendship

The most silly thing I did.. I couldn’t sleep at night

because you omitted 3 times to add me to Twitter
conversations

I felt I was decomposing and I hated myself

M____ also wrote to me about this! saying that the

visit had affected him in a powerful way.

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I did not omit you! I sent the prayer to you FIRST!

That is why our email thread is “resent morning
prayer”, also meaning mourning prayer!

So I thought that I am sighing alone but couldn’t be

angry with you, just tristesse

What beautiful melodrama. ;-)

Yes, I cried after you left feeling the most pure joy for
having met you and sadness for having to stay apart

And believe me there was no impurity in this feeling,

no desire whatsoever

It was difficult to leave, but obviously I could not stay

… pale. My heart stayed with you and I cried every
morning and night...

until having to call you that day

You don’t know how I struggled to not talk about you

all the time and hurt … , I wanted him to feel equally
good

Oh, that call, I will never ever forget it

Canto VI is drawn from the moment of looking into

your eyes before I got in the taxi.

It was as we were lovers but we were not, it was more!

I felt this strong pain in my chest & was about to melt
on the spot when I heard you

I know perfectly well

The same! I desire you beyond desire. In the al di la

and beyond-within of loving desire.

It is in that moment that I felt you felt the same and

we were saying so much just by looking..

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I am so happy to hear that you felt the same pain. As if

I didn’t already know!

I was totally melodramatic in that apartment, playing

al di la over and over for myself to cry to. A fool in sky-
cutting love.

But then I started doubting, thinking that I am just

too egotistical and that probably each of us felt the
same

I was about to faint when I received the Cantos. I was

alone so I read it in the garden without breathing, it
devastated me

I am sorry that you suffered doubt. I found solace in

throwing myself into the cantos.

It was like reading my thoughts

I don’t really know what is this strange love but I

know it needs and deserves our care at all costs

Well that is what I wanted of course! To keep crushing

our hearts and severing our heads without end! What
else could this life be for?

Oh, I need to say that I have moments of weakness,

tormented by love’s earthly nature. And it’s like
climbing mountains. You know you’ll...

Safe and cared for at all costs. Secretum meum mihi.

Have no fear about that! Utmost loving friendship and
fidelity. Total protection.

.. be happy on the summit!

Which means that these moments are just there to be

surpassed!

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Of course the torment. Would either of us want it

otherwise! This is self-killing gift, a real divine game. I
accept all suffering for it.

We will outlive and surpass all moments.

I am so happy that we are equally mad. I feared you

might not understand.. I feel as if we are holding
hands before jumping into the abyss!

I so much put my hope in Dante for his love was truly

divine! That’s what kept my trust alive in moments of
despair!

Exactly what we have been talking about all along! I

am so happy to speak it all out in the open, Now we
can go to the next level of the alp

Really it is like being rolled under by a big crashing

ocean wave. We thought we were swimming, and we
are, but how much more it swims us.

That’s what I meant with the bowstring tensed. I felt

that that aiming for real, releasing would kill me for it
would kill our love

That is how I understood it. A will that is greater than

any target, above all paths beneath its own impossible
flight

Confusing yourself with sea, that’s why I love

swimming, I could swim forever and I am not tired, it
swims me

Mountains next to sea, that is the paradise of which I

always dream, Best of all possible worlds, peak and
abyss in constant love

Like the Poe quote … : Mountain toppling evermore /

Into seas without a shore

You must be tired! tired and happy...

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Dear N who stole a bird’s heart, I’ll throw myself into

the sea of sleep and let it swim me until we open each
other’s eyes in idiorrythmia

Evermore nevermore! How I love these words!

With all love and happy longing I send you to the

summit of my dreams, where you will find me
climbing fast up to your light feet...

I am tired and happy and I will be soon mouth to

mouth with paradise and you...

Your forever in this eternal bond . . . A domani! and

until tonight! ;)

A domani! Lost in your impossible and sweet

embrace, A

Giving you the fullest kiss of my open heart...

Your kiss flows through my veins, I am drifting away,

bloodless, to the place that I most fear: Bună
dimineața!

Good morning dear A____! I am writing an email to

you presently. ;-)

I wrote you back, dear N_____! May you have a nice

and peaceful day ;)

I am astonished all the more. Wishing you all the

happiness in this world and al di la. With love, N

“To be more than we are and nothing at the very same

time.” You speak my will, and that it is yours too, one
will, brings too much joy!

Speaking each other’s will, that is our suspension in

joyous impossibility. With infinite affection, A

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Odd how the whole thing suddenly feels like an old

story, lived before yet known to the future, piece of a
lost but new medieval romance.

Your words seem like 100 cuts in my heart. I will

fossilize soon to enter your forgotten medieval
romance and do away with this pain

I deserve fully both my agony and your silence

Not forgotten but found! My silence was only the

silence of sleep. Infinitely, N

You deserve only love! In the noose of living sighs.

Yours always, N

I wish we could take care of each other... This peak-

abyss made me infinitely fragile

I know we have touched death in this. My blood is

evaporating too! It is our resurrection.

Dear N, you are so aloof... You are even remote from

your words

We must only take care of each other only love each

other! A drop of anything else is unbearable! I always
love you.

I am not aloof! I am as lost as you are. I am here!

Your email this morning saved me from the worst

pain. Last night was no sleep, no paradise. We must
be each other’s paradise, saints!

I became unbearable to myself, I just want to plunge

into this “you” and have at least an instant of rest
from this pain

I know. You speak myself as much as you. We must

abandon ourselves without doing anything. Please
rest with me in simple love.

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Promise me you will not turn away from holding my

hand when I need it. I had this terrifying moment of
doubt

I will rest with you in simple love, it is the only way to

be, always.

I will never turn away!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If we are to be in agony, at least I want to hold your

hand and trust you more than myself

Will write more soon. Busy here. Holding your hand

eternally M

Don’t worry, we’ll write later or whenever we feel.

Embraces, A

Your trust is my breath. If I did not exist I would still

love you. Sans hand-holding I posses no limbs. In
friendship to infinite power, N

A new thought and sight: angel-image behind my

head of how much more there is for us and all to see,
to find in paradise, impossible wind...

in our hair, new texts to write! Embraces...

N, I am lost in Canto XI, I have written you an email.

Today is my day of hell. I want a deep slumber to
forget and hold your hand forever

I am writing back to you now. Wishing that you find

and lose yourself in the sweetness of sleep, where I
will be also. Yours, N

Also:”Love is as strong as death, as hard as Hell.

Death separates the soul from the body, but love
separates all things from the soul’ (ME)

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Very dear N, so very true ME’s words. I am resting

with you... With infinite friendship and affection, A

I beg for forgiveness for every word that might have

caused you trouble or difficulty. I will be strong again
(as strong as ‘nothing’ is)

I just sent you an email. Of course I forgive you for

everything in arche-fossil advance of anything you
could ever possibly do! ;-) Sweetly

I read the email. I think I want to stay behind

watching the saints vanish. I hope my silence will
bring me into a new life as well.

Then I will linger too.

N, thank you for the beautiful email. I’m still in the

city but will reply soon. Patiently and happily waiting
for the seed of seed...

... to become something. Embraces, A

It already grows in the infinite ground of its own

impossibility. No rush to reply, though as always I
ever scan the horizon for your word..

I’ve sent you an email. Sleep well! Silently yours in

sweetest impossibility, A

Just wrote back. Sweet dreams! N

Bună dimineața! Wishing you another day in

paradise. Embraces, N

From the sweet sea of worry-less pain I wish you a

wonderful day! Always beside you in idiorrythmic
Purgatory and Paradise, A____

Happy sailing! and floating and standing across space

on this lost world. Yours, N

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 Scars of the Horizon

I’ve written to the incomparable capra-giraffe couple,

ever soothing and stirring each other’s blackened
worlds...

Happy to fly around such lovely and dark animals!

Carefully leaping, A

That is a lovely image. Giraffe eats only morsels up

high with a body that stays on the plains. Goat eats
everything, chewing up thorns ...

and climbing to the heights. And bird takes her pick of

everything, alighting on earthly trees and circling high
above the heavenly summits!

In our idiotic hearts, idiocy is laughing our heads off.

We have prevailed!

“There is no kinship between love and death.. the

relationship between them is established through a
leap”-an inner leap- Book of Delusions

This is wonderful. No kinship, only a resemblance

known via leap. Happy translating!

Oh, I am just focusing my desire not really translating.

Feeling all the difficulties already, my weaknesses..
Hope intensity can save me..

I am too much obsessed with doing things rigorously

(though you may not believe it because I also indulge
a lot), it will take me ages!

As one of us said earlier, rigor and giving-in work

together. Leaping across rigor mortis and ordo
amoris! Translation paced like climbing

the rhythm of controlling and letting go, switch

agency on and off, the workings of possession.. like in
climbing, dance, writing, cooking..

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One of us said... the perfect open-source self... we

don’t know who said through the other...

There is also an alpinist dictum about finding the pace

you can maintain for 24 hrs.

Pneumo-N_____, a sample for you, a hidden

footnote to telepathy

The expanse of secret, the dilution of summit into

ocean a la EAP.

I dreamt opening the Scars text, reading a line before

“We hear only the deafening...” but now the words
escape me! Good morning ;-) N

Buna dimineata! I will take a stab & start eating the

Scars instead of the breakfast that I didn’t have. The
tele-line stabbing the horizon

Cool! percutis, ut sanes, et occidis nos, ne moriamur

abs te [you wound to heal, kill us, so that we do not
die apart from you] -- A

& eat a little too! ;-)

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It occured to me that we are commentaries on each

other: autophagic commentary (re: ALP). Recursive
endnotes of each other.

That is very much what we are, sweetness of text that

eats itself forever, ever satisfied in hunger. Everything
we speak part of the book...

I was haunted by the idea of an autophagic text,

recursion of endnotes, the first an endnote of the last
(cosmic autophagia etc)

...another revelation, another apocalypse, another

fulfillment!

We should write as we are... How to do this? re: ALP

I have thought the same re: telos commentary as

infinite commentary on infinitesimal text …

In writing we are feeding each other, in reading we are

eating each other. We are one... committing
autophagia

We are officially invited by ourselves to the feast. As to

how to do this? That will require slowing our minds a
little and taking time ...

...for more patient exchanges, longer cooking times,

simmerings...

Of course, mirroring thoughts always greedy and

thriving in endless hunger of themselves

Agree... I will go and feed the shadow of myself with

real food. I have all the patience... There is no rush

Excellent. I will devour my … today in hope of leaving

enough time for Scars before leaving my home

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Just thought this recursive endnotes thing comes

from you, I surely mix us up, sorryyyy. Not important
anyway...

The mix is only index and sign of thought’s never

having been ours anyway, just shared touching of
noetic corpses, body-shadows...

to love thought and become capable of it, like loving

love, means never saying “I” to it! Thoughts more and
more never thought by anyone...

...the thinking of neither oneself nor someone

else...cephalophore thought, head in hand with heart
pumping blood into the air! ;-)

p.s. actually the recursive footnote concept was yours,

re: self-citation as LC I think

yet I do recall talking about footnotes of footnotes in

Bucharest. How impossible to trace or own! ok back to
work now ;-)

Indeed, I felt guilty for loving thought so much that

“I” put an “I” to it. N-thoughts, nobody’s thoughts.

Incredible, I was about to write the same message! I

remembered that discussion too!

the blessed curse of language tricks us all! So let’s love

the pronouns to death into a hyperprepositional
paradise. That’s what CL was doing

Just thinking how our silent tweets are making their

way through the hyperacceleration around them - my
main list is monstruos :)

Bird feels weak today, I think some deadly crumbs

slipped into her food. Disjointed but joyous and
following sighs, A

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Which reminds me that ‘Your Head is Your Fault’

might make perfect book cover for Scars or whatever
we call it.

Unknown to herself, inside her silence, bird is

stronger than everything outside and inside her. Her
words prove it!

It is all head’s fault even my present state of slight

dismemberment and silly self-pity. We have a cover
and a missing first line :)

Beautiful. Like the figural core of an elliptical gospel:

Bad news: everything is your fault + Good news: you
are not you! A-capital text

Indeed this world is perfect. Perfect to the power N!

O the terror of intuiting that one is in fact

tremendously strong! That not being oneself is really
to be everything! I love this fear! ;-)

It is strange, I started to notice only an accumulation

of 0’s and O’s in your last message... Apogee of
Astonishment: Naught-Astonishment

Reflection-projection of seeing the whole.

Nothingness delirium: the ()hole bigger than the

whole

The night which photographs the all, impossibly

greater than totality, non-sum.

I have become the archaic sump of my unsighed sighs.

More pit than myself, ever receding sum.

You: nothing but the voice of one who knows we must

enter paradise right now -- no more waiting.

I was just writing... saying I am sorry to have used the

word ‘sigh’...

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I repent and enter the paradise

Ha! Ok, but we will longer repent, no longer feel sorry

(at most only say so!). How I love the word sigh and
so much more the sigh itself...

To enter paradise without losing sight of its little gate,

the word-flesh that opens into it.

That terrible gate of soul-stomach is inside. Eating

worlds, vomiting worlds. Perfect paradise.

I send my silent grinning sigh piercing a smile faster

than the widest sphere.

It had already arrived before you sent it. A warped

fanged thought that I immediately forgot

Trying to grasp how you/I function. I’ve never

climbed on smb’s thoughts so easily and high, so high
on nothingness (???)

The speed at which the new gives up *all* of the old . .

. No need to grasp beyond seeing the noble fact of
our/no one’s highness...

and no need not to grasp it ungraspably!

We are each other’s necessary trap: to get caught is

the only way out back in

I am just being honest, it is no omen or anything like

this. Committed to hopelessness, A

O felix culpa! Happy fault/fall. Caught in a trap that

leads everywhere, into the nowhere of everything.

No omens of course as that is province of everything

else now inverted into omens of this helpless
hopelessness

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The heaviness of thinking releases me into a lightness

of being that carries tones of thoughts as ventilated,
feathered wings

The absolutely limitless and more and more non-

lonely flight upon wings of not being ourselves,
forever to/from al di la.

The unforgiving cut of the double blade of

hopelessness (the labyrinth of hopelessness)

That too! The same! “Love approached her like a

sickle” (Angela of Foligno). Two-bladed wings - Bi-
winged blade...double law of charity

Al di la: perfect symmetry between al and la. A leap

beyond all contradiction by the power of contradiction
itself

Re: bi-winged: The flight of a double no-one whose

every wing beat cuts a scar on the horizon and beyond

Getting closer to the missing first line which is

actually the first and fatal cut in the horizon, the ur-
wing-beat

(As if) whatever EYE sees disappears! (As if) the first
line is the impossible two-in-one pupil on which every
scar is commentary.

Beautiful. Pupil to pupil in the labyrinth of

hopelessness, orienting ourselves solely by the
blackness of the other.

We are doomed and the doom is doomed too

Beautiful to power of A. [Time now to bind my wings

for a while in hopeless hope of next flight]

Doomed doomers of doom. That could be our name if

we were a rock band.

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Haha, that’s great, you and I should play from across

the ocean! I hope we are not real.. And good news: we
aren’t.

Timing perfect. Packing wings too. Friendly embraces,

hopeless and helpless

Precisely what we are doing, without you or me having

to do anything at all! Passing now in perfect time into
pure musical telepathy...

More astonishment: SuD signed for by “OLGEMUTH”

ie Wolgemuth which “means nothing else but happy”

Wow, so it is here! I will have to survive my

impatience till tomorrow morning, office is closed.
Beeindruckt von deinem Deutsch, krass! :)

This “wohlgemut” recalls a childhood Ohrwurm, silly

song about Haenschen who left his mother to go to
the US (of course more omnipotence..)

Song that you can’t get out of your head? Really I

know no German, except supremely backwardsly
through Anglo-Saxon. Hwaet!

Absolutely dear N, you need not know anyway,

understanding happens... Ohrwurm yes like the music
of telepathy...

Ahh, the autophagic thought-loop that one can never

make heads or tails of. ;-)

Today you are a tweet-machine! What happened?

N&M Demolition Co self-destructive self-trolling

Happens occasionally, esp. when walking somewhere.

Must set off some stored explosives...Everything
happened, again!

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Also, more mundanely, way of remaining sane in

midst of … !

Good we aren’t your students! Just now having fun

with I____ reading some assignment we did in school
in perfect cheeky camouflage as B____

It is good because I would lose myself in futile

commentary and never ever turn my grades in. Happy
reading!

It is good for every reason in the world as this would

mean first being in the same city. Happy grading!

the city where we finally know where our first sigh

goes . . . CC viii

Mundane: discussing with I_____ whether to try and

troll R____’s rationalism in Berlin or if we go mad
after so many days of “emancipation”

I would go against myself for a few days but this is 12

days all day long and it takes itself so seriously that I
cannot not make fun of it

Plus I know I can only follow Hrundi, speak with him

in Hrundi-language, it’s the only “rationalism” I can
bear from my al di la

I like idea of overwhelming him with questions only

on The Party, what does your project have to do with
Hrundian accellerationism? etc

telepathy again

Not again, always!

Ah and I can send him my dream as an application!

Precisely what to do. In other mundane news: torture

now finished, full confession extracted, subject dead!

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Bird’s mind does not get the meaning of capra’s words

and is scared..??

Just being funny-dramatic: … work is done. ;-)

I was about to faint imagining all sorts of

destruction... Happy about it! A free goat!

Re-reading Hrundi dream was thinking how nice to

have a whole book with weird dreams about
philosophers from different people (anonymous)

Dearest N_____, I am soon falling asleep, if I dream

of you I will write, though you are always there, in
Paradise with me. Embraces, A

I am there as I run off here to sever a few heads with

the sigh in which you sleep. Ever, N

It seems I couldn’t sleep before getting your blessing...

I trust you were there in the blessed non-truth, the

blissful sting of silent laughter when they asked about
the Romanian original!

I surely was as you were there with me near a forest,

full of smog and intoxicated bears and deers. Silent
sorrow, helplessly watching...

We tried going in different directions but as we met

again we realized we were falling asleep if parted... We
had to stay together and watch

...sleep sleep itself to death so that the sky could

remember the taste of our sighs and send down a little
isotopic dew to reflect the dawn

I know that neither of us knows how beautiful we

really are.

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How beautifully we reflect ourselves into one another,

neither oneself nor someone else, reflection reflecting
itself

Beauty IS NOT to the power A+N

In love with the blackest contemplation, that which

opens the eye of image to see itself. Nigra sum sed
formosa.

Beauty is impossible, is always NOT, hence the

reflection, never in-itself

The scar that binds our eyes into a single gaze is

turning black, sweetly rotting the wound that will not
heal.

Pupil narcissism: recursive nigrum

The absolute uncanny joy of it: I have at this recursive

moment arrived at the point in editing Scars when I
have to copy from here live ...

The gaze of the moon reflects the scar back into our
pupil, a million worms die of hunger in front of its
wound

…to continue the text. Apparently it is possible to

arrive at the present by means of a certain kind of
blackness.

Never will we arrive at any present because we have

always been there

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 New Life

Dear A____,
Bună dimineaţa!
What a day yesterday was. So much to say to one who
already knows the whole story.
I feel that we have now arrived on the lowest crest of a
mountain, from which it is possible for the first time
to catch our scattered breath and take a long look back
through the clearer air over the path leading to here.
H______ and I had a long and deeper conversation
last night about my experience since Bucharest, the
nature of our communication, and the story behind
and in the Cantos. After yesterday’s meltdown and
resurrection, we both needed that--a conversation
that led to a beautiful understanding of many many
things.
But one thing that sticks in my mind, something she
helped my blind heart see and which really stings me
this morning, is the thought that in addressing you
with so much passion, in allowing “my idiotic heart”
to sing its head off so madly, that I might ever have
caused pain to you and/or H_____, or any kind of
difficulty whatsoever. I see now that the mad tongue
of love is dangerous, and the thought that mine might
ever have brought forth anything but more sweetness
and holy terror is difficult to bear. [This is what made
Dante swoon before Paolo and Francesca, the
realization of the potential real consequences of his
language and poetry in general]. The capra is smart
and agile in many ways, but also dumb, like an
overexcited child, sometimes even accidentally falling
off the cliff despite his clearest conscience.

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 New Life

So I truly need to beg your forgiveness for being so

mad, for losing my head. You were right about that.
I remember saying something similar at the end of
canto xi. But that is verse and this is more important.
Not one syllable of our words would I alter, not one
atom of our sigh, but from today forward, this new
day of a new life, I must somehow address you more
sanely, in words that proliferate and expand to befit
more and more the purity of this intolerably sweet
friendship, this little bond through which we are
indeed becoming ‘as close to nothing as possible’.
Please let me know your thoughts and hear my
morning prayer!
Yours,
N_____

dear N_____,
Mirroring thoughts, mirroring conversations... I woke
up so troubled after dreaming all night long one single
feeling, that untranslatable inseparable dyad possible-
impossible. I talked a bit to I____ and disclosed my
torments, I tried to explain to her my mixed feelings
pertaining to this “intolerably sweet friendship”. She
said that there was no friendship between people like
us, which caused me a great deal of pain, for I always,
always dreamed of honest love that would at least
retain that sweetness true friends emanate instead of
throwing everything away. I am sure you know what I
am talking about. It is not to say that what I am
feeling is pure friendship because it is much more and
for the sake of the purity and honesty of this ‘more’ I
am ready to endure whatever agony lies ahead.
I also talked to F_____ about our saintly
communication, about my open heart, about your
innocent madness. I can never lie to him and never
did, just that it took me a while to begin an extended
confession. He understood from the beginning as he
knows me very well - he read the Cantos, falling from
the pillar but still floating. He said he understood you
and felt a relief reading the verses... As he is totally
honest like we are he could never be angry with you.

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On the contrary he has still a lot of affection for Capra.

Of course he suffers, as I suffer, as you do, as I
suppose H______ does. But all of us appreciate more
to drown in honesty than to be spared the “passion” -
that I am convinced.
I am so happy that you mentioned H______ at last.
When you love someone or are engaged in a pure and
devastating friendship, all the dear ones around that
person become very important, very dear as well. I felt
stabbing pain at the thought of her reading my words,
noticing you or your head lost in some bag. The last
thing my heart wishes is to cause her pain and
difficulty. Which I know it is impossible because it
most probably happened already. I also beg for
forgiveness to both of you. Please believe me, this is
really what I am feeling, I am not trying to embellish
myself with empathic pretenses. I sometimes felt the
world is crumbling, sensing both this intolerable
affection for you and sufferance along with the ones
who love us and we love, joy for our paradise and
sorrow for our hopeless misery... The disintegration of
perspectives is an explosion into myriads of
contradictory sentiments. If our pure affection is to be
as we want it, we ought to take care of it by equally
taking care of everything: care of the possible and of
the impossible, care for ourselves and for others.
I also cannot regret one syllable, neither mine nor
yours. And wish to proceed with calm and sanity as I
am often too clumsy in my overastonishments, too
noisy in my torments and feel that in order to climb
together the mountain that looks down at us, we
ought to be more than we are and nothing at the very
same time.
Yours,
A____

Dearest A____,
Your words are the truest medicine for my soul.
Thank you.
Please take all my strongest embraces for you and
F_____.

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And please communicate my joy to I____, she of the

crosswalk.
Will write more as the spirit moves me.
Abbracci,
N_____
p.s. now at last to finish that … !

Dear N_____,
I will transmit all these thoughts to the other saints -
Impeccabilis from Canto IX and Stalpnicul. Actually
you made him happy because he believed I was the
zebra.
You definitely led me astray as I still feel that vertigo
of your poisonous tongue. Reading again and again
the last verses of Canto XI, eating them until they will
make me sick. I am slowly starting to feel this vita
nuova and its devastating impeccability.
The only thing that now remains for me is to answer
to questions I am posing to myself. I feel like this toy
that forgot its own rules for play because it was cruelly
“played” up the spiral and left there hanging. My only
problem is why it is precisely you who initiated this
new life on whose trails I now have to drag my
stubborn dismembered body? I ask this with all
affection in the world!
There is a deep fault between yesterday and today and
I am hopelessly lost within it. How can I trust you
when I am only hearing the echoes of these slippery
tongue-movements? Yet my heart trusts you more
than ever.
I am infinitely sad. My only joy comes from knowing
that you are well and happier than me.
Dwindling,
A
PS: I will eat up all the demands of this new life and
will give you all my friendship. But my secret is for
myself and no one can touch this.

Dear A____,
If I ever led you astray it was only my own straying,
my own spiraling into an al di la that whispered from
beyond itself in the language of your face. Can you

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ever forgive me for becoming imbalanced? for being a

wobbly dervish?
I am walking firmly with you and all the other saints
into our new life. Let no one leave anyone behind. Let
no one drag anyone into the terror of their own
dismemberment, which is theirs alone, inviolable and
safe, as the song says, soltanto per me. Let us all walk
happy in this new city built of severed heads and
heart-mortar, our beautiful last home (Bucharest of
Bucharest!).
About your question, why precisely me? That is a
sphinx question! The same as asking why am I me? At
this moment I am actually wearing a t-shirt with that
question written on it! This new life initiated itself
upon me. I have never had any intentions or designs. I
cannot ask the lighting bolt why it hit me. But I never
ran away, perhaps without knowing I even ran out
under the sky when I felt the far-off storm (on the
plane to B reading Tears and Saints and already
starting to melt again in the old flame). When it hit
me I recognized the language of the lighting. A friend
ancient beyond imagination. I was not simply
stunned. Nor was I afraid, but only happy happy
happy.
Also, it was you who invited to me B! The question
you ask me must also be answered within the mouth
of that invitation, in the wink of that EYE. ;-)
About the fault within which we are presently lost.
That is how it is. We must take what comes, and not
complain too much. Let’s communicate without
complaint--not that you are complaining, far from it!-
-which is so painful to the other. No greater sorrow as
Julian says than seeing one’s love suffer. Whatever the
suffering, we still know where we are. However lost,
nothing is lost! My tongue will not be stilled, but it is
not deceitful. Capra kills the snake.
Words are sacred, especially between us. I have kept
and will ever keep my word in all things. Ask
H______! And I also trust you more than ever.
Honesty is infinite, always more and more. And you
are a noble person, far nobler than I think you know
or can recognize within yourself.

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This sadness, this perpetual sorrow is the highest and

deepest of gifts. Like you I fall and float, sink and
swim, die and live within it all day. But I cannot
despair, I will never despair, which a false reflection of
this real sorrow, the deathly love that cuts you off
from yourself. that is stronger than death. Its deceitful
opposite, despair, is rather always *about* oneself,
and always appears under the sign of justification.
Whereas true sorrow knows no bounds, is
spontaneous and free, and beyond reason. Eckhart
says, “Love is as strong as death, as hard as Hell.
Death separates the soul from the body, but love
separates all things from the soul.” I know you know
this, that all these mystical ‘instructions’ are already
understood.
If your joy lies in me being happier than you, I will
become so happy, so (Cantorianly) absolutely
infinitely happy for you, that your infinite sadness will
simply vanish or die in defeat. Together we will laugh
jokes that Munchausen, Nasrudin, Francis, Quixote
and all the other holy fools of folly could never dream
of.
Below is a text called the New Life, which is always in
my mind, in addition to Dante’s work, when I use that
expression. It is very significant to me, but now is the
first time in I my life that I have ever felt capable of it.
Maybe now especially the lines: “Let despair and
disappointment ravage and destroy the garden [of
your life]; / Beautify it once again by the seedlings of
contentment and self-sufficiency.”
Forever in love and faithful understanding,
Yours in the secret of secrets,
N_____
Listen to the silent words of Meher Baba;
The life-story of all lovers of God is based on the
practice of these words.
If you are serious about living this New Life,
Then wholeheartedly renounce this ephemeral
existence.
We have taken to this life, in which we rely only on
God;

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In this, our will [to do or die] is strengthened by the

oath taken;
We are merrily singing the song of hopelessness;
We are inviting all calamities and difficulties.
We neither wail over lost hopes, nor complain about
broken promises;
We neither covet honor, nor shun disgrace;
Backbiting we know not, nor do we fear anyone;
This is now the color of our New Life.
No confusion in the mind now, nor any ties left;
Pride, anger, lust and greed we know not.
We have no religion, nor care for physical and mental
fads.
The Sheikh and the Brahmin [typifying all castes and
creeds] are now sailing in the same boat.
There is no small or great now, for us all;
The questions of disciple, Master or Godhood no
longer arise.
Brotherliness or fellow-feeling is the link that exists,
And this contributes to our present enjoyment of
suffering.
This world or the next, hell or heaven, we no longer
bother about;
Shaktis and siddhis, occultism and miracles, we no
longer think of.
All these false impressions [thoughts] for us have
been purged from the mind.
What has value and importance for us now, is to live
in the active present.
Dear ones, take seriously the words of Baba when he
says:
“Although now I am on the same level with you all,
Yet all orders from me, good, bad, extraordinary,
You should all carry out immediately, leaving the
result to God.”
Even if the heavens fall,
Do not let go the Hand of Truth.
Let despair and disappointment ravage and destroy
the garden [of your life];
Beautify it once again by the seedlings of contentment
and self-sufficiency.

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Even if your heart is cut to bits, let there be a smile on

your lips.
Here I divulge to you a point worth noting:
Hidden in your penniless hands is Treasure untold;
Your beggarly life will be the envy of kings!
God exists indeed, and true are the Prophets.
Every cycle has an Avatar, and every moment has a
wali.
For us, however, it is only hopelessness and
helplessness.
How else should I tell you what our New Life is?

Dear A____,
My wish this morning is to wake from the catastrophe
of words.
Wishing you joy and laughter . . .
Yours in silence,
N

p.s. which never means of course mean not to write,

sooner or later as everything unfolds. Only that words
are failing, in pure and devastating friendship, N

dear N_____,
Yesterday I felt so poisoned and poisonous. Whatever
words I wrote they stung. Forgive me!
I want to take care of our simple silence. We will let
our words love each other and step awake into this
new life with whatever is left from ourselves. We are
nothing and we are self-sufficient.
Yours,
A____

pps: I am keeping my words for LC’s writings and

AP’s disheveled texts where they do no no no harm.
The rest is a great silence of telepathy.
With all my affection, A

A,
Our constant forgiveness of each other runs
headlessly ahead of itself, ever safe, ever secure.

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I am always hiding with you in the highest refuge of

truth, faith, and trust.
The sting of speaking and the pains of silence also
hold their own cure.
Among so many other things, let us think and work in
such a way that words ring with silence and silence is
pregnant with words.
Indeed we are nothing, and in that nothing I am also
finding more and more everything.
When we cease to struggle, the entanglement is
actually and in reality our disentanglement, our
freedom. The rope is not the knot.
Neither indulge nor repress!
My eyes are bright with hope for all writings of LC and
AP, two authors whose words I will ever love, even at
their most ‘poisonous’, which always delivers
antidotes to worse poisons (poison of self).
Down the road, after my summer travels, or when we
next meet, I would like to discuss the possibility of
writing some kind of book together. I do not know or
now want to know what that might be, only planting
the seed of the seed.

Resting with all affection in the impossibly wondrous

peace of this unforeseeable friendship,
N
p.s. a copy of … is en route to Stuttgart -- oh no, more
words! ;-)

Dear N,
I am so afraid to speak to you in words, I keep erasing
everything I write. I don’t know how to provide the
delicacy needed in order to transmit the same joyful
peace that stayed with me all day long after reading
your email earlier today.
I only want you to feel my simple honesty, my lack of
desire, my helplessness, my joy in abandoning all
struggle, in silencing my own thoughts by accepting
both the good and worst. In not trying to play any
trick on my own mind. Freedom.

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I am also regaining the everything in nothing. I simply

am. I simply am not. Everything as it comes. Neither
repress nor indulge.
If we are to never complete that book, I will write as if
we are. It is not a will, it will just happen. I don’t know
how to thank you for all your trust, it means more
than you can maybe guess. I am making efforts to
keep words simple and to speak to you as directly as
possible. I have also had a similar thought, of writing
with you. It seemed natural although equally unreal as
I know I am only beginning to ‘write’. It is as if much
more happens within me than in whatever my words
succeed in conveying. Whether possible or impossible
I am happy that you had such a thought. I will take
special care of this seed of seed.
I hope your morning wish is becoming more and more
reality. I will ever love words but I understood a lot
about their abysses, about the necessity to treat them
and the readers with utmost care.
I am praying that you and I will find a way to let
things happen while always trying to be better (and
nothing). I know the difficulty lies in a feeling and
understanding that we share, in the inevitable
harmony that reinstalls itself in both cataclysm and
silence. Still, I cannot be but happy about this.
With infinite friendship, walking with you fearlessly
into the New Life,
A____
PS: Looking forward to reading the book and its
harmless words... Thanks a lot for sending it!

Dear A____,
I also feel deeply happy about all *this*, about
everything transpired and transpiring and to transpire
than we can and cannot name. Beyond all the details,
it feels like everything and nothing have happened at
once in a mysterious kind of spontaneous coincidence.
Drowning in honesty as you said earlier is now and
ever precisely the way of life for all friends and
companions across all peaks and abysses, what also
makes the heights and depths spontaneously coincide
in a new and third space of freedom. Even at its most

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rollercoasterish, we are still right here/there!

Impossibly, the more nothing we are the less we can
be taken away from our selves, our more-than-self
selves or whatever it turns out we really are.
We are free and self-sufficient. The proper words
always come to hand when you really need them,
when the will is there that lives beyond words. It is a
good thing that experience requires clarity and
constant discrimination, space for new strength etc. I
think holding to that good, the firmness of doing so, is
like the ground of petrifying astonishment whereby
sculpture can take place (as I said at end of Christina
poem and also in connection with some of your
images like the fossil). When there is fear, one can
always carefully walk ahead anyway.
So now I do feel the will of this brave and happy
‘despite’, the free pleasure of choosing the best,
insisting on paradise by removing little by little (and
occasionally in larger pieces!) all parts of oneself that
are incapable of being in paradise, above all worry and
all the related negative selfish emotions. Or as you say
slowing down thought and smelling the
supercognitive crypt … I am not worried about
paradise not making all my dreams come true, even if
it is nothing at all, or nothing other than this life ‘just
a little different’ as it says in the talmud or wherever.
Everything we desire can be supplied from within
ourselves, for that is where it is all the time a la the
musk deer.
How marvelous to have found and been renewed with
a new friend with whom life is being accelerated into
newness!
About the book, it does seem like it is already being
written. H______ was the first to suggest writing a
book together a couple days ago. I do like the idea of
having some manner of framework or foundation for
it before proceeding. And given the pattern of summer
plans and delight in leaving behind all projects that
will go along with my long … trip this summer (a time
to think more the body!), I don’t want to leap too
quickly but let the idea appear when it will. Which will
probably be sooner than expected! I will also be

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reading more CL on my trip, who seems especially

connected with our common thinking and feeling.
My morning wish in indeed coming true. There is no
catastrophe really, just a beautifully terrifying and
terrifyingly beautiful encounter with an unnameable
and many-named someone-something who has no
end, who was never born and who will never die.
As you can see I am still playing with words as usual,
having fun and taking care at the same time.
Hopefully neither too clumsily nor too delicately!
Yours,
N_____

Dear N_____,
Bună dimineața!
I have written to E_____ but before sending the
email it crossed my mind that it is maybe unfair to
I_____ if this whole thing succeeds and I get to
translate the book. She would be certainly as qualified
as myself if not even more and I am even afraid of
telling her about this plan of ours for fear that it might
upset her. Now I really do not have so much
experience with translations to know if it can be done
in collaboration. I cannot imagine the imprint of one’s
thinking-feeling, its amplitude, how much it can affect
the text within this tiny (but sometimes huge) interval
of betrayal that a translation allows. There may be the
risk of disturbing the flow if there are two hands
writing at different heart-paces. Or maybe not. How
would you see this?
I am also afraid I will disappoint you both now that
the hopes are high, would prefer hopelessness and
surprise.
Happy to hear that your wishes come true and that
you are so much enjoying the New Life. I am not
always enjoying it but I accept this as well and wait for
the wounds of cataclysmic thoughts to heal in time.
Indeed freedom should be right inside this prison and
as you say paradise requires so much dislocation. If
nothing remains from me then surely that is my
paradise! Seeing you rising so sumptuously from the
ashes of your once burning words I gain hope that my

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desire will soon coincide with my will and then I will

float further above and inside my nothingness. Thank
you for your words, they help me climb higher or even
swim the sea without a shore where all the mountains
have toppled (yet every shore opens up instances of
unboundedness).
Yours,
A____
PS: I have always lived on this principle of drowning
in honesty at the cost of my own or other people’s
sorrow. There is no way for love and true friendship
without this and I feel extreme joy that you think and
act in the same way. Even if I let some of my little
earthly pains infiltrate through the loose weaving of
words, my will is strong and I am convinced of the
necessity of Paradise even if it will destroy me. Self-
effacing is Paradise!

Good Morning Idiorrhythmic A____!

…
Have no fear of disappointing anyone! I think you
should do what you really want and feel the desire to
do and not worry about the rest. I do not see how
working on this would be unfair to I____.
About the coming true of wishes, I want to you to
know that my moments and hours are also “not
always enjoying” themselves. Things have very
difficult here too, but in a way that like you I would
not want otherwise. I will not go into all personal
details, which do not concern our friendship. But
overall it has been ongoing open heart surgery and
that is not something that will ever come to end the
way other things do. Bits of the surgical instruments
are kept inside to continue the secret dislocation from
within. Really it is a purgatory. After teaching about
purgatory all semester, I have received the reward of
entering it for real, burning in the imaginal fire,
suspended between possible and actual, wounds
healing by means of their own pain. How else can I
tell you what our new life is? I do not want to go on
and on in too many words for fear of wallowing or
following the appalling melodrama out of the paradise

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which is its true and only home. But as we know, hell

is the door to paradise and is also made by love.
The passion of our foolish saintly friendship is a real
heavenly fire upon my head. I will remain brave and
happy for myself and others because I know that that
fire is most truly a halo around yours. This is the
beginning of the adventure, not the end. Everything in
me knows this and I will go (and am now going!) to
the grave in the secret of joy of it.
Let us have no fear about our self-destruction,
whatever comes. I do not want to worry about any
pain, because the pain of worry is worse … Worry robs
us of the joy of our pain, betrays its sweetness, that
stinging sweetness greater than all others. “Because
we put off killing ourselves, something else / Had to
do it for us . . . It is no joy, but I can conceive of none /
Higher than this being pregnant with the death of
birth.”
Heaven needs the earth to find itself. We need not
have any anxiety as to “earthly pains,” being
inhumanly human as we are. At the end of his life St.
Francis said something like ‘I have been too hard on
Brother Ass,’ i.e. his body. So let’s not torture
ourselves but learn more and more to relax and rest in
the pleasure of good desire.
Wishing you another astonishing day being yourself
and more than yourself!
Strong hugs to Stalpnicul, the original Francis! as I
was so quickly compelled to call him in Bucharest.
Forever in loving companionship,

N_____
p.s. …

p.p.s. I think the fire translated in the Cantos might

have achieved the possible by touching even the
seemingly impassible and alien … – such words never
before heard from his sphere!

i.e. achieved the impossible!

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Re: pps: this is quite amazing, I think it is the touch of

Bucharest pessimism... As I have already told you,
_____ also used the very same word “joyous” to
describe the “pessimistic” days spent with us. Which
is absolutely strange for him as well.
As for the Cantos, one can only read them by holding
as close as possible the Baroness’s songs as a last
salutary means to gently cool that incandescent lava
with the moss-covered silence of spectral words.
Embraces,
A

Well-put! Clearly Bucharest pessimism is touched

with the eastern fire, blackened occidental sufism etc.
So the Baroness’s almost but not quite despairing and
bitter hand finds its truth as also a gentle breeze
stirring upon and soothing with night Pseudo-
Leopardi’s ever-burning and troubled brow:

re: joy, this observation from Shipley’s commentary

on E’s CP is on target: “Pessimism is an extraneous
burden (a purposeless weight) that makes everything
else harder to carry, while at the same time scooping it
out and making it lighter.”

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I am now eating the commentary as I did not know

about it before (how could this escape the eye of a
leaping bird? maybe probably because a bird’s eye
seeking to use as compass what is ever encompassing
has to lose from sight in order to gain her truly avian
and ethereal view!) I sent a proposal to M____
P________, maybe he wants to translate ET’s text
and I will be the second pair of eyes... leaping and
eating tiny sweet morsels and weaving my impossible
nest through the low notes of this chant, of this
impossible and lethargic ‘abandon’... I will read it
again today, I could read this forever....

Neat. I am in middle of writing another astonishing

email you to . A presto N

Dear A____,
Suddenly a thought presses upon me—me who seems
to be always striking fast while the iron is hot—that it
would be astonishing to gift our communications
since Bucharest to this inexistent world in the form of
an anonymous and of course edited (but not revised!)
publication.
I know that this may perhaps strike you presently as
an appalling thought and I am ready to hear towards
it your instant ‘no’. But I also find great pleasure in
the prospect, in the free leap into the abyss which it
would enact, loving fear as we discussed, not to
mention also serving as a threshold between what we
have written and whatever we will write in the future.
Doing so would of course demand giving each as co-
authors complete and total freedom as to what to
include and what to not. Ellipses would be our friend
and there would never be cause for editorial
disagreement.
Might such a great small gift mean precisely doing
what others are more willing to only talk about? E.g.
“It is this collaborative or open-source self as a project
through which the better - as that which is other than
the previous and the current state of the self or even
human - commences its self-realization and its
destiny” (Hrundi).

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Let me know your thoughts.

;-)
N_____

p.s. that is, leaping into the abyss AND flying above
ourselves

dear N_____,
this thought has pressed upon myself as well and I
knew that you are also thinking it because the growing
and receding blackness of pupils seems to always find
a dark harmony both in points and ellipses, in
conjunctions and disjunctions. I just sadly gave up the
idea as we stepped into our new life which weakened
my words for a short while only to regain, by force of
loss itself, their strength, their soothing silence in this
sea of madness where they never stopped making
bigger whirlpools. So what to do other than safely
jump right into the navel of the sea in full sanity?
Always always open-source self, open navel, sane and
truthful,
A____

just a worldly detail: the only thing that stopped my

‘artificial’ sobs today was to write to you and E_____,
to think with you and I realized we should ‘do’
something, the one thing that seems
possible/impossible and inevitable, at least ‘do’/think
together. Of course I am always ready to abandon all
hope if the New Life requires it. No worries! We are so
strongly nothing!

Exactly! Your very words right now are coda and/or

epigraph or both at once!
In astonished astonishment, petrified petrification--
pure flexibility of Christina et al,
N

Lovely what you mean about so strongly nothing. I

feel the same. Earlier message only replied to your
previous.
Would you like to take first stab at editing or shall I?

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;-)
N

Always ready to take 100 cuts at once but I am now in

a maelstrom of organizational junk, planning B____
launch (from the balcony of a church - it will be
crazy..) and will have to write a bit for the B____ text
today which is being sculpted in nothingness gaining
more and more formless form. I will definitely take at
least one deep stab today but I need a few more more
hours to do what I mention above unless I want to end
up in despair. Anyway everything that I wrote for this
B____ text is written with ink from your black capra
pupil, in the new light of the new life which by no
means illuminates the dark past of madness because
“thought does not illuminate the Real, but projects its
own real shadow upon what it cannot see.” (one of my
very favorites among many others).
So would you take the first stab?
your faithful companion, an endless source, both open
and laid open,
A

“Through affordance, openness is represented as the

level of being open (to) not being opened (the plane of
epidemic and contagion: plagues, contaminations,
possession, etc.). “I am open to you.” means, I have
the capacity to bear your investment or ‘I afford you’
(this is not an intentional conservative voice but what
arises as the fundamental noise produced by the
machinery of different levels of organization and
boundary, and finally organic survival); if you exceed
this capacity I will be cracked, lacerated and laid
open.” Hrundi

Sancta A____,
No rush. Why don’t you … But if by chance you
cannot, then I will of step forward whenever possible.
…
I remember that passage from Hrundi well. As you
know a dear theme re: ‘gourmandized in the abattoir
of openness’ and the beautiful Cecilia sculpture as “a

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lacerated, ever-dilating theopathic icon of divinity’s

absolute indifference to life and death.”
Looking forward to the new B____!
Laughing and loving embraces,
N

3 attachments
ALP.docx
new life, the freedom.docx
Scars of the Horizon.docx

Pneumo-N_____,
I may find some unsent emails which would add up to
the pile of torture. I think there was one on leaping
written after I read from Kierkegaard, it seems that
the leap is both methodology and subject among
many others of course. Will work work work, nights
getting shorter and shorter darkness engulfing me
from all sides...
Great that you put them together, Capra is so fast!
Finally happy (keeping an eye on hopelessness as
well)
A____

Excellent. It will all come together in most beautiful

and terrifying fashion I know.
And don’t worry, I am not for one second abandoning
hopelessness. It is my only hope! (a la impossible al di
la logic of ‘why worry when it is impossible not to’)
“And just as one can die of fright before the blow is
struck, so too can one die of joy. Thus the soul dies to
herself before she steps into . . .” (M.E.)
In this final and potentially fatal happiness,
N

p.s. amazing that you resurrected ‘Pneumo-N_____’

in your last message as I almost signed off that way on
my last, without knowing why or why I didn’t Maybe
because it had already been thought! Thought-to-
thought is too fast.

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back to work now, slowing mind down, sinking back

into the perfumed crypt ;-)

p.p.s. speaking of the perfumed crypt, this is a

marvelous passage that E____ from Dublin just
posted this morning on FB: ‘No, the state I enter into
is not sleep; ordinary sleep is a sort of suspension of
the life of the spirit in order to sustain animal life. My
state is the exact opposite: it is the domination of the
mind over the body, which ceases to move in order to
leave to the soul the ability to think, to contemplate
and to love. It is a suspension of the sense of living, as
if I had no more body, no more limbs; there is only the
spirit left, which lives intensely. It is as if I am dead to
everything around me: only my body is here, my mind
and heart soar over vast horizons which engulf them
and where they lose themselves deliciously...’
Madeline, quoted by Pierre Janet in De l’angoisse à
l’extase: Études sur les croyances et les sentiments,
vol 1. Un délire religieux. La croyance (Paris: Libraire
Felix Alcan, 1926), 60.

Oh mio Dio! Appalling! Hyperastonished by the

bouquet! Capra, capra with the arty bag :) I start to
like more and more this miiistery instead of mystery
which was a mistake in the beginning, one that is now
proliferating while revealing a cornucopia of silly and
serious meanings.
fainting malgré moi
A

It is one big misterEYE, a melodramatic cosmic bag of

severed heads!
Joyfully yours in the fainting swoon and lovely
seriocomic fit of it all,
N
re: ‘mistake in the beginning’ -> because the
beginning (birth, etc) IS a mistake and thus no
mistake at all but WHIM

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Do you remember the last bit of Donnie Darko when

he is laughing his eyes out in the breaking circle of
reality? I am now reminded about that a little bit.

re: Donnie Darko: I have a feeling about it but I don’t

know if I really remember it or it is being injected in
my mind by some dark force from across the ocean :)
here a gift from the Bureau, from the mistakes of the
beginning (maybe you have seen them already on the
blog though you have to dig deep to find them)

dear N,
We are hopeless! But we should stick to absolute
hopelessness! Please don’t make me fall again from
the heights, let’s at least soften up the process. I do my
best to keep my feet on the ground but I am a bird.
Yours in the previous, new and after-life,
A

Thank you for that gift. I saw the swooning series

previously, but not this. Will dig deeper to find it.
A life of complete helplessness and hopelessness, that
is the only life for us, a life that lives with and without
no one to live it.
Hopelessly and helplessly yours . . .
Falling at most ever-so-softly in the infallible flight,
N

The swooning series yes but this is our swooning (our

past selves).
Thank you for being gentle to me...
Falling with you,
A

It is a lovely and gently haunted photograph: the

purity of swooning white astonishment caught-held
by you in parallel with the safe protection of a dark
knight who guards the door to the outside. ;-)

Dear A.
The perfectly peaceful and oh-so-safe terror of it has
now pierced a soul I can never again call mine: the

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reality of being such as can pronounce--who have

already spoken--Canto XXVIII, to each other!
Yours,
N

Dear N,
Chanting this Canto to each other as a prayer devoid
of any desire or wish, a true prayer-in-itself. Abstract
prayer for a communion (or dissipation) beyond
ourselves and any earthly matters.
We need this prayer of the heart to forget time, to
forget future, to be better, to be nothing. The prayer
already ‘prays’ in us.
Embraces,
A

Dearmost A,
Truer words were never spoken.
Inspired, or rather violently subjected to whim, by our
earlier words and this latest soul-piercing, I have just
now hastily drafted a ‘rule’ of Saintly Communication,
which I would love to see you develop further if you
feel moved to do so. See attached. Writing it gave me a
sense of knowing why the saints of old, at least some
of them, were ever moved to draw up rules in the first
place.
Perhaps it is a more concrete version of the ‘abstract
prayer for communion’ and might eventually form of
the appendix to our little work-in-progress.
îmbrățișări eterne și temporale,
N

And some earthly matters..

…
Gata! This is what I wanted to say, hope you agree (at
least to try)!
I saw that you wrote something concerning saintly
matters which I will read next..
Yours,
A

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and briefly, briefly... I want to save myself for the

continuation of rules. Yes, this new life or after-life
requires a form (form-of-life). I so much agree. I don’t
think I ever misinterpreted neither “The secret for
myself..” nor “I love you”. I trust you more than
myself and I trust ever more what is not myself (which
is also myself for I am nothing). In reading that Canto
I always (from the beginning) interpreted “us” as a
sort of allusion to you and I while I was also just a
“reader”. None prevailed. Bird is bird but not so
stupid and her impossibility to *not love* is the only
intelligence she has. The rules are there in the first
place but for a strange reason they also need to be
drawn up (while looking up in the dictionary to check
“draw up” I see it also means come to a halt and got a
bit scared, seems to be more BE - sorry but this
Cioran plan compels me to pay utmost attention to
language and I always mix up phrasal verbs).
What can I say? We are really saints to each other.
îmbrățișări în lumea sfinților care este și lumea asta,
A

… I was so enthusiastic, writing to you on all channels,

so sure that things will turn out fine - it was an
insomnia night, I was in Prague. I think we trusted
each other from the first instant, I had quite an
intense feeling that we are going to be friends and was
delighted to know that D_____ thought the same (he
anticipated it - of course never suspecting the
amplitude and saintliness).
Gently leaping,
A

Though I always mis-interpret! There is no right

interpretation whatsoever. Just the rules to guide
oneself on.
A

A,
That is a nice memory to hear recalled. Also as
confirmation of the untruth of what I have never
believed but only momently felt fear and

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responsibility of before, namely that this golden

luminous void was only in capra’s severed skull as he
whimsically ran around starting fires with the
smoking torch of his joyfully bitter heart. I also felt
immediate kinship and common spirit without having
to think about it. A strange calm excitement on the
plane over reading and annotating all of Lacrimi si
Sfinti and happiness in the first moment of reaching
my tired hands towards you and F_____ from the
luggage drop as if all of us were already speaking.
Anyway, details! As Agamben or whoever says it
seems true that we are ever not capable of our
experiences, not in the midst of them, but always in
this labyrinthine yet homely lost process of coming
out going through (ex-per-ientia) and trying to catch
up with all that never stops happening, tremoring in
the little pulses and shocks of what has always
happened again and anew.
Forever In the trusting and truthful EYE of the mirror
between the You and the I,
N

p.s. here’s a passage from NM’s ‘The Severed Hand’

that seems relevant … :
The Testament’s prohibition against commentary on
the Rule protects the divine simplicity of its holy
activity or working (sancta operatione), its being lived,
not on behalf of a fixed opposition between
commentary and textual truth, but in light of their
intimacy, their shared ecstatic nature. Commentary is
here proscribed because it is too close, because it is a
literalization of the spirit of the text, a formal
expression of the fact that truth is in the text only
insofar as it stands outside it, in the life that
surrounds it. The creativity of commentary, as
Agamben observes, resides within “the living
relationship between subject matter and truth
content,” in the immanent identity between the act
and the content of transmission. So the Testament,
saturated in deictic signification of its own materiality
and event (‘this writing’, ‘these words’), precludes
commentary in a hyper-commentarial way, in the

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movement of desire for itself as perfect and perfecting

commentary:
And the brothers may not say: “This is another rule.”
Because this is a remembrance, admonition,
exhortation, and my testament, which I, little brother
Francis, make for you, my blessed brothers, that we
might observe the Rule we have promised in a more
Catholic way.”
Such intimate anxiety concerning commentary is
characteristic of the mystical recognition of the
immanence of divinity, the experience of Truth as
unspeakably here. As Marguerite Porete said, with
more esoteric elitism, “Gloss this if you wish, or if you
can. If you cannot, you are not of this kind; but if you
are of this kind, it will be opened to you.”

dearest N,
It seems more and more obvious to me that my
deepest pleasure is to think and work closely with this
impossibly mirrored and mirroring You. My mind is
enshrouded in mist so I may change my mind on
things I’ve written (a bit disheveled maybe:), feel free
to add, modify plus correct my not so saintly English.
I don’t mind whatever you do, self stays open-source
till annihilation. I added a little commentary on the
Principle (which does not have to be included)
because this ‘impossibility not to’ has haunted me for
a few days with regard to our SC. It was more
rephrasing, a little delight just for myself.
I will now read your previous email... So much to eat!
Embraces,
AA

speaking for my mind-lessness mind keeps popping

up in the previous email - infecting almost every
sentence. Funny! I told you today I am a weak bird,
almost falling asleep on the computer...

You say that but it seems to me like your falling

swooning fainting mindlessness is really an
astonishing secret endless stamina!

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Gotta run at the moment but I will of course get back

to read your SC version at next opportunity etc. Still
haven’t finished the … torture!
Sending you a spell for more than almost sleep.
;-)
N

Your trust will keep me awake for a little more time to

squeeze some astonishments out of me as a
commentary on Cotard. I will send you tomorrow an
incredible fragment from the book, a horror-sestet of
inexistence.
May you concentrate sharply and finish the … torture!
Scenting your spell and sending you my sweetest
thoughts
A

Only a too-fast note to say that delight in reading the

SC expansion is incalculable.
Today the torture is torturing itself into nothing,
opening new voids for further SC in imminent hours
that will never have existed.
Good morning!

So happy about this fast-note, I was afraid that you

were disappointed by the birdly inserts! Bună
dimineața!
Following rules and sighs,
A

Disappointed never!!!

just a short fifty-foot-under-note... Looking through

my annotations in a Certeau book that I have on my
paradisical shelf I found one which would continue
yesterday’s thread: In RO footnotes are called “note de
subsol” which means notes from the underground,
subterraneous notes. Which also recalls my … part
where I externalize the performance to what is
underneath me... I tried to make myself into a
commentary of the real BLACK box, to turn the
performance into note de subsol. It is one of the cases

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when I like the performance-in-itself, the only thing

that can spoil it is my-self- it is not always easy to be
no-one.. All these live things are so fragile... Anyway
no expectations please :)

N____A,
How big do you think the Cioran sample should be? I
will decide soon what exactly from the book to
translate.. Should it be one chapter, a few pages,
more? I don’t want to disturb the giraffe too often, I
think he needs silence more than goats and birds ;)
Will reply soon if smth comes to my mind regarding
AM...
Hope your day is wonder-ful!
Embraces,
A

A__N_,
I am sure it’s flexible, but long enough to give sense of
texture and flow, so maybe around 1500 words?
Love the subsoil commentary insight, which I also see
as further proof that this whole universe is a
monstrously recursive footnote on nothing.
Below is a snapshot of one of today’s moments to
make you laugh (melodramatic research into
dentistry--no cavities, just one unfillable ( )hole).
Winks and waves and embraces,
N
…

p.s. I thought this was pretty hilarious too:

…2

N&M!!!
Hope one can hear the echo of my bird laugh in NY!
Really looks like Bucharest in the picture... As for the
content, fits of more laughter are pulling me out of the
trap of signification!

2 [N&M Demolition. Hassle Free Rubbish Removal.

Complete House Demolition.]

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 New Life

I’ve always always feared that I carry this strange

disease called the “omnipotence of thought” - one of
the “symptoms” being that the outside world starts to
reflect you madly and irreparably! I am sure you feel it
too. Saints who carry a soul-overflow multiplied by
the pathos of detail... So full of elan that we would one
day die of it if we were ever born!
Telepathy: moods happen to me with no connection
whatsoever with the surrounding reality. I may live
someone else’s life. My life, the subsoil of SC. And so
true, the universe as a recursive footnote on nothing!
Leaping and laughing,
A

To A, a Clear Note in the Music of and from Beyond

the Spheres,
I would say-- in rhetorical interest of accomplishing
an impossible indication-- that you have no idea how
much I know what you are talking about were it not so
clear that you obviously do. I.e. I can hear your
laughter!
Happens all the time, but sometimes, it REALLY
happens.
Which reminds me: when I messaged you the other
day, reprising the Bataille epigraph, “We have
prevailed!”, I, or rather whatever remained in the (
)hole from which I had spontaneously escaped,
actually thought I might be dying from laughter of
joyful tears, from the blow that M.E. knows better
than me. So after flopping and spinning around for a
while it felt necessary to quickly eat something in
order to preserve the knot with the body unsevered.
Outrageously appalling comic melodrama.
I am afraid, by which I mean not afraid, that we will
die of it.
Indeed what could be more clear than that we already
have!
Everywhere and nowhere,
NM Demolition Co., a subsidiary of SC

And the first one is awesome! As for the unfillable

cavity, I carry it around and it is bigger than me.

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Actually I wanted to show you the redundant dwarf-

tooth that I have - photographed by all the dentists
I’ve ever been too - but it’s too silly to do it. It’s about
to fall because I mistreated it in the torment of this
last month ;)
In NY with NM,
A

Oh, I feel as I’ve known you before meeting you, yet I

don’t know anyone because there is no-one to know!
I deserve to spend the rest of my life in torture
because of this mad elan that I cannot stop and grows
with you. What rule can we draw up on this
tormenting telepathy? I am horrified by the thought
that distance is just an amplification-machine and
that proximity is demolition itself. I hope I am at least
not ever coming back from the unborn and undead!
Hopelessly far away from the place where my
‘objective’ body is,
AN epicenter of Demolition

So the age of the dwarf is coming to an end and a new

age, the age of ... is about to begin?
Please take care of yourself! Without too much care of
course. Sprezzatura care, nonchalant worry, festina
lente etc.
I just had an intuition-fantasy that this ongoing SC
will in time exhaust and process three all dimensions
of the appalling melodrama trinity, eventually giving
birth to an unheard-of fourth genre/universe. In that
world we will live more and more free, al di la, with all
that we write and experience in this so-called one
there taking the status of movie scripts, live
performances by actors playing oneself etc . . .
appallingly absolute eternal literalization of the
melodrama.
Ok back to work now for a few hours (need to preserve
my teeth for further eating later). Am going to poetry
reading party tonight, open-selfly sporting the Cantos.
So if you sense further silent shock waves from NY to
Stuttgart do not be alarmed.

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 New Life

Always,
N

p.s. It is amazing that our emails are not hitting each

other in mid flight and falling into the ocean!
p.p.s. About knowing without meeting that is of
course the reality of it, totally free as reality itself from
ever having to be the case.
p.p.p.s. Do not worry about the amplification
machine. Even total destruction will leave all
unharmed. Cf. “distance is your skin” (cantos).
p.p.p.p.s There is no going back to where one never
left.
And in the meantime, rules will provide themselves
whenever necessary to keep everything staying on
silently accelerated course to paradise.
;-)

Perfect, your last email came as a medicine (for what I

have written at the same time)! I will love fear and
fear this love of fear and so on.
Your intuition-fantasy is already unfolding, we have to
catch up with it (though we never will). Nice that you
are going to the poetry reading party! I will be there as
well hidden in the atmosphere...
Still laughing!!
Embraces, embraces
A

Dear A____,
Good morning! I am leaping into editing the ALP
document, so I wanted to check in before going too far
so that our leaps do not bump as it were. Have you
started stabbing at any of the Scars or other material?
Let me know your preferences.
Reading several of the CC was enjoyable last night,
producing sighs and so much happy laughter too,
joyful pessimism etc.
Yours,
N

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Dear N,
Bună dimineața! I had a very intense dream, with you,
maybe I have to write it down - I had to run to … this
morning. It is always best when one writes the dreams
right when they come to mind. I woke up in joy and
hopelessness with some terribly nice and intense
feeling in my chest.
I did not edit anything, I have just read them, I
noticed that one line is missing from the Scars, the
one with the drone of being... I have to check if some
other things slipped into the B_____ text, it
shouldn’t be much, maybe it’s only this line. I tried to
gather my thoughts on “the low, injurious level” where
no thought teaches other thought. Maybe I should
send you the text (the new dead dead thinking), I can
let this passage out and we can use it and climb onto
each other’s spirals as we usually do.
Thought that there is a trilogy there as ALP, Scars and
New Life seem to be separate but inseparable. Scars
would be for sure for Gnome or some anonymous
stuff, wouldn’t it? As for ALP I wonder if to keep this
anonymous as well - some parts are so obviously our
worldly identities. Anyway I have no wish other than
do whatever is best for these thoughts that are not
ours, words whispered through our sighs. Just asked
myself how to proceed with them..
Nice that you read from CC... I am happy to hear that
you felt my joyously silent presence.
I gave up even writing to these accelerationist guys to
have me in their navigation workshop, I hate that they
make you feel like your thinking is dusty and obsolete.
I am a bit uncertain with my decision as I am by my
birdly nature extremely curious and for sure would be
able to dive for some days into their rationalism etc
But I started to think that it is also good to persevere
in the things you started and there are loads, like our
book or whatever it will be, Cioran’s translation etc etc
I am trying to get over the feeling of guilt - that I may
be not open enough for their noisy hyperfresh stuff.
All the more I appreciate Hrundi a lot and
immediately connect to his thinking even in this

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terminator phase. Weak and hesitant bird confessing

to Capra!
Looking forward to what may come out of your
leaping, I will also jump in. And don’t worry, I cannot
imagine that our leaps could bump, at least not in the
detriment of this unknown matter coming together in
twisted capra-bird-words.
Embraces,
A

A,
Happy to hear that you had a terribly nice dream. I
look forward to seeing it myself!
My thoughts exactly re: the trilogy, with the
outgrowth SC document becoming the 4th in the 3 + 1
form, the plasma to its three states of matter.
I will proceed with ALP text first. As for anonymity, I
have started by using only initials for our names.
Obviously anyone with any familiarity with our
intersecting spheres will be able to surmise who’s
who, but that is all part of this beautifully real game. I
am neither worried about embarrassment nor
interested in creating it. Each of us have full freedom
to remove anything from the text.
It feels important to me that we do not alter anything,
not add anything beyond fixing typos, and of course
subtract as little as possible -- operations ask for the
smallest possible cuts. I sense that this text, even were
it only in my heart, is more than ours, and deserves a
kind of hagiographical care, free of the meddlings of
hagiographers!
Autophagiography!
Confess away, I am here to hear. And say, festina
lente!
In the wondrous falling leap,
N

p.s. “drone of being” is in ALP, but if you find it in

Scars too do send. It seems that Twitter does not
preserve all one’s direct messages? If so good thing I
soon started ‘bottling those drops’!

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

p.p.s. not another project (yet), but I have dreamed of

one day writing a screenplay for the Roman de la
Rose, the ultimate two-authored single dream in the
history of everything, so the thought occurred

N_____,
It’s lovely how you say: confess away... It makes me
light and joyous knowing you are there without having
to provide any answers and commentaries.
Yesterday while reading our 3+1 I felt a great difficulty
to intervene in their flow - more alive (in a deadly
way) than any edited and well-combed text. I
wondered if precisely the little errors one wants to cut
out first are the ones that hold the text together.
I don’t like to think and write with the obsession of a
particular goal or end result (although I do I do
sometimes) which does not mean I am not saying
anything... That is why I thought the same, I don’t
want to edit and kill the death of our thoughts by
embellishing them, polishing them for other people’s
gaze. So I agree with minimal editing. Just that maybe
if we add or feel to subtract something this action
should be made only on the principles of SC, they
should be first and foremost honest and not reader-
oriented. Although we are readers and writers as well.
There is in writing both betrayal and honesty, with
their rhythms we play as absolutely non-authors, their
rhythm we hear while reading, re-reading.
Terribly happy that you are there on the other side of
the ocean and also so near...
Ever yours,
A

Re: pps: In absolute honesty I confess I haven’t read

Roman de la Rose, bird is still very ignorant in what
concerns medieval literature - she has plans, plans.
And now that I skipped rationalism what lovely days
of reading await for me. Now I feel the sword-word of
my poor mother, who was obsessed with literature
and loved poetry as well... This was yet another small
confession which ends here in order to preserve a
bird’s well-being...

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 New Life

Yes well I hadn’t read CL so we are even. Think of it

this way, Jodorowsky is to Dune as Terry Gilliam
would be to Roman de la Rose in their respective
perfect universes. But really the only way to do it, the
only way I would ever want to do it, would be to
explode and destroy RdeR beyond-within itself, so
perhaps not screenplay after all, but something
unthinkable at the moment, seed of a seed of a seed ...
Reading through ALP is much fun!
Also, the universe is conspiring to alter my climbing
plans somewhat, so I may have more time soon to
attend further to this.
About publisher I expect Gnome would be interested,
also as secret-open back story to the Cantos, which
would be great because they give you freedom to do it
yourself (aka self-publishing without the self). I was
thinking the order of chapters might be 1. ALP, 2.
Scars, 3. New Life + Rule on SC. Does that make
sense? But we also need a title for the whole thing,
and that is yours to tell me.

And despite all this I bow to your not-project and I

would love love to see what this holds..
Perhaps my mind went back to it because RdeR was
seed of the divine comedy in several ways.
Did you see my question re: title? Of course the word
of the day is “autophagiography” so that could be in
there, as in after a colon or whatever. But I
telepathically think that A has something hidden to
add here.

N,
We are surely not even but maybe even in our non-
evenness to each other. And I totally agree. I have to
confess again and again that some precious essays or
books I don’t read, at least not immediately. And
because of the great curiosity any hiddenness tends to
arise my mind tries to grasp in advance whatever
secret they conceal - it happened so with your
decapitation and becoming-spice texts. I still want to

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read them though but you don’t know how smoothly

and swiftly a bird floats encircling their mystery...
I am only interested in the unthinkable, in leaping
around it, not knowing where I am. I am not
interested in what I understand. It is so beautiful how
CL says that the only story that she doesn’t get is that
one about the hen. It is so funny and absurd. Both the
story and what she says about it. I only remember
from it that “the hen is also a being”.
I so wish that we never stop writing to each other,
sowing seeds of seeds of seeds, flying together around
the unknown, the unutterable. I know if this ever
stops it will continue in me - with or without my
consent.
Joyous and silent,
A

Dear One,
From your joyful silence I draw, again leaping too fast
ahead of my own question, the following lines as title
for our first book: Sacred Banquet of Burning Sighs:
An Autophagiography.
Baroque I know but I can’t help it, plus the chiasmus
al la saintly diptych and the AA afterwards whose
lines graphically contain our initials.
?
N

I smile as I get the answer before even thinking of the

question. That is how it should be, isn’t it? Bird is slow
today, smelling the dampness...
Autophagiography is definitely the word of the day, it
is perfect. I just didn’t have a precise thought
concerning the title and I was waiting for whatever
comes. And got your email.
My feeling for the title was not to disclose too much
though. Maybe I would have made it more silent
because I feel silent today. But if it came to you so, so
be it. I don’t mind the baroqueness as you well know.
If we change our minds it is also ok. “The doer
decides.” So whenever I feel like proposing smth I
will, we can freely choose.

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Perfect. Free in your quiet freedom, N

Maybe it is because I skipped my coffee (the Congress

made me addicted again).. And now I realize I forgot
completely that SuD is here!!! I will run downstairs,
grab the book and a coffee, maybe I will make myself
more helpful for our Autophagiography. ;)
It is obvious that today is my day of mindlessness.
Giving up rationalism made me completely brainless
:) The office is closed so I will suffer suffer until
Monday morning - if I don’t find a trick to get in.
I like the title, I just need to stay with it and see how it
feels in time. I do the same with my own thoughts.
3+1 embraces
I am reading SC and now I noticed that you used
extimacy which D____ was mentioning in his
Congress lecture - some interesting lacanian notion
that I am ignorant of but encircling encircling. I have
been thinking a lot that it would be the greatest thing
to arrange someday in this life a meeting with you, …
and … , I would leap incredibly high around you three
:)

Ah and because it is time of seeds of seeds I was

secretly thinking I would so much love to write with
you that Cosmic Autophagia, mouth to mouth in the
sense of thought to thought, together or separately,
whatever, but idiorrythmically. Somehow it is already
happening because we are each others heads and tails.

sorry for the cascade, but but but... It occurred to me

that I will not be able to think without this autophagic
SC practice, a bit like you told me you had difficulties
thinking and writing without smoking. :)

That is an astonishing revelation! It means that you

are also at once on the cusp of the secret freedom of
being able to be without thought whenever you wish!
This in parallel to my no longer addicted freedom re:
smoking, being able to have one ogni tanto when

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

desired without ever needing to again. A cusp which is

furthermore on the even more inner inner secret
freedom, hidden within the active impossibility of SC
itself, of thinking without thought, of going on and on
and on and on in the bliss crypt of live dead thinking
that never needs to think, that thinks thinklessly -- the
never-ending joy suicide of worry (autophagia of care)
which knows everything! As I tried to formulate in … ,
since you are presently locked out but so close: “As
worry is not only unnecessary but the very essence of
false necessity—nothing poses as more necessary than
worry—so the contradiction of worry is a pure
necessity, a condition of actual freedom. Ideally, this
book will influence no one, foster nothing, and
contribute to nowhere, giving voice only to whatever
lives in the secret place where not worrying is
identical to the infinite absence of anything to worry
about.”

Oh-so-gentle stabbing continues apace.

The book will not bootstrap the project of reason into

its infinitely more important inhuman labor that
should continue long after we and this planet are
turned to dust :)) great!

I am writing in SC, I seem to like ruleless rules.

re: smoking: the things I enjoy best I keep away from

habit. I love to smoke but that is why I never smoked
regularly. To be able to enjoy the best of it when I feel
like. As for the interplay between SC and habit, I have
to think why/how this works (on itself of course)
re:cusp: beautiful beautiful! this can enter SC rules

re: re: smoking: clearLY, claricely, you learned that

lesson in your non-previous life, your previous non-
life. ;-) p.s. ‘ly’ comes from ‘lice’ = body, likeness,
being in the manner of, i.e. body-suffix/suffix-body.

how perfect! I didn’t know this...body-suffix... thought

to thought as I was looking through some lost notes

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 New Life

on the connection between grammar and body...

When I claricely read Clarice’s Passion I was
astonished by her way of forcing an object to
intransitive verbs like in this quote: “Bodies exist
other bodies”. And because I was writing smth on
pronouns in SC I wondered what was there that I
wrote. I remember being obsessed by the pure
existence of my cat, sitting, eyes open, without any
other goal. I tried to communicate with her by not
communicating, to exist her, to simply be. This was
also a reaction against these perfomances, dances that
are based on spectacular bodies, movements,
whatever. I just wanted to be and see what happens,
let the body be beyond myself. I think it was about
that time that I started to write and gather thoughts
more intenseLY than before. Ha, never ending bird
confession... I like to speak to you about this kind of
dead alive details so dear to a mocking-bird.

re-reading the SC I realize how much you have to edit

my English since I discovered a lot of mistakes - and
for sure there are more that I cannot see. Maybe it
would be good if you edit this document (SC) with
track changes so that I see exactly...

Sounds good. You keep working on it and I will circle

back around to SC after finishing first-stabs and
formatting on the three chapters. And as you do so
never hesitate to tweak my words too. ;-)

great you agree with this! even the commas should be

tracked as I know I totally mess them up because of
my German... I am really scared now, how could I ever
translate the ...?! Plus I want as little help from you as
possible, wouldn’t ever wish to overload you.

Self-sufficiency! At the same time, burdening is not

possible as I no longer know how to waste my time! ;-)
I think that SC is secretly training me to become a
better translator through the practice of self-
sufficiency. English professor teaching self-
sufficiency, perfect! And I, nerd (or however you call

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

these annoying students) as I always was will work

work work for the A :)

dearest N,
these corrections ate my brain and I will send you the
document, I haven’t added much though I am looking
forward to do it as ideas come naturally flowing from
our conversations. Just that I think I am becoming
obsessive compulsive and everything that I will do
further will be killing the text. Very curious about 3+1,
how it will all come together. I will continue with SC
no worries and please do change and even delete
passages I swear I don’t mind.
I have to take care of the B____ text (that’s why
everything takes longer) which took a strange turn
yesterday, I found myself writing a sort of dialogue
instead of a proper chapter and now I am pondering
over this crazy act, what to do with it.
Warmest embraces,
A

A____, AA, LC, L’Aura di Cristallo, Mirabilis ...

Groovy. I look forward to reading and developing in
good time.
I will send complete draft of full manuscript of SBBA
(or whatever it turns out to be called) within 2 days I
hope.
Today my … plans fell through the roof due to powers
beyond my control [once you call the demolition
experts ...] Which means more desk time … which will
be fun. Brooklyn office of the castle of solitude?
In other matters, what to say? Applying the
tetralemma to the life/death boundary will perhaps
give one an idea.
Not knowing how to speak I open Agua Viva at
random looking for an answer: “...all altertly hearing
the scraping of the claws of the wolves upon the closed
doors. Listening. Listening.” That is about it!
Wishing you everything worth wishing,
N

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 New Life

p.s. about our title, I am finding the simplicity of

Autophagiography more clear compelling (less hoof
and condiment), and so perfect with your head is your
fault drawing on all levels.

just woke from nap to find this old prophetic

watercolor of H_______’s on my desk!

N_____,
I cannot believe you are not … Self-induced Cotard
seems not the only possible way to think, but the only
possible way to be. To be not. Just the thought of
whatever Demolition Co has done or provoked... I just
hope I am misinterpreting everything beginning with
the fact that I exist. You and … ? And I know how
much you were waiting for ...
Here demolition seems less conspicuous. It’s all very
painful but it ends up in comedy from time to time.
What can I say.. but everything against myself! This
watercolor says it all, I want to be in it, decapitated
and disposed of. I don’t want to make anybody suffer
and yet I am a despicable monster. I am even annoyed
by my sense of humor. Everything is so much
exaggerated, the situation, the coincidences, our
saintliness, the impossibility, the name of the
B_____, my life, your headlessness, our
Autophagiography... It all seems too cinematic and, as
you say, old medieval love story. With blood, tears,
poems... We are so unreal, terrible fictions that move
the world with their heedless thoughtlessness... Really
it is one of the moments when I wish I could drink to
forget everything although who knows what further
ideas I could get...
Bird feeling deeply melodramatic... Full of ellipses...
Helpless, hopeless,
A
PS: I wanted to say the same about the title in the
morning but I couldn’t do it, I think it is always better
when the moment when we are in full agreement
comes by itself! I also like it simple, clean, one word.

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

And it is baroque in a very precise and silent way.

Another argument is that the sigh-story is too much
you, already published in SuD and from experience it
is better to keep things a bit separated no matter if
they are not. No need to say that every time I worked
with men everybody supposed I was just a disposable
attachment, with no real contribution. I don’t care
anymore, but I just remembered.. And anyway
another reason not to use real names :)

Most Entertaining Melodramatic A,

All is well! We are simply too drunk to remember to
drink to forget everything, the entire nothing that
need never be forgotten but rather immortalized
beyond itself into here and al di la.
And I am most definitely still … Demolition is oh-so-
gentle and silent! Not about anyone whatsoever but
only about the very invisible tenor of life, the beautiful
secrets of our breath and thinking.
Autophagiography. Perfect. Like a living
communication between two dead persons: A & N.
I look forward to sending you the text asap and in the
meantime send
A million of my most hopeless and helpless embraces,
N

N&M,
You have just saved a bird’s life! I am hopelessLY
melodramatic, drowning in tears only at the thought
that I might have caused more trouble than I already
did. Have mercy and next time pleeaase don’t cause
me panic, it’s been anyway rollercoasterish enough..
And still is ;)
The most funny thing of all is that after a scare session
like this one, I only find rest in your hopeless, helpless
embraces which I multiply to the power A!

Infinitely Multiplied A,
Words are so funny. The joke is always only on us, the
living dead, dead living. The cephalophores who alone
know how to laugh!

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 New Life

My sincere apologies for not showing mercy that I

truly had no idea I was not showing. But perhaps that
is my speciality, my essential stupidity (which has
nothing to do with real me of course).
And how we all love to boast and brag about
ourselves! To hope against hope for the impossible
credit, to sign works even in the name of our own
inexistence! See how Autophagiography is also a huge
brag to end all brags!
Reality actually is appalling melodrama, divine
romance.
Head in one hand, the other in yours, walking
faithfully down to the dark joy,
Capra Neagra

p.s. Also, re-reading your previous message, I must

swear that you never caused any trouble! Nor did I
really. If we ever fell short in any particular atom it
was in letting the trouble trouble, in forgetting for one
or two infinitesimal moments that this is most truly
perfect trouble. ;-)

Yes, yes, boasting and bragging! Drowning in tears to

find oneself suffocated in laughter.. Immediate effect
of your messages: impossibility not to. I don’t know
not to what, but not to :) I must have fallen asleep in
between your emails or it must have been the only
time I’ve been truly awake today. And yes, distance is
your skin.

Ever blackening joy and amusing black itself, singing

her brag-mock song atop capra’s lost head,
L’uccello dalle piume di cristallo

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 Saintly Communication: A Rule

Saintly Communication is a path of intolerably sweet

earthly spiritual friendship through which persons
become secret and open-source saints to each other
within this inexistent world.1 Saintly Communication
is a terrifyingly beautiful and beautifully terrifying
living process of spontaneous research into and
communion with the Real at non-totalizable levels of
whatever is oltre la spera [beyond the sphere]—at
once intimacies of neither-oneself-nor-someone-else
and extimacies of al di là. The path of Saintly
Communication is pathless, leading nowhere-
everywhere. Originating only in divine error or whim,
Saintly Communication is essentially rule-less. This
rule is written only for the guidance and benefit of
persons who find themselves already caught within
the heart’s sacred theft or holy trap, for saints who
cannot escape being each other’s stolen relics and
sacred tombs, wherein to be abducted and get caught
are the only path to freedom, the only way out back in.

Principle. The first rule of SC is the secret identity of

love and honesty.2 This identity is predicated upon a
hidden understanding of the non-contradictory
contradiction between love and honesty, a perpetual
black seeing of the fact that I love you is the sincerest
and most lying statement anyone can ever make.
Because “I” cannot love and “you” cannot be loved.
Because “I” cannot not love and “you” cannot not be

1 “Because the kind of monastery we need does not exist . . .”

(CC X). “So let us point to the haloes over each other’s heads
/ Precisely where their brilliance is no different from / The
supreme impossibility of that silent pointing” (CC III).
2 “We insist only on honesty, / We demand only the violent

rigor of rational love” (CC X).

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

loved. While admitting both a temporal and timeless

frame, I love you is equally an absolute lie and a
relative truth (truth in the instant of the speech act
already vanished into past) and an eternal truth while
an earthly lie (as all the truths turn into lies when
founded on possibility alone). Saintly love grows only
in the ground of a double impossibility: to Not Love
and to Not Be Loved. Honesty is the eternal guardian
and opener of the treasure of this woeful secret, its
dark night. Secretum meum mihi, secretum meum
mihi, vae mihi! Never say I love you. Never …

Trust. Saintly trust is both a positive and negative

movement. While rooted in a distrust toward all
promises for a better world, for a better, holier life, SC
embraces the perfect trust in all negativity, for the
latter is a saint’s very ground (Grund) of existence.
Saints were never born and they will never die. They
never doubt their nothingness, yet they live their
individuation miracle with utmost careless care for
the void that (un)grounds them. Since lying is part of
the cursed earthly game of words, SC cannot be
deprived of consequences. SC is a speech that assumes
betrayal by acknowledging the inevitability of slippery
tongues which, henceforth need to be killed with the
unforgiving silence-dagger if and only if they grow
into poisonous snakes. Though snake-tongues most of
the time do eat themselves. As a general rule-less rule,
word-treason must be approached with special care.
SC should maintain itself on the absolutely flat plane
of betrayal where betraying everything equals
betraying nothing. Saints trust one another in silence,
beyond words. Saints know they are inescapably
treacherous to the impossible yet they trust their
helplessness and hopelessness to such extent as to
resurrect from their all-too-possible nature into a
perfectly mirroring impossibility. Saints touch each
other only in infinity, they are bound in trust though
their navels.

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 Saintly Communication

Paradise. SC dwells in paradise at all costs, never

straying beyond the walls built of hopelessness,
helplessness, and headlessness. The paradise of SC is
an absolutely secure fourth world, transcendent and
immanent to this one, sited in the count of the 1
inside-outside of the 3. Knowing the bliss of never
having been,3 this paradise perforce also includes hell
within itself, i.e. the state of being oneself forever. The
paradise of SC is a best worst and worst best: bad
news (everything is your fault) + good news (you are
not you) adding to themselves to each other inside
interminable mutual subtraction. The place of this
today is a land of cephalophores who play with their
heads and let their heart’s blood spurt into the air—
doomed doomers of doom.

Absolution. SC acknowledges that constant

forgiveness of every saint runs headlessly ahead of
itself, ever safe, ever secure. Confessing sins and
begging for forgiveness will at times be necessary but
its worldly granting ever lags behind the will of the
spheres and its absolute absolution. Via the not-sin of
sin, absolution confesses confession and confession
absolves absolution. Absolution is clear seeing of the
sin of sin itself, the sin of which sin is unforgivably
guilty, the crime of its not being a sin, the fact that the
sin was not. Sin is not a sin. It comes about to provide
entrance to Paradise from within, to expand the
exitlessness of the garden. True confession means
never ceasing to not say you are sorry, to ever and
always stop stealing the show. In the instantaneity of
absolute absolution, forgiveness is severed from
morality, loosened from ethics, and unveiled to be
radical physics: the power to actually alter the past
and obliterate the future.

Sigh/Swoon. The words of SC are founded in what

passes beyond words, in the sigh and the swoon
whereby thought escapes without escaping the

3“Today you will be with me in the paradise of never /

Having been” (CC XXIII).

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

boundary of the body. Sigh and swoon are twin

motions of the soul within the intersection of exiting
and falling to earth. They are mutually expressive
moments of inexpressible impasse through which
intelligence exits matter by falling above it and flies
beyond matter by entering into it. Where the sigh, in
its supreme acosmic lonesomeness, pierces through
the bubble-sphere of existence, the swoon, shot by the
escalation of thinking’s terror of itself, is a geotremor
opening the cephalic cavity in the dark womb of
cosmos. Like terrestrially reversible versions of the
Flammarion engraving,4 sigh and swoon limn the
same wound, open the same ( )hole. Resurrecting the
swoon and following the sigh, the word of SC
reverberates in expanding willy-nilly commentary on
the never-ending and ever-elusive event that traps
persons into becoming saints to each other in the first
place and last instance. Being a dying philology of the
killing-healing wound, SC speaks in words that
advance like ongoing scars, scars of the horizon.5 The

5 “In the abyss of possibilities, proceeding, thrown always

further, hastening towards a point where the possible is the
impossible itself, ecstatic, breathless, experience opens a bit

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 Saintly Communication

words of SC are images to be seen and felt: Torturous

intensity of ever collapsing distance-time! Each meter
away explodes into HERE, each tick-tock of eternity
amplifies the NOW.

Trap. SC is its own trap: a hole bigger than the whole,

its way out being yet another back entrance. SC
happens in spite of saints, betraying both their good
intentions and their “bad faith.” A trap that traps
itself. That is why saints always prevail in spite and
because of their mere nothingness. Trapped in the
tunnel of themselves, falling in their perfectly fitting
bottomless faults, saints always have haloes, the light
at the end of the tunnel which is really just an integral
void or ( )hole.

Incorporation. Since thinking a thought is an

‘ingestive act,’ one can never ever delude oneself that
words remain outside of being. Treacherous as they
may be, words are the form-of-thought, earthly
nutrients entering the gate of the soul (pylorus of the
stomach). Eating is a primary process of classification
between the eater and the eaten, hence what ‘I’ eat
seems to be not ‘myself’ but food – an object to be
burrowed through, soul food. Feeding oneself involves
a process of subjectification, food-as-object turns into
food-as-subject and finally into subject-food. One
ends up being more food than oneself. This is the path
of SC, communication as incorporation and self-
eating. One cannot let oneself be deceived by the
apparent immaterial nature of words and thoughts.
To love thought and become capable of it, like loving
love, means never saying ‘I’ to it. Saying ‘I’ to it is a
sign that your food has contained you. SC is a material
communion, a feast on thought-sighs, a fasting on
sigh-thoughts. Thoughts more and more never
thought by anyone, sighs more and more sighed by no

more every time horizon of God (the wound); extends a bit

more the limits of the heart, the limits of being; it destroys
the depths of the heart, the depths of being, by unveiling
them” (Bataille, IE).

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

one. Despite the pneumological aspect of the sigh its

form-of-breath is the heart’s meal, following the same
path to incorporation. However much the saints
become one another through these saintly meals of
thoughts and sighs, SC is not merely a cannibalistic
act but commits itself forever to self-eating. As saints
are already one, long before incorporating each other,
SC is Holy Autophagia. Moreover, since saints are
both everything and nothing, SC is a manifestation of
cosmic autophagia as void eating itself.

Telepathy: ‘Hear me, hear my silence. What I say is

never what I say but instead something else.’
Telepathy is always already underway in SC, because
SC is not a relation between thinkers but the veritable
touching of terribly beautiful imaginal and intellectual
bodies within unreachable spheres on the scale
between time and eternity. Terrestrial communication
is the re-cording or re-hearting of this subtle and
noetic touching, but never in a way that can be
decided between copy and original. Sometimes the
word is the copy, sometimes it is the original.
Sometimes the original is the copy. Sometimes the
copy is the original. The telepathic dimension of SC is
one in which it remains eternally impossible to ever
say who touched who (first). Telepathy is fire of a kind
that only telepathy itself sees.

Pronouns. People do not exist. People have been

terminally diagnosed with pronoun-delusion.
Pronouns are allowed in SC but only to the extent that
they are the manifestation of the unavoidable and
voidal love between the nonexistent subject they point
to and the anonymous thought that whispers through.
SC is an inescapable thought-entanglement in the
sensitive medium of the gravity of nothing, of no-one,
of never-having-been. In SC, pronouns are like the
breath of unutterable Cotardian names. Furthermore,
SC allows contradictory statements owing to the fact
that assuming a perspective is first and foremost a
supra-logical commitment. It is through the bond of
love that any contradiction be most naturally

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 Saintly Communication

appeased. This is not to omit the importance of the

great drama of contradiction. Without drama no love.
Saints equally love the yes and the no, the no and the
yes and their catastrophic clash, their histrionic ultra-
bang.

Thoughtlessness. SC is a tomb-to-tomb occult speech,

a speech that speaks itself by way of thought’s mouth.
Saints do not only speak from their tombs, tombs
speak in them, whispering each other thoughtlessly.
This crypto-language is not to be deciphered but
axiomatically produced by means of its auto-
production to which the saints are mere witnesses and
for reasons outside of any signification – un-reasons.
SC is achieved from behind thought,6 from a dark
zone of anonymity impossible to track back by way of
induction, deduction, or for that matter abduction, for
even what reason “abducts” has already happened.
Saints are at once on the cusp of the secret freedom of
being able to be without thought whenever they wish.
A cusp which is furthermore on the even more inner
inner secret freedom, hidden within the active
impossibility of SC itself, of thinking without thought,
of going on and on and on and on in the bliss-crypt of
live dead thinking that never needs to think, that
thinks thanklessly—the never-ending joy suicide of
worry (autophagia of care) which knows everything.

Commonness: Saints have nothing in common. They

are common, uncommonly common. Hiding in this
commonness, they safely keep each other in absolute
inviolable secrecy. Commonness is the place and
condition wherein all saints remain forever secret to
and from themselves.

6 “I speak to you from behind thought […]” L’aura di Cristallo

177
 Postscripts

Dear N,
thanks, I will look through it when I drag myself out of
my own safety-trap (which is equivalent to entering it
again through the backdoor). What else can I say?
Nothing is better than anything. I go on without me,
as usual. Whatever word I say is another spiky morsel,
another crystal feather going down my throat. Bloody
avian feast, self-absolution through annihilation. Yes,
absolution is more appropriate to designate a
principle of SC.
Are you really with me there on the bottom? I am so
under the bottom...
Ps: Even if you are not, I am still holding your hand.
Have a good rest!

I know you are (holding my hand) because I just now

woke from my nap without dying, a feat which was
more than impossible. What am I talking about?
These are not mere words I am throwing around to
construct something delightful for you to read.
Something unlike I have ever experienced really
happened within me and to the whole world at the
same time. No way to explain, but it was like
*swallowing* the infinite auto-recursive spiral all the
way, like eating one's head and *exiting* stunningly
unharmed into an other side which is more this one
than this. Accompanying the ‘experience’ was the
thought of two persons/images gazing into each other
in perfectly mutual yet indescribably singular ‘droste
effect’ – a kind of apotheosis of the their infinite
reflection into intelligence itself. There I was
somewhere in a liminal sleep-awake state where the
fact of myself narrowed to absolute zero, no possibility
whatsoever. Instantly I realized/thought, “I am going
to die,” “this cannot be survived” an idea like that.
And then I woke up to my self and body etc, already
grasping upon the words that could contain what
happened. What can I say? Indeed!

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 Saintly Communication

So here I am on the ocean floor, always with you and

absolutely safe. Ascribe no authority to this
experience, which is already receding in proper
modesty from my sharing of it, crawling silently back
into the spiral of its infinite shell. I do not want to
crucify its significance on the cross of human
pronouns. Simply know that everything screams all is
well and that the Impossible is drawing us to and
within itself with utmost gentleness, power, and
loving care.
Quietly and calmly stunned,
?

N_____,
I am afraid telepathy is dangerous as much as it is
sweet. I am presently writing to someone I don't know
(I am not referring to you!), I am composing my
melodramatic asceticism, stoicism inside-out and I
have no hope of surviving. I prefer to sub-vive and
dive, lower than my nothingness - if I can, whenever I
can. As in your dream, I am committing myself to a
backwards-cephalization, the auto-receding of myself
into more more zero. Is it possible to love someone if
that love is detrimental to your own desire, working
against your petit self-interest? Absolutely secret and
hard to explain the madness of my thoughts - which
are most natural and normal.
LC is writing, genderless.
Forever yours
A

Eros. The drive, the elan, the courage to self-destroy.

Eros in impasse. Never giving yourself over to the
elan, riding on its undertow, rising on the cusp of its
refusal. I withdraw the everything from the personal
and dive into the unknown. Even the unknown seems
at times too banal. So I turn myself inside out and let
the drive drive itself. I rest in my indifferent core-
matter, the one that is pulsating instead of heart. My
heart is a mimicking ghost of matter trembling. Heart
is pumping discontinuous blood, gigantic flows of
rounded blood bubbles, anchoritic cells of every

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 AUTOPHAGIOGRAPHY

loneliness that I ever stepped on. Words are trickling

down the slope of my body, I am waiting aslant for the
moment of dryness. Mouths open dry. The deserting
wind of sighs has wrinkled my lips, soft shivering
mass lingering in separation. Awaiting the kiss of
vagueness: a mouth-touch of impossibility. I am
devouring my breath as kisses, I make love only to
worlds. My osmosis with my own negation is the only
feeding I can bear. My food is queer. And I am more
my food than myself, nutrient of the void. My whole
body has become a tube, I am drained of myself. Tube
is the form that emerges from rupture and from the
impossible drive to reconciliate the thing with itself.
Nothing coincides with itself and tubes are useless. I
want to feel with my all my periphery, to shiver from
whatever is bereft of sensation. It is there that you
hide and it would take a cosmic earthquake to only
move you one scaleless unit away from your place
within the non-me. To drag you from the ark of your
placeless place, infinitesimally. What is this gravity
that is pulling me in all directions? I, stretchable
plasma, I am running out of myself. My form is going
out of me, living me human at last. Why am I scared
of my indifferent mornings, of my waving goodbyes to
thought? I fear not reaching you although I never did
for you are my innermost outside. I will stop, volcano
erupting inside, I engurgitate my insipid lava and
burn to ashes in my tepid fire. My thinking has long
gone extinct, only fossils have language. They speak
an intensity so deep that past itself needs a fix to
receive the arche-pinnacle of their present inside its
womb. Something runs against myself, as if beneath
me ground itself is on the run, at the same pace but in
the opposite direction. I am only surpassing it when I
stay behind. And then my thoughts are safe in the
bowels of silence. Hearing the silence of thoughts
thinking, the void is sending me a dwindling echo
exuded from its gigantic ear. If God is only head, void
is only ear. I am its silent spasm and God is thinking
me only to betray himself. This betrayal is love. Love
is to not be capable of being yourself. To not be
capable of your incapacity and adore your own

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horrible acts. Whatever ensues from this fertile and

feral ghostliness of all I will stay indifferent. I am
tiptoeing on a mid-ocean ridge as if on a great tectonic
accretion of sighs. I boil in darkness and submerge
under the rift of myself. I heedlessly move my plates
of indifference, my geo-metry has lost earth. I hate
speaking in the first person, ‘personne’ is I, not first,
not last, indifferent to sets or any order. I could write
forever to never live again other than behind
anonymous thoughts. Life lives without me. I am even
remote from my words and have long accepted my
extinction.

I live without my life …

[its tongue calls blessings upon the ecstatic sobriety of

your syllable.]

181
gnOme is a secret press specializing in the
publication of anonymous, pseudepigraphical, and
apocryphal works from the past, present, and future.

“And if I say ‘I’ it’s because I dare not say ‘you,’ or ‘we’
or ‘one.’ I’m forced to the humility of personalizing
myself belittling myself but I am the are-you” (Clarice
Lispector).

gnOme is acephalic. All profits from print sales go to

the writers.
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HWORDE
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