Monday, December 6, 2010

Restless, Getting into Trouble

Deleuze and Guattari riff on Rimbaud regularly. Season in Hell. I have a weird little signature in my copy next to a poem read aloud by a friend on his birthday.
The orphan of the inferior race, "the beast, the Negro!" (to presage Patti Smith.)
What is amazing is the frenetic, dense language of the text: they are on the cusp of articulating what they want, but they are stranded in a conceptual desert: their language thirsts for new shores.
The machine, the factory, desiring-production.
The body-without-organs.
It seems that they get right the way in which Oedipus is an interpretive black hole sucking everything into it. The double bind: to renounce Oedipus is to resecure Oedipus.
I think this is why Nietzsche spent so much time on forgetting as an active condition of the healthy body. Forgetting is a kind of rebirth.
Depression as a sleepless exhaustion. The inability to begin or end anything--not a present so much as a "perpetuation."
What am I to do, though?
In a dream he had his Grandmother heard his confession, coerced from him by (M)other. He woke crying. He slays his demons with such chivalry, like he's wounded himself. And of course, he has: this is the violence of interpretation?
I'm getting sick of getting skewered.
I've been full-up with bile and finally relief is in sadness, which oozes out of me like so much muck. It smells like so much aspirin chewed in your teeth, so much grinding in grinding in grinding in and so much away you spat/spit and the slick of milk still can't coat (so much!) resentment.

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