Learn To Transform Into A Wolf

Journal day and night as far as possible from home, it was not far. "
S. Beckett's unnamable

.

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closing

door that closes behind you, a room with no light and no corner, evasive angles to force survey was redesigned in the dream and the desire for a place in the city not - and the door that opens onto another room, unsure of what we will find only sensitive to noise in the distance you can collect full of territories that in itself it is ready to endorse devised for miles in hours, full and loose writing; gesture that said the shutdown, which is also its opening; gesture that still

I still am.

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drag eclipse

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off

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depth of field

No distance, no plan - no depth, or else: depth of foreground distance of a small gap. The city's stacked stone, and as building rises from the theft of stones from the building next door: what we see is a stone that rises.
A pan of the year ended for me tonight. What starts will be another standing stone, perhaps even another wall: another city, perhaps. In the annihilation of the depth of field, however, crushed, unified, which assail me tonight, all these stones are left behind me the ruins that make up a new forum with no history and that it will take me, I like it or not, go back to at least draw, instead of the proposed buildings, roads, directions that map.

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Yorick

(Open windows wide open on the ransacking of real - skull cracked buildings that crosses not the sun, not air, not the time ravaging and even splits and goes through but just a little dust raised by the accident and ends up with all of these things - and when placing your fingers on the window sill, I lean and retires at the moment hand that I hold in my fist is flawless - they are, windows, skulls, buildings and contents havoc with both hands, I could bring to my lips and make me smile mask Yorick)

notes in the margins of a work in progress, Yorick

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novels

Reupholstering Lampshade

possible intersections

When I note in this journal conjunctions of light and time, there are always intersections missed cuts as the cut time of eclipse, the brightness of light that sign the superposition of the stars before the shadow - the meaning of such a newspaper these three years? Well ask and no response, imagine transfers, transport . Record daily these intersections, however, a task that seemed so essential. Time one feels to that measured written: note a day lost - and therefore lose, power (lost in the bottom of the blog, also lost at the moment where it is spelled), negation archive, and yet here is the only trace of these days, traces which produced and vanished - those days that made me, days that I am. Producing the archive, then what sense? Archive these pages, or arrange for me, memory space ? Or extend, find a place to continue? Find a space where. Possible intersections that will better say today what

product these days, and carries the memory of that oversight.

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emergence, night

In some languages the word man does not say the same way as it is day or night - and it is such a language I seek, and I do not find before the day or night does swallow me. But how to know. In these languages, words day and night does not tell the same way as it is day or night: myself, I do not know how my name in these languages. In the alternation of day and night, I try a third time, and that the moment I put my feet, I seek a third, and this is the place to put my step.

sample text "arise at night," I'll read "The Night of Poetry"

(readings by 50 authors over 20 hours on Saturday to 6am Sunday), organized by the Biennale of Poets Val du Marne, Station Theatre, in Vitry. performance_lecture This is a video, created by the collective persona (video by Jeremy and Leah bismuth Scheidler) - the capturing and recording video are provided.

[Full text through my notebooks

(preparatory notes (text and falls) will follow)

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backup

looking for a piece of land where the world the other, the story would be possible.

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this hour is not a

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maybe it was the end of the City

Beyond the gate, he again became lucid and sought his way slowly through the streets he knew more. The plan he had drawn in the morning was in her mind, but the city had changed the houses, built one upon another, made even more disparate by the dark, hardly opened lanes along which slid passersby. It seemed that by entering these streets were entering the houses during the mingled with the public squares, bridges went from one building to another and ran on top of buildings such as balconies interminable be found a bit of freedom is we were locked in a garden and it was necessary to discover a new way out, climbing stairs and dig through constructs which we knew if they ever lead outside. After wandering without hope, Akim reached a wide promenade lined with tall trees alone. Maybe it was the end of the city, maybe it was the beginning of a new life (...)
Maurice Blanchot, "The Idyll," The eternal rehashing

The story that reveals the possibilities of life does not necessarily call, but he calls a moment of rage, without which the author is blind to these possibilities excessive.

George Bataille's Foreword Blue Sky

The way to live abroad in the city - how to make the very possibility of a foreign city, that is to say, Perhaps, each time in search of the city

which robs us. These two texts, read these days (reread for Battle - but it's always a first time that strips the look definitely, definitely each reading), and the articulation of the two, the stranger in the city, strength that his account of excess calls through two levers decisive formulation of the city. To talk about tomorrow *: These two stories needed - it will also, and obviously
The Night Just Before the Forests

;

Les Illuminations; Godard Baudelaire

Ecuador

Michaux. The invention of the city face - his office

fantastic (which makes it possible), its exposure

political (the space hierarchy as sensitive), its street corners

organizing spatially speaking: if unconscious is structured like a language, maybe this structure is it that of our cities.

Tomorrow at

Reid Hall, at the invitation of Veronica Lane and company Mahigan Lepage, so talk of the town and abroad that the people, one who written and recorded via the blog and photographs ; of his writing as an incentive to invent all sorts of shapes.

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critical paranoia

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thud

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General Delivery

BM Koltes

from a photo of L. Monier

Managua, August 25, 1978
(...) If this impression with permanent dream in which I travel (Mexico-mango in a storm of doom, and the cinema next to my pension Title: El fin del Mundo

,

con Christopher Lee, which has not been without waking up with strange emotions in me), I do not finished by birth and a Baroque work, fantastic is that I am good for me and insurance agent to get married, finally - and settle in Caen or Mezieres. (...)

WB. Koltes,
Letters, p. 342

My notes on the publication of Letters

, Bernard-Marie Koltes (Minuit, 2009)

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design

What we went through there, Another thing is that only this one night crossing of the suture evening and morning. Otherwise than through it, from one point to another, the path that carries the space. That's another place to be found, without other side upside down or place. We went, and we will.

What has brought with itself - all images we have seen, all words that can endorse them. Last night to write (we do not write only at night time because only permissible - but because she alone makes this possible): one line after another, it includes only this evening, last night (two months after the first), the figures that emerge.

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so irréductible_processus insurgency

A truth is not a view of the world but what keeps us connected to him so irreducible. A truth is not something that one holds but something that carries us. She did and I defeated, she is me and dismisses as an individual, it straying far m'apparente and those who experience it. Being isolated attached to it inevitably encounter some of his fellows. In fact, any process insurgency from a truth that we do not surrender.

the insurgency that has
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As everyone goes about his destiny

Small or large

As centuries Egyptian

Painfully

Crowd passing by slowed down as rain, and where I am stationed, the choreography seemed more weighed down incomprehensible not seem to go somewhere, yes, but the types under the cloaks disappear to be replaced by others. Wear thousand times its dot on the "i"

Under heat and downwind
In the sun or at night
You see these creatures?

Have stayed here a few minutes, looking for the laws of movement. Went unanswered. Others continue to watch for me. We will know one day.

We see little things that glow
These are people in folders
As during these centuries of the long night
In silence or in noise

a. bashung / g. manset_ "like a lego" (2008)

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out blindly at the surface



Hung facades, artificial lights that illuminate the surface of buildings, and under our feet, nothing but darkness - no shadow our bodies looked over the city, but the shadow of the town itself spread over the whole street. When advance is blind the eyes wide open facades aligned, and to march there, almost with hands outstretched in front of you, you think of missing an allegory of the world: the way we travels, we do not do differently on tightrope and truncated, and vacuum under the shadow of which seem not: yet. Yet those lights in the back who want here indicate a direction (three-star room, maybe more), here, we could hardly tell where they lead.

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What we will look in the picture - what is there. A match, not really so, but the question we ask ourselves, to ourselves, the days when the load is too heavy. On the surface, the answer is always, hollow, one that masks the depth to which it is made.

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silhouettes

What prints on the surface of reality is just the trace of erasure next, perhaps. When intercepting its light at the precise moment given by chance, get rid of what we see, fix the term of the framework here, right now. These faceless types, as in the dream, which run in the stillness, those guys who spend an imminent erasure. We could hardly walk around their silhouette. One could hardly know they are going to me, if they stray. It captures only the fingerprint. And the footprint is enough for me tonight to fix ghosts of my own weakness, then I'm going to (Tonight), it far enough I digress.

"without intent Draw, scribble mechanically, it almost always appears on the paper faces. Leading a life excessive facial, it is also in a perpetual fever of faces. As soon as I take a pencil, paintbrush, he'll come on paper, one after the other, ten, fifteen, twenty. And most wild. Is it me all these faces? What are others? What funds come from? Would it not simply the consciousness of my own head thinking? (Grins a second face, as well as the adult man who suffers stopped crying shame by in misfortune to be suffering more in the background, so he would have stopped grinning to become more inwardly grimacing.) Behind the featured face motionless, abandoned and become mere mask, another bubbly face superiorly Mobile , contracts, simmering in an unbearable climax. Behind the lines fixed, desperately seeking a way out, expressions like a bunch of dogs howling ... "

Michaux

The inner space

me, taking photos without a true intent, they are figures that come: are they me, these contours? Faceless, and without initiative, without direction or movement - yes, what funds come from and where they involve me. All figures which I think, that I found.

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plunging arm

Casting ink - it plunges back in the world. Three days off, away from the screen, in the city. And in return: the computer that opens like a book, and before him, the pen is revived (hers, that of others): Casting ink brutal this morning, the flow

again open the screen on his knees before one who writes all kinds of lines. What we did not seen, during these three days, and that goes back to itself, plunging the arm into the vertical pit bitumen. One learns to read - and this is the lesson. Say it's like every morning, before the feed: this thing we dare not say, but essential: the idea, fearful, joyful, that learns to read every morning. (And then, writing is something new every time, not in the arm movement, but in the research literature, those who began to move with the lines, those that have changed meaning, or those that do not recognize, then those who are lost: and all those arisen)

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sixth postulate Euclyde

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reading (continued)

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praise capoeira (the critical Bagnolet; reading to Mycroft)



Capoiera
: this martial art, perfect, terrible - just based on the movement mimicked the sudden dance performed for the gesture alone, without guidance no opponent. But every blow in a vacuum, it was on his way a body would be fatal.
Capoiera
: gesture
critical. Gesture of writing, not made secondary to the handwriting, but phantom of what happens in the writing: not vainly brought to the vacuum (Chatter opinions, appearances) - but reformualtion of literature in the movement towards what will destroy (and perform): writing. Review : This dance was running around, before facing

face to face.

Capoiera : the
reading. Voices of the writing, not before, but literally for me (at my place, to me). These readings of the evening in the tiny room that holds voice, phrases that are likely to first exposure to nearly forty people (forty-one). There will be one of the readers so just particular it is often looking up she will read at the end of a sentence often, as to find both out of breath; as to drop out of breath, especially as to perform with more perfection kata. Reading: this dance was running before, round bodies that are there to help.

afternoon - reflection and debate Bagnolet

on criticism (among others):
literature & internet, visiting apartments

( remue.net , poezibao ,
edition argol

and two
reviews) night - readings in the gallery Mycroft : the debutantes ball ( Pauline Klein, Marie-Alice Villaume, Anne Collongues, Nathalie Siek and Camille B.)