critique de la chronologie, d'après Paul Valéry

La chronologie est falsifiante.
Elle consiste à ranger des éléments--événements par AVANT et APRÈS, sur une ligne pourvue de sens.
Or, nous n'avons d'AVANT ET APRÈS qu'une notion qui exige un MÊME FOURNI PAR L'INSTANT.
Charlemagne après César?
Donc, on introduit un Même de proche en proche--comme on quarre une courbe par une ligne brisée.
César peut ignorer Salomon aussi bien que Salomon ignore César. Mais l'histoire connaît les deux et par là les falsifie.
Si un film accélère, ralentit, etc., c'est aux dépens de quelque chose.
Il y a l'incommensurabilité en éléments--états réels d'observation.

Les Principes d'an-archie pure et appliquée. Gallimard, 1984. p. 151

dream

C & I are walking in a museum, absorbed in conversation, and don't notice when the museum gallery turns into a shopping mall. Children wielding ice-cream cones come up dangerously close. We decide to find the quickest way out. We are on the fourth and top floor and, as luck would have it, among three elevators at hand, one named "GENIUS" promises to take us directly to the exit. After a short descent, the ride continues The elevator is in fact a single-car train, now running parallel to another train that just emerged from a tunnel. C seems to recognize the name of the other engine: it was "Darmidge" or "Dermidge". It turns out to be part of a historical battle reconstruction: soldiers in Napoleon-era uniforms hang dramatically out the windows. As our "elevator" and the train come close, one of the soldiers, wearing heavy theatrical make up, winks at me reassuringly, as if to say "don't be alarmed, it's all just a game, " before his face twists in an exaggerated war cry. The "elevator" lets us out at a lookout point. Behind us the battle unfolds, and before us there's a modern apartment building, painted warm yellow. In an arched passageway there grows a beautiful exotic tree, with ripe amaranth-purple fruit the size of honeydew melons, and with a little crown on top, around the stem, like pomegranate, just larger. It starts to rain on the other side of the building: the raindrops reveal the fragility of the fruit which, at the slightest touch, bursts like overripe tomatoes to fall splashing to the ground. I then notice a woman, dressed as a war courier, lying on the ground. She seems to be really hurt. I don't remembering climbing down, I am next to her immediately. It's getting chilly and I'm looking for a coat to keep her warm. She regains consciousness, and asks: "Why is it so hot in here?" and collapses again, not even realizing that she's been hurt. Her legs are broken... but they're not real legs, only boot shaft shapers.

hand-made insults

Détresse, c'est être privée d'amour.

~ Hölderlin

The existence of lip-reading proves that there is more than one alphabet in a language.

A scene witnessed on the metro: an older man, befriended by a little girl, getting back on board because she was all in tears to see him go. Two stops later, he really had to get off. The five-year-old cried and cried; her mom apologized all around, explaining that this was not her daddy... As far as I understood, he was just a stranger passing through.

dream

T & I can't agree on where it is exactly that we are supposed to meet. We pore over some maps: Turkey, Armenia, Usbekistan; call out city names, possible rendez-vous coordinates, but nothing's clear, and as soon as one understand what the other's saying, the other has already changed his/her mind. Yet, as if an agreement has been reached independently of us, we find ourselves in the delta of the Loire river [not an actual place]. The delta is vast but shallow. At the very mouth of the river, there used to be a town, with narrow streets and old houses [their architecture resembling rather some little towns in Kentucky than France]. The town had been dying for some time: the factories shut down and people were abandoning their homes. The government was planning to revitalize the town, but then the river altered its course and the town found itself submerged by the new delta. T had been here before: he pointed out a shallow path where one could walk safely. Beneath my feet, a former road, I can feel the pavement, and even though the water is here barely above my ankles, I can see some houses under water up to their rooftops. T makes some remark that seems awfully funny in the dream. Something like: 'People who live in wet houses shouldn't leave their matches on the doorstep'. We decide to impart this wise advise to some remaining residents. T knocks on a door while I'm trying to control my laughter. A woman opens and lets us right in, not listening to what we have to say. Her nonchalant trust astounds me.

who are we when, unbeknownst to us, we enter other people's dreams?