perhaps observing a child in a library

Aimless life. A simple statement. Even as in defiance of metaphors a red oil crayon held awkwardly and as if by accident traces discontinuous curves, lines, zigzags, elipses, indifferent to the distinction between the paper and the table, disrupting any continuity, and then breaks, tearing the paper, the tear and the break do not mean death. A concentration of saliva exacerbates the redness of the crayon. The paper is rumpled, about to be thrown away, but then comes a change of mind: the rubbing of the drop of saliva arouses curiosity. The paper is folded with meticulous care, old creases smoothed out, as much as it is possible. It is then, perhaps, that a sudden desire is felt: to taste papercrayon, red papercrayon on the tongue. It takes time. Perhaps longer than a family dinner. Impossible to compare. Papercrayon is not food. Food means eating-to-grow. An experiment. Papercrayon tastes exactly like papercrayon. The experiment might have to be repeated endlessly. Or abandoned. There are some red marks on the table and no hint of an image. It's time to go.

who dissertateth shall lose his fondest marbles

"Le matin de la pensée" (in reference to Heraclitus), "le matin de la civilisation" (commonplace). Useless mornings. Petty nostalgia sanctified by linguistic cliché for a time when a finger pointing at the sun directed the gaze toward something previously unseen.

dream

i agreed to handle a snake. the snake was deadly, poisonous, despite its age and the fact that it could move using only two vertebrae. in order to transfer it, they injected it with a paralyzing agent. it was going to wear off within 10 minutes. i held the snake at the end of a stick and transferred it into a large plastic bag. there was some soil at the bottom, with plants growing out of it. but you can't expect a snake to survive in an airtight bag. so i left an opening. the bag was in my apartment [not any i ever lived in], in a room resembling a greenhouse, most of it overgrown by bamboos, ivy, mosses. the snake climbed out of the bag and remained still in the air for a moment, straight as a bamboo stalk, and then, as if frightened by the surrounding plants, made a U-turn in the air and crept back into the bag. i dialed the number of the guy who was supposed to come and pick it up. it had all been a scam, no one was going to come. i was afraid of the snake: the tiniest drop of its venom could kill instantly. i would never sleep again. and yet, at that precise moment when it coiled back into the bag, i felt an inexplicable tenderness towards it.

for Alina O.

for Marcel Duchamp

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.