16pp, loose bound
Ed. of 100
Memory, or the desire to enact memory, to act within memory, to establish the memorial nest, is to distance oneself from the act of divinity; that is, to also approach the limits of divinity, or blindness. Memory of or as a pact in fits and starts, called upon to remember before being called on to act within (phagocytotic “I”) – as Lewis Freedman writes: gender constructed in English via the definite/indefinite articulation.
Likewise, then: compact – trash, detritus, negotiation – compression of agreement that is nonetheless hampered by its memory of itself – its statement of the implicit in embrace – it is the I am touching, and redundant in specificity, an autochthonous, or autocratic noun – or, didactic, dogmatic – noun that sits heavy in the bowels. Eating as reward, eating within shame, Lewis says, to which I add - as a means of enlarging oneself, engulfing, holding all language-shit within the body, nourishing the body of all bodies – where text comes within text, what notation is, how it is a living room fountain, encircling when electrified.
How to determine these fits and starts to begin. How to determine. These fits and starts. To begin. How to determine these fits and starts: to begin. How to: determine these fits and starts to begin.
Where does a fit start, how does it fit, how does language take on – or a mode, a modulation? It talks to itself, wants to touch - itself – Lewis pulls me aside and says, “I don’t know…how to dance…I grew up where the only dancing was men, in a circle, holding hands.”
To destroy the memory, to evade the possibility of memory, to write illegible notes – to oneself – composition and then singing – definite/indefinite, the erotics of chance as container – the imposition of prose, superfluity of fitness.
What does it mean that this language speaks to itself? Speaks for itself? What does it mean that this language is eating itself – square meals; the chicken entrails predict rain. How do languages talk to each other, to themselves? Chewing. Lewis writes, “Why are there two notebooks?”
I gave Lewis an assignment, of sorts, to notebook – to collect notebooks, to think through process as a book as a place of thinking about the note as being in space/time, as being outside of a community, of cloistering itself within the limited capacity of the mind to think, to observe, to write down, to manifest the idea in print – the stenography of limitation, to an extent. But what has emerged, what has emerged is that limitation – why there are two notebooks.
Bird with one wing turns in a circle. There is a five second delay in transmission. The notebook is talking to itself, it is repeating itself. It is learning itself by rote. It is learning itself by rote. It is learning itself by rote. And then the divine aphasia and the multiplied.