Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Skin in the game.

“If you're trapped in the dream of the Other, you're fucked.”― Gilles Deleuze 

There were  25,000 results. 
I read them all. 
I made a synthesis. 
I compiled the bibliography. 
It would be my life.
It would be my life's work.
It would be my life.
My life.
My life.
My life.
My life.
26,000 results.
59,000 results. 

It is time for taking stock.

[I instantly feel alienated by the expression "taking stock". We are forever confronted by fucking commerce. The small print 
on the long contract. I write my age then delete it. Numbers are for ever an annoyance.]

I find myself here...

I find myself inviting Deleuze, Arendt...he tales off.

He rather wishes that they would go away.

He notes how they, he are kept under tabs...

He sees himself moving from here to preview. 

He reviews his path.

He thinks about deleting the photo. 

He reasons that he will leave a blank space.

He wonders how best to represent space.

He finds a riddle, written by a student, on a black board. 

He settles for that.

“Writing has nothing to do with meaning. It has to do with landsurveying and cartography, including the mapping of countries yet to come.” 
― Gilles Deleuze

I find myself grouping together lines of reflection...

I barely glimpse them, I barely read them. 

I rush on by.

It is not the words that count it is the movement...

...an impulsion beyond.

At times I come back and I think: "What the fuck?"

At times I know why the answer is the fucking question.

“According to Beckett's or Kafka's law, there is immobility beyond movement: beyond standing up, there is sitting down, and beyond sitting down, lying down, beyond which one finally dissipates.” 
― Gilles DeleuzeFrancis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation

What explains this impulsion? 

This colour?

They appear little by little here, in interaction, dialogue with people, images, videos, quotes, tweets, scribbles, blog posts, clicks. 

They order themselves here for orderly? consideration in a determined flow.

It is the haphazard which reveals meaning.

Old words pop up as chorus.

Those deleted rest as meaningful as those that remain.

Those deleted rest as meaningful as those that remain.

Will they remain in peace?

To be present. 


“This is how it should be done: lodge yourself on a stratum, experiment with the opportunities it offers, find an advantageous place on it, find potential movements of deterritorialization, possible lines of flight, experience them, produce flow conjunctions here and there, try out continuums of intensities segment by segment, have a small plot of new land at all times.” 
― Gilles Deleuze


I steal my words.

How is it I know that I am worn by the suit and not the other way round?

I am made anxious keeping up its appearance.

I walk down the street.
I am anonymous.
I belong.

I feel a longing, a dull longing.

Branded, a superior cut, I have a fine sheen.

I am made for measure.

Take a knife, slash, let me bleed.

Be careful not to stain, to bruise my flesh.

Skinned, tenderised, jointed.

Painlessly killed.

I cook, a Sunday roast. 





Elite parlour games.

Anyone for tennis?


What are you?

The forgotten.

R. E. S. P. E. C. T.


“Language is not made to be believed but to be obeyed, and to compel obedience newspapers, news, proceed by redundancy, in that they tell us what we ‘must’ think, retain, expect, etc. language is neither informational nor communicational. It is not the communication of information but something quite different: the transmission of order-words, either from one statement to another or within each statement, insofar as each statement accomplishes an act and the act is accomplished in the statement” 

Academic form 

The evils of words ...

Finds new impulsion here...


I had better get a quote in here from (on?) Deleuze and Guattari:

"The space of nomad thought is qualitatively different from State space. Air against earth. State space is ‘striated’, or gridded. Movement in it is confined as by gravity to a horizontal plane, and limited by the order of that plane to preset paths between fixed and identifiable points. Nomad 
space is ‘smooth’, or open-ended. One can rise up at any point and move to any other. Its mode of distribution is the nomos: arraying oneself in an open space (hold the street), as opposed to the logos of entrenching oneself in a closed space (hold the fort). (Massumi, 1988, p. xiii)"

Quoted by Sian Bayne.

“The self is only a threshold, a door, a becoming between two multiplicities” 


  1. We are all trapped in the dream of the other, striated by the apparatus of the State, fucked over by capitalism and neoliberalism.

    1. I walked to the creek this morning and saw a pair of nesting greater blue herons in a hundred foot tall sycamore tree.

  2. Not absolutely trapped.

    Dreams don't trap, prison walls, words, guns do.

    Cf. Mandela, Gandhi, Bobby Sands etc.

    1. I buried a pair of lambs this morning. I put stones over the grave so that the dogs don't dig up their bones.

  3. Replies
    1. I got my hands soaked with the amniotic fluid of triplets. It was cold. My hands got cold, too. The lambs are alive....for now.