One ends
1, no matter how
Represented looks strange
As spellings do in type with handwriters
It isn’t a number yet somehow
Obviously
The orthographic counts.
In someway alike I’m writing here on the twists of Guernewsom.blogspot.com.
There are multiple articulations, as if all the books I’ve spread open, because the spine won’t forget, do symbolically represent what is at work, so to say, Real.
I’m working out this Medium, too. The subject advances, proceeds, accomplishes. Use of food and herbs. Getting the body. Insofar as anything can be said this has allowed auto-analysis to become apparent. I choose these words with some, albeit raw, elegance in mind.
The emphatic point is, I maintain, not insignificant — because it is puzzling exactly as it’s other demands — solitude. This I needed, though didn’t want, so to leave it. Or, to the point, aportion it better. More than that the wish, there it is, was to learn to learn. My body, not like the surdist gym attendance, had to be recovered by thought and chance. There is more than constructed drift instincts, biological drives. The very urgency that commercials attempt to program is something that we have diminished in our dependencies. I’ve sought that out.
One cares that suffering goes on, pleasing buddhists at heart, whilst excoriating the living, deadening, financialising morality as surrogate for societal thinking. So before all else that psychoanalysis reifies my concern was nutrition, and, of course, pollutants.
This pursuit was balanced in the rebus travels of the “western” (Guerilla Times has an entry on that misapprehension) philosophical canon in our contemporisation. I certainly was careful to trouble my studies with whatever echoed from “cultural” disputations, not simply the University delicacies seeking to employ the walking wounded of Marxism’s internal conflicts and certainly not the commentariat public intellectuals who are no different from the theological, hyperfaith, figures who are apologists for the indefensible slavery enacted by uberich.
The point being, I am being pointed, this is certainly a rhetorical device, I countered that invention “self” as best I could. I knew that I had some heavy metal poisoning, that produces many neuro-system adversities, and that unfortunatley, especially as the social security system became a ministerial addition to sectarian growth — there’s no alternative way of describing that — of metaphysical interpretations of harm prevention — I being an atheist, anti-nationalist etc and so more than simply an antagonist to a paranoid state managerialism; I was indeterminate by virtue of what I could recollect of formative, received, aggressions on the development of my life.
I had tested those waters.
I had a yearning to go into design as a practice, since I really saw all the multimedia potential ahead and needed a collateral position to pursue filmnaking. What I was perturbed by was, I had learnt of this, the permeable composition one risks in being a student in art. Just as one would carefully evaluate an analyst, never so much a partner in any other way, one needs select an establishment with precision. I did not have something. It wasn’t confidence. It was the security that friendship provides. It was no uncertain damage to that faculty, so to speak, that I was sensitive to. I am joking when I remark that my best career, the milieu that would’ve matched my auterity, being auteur, was surely in the business of assassination. This was always a trope, a genre, that existed for some reason. Certainly I felt entirely challanged, ethically, by the prospect. And one cannot think so much about the occupation without the affliction of fantasy, which is certainly the guide of the career criminal.
I have found that, so coincident in it’s morbid power in that I had surveyed humanity when in youth through Baudelaire, and William Blake to an occasional extent. Spleen. The actual spleen, that was the source of my disparity fuelling my ricocheting way at artistry.
Enough. There was melancholia, I also had no sense of, which saved me from the nudgings of others. It is commonplace to label people “vulnerable”. Some of us are mistaken to be so. We make the predators vulnerable. That, I have no doubt, is my raison d’etre that gains me the appellation critic.
So naturally in observing others I have learnt to assassinate the things of self. A happier trajectory, I’m sure you’d agree.
When you wonder where I arrive from in deconstructing Lacanian analysis in an open (to criticism) manner, there the basis of the approach which begins with direct contact with sufferers, or more often, as with psychopaths those being suffered. I did not say psychopaths were not a problem.
I am allowing a more sociable retreat from near complete solitude into art engagement. This is not journey with a set destination. The use of reversing my name does indicate a difference that all have sought to reduce. And that is all. I desire to live on the coast, continue a reinvention of Lacanian analysis, making art from the environment that I will also exercise refuse collection on, given the shorelines are degrading the seas with plastics. I couldn’t bring more than my health to my attention at my present location, and suddenly the coastline called.
