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documents vivants de quelque prix

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comment tel individu est affecté par le cours des années de la vie, d’une part, et par l’idée qu’il se faire, d’autre part, du rapport sexuel. Ce sont là, bien entendu toutes recherches que la légèrté commune et l’hypocrisie sociale rendent pratiquement impossible de façon suivie. Ainsi se perd la dernière chance que nous ayons de disposer, en matière de subjectivité, de documents vivants de quelque prix.

– Andre Breton, Les vases commuicants.

A few thoughts / bloodclots:

1) It is so difficult to discern whether the question du rapport sexuel still figures in the way that it does above as a centerpiece of wider issues in life and politics and art. It has become difficult any longer to fully subscribe to our traditional paring of the inner and the outer, the psychological and the material, the sexual and the economic, so much more difficult. On the one hand, perhaps we have become slightly more self-reflexive about our modes of working, and their relationship to the issues at hand. In short, it seems fucking murderously solipsistic to ogle our own desiring parts in a world in which X and Y and Z are the case. On the other hand, the current cast of the world, administered by an encompassing liberalism that generally, if begrudgingly, will allow the expression of personal preferences so long as they do not enter into a set of privileged realms, off-the table issues, such as economic organization, the necessity of infilling of the commons, and the like.

Everything tells us (conspires to tell us? sure, that’s the question) that our old methodological principles, principles inherited at least from Breton and his band, are now out of date. Thus we open the veins, then, to let the blood out of the work, out of the thought. I can almost precisely date when I drew the blade across my wrist – it was in 2004, I think. Maybe 2003. After that, the bodies that have entered and will enter the work have been and will be solely those broken by work and by hunger – we will leave those crisped with desire (fulfilled, unfilled, blocked or starting to flow) on the storeracks of the dying retailers of ideas.

2) But one cannot fail to note that once the blood’s been let out, once we’ve shunted the inner life onto siderails, we have more and more difficulty waking ourselves to our work. It is sad – it feels like an inevitable outcome that, if we were heroic, and if we had heroic readers, we could find it in ourselves to work through this. We would ascend, ascetically, into the trees in the woods, into the garrets at the fringes of town. We would keep the television off, and makes plans every night about what work would best serve the greater good the next morning at the office.

We would, in short, become practitioners of the schoolboy Catholicism that, honestly, brought us into this business in the first place. We would don the cassock, we would ascend the altar, and we would monotone homilies that flutter in and out of the classical languages. We would mortify the flesh by ignoring it, we would shut the eyes when tempted by inefficient deployments of human energies. We would resolve – and urge others to repeat the resolution – to find higher, more pure forms of beauty, simpler ones appropriate to a world that had rationalized sin and death out of the fold.

3) But if we evaded this fate, if we reversed on ourselves and our tendencies, what could we do that would be other than more window-dressing and distraction, one more ad for the ad without products, the bad kind, the kind that in seeming to sell nothing, in truth sells everything and sells it straight through to the bone? The minute we start, we have hit the ice and we slide, it seems. It seems inevitable. There is no way around it.

4) There are times – actually, nearly all the time – that I wish that I had never revealed my identity to anyone at all, and thus that this blog could putter along anonymously, sifting my life for the contradictions, for the rusted dialectical bits. I could probe the local intensities for promise without feeling like, damn it, if I am going to do it, it had better come out to the foreordained answer. If it were not me here, I could be less self-conscious, less strangely-professional. I currently allow myself only grammatically infelicity and unpopular political positions that I don’t even have the energy to cross the road to sign for.

5) If it weren’t me you were reading, I could write you something we’d both like to read. And the fact that this is (isn’t?) the case perhaps underscores the persistence of the issue that I’m trying (and failing) to describe in this post.

Written by adswithoutproducts

July 7, 2008 at 12:51 pm

Posted in distraction, meta

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