Saturday, January 31, 2004

yer Ass

yer ARse Well, said Mona, when this nasty literalist idiot assualted her.We stoop to conquer. Mona found her copy of witherr' wee snyopsisof 'Someone' Wider was calling Lyotard. It was evident  also that Widerwither hated her cousin Dhomskydada. But why? Was there something wrong with notagreeing with Deleuze(a difference) and daddy? Geepers thought Mona, maybe I shouldmasturbate more often and not let those nasty brainy cells get in the way of the dance of the seven veils. Well, maybeWider's ideas might beuseful for caca rolls;used toilet paper, snot rags, sperm wipers,dingle berry cleaners. Who knows? wHen things got Nasty well Mona knew howto Fart in your General Direction,  wave her hermaphroditic balls in yer Aunty's face. She knew all this. She was not afraid of her arse or her ass, or her asses, or hershit or her cacapeepeetalisms or her bodies without organs and without limbs for that matter. And who cared if some mental case thought Monawanted her Daddy[and so she did and did not, and it was raining and wasnot]. Only those who have lost Daddies knows what it means to search for them. 'Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I'm through' had said Sylvia.Nor was Mona afraid of Lacan, or Freud or JFL. In fact they had beenlovers in the long morning ofthe 70's. Haha But only an academic wouldattack a welfare recipient, only an academic would deny what FrannyGuattari had said 'there will be irreducible antagonisms between groupsand let it be so' yes, so why herd us all into the Same mental caseanxiety of we are All the Same. What shite caca sneezed Mona dn Jill andFranny./ Franny said we can demonstrate against the jerk if you want. - orperhaps afristrated delirious paranoid academic who hated anything feminine and notwearing what widder thought were lyotards. Mona wore lyotards all thetime, she also had a Libidinal Economy that suited her fine.But what can one say a new comer idiot? Nothing. She and Franny got Jill.Jill counselled as usual ignoring the idiot. Best war is retreat whendealing with idiots, literalists, and nasties.

Besides the fridge is good with food especially Romainian.
We have many geologies of hover-lover.

schhzizz sisters my arse

So, Mona is worse than the Lacanians. They, at least, are only looking forthe Father. But Mona's looking for "daddy". Schizo-sisters of desire myass.

OrPheus EtC....

Mona speaks of the oRigin`s of HerlSelF and LoVeR BoY OrPhee

The relation of Orpheus is first of all one that is poetic andfictional. Both Orpheus, andthe character of Eurydice are part of anotherseries of prose poems. In fact there are several Orpheus and Eurydicefigures who appear and disappear in the poems. Like the Fictions of JillFranny and Mona, they appear and disappear as they encounter the ideas ofDeleuze and Guattari. In both series of texts there are over-laps betweenthe two worlds, or rather there are overlaps between various worlds ofpoetry, fiction, biography, the novel and last but not least philosophy.The actual characters of JillD and FrannyG emerged here on the list as aresult of some discussions which took place over a year ago here in thelist. Personally I find the 'figures' of Mona Jill and Franny rathercomical, melodramatic, lovable, philosophical and zany. The more somberfigure, at least at times more serious lover like character of Orpheusinter-acts in a very different way with the ideas genereated by both thehistory of poetry proper, and any number of ideas that range fromBlanchot, Deleuze and Guttari and of course numerous poets i.e. Rilke,Orpheus himself as described in Ancient Greek and Latin poetry. As Orpheusand Eurydice are archetypes at least in Western consciousness, so theyrange throughout western plateaus of literary and philosophical and poeticconjunction and disjunction. You could say that these character-figures,or image-figures as I call them are working the body without organs,standingthe margins, zooming over and through desire's million paths. Thefigures of Orpheus and Eurydice are also splintered and work in series.They are many of them, and none are identical. Thereis the AmericanEurydice and Euridike the Greek, and Euridice the writer and sex girl.Orpheus the tragic figure beheaded by the Thracian women, or the Cicconewomen as J.Braddell has pointed out. The head which sings that is Orpheusthat is in contrast to Eurydice the shadow who he sees but does not hearalso acts as a symbolic force uniting the two figures who are defeated bythe absence in their love of what might be called the children of Orpheusand Eurydice. That is where I see the weakness ofthe traditional myths andtales. So one could specualte that Jill and Franny are indeed the childrenof Orpheus and Eurydice in one of their series. Mona is the offspring ofthese conjunctions and births. I also call them Nietzsche's Daughterreferring naturally and implicitly to the realities of Nietzsche's lifeand writings. N. did not father any children, and he certainly did nothave a daughter. So what we have is an allusion to Francis Picabia's ideaof the Daugher born without a Father, but only half way or in reverse.We have criss cross pollinations of children born without parents andparents born without forbearers. for instance, who were the parents ofAdam and Eve if God is dead. If God is dead, he was one either once aliveor never was. He either died and gave birth before dying, or never was andgave birth either conceptually and or literally to a pack of illusions andhallucinations ie. Wester Civilization as a hallucination. Then there isthe rapport between the several other figures of Eurydice and Orpheus asthey are in relation in the present as the dialogue between woman and mantoday here in the now as the thinkers, lovers, parents and searchers ofthe present moment.As poetic figure images they are also orphans of the unconscious as we allare. Orphaned Orpheus and Eurydice. Yet parents and parented to Jill Mony,Frannyand the others. There are numerous and endless variants that can anddo and shall occur. Further to that they are another development of aperformane text which I wrote and performed called Orpheus on the Sidewalkwith my poetic ensemble Nietzsche's Daughter. Linked to Orpheus and thisis a key motif is the poet Sappho. Who lived on the island of Lesbos. Sheit is said in myth found the head of Orphee after he was dismembered. Hishead after being torn off the body was flung by the Thracian women into ariver where it continued to sing. As it floated down a Greek river it cameto the island of Lesbos and Sappho picked up the head and kept it with heruntil her own death by suicide. She flung herself off a cliff after herbeing rejected by a younger male lover. Before her death Sappho lived withthe head as centuries later Thomas More's[?] daughter did with her ownfather's skull. When I said head I mean skull of course. Blanchot haswritten the essay The Gaze of Orpheus for anyone interested. My readingsof Lyoatard are limited to an essay he wrote about Orpheus and several ofother essays in a book called Driftworks. I have also read part of thebook he wrote about Heidegger. Ihave also read some other essays ofLyotard related to certain artistic practices. The other day my ratherarch parenthetical quips referring to Lyotard were not indeed a referenceto the real person of Lyotard. I know nothing about his politics, but myinterest was more in Guattari's statement about 'postmodernism.' My quipswere a reference to the archetype of the academic who always hasmisgivings about action. I don't think that is unique to the'postmodernists' so called. If I recall rightly the students in May 68poured a bag of shit on an effigy of Lacan and Althusser. Professors andintellectuals are often blind [and surely by their own admission - see thelast inter-views with Sartre with Michel Contat] to what is about tohappen and is happening right under their noses. Neither Sartre orFoucault saw May 68 cooking right under their noses. On the other hand,the students had nothing but praise for Sartre at the time. I don't thinkLyotard was known at the time. If he was please let me know. I think thatone has to considere the legacy of the 60's when reading any of thesethinkers. After all it was the major event which came to occur in theirlives. That is often the context of their various intellectual struggles.After all Guattari was an active militant nearly all of his life, and inevery area of his life. Deleuze as you know was too sick, and Foucaultpartook in all sorts of action in the 70's. In May 68 he was living andteaching in Morocco. Given that sort of legacy and the committments thatit gave birth, I don't see how Guttari would have had any interest orleaning to a weaked and self-justifying post-modernists relativism such ascan been in the writings of Baudrillard. Reading Baudrillard brings ondepression and malaize, reading Virilio brings on thoughtfulness andamazement; reading Lyotard [the little that I have read] brings somereflection and inspiration - as I mentioned I was very inspired by hisessay about the figure of Orpheus and how he works out Orpheus asdisplacing the 'universality' of Oedipus; Reading Guattari, Deleuze, andDeleuze and Guattari together brings about hope, thought and action andpoetry/. I like that essay of Guattari's in Paul Bain's Julian Pefanis'translation of Chaosmosis [I am sorry but I cannot recall where and whatpages] where Guattari says words to the effect that Poetry should be likevitamins, don't take too many or you will get sick. Meaning that poetryought to be taken in doses for some people. I agree. One can read philothe same way. Not too much, a bit at a time. Chunks of poetic and philofood everyday to keep the doctor at bay.Being a poet I know very well the diet I need, want and desire. A word canchange your life, or set you on an escape path. It is nice to see anintersection of Eluard and Artaud. I think however there is a differencebetween Artaud's living of the body-without-organs and Eluard's poeticmap. Artuad in several letters to Riviere in their correspondence saysthat heis not like the Surrealists poets in that he is not choosing to gowhere he goes. He is dragged down there and forced to see and hear whathe writes about. It was not a game ofthe same import for him as it was forEluard, Tzara and the others. One last point however close some oftheideas of these thinkers are i.e. Lyotard I think that it is ratherfruitless to pretend they are identical and that they all agree. Theydon't andthat is what makes it interesting. A ways back I had a bigdiscussion with someone about the differences between Deleuze and Guattariand Baudrillard. The other person kept say they were the same after all,after all etc. I said no they are not the same after all, after all. Theyare totally different. I can accept difference and so it goes. I like itthat way. So Mona rested her case. Let go of her brief, and realized yetagain this voice was as so many others, so many others, yet anotherpersona and another fiction.

Friday, January 30, 2004

NietZSChe`S DaugHterr

.......t: Nietzsche's Daughter[s!]Haven't you girls heard? It has been discovered that ressentiment iscarriedby a virus, and there is now a vaccine. So not only does it no longer make==20sense to use the label "resesentiment" as a weapon for morally degrading=20people one doesn't like on the nietzsche list, but one no longer has to wor=ryabout one's moral obligation to brand things as sophomoric or to be properl=ycritical about accepting shine-ola. Get vaccinated! Live happily!=20People are also, I hear, close to discovering vaccines against idealism andessentialism. So marxists and foucauldians, too, will soon be able to live==20peacefully and without fear.=09Snip !!> Fine, I will say that Deleuze is the best.I think Deleuze is good on some points, but about thedeepest points, he's flatly wrong. (Either way, his book is_certainly_ not a book to recommend to someone just startingout with Nietzsche.) A great criticism of Deleuze is: "TheHegel-Nietzsche Problem," Nietzsche-Studien, Band 4, 1975,Daniel Breazeale. Breazeale convincingly shows thatDeleuze's opposition of Hegel's "dialectical No" and N's"Dionysian Yes" is totally wrong.> Nehemas doesn't get the point.He gets some of it, though, and it's a beautifully writtenbook. (For the record: "Nehamas".)> Heidegger is not all that insightful into> NIetzsche, more into Heidegger, at least that is> what Ivan Soll tells me since I dont' know much> Heidegger.As a suggestion: you might want to read Heidegger."Nietzsches Wort 'Gott ist tot'" is short and very good(though, Yes, about Heidegger, in part, and therefore partlywrong about Nietzsche).=09Snap!!!!On the contrary, Deleuze's book is a great one to recommend to someonejust starting out with Nietzsche. Though it is difficult, and I disagreehere and there, I'd say he is "flatly RIGHT" about the "deepest" points(whatever that's supposed to mean). "The Greeks were superficial... outof depth!"Furthermore, starting out with Deleuze, it becomes much easier torecognize where Kaufmann is a Freudian apologist, where Nehamas is aDerridean-wannabe, why Heidegger's interpretation has more to say aboutHeidegger than about Nietzsche, and so on. Deleuze is not perfect but hedoes have it better than anyone else to date. Schrift is also good, butI agree with Dan that his take is a bit too fixated on the "postmodern"angle. For a good collection which has contemporary French thinkers(notably Michel Haar)see David Allison's _The New Nietzsche_. For thoseof you who read French, many of the articles in this collection weretaken from the proceedings of a conference in France entitled _NietzscheAujourd'hui?_.Much as you lionize Breazeale, he does not dismiss Deleuze as youstrongly imply. Rather he points out similarities and differencesbetween Hegel and Nietzsche. Also worth reading on this point is MichaelHardt's _Gilles Deleuze: An Apprenticeship in Philosophy_ which has achapter on Deleuze's Nietzscheanism, and in the intro. discusses thecomplete repudiation of Hegel (whether or not this is possible; why thisis desirable).I agree the Breazeale article is worth reading, but not because of somegrand "synthesis" (whatever that means) of Nietzsche and Hegel. As youare well aware, Nietzsche characterized his own earlier work as"offensively Hegelian" and repudiated that aspect of it. For aworthwhile summary of the Hegel vs. Nietzsche debate I'd recommendVincent Descombes' _Modern French Philosophy_ though you, as a Hegelian,likely would not.>=20> >> But, dost thou really> >> believe that someone who has never read any of> >> Nietzsche's books, but wants recommendations for> >> his introduction , should> >> start with Ecce Homo?>=20> > Yes. [....]>=20> I agree. You won't have a deep understanding of Nietzsche> after reading it, but you'll have the right orientation to> his main ideas.>=20> > Fine, I will say that Deleuze is the best.>=20> I think Deleuze is good on some points, but about the> deepest points, he's flatly wrong. (Either way, his book is> _certainly_ not a book to recommend to someone just starting> out with Nietzsche.) A great criticism of Deleuze is: "The> Hegel-Nietzsche Problem," Nietzsche-Studien, Band 4, 1975,> Daniel Breazeale. Breazeale convincingly shows that> Deleuze's opposition of Hegel's "dialectical No" and N's> "Dionysian Yes" is totally wrong.>=20> > Nehemas doesn't get the point.>=20> He gets some of it, though, and it's a beautifully written> book. (For the record: "Nehamas".)>=20> > Heidegger is not all that insightful into> > NIetzsche, more into Heidegger, at least that is> > what Ivan Soll tells me since I dont' know much> > Heidegger.>=20> As a suggestion: you might want to read Heidegger.> "Nietzsches Wort 'Gott ist tot'" is short and very good> (though, Yes, about Heidegger, in part, and therefore partly> wrong about Nietzsche).------------------------------> On the contrary, Deleuze's book is a great one> to recommend to someone just starting out with> Nietzsche. Though it is difficult, and I> disagree here and there, I'd say he is "flatly> RIGHT" about the "deepest" points (whatever> that's supposed to mean)."Deepest" isn't that hard to understand in this context. Inany event, I think Deleuze is wrong on the points thatmatter most in interpreting Nietzsche. "Nietzsche estanti-dialectique" ?!! Absolutely not. Deleuze apparentlydidn't read Zarathustra closely enough. "le surhomme estdirig=E9 contre la conception dialectique de l'homme" ?!!Wrong again. The Uebermensch was a FOIL, which thenVALIDATES man qua "dialectical man". (Very controversialclaim, that last bit, I'll admit; but not that theUebermensch was a foil.)> Furthermore, starting out with Deleuze, it> becomes much easier to recognize where Kaufmann> is a Freudian apologist,...I suppose, although I think that should be clear aboutKaufmann no matter what you've read first.> Much as you lionize Breazeale, he does not> dismiss Deleuze as you strongly imply.=Snip ! SNap and Snip!!p.s. I think Derrida is awful and has given contemporary Frenchphilosophy a bad name. It is a disgrace that great thinkers on =3DNietzschelike Deleuze and Haar are so often lumped in with his crap Snip SnIp!!!End Snip! Snap!!

From the found notebooks of Mona: Wherein she use what she calls the Snip Snap Snap method. Very different from theCut-up Method!!!

hey Bey

Bey & Gysin Hakim Bey was Mona's lover when she was in Persia. Somesay he worked for the AIC. Paranoia was the name of the Game. Somesay .A History of theMuseum as a machine which she plugs into while Daddy Deleuze plucks hisfeathers. Somesay. So Now palace to go: Take desire for instance.Somesay. So Gysin knew her father, Genet. But Genet got off lucky while Claire was smoke columns rising high as the screen edges went. Somesay. She was delectable. Yes very so. As angina and smoke perfumed hair. Like hair wisps on the stairs I have seen them singing and the sirens are the sad sad O cause d'une femme. Some say . You follow me, or what? You follow me or not? A Museum was where she lived between Persian scrollsof. And like that it went. Stay under the ground, under the gerund whereever you can find. It. And rebreak the sentence which is oh yore your order-word so night will night be spilling against your lunch. In the cutup Hotel of the Beatitude desire of her thighs. Then became a Sufi. O BeyBey as we must run our teeth against the thighs of her night.All voicesare fiction. Somesay. Dream like, cinema spilling abstract hearts in the calendarof her needs and my hands. Like Shakespeare. Oh something like that Globetheatre. Oh yes, Lover. Yes. So then The Third Mind was there too, likeany other language inthe botched teeth ofthe Cadmus god rising out of theghetto where you were born after coming from the Moon. Like. That. Bustedsynechoche - feet, fingers, eyes, no longer a trope that can be made towhole; but a fragment, sengment. Yes like that Part as equal to Whole.Antilogos machine, it works believe. I have seen it. I am it. She said.

My ass golden as the phallus Roman girls adored and rubbed till it shone. Shesaid Prelude and preludes. No longer rapper but lover. Coming aftertragedy comedy then farce. Now all is possible variable. Whole besidePart. Equal Partners you might say. And Jill was their mother. The philomother of their loved.

Thursday, January 29, 2004

PerCeptual PersOnae

In those days Jill had a content and an expression. She had a benthead, and bent throat. She was writing her 5th. thesis between the sheetsof antithesis and synthesis. What could you do, if you were an angelicdoctor of theology poesie? what could one do with the blood which ran highinthe beings that never came to fruition? What could one do if the borderbetween this and that, was so close, so nefarious? If inside the mouthofthe concept lay the shadow. If inside the bedroom, there were more doorsthat led to other doors, and appearance was not reality, and no matterthat one was distracted by the fits of silent solitude and dishonesty?When the garden rang, and there was a mouthful of fruit, and one couldtaste the dirt, the dust in one's mouth, what fall was that that spoke itsname, and said, I am the One. She had gazed too long in the puddle ofself-regard not ever knowing a man, or a man not knowing her as hercontrol paddles worked over-time and she killed the son that would be forthe son that was. But that was was already passing into its past time anddeath. Passing as usual over its normal stop overs, Death would kill thefirst born - Death and its terrible maw, dripping its oedipal goo and shitragged in the mouth, gone in the teeth, pausing over atevery dinner table making the banquets belly up in their guttedgorged hunger for more more more. Beat the shadow that falls between thetwo stones of life and death, born and unborn. Between buskin leggedlovers and [between one gate and the other horn and ivory as thecrescent moon] flayed surfs of desire, I was the one you sang and wantedbetween the sailors of desire, and their better halves. Oh see this shesaid. As sheturned and the nights walked by like dead soldiers, old phonographrecords,where no malaise played between what had been in their momentary gardenand their lost apartment. So Jill was grieving and flying along the spacewhich spins past the spades of mouth and dirt and lover . Her hand liftedawhile to compose the page, and she said no. I cannot do. What I do. I amcontent not expression, form that matters past sizzling desires inthematters of the body without organs before the end of the world.

And then Franny wept, wept the bitter tears, which bit and theywere the tears of regret, where the dance had been torn from her womb. And Mona caught her garments in the wind, and the desert spat backthe echo of screeched embryos and cut out names. And then Franny cried out, I am the circle with no name. Not everhaving been, you killed me with you Oedipal order. and the sphinx was an asshole which ate the children as they went down to sleep and the Judgment of God was their call And Mona Mona caught her garments in their fall sought the right breath moment out

Sex Me Now

Sex/me Now. Yes and then she found my voice, we cross-sexed and cross-voiced.Like seeds and bran. Sappho jumped off the cliff into the sea. For a boy, a guy That's the same spot where the ashes of Orpheus, according to the legend, were washed off after he was killed and dismembered.

It's a special place. I was born unexpectedly and early. After saying this:
She read me deleuze and we f_cked.
H read Guattari stroking me my ass was shivering.
Then Jill said,
my thesis was perfect,
that she had masturbated while reading the Dryad said told me, after your show I went home and masturbated, and I came and I was looking into the heart of light, and I could see neither life nor death, and my girlfriend got jealous. with religion and sex. I find that church is very sexy,

an that sex is very religious and transcendent. Yes, being a real lover. I always f_ck on church in the sidewalk in the bells steeples . he n' I wrote everyday. It was some sort of therapy or disease but in theory I've always hated writing. she love writing for me it is to fuck. Fuck with my hand wordsverbs

like nails in your ass back. fact, it happened to me dealing with __. It's only after became really prevalent, like around 1985, when I started really writing, because I just couldn't fuck as much as I used spring news of shout lite to. I had to rechannel the energy somewhere. I'll take sex over writing any day. I think they are very similar. In writing as She lied when she said that. She was very young. Still. re Violence: killed her husband. there's something verycleansing about it Until she got beaten up by her lover. clarifying. creates a density and a lucidity that lifeviolence provides intensity So she says. think that for both sexes we should all have both a penis and a vagina, able to penetrate each other both ways at once. and thenwhoever gets pregnant just gets pregnant either one of the genders. it would have been a simpler world doubled our species capacity to procreate and survive:: So I don't see why that was not done:: We are always surrealists. See? I love an ancient work for its novelty. But nothing new here with the desire for both_ness. Oh Body!! Relieve me of these Organs of Death::: writing is not written. or that the word Eurudice is not Eurudice: also think that my work is very Greek; that you can see themythology there; that every character becomes a god or a myth somehow. I have an interest in reusing the ancients in redoing what the ancients did. It's one of the reasons that I'm not using my last name. Schizz-flows body without organs.
This now. See now. here now. Love now. material and literature that already exists, and incorporating them because where I come from all literature is considered public domain more or less. Not then. Open yer feet.
effort to destabilize. I have to try again and again. I think that the ___ she is the shores she is banged really hold my arm
reluctant deity
rebel mouth is in
lion is the act of the writing, the act of sex,
rather than the idea of it or the product of it, a cause is a cure fore the ship
because one can never avoid escape completely being unnamed my heart is a spindrift

So she said all this and we f_cked in the room they taught
and listened the well-wrought urn. Dust in
the shadows, some maps and
elegant cartographies of festival desire.Iam the doctor of yer elbows

She s_cked me there, like we'd
never been lover.s.

Son and Mother. Butt
but killing my embryo and murdering methen f_cking me. Oh so the world was like the vowel in the well placed sphere. Of her hearts and nights. She said that to me baring her teeth.keep working and writing and. And then more.

So what I

hold your hand across

the space of death. We were lovers over a space we never saw. Saw and sawed my head off.

Earings of Orpheus left death running, and bloody head

and gender sexed me like you was the day of departure.


MOna was naked in front of a jersey and a font, she had the duel down pat.

moderate yer own Repressions... When I read this little exclamation about 'moderator !! ' I think two things: One - this has got to be a joke. and Two - Moderate your Own repressions!! Not mine!! svp!!

Wednesday, January 28, 2004


Desire Desire[s] that Work and I am very charming too As you are as you are Another burrow

Face to AthEiSm

... Atheism Face to Face: atheism and : Saint Nietzsche and Saint Genet Oh to be a saint, now that high summer is here... Perhaps Nietzsche feared sainthood because, he was a rather secular protestant. Or we have Nietzsche's Daughter: A poem Sainthood : Teresa of Avila. All things shall be well. Sainthood: is merely the progression of a principle and not a personality. Fromthis point of view dear father Nietzsche, like Joyce, Genet, et tant d'autres et tant d'autre is indeed a Saint. Inthe upside down calendar of movable feasts One is happy to be asaint The eternal couple of the saint and the criminal. How sexy. Indeed, we are all saints and in this great democracy of thespirit. Sadly, for Nietzsche he did not have the chance to read Whitman, or to see what was possible since the release of the thousand multiples and multiplicities The many bodied limbs ofthe organ less world wide body the simultaneous multiple resurrections of need I say.... the.... words


Franny mails a telegrammitcal to the Rene the faceless in Descartes station, relaying between the Tryst and Truth and Reality stops. Full stops, that is.

Mona scribbled her way past the body with organs to think her way to the corps-sans-organes.
No.....w the body-without-organs is also the spa........ce where multiplicitycan nourish its happeningness. Its possible possibles, and while doing so consciousness comes into gear, making the space of ego happen. Thus the cogito, and the splits which follow. ....But there is no way, no western wayout of the cage of ego. So the lamb must lie down with the lion ie. in thecage of ego a....nd self. SElf is the preconscious space of consciousness prior to I. I is ego without self, self connection. The rest, that is theformat.....ion of the 'person', the personal comes about as the more or lesshistoric unity of the two subje...cts, the self and the I-ego...

At least one could construe here a notion of personality (while assured by memory) thatwould not lose... the memory of its origin as m...ultip.............licity-flow, t.....hat i.sde....sire in the body-without-o........rgans, or better said the flow which is thebody without organs which is the [to paraphrase G.M. Hopkins] Heracliteanfire of the resurrection of matter. But not.... the 'resurrec..tion' in anychristian sense. It is necessary to keep in mind the centredness andimportance of atheism in this notion of matter. If one does not watchwith a wary eye, monotheism comes creeping in the back door. K.........eep a-theis.....malways at thefront of the project t.o maintain the split. Only bymaintaining the split can the s....pli..nter be healed. 'There...'s nothing wholeor sole that has not been rent, for Love has pitched his house on theso.............mething something of excrement' as Yeats says somewhere in a poem. Onehas to keep in mind.......... the Baphomet andthe Klossowski project. resurrectioninthe demonic sense. A single peril breath.
Not that doctors of philosophy know better. Ask the two thinkers: they will say, it is not our fault if thewriters like La....wrence, Miller, Beckett, Artaud, Kerouac [add Klossowski,andwhoever wo..........rks in your roster] know more about schizophrenia thanpyschiatrists and psychoanal.ysts? So it goes. Mona wants to come to bed with you, Ugly. Come and Get her!

I read Klossowski much ofthe night, and travel south in the winter. In the summer I steal myselffor the bracings of the body-without-organs, and do not worry about theambitions of my firey friends and others. We all have our deserts and cities, myself I prefer the countryside, where there is winter there inthe summer. The summer, where is the unimaginable zero summer.Where is she, when she is at home, and I am in her body burrowing like anywater snake. So God is a lobster, and I am onion. God is a monster whohas buried night, at least it is a quick death, she thought. It was not.It was not midnight, it was. It was raining, it was not raining. Howsweet the dirty deals of double paradox and series. So we couple the riding tides, and steel our breath. I am your lover. Ta Ta night now,night! Night! Night. The

alchenmical B.w.O.

When Jill woke up she found a hand written note as if someone was sampling simply playing a body of resistance, an anxiety of influence. How could that be, said, Franny and the boys becomings girls. When the old grey cow was shot in the dream. No, not answer to the self with out a being, but thebeing without a cow. How could language be itsown sown reply totherunneling stippled stops of high voltage wires. Anxiety, Anxiety! I don'tknow the meaning of the word. I even believe in God. When Goddess shrivesher soul inthe Atman self and the autonomous creatures hide and swiveltheir bets across the room of paranirvana and hate. What? said Monasuddenly as she read again the words of the televison of desire. How canone take what was not there in the inter-connected filed fields of desire.Desist! she shouted. Wait, I am not there yet,, with the last letter to mydeath. I dare say I am not a drrrrrrruugg addict. Unless one is speakingof the pharmacopoeia of words. The poet is a druggist. Mixing the wordchemistry salts of bodies with organs long before. There was blend andrend. Franny cried quit while you are a head. A head a head, I need aplace to put my head, so I can find my becomings down all the comings ofyour thread. Sometimes I am god, but most of the time I am atheist.Sometimes I am but most of the time I am. Double lockers and rings ringsrings within rings. O Desire neither good nor bad. How you yank theirheads and ring their throats. O Alchemy let me be salt and pepper to yerspray. O monk in the tree sitting in a monastery. O desire, I woman andman over palindrome and hunky-dory hill. O Irish you have known thiseverforever . Plateaued Again. Fictions of Franny and Jill. I am the same. I am not. There was both. It is all a series. Notcontradiction Let go of the Hegel. Let go. Of the the. And the and shallrun yer words like winds and sower sword. O anagrammatical of desire. andlove anus drill. Why desire when desire is desire.? Splatter your limbs over the floor and fear no more the wind and rain the fiacre of twist

Tuesday, January 27, 2004

that book by...

She thought that as always the coin, the coin of poesie never a counterfeit to the fold in her blessing and the curtain call of her manners.

Mona thinks the book too pricy for an average reader. Apart. From that. Jill no longer reads. Except for the lost and found Works of F. Guattari. When she was a little girl. How can one read at all? O becomings! O nights! O readers who are depressives. I think that comment of Blanchot interesting and it bears some comparison with similar views expressed by Sartre in what is Literature.


Hey doesn't Everyone Agree that the Cover ---- s Book is Just Great??? Mona saw it and oozed for days. NEver read a page, but just flew along the line of flight buzzing at that cover!!! Jill giggled her brains out and stuttered becomed. How becoming, sighed her reterritorialized deterritorialized lover.

She xcreamed heR OrGaSm


Jill was a cheap date, tawdy buckles on her shoes. New shoes led to old garments, buckles on the beat. Garb on the gue. Moo Moo .
Jilly took a course once that she never took but almost had a fling with Lady Theory. this was her name.

Yes and No One writes with the body, without the body.One cannot write pain, it bleeds out of the page. Too many class wars occur in
one body for it to be a simple matter of writing no matter how much it hurts. EMbodied conscious which disembodies then rebodies, but themovement in and out of the body is exactly, at least, on one level,what writing is about.
IT is an escape from the body; which is what is meant by way of suggesting we get a body without organs. If we had a body-without organs we would not rot, die and get sick. That is our big malady dont you think? Our bodies which die: remember how you said life is cruelafter reading about you know who's painful 'premature' death?
So poetry is theplace one attains the stillness of the Grecian Urn. Where the bodies areforever captured in their original beauty. Which is not to suggest that only youth is beautifu.l.

I hate that cult of youth beauty. But the body as
body that which breaks down can only yield sorrow and suffering. As in Buddhism: the first noble truth is that All life is Suffering, and Desires the cause. Now D+G[following I suppose Nietzsche] construct a paradigmwhere desire is Positive. The only philosophy in Western history to offersch a model that is not seeing Desire as lack, or castration, orwhatevernegative dialectics comes up with. And we in the West, and the East usbillions of Us all on this planet, how do we make a Body that is notSuffering and Not subjec to the decay and break-down of over-productionand over-population? How do we live as writers and men and women who wishto make a space as writers as citizens which can accomodate the space ofothers who also desire. 'Desire is always revolutionary no matter howsmall' say D+G. So we seek a positive and collective body - a multiplcity

of many arms and legs. A while back we discussed CT. One thingI really like about T. is his discussion of the loss of a civic space. But like Mona says everything he says about it is wrong. All those religious nuts are wrong including the Pope __ no there is molar __ that is the Molar __ the Molar tooth ache of mankind!

Sheesh take of yer clothes Ladies!

This I think is true, and so we are stuck in some sort of hollow emptyspace, a social domain where few of us choose to exercise any control. Nordo we exercise our democracies, and yes I say this in the plural becauseit is the plural sense that is needed. So with respect to bodies andwriting what does writing mean to a sick body? Deleuze was so ill so sick,and he speaks of the doctor role of the writer.... I am not sure where

this is going.. I guess it is this: How do we make bodies from ourwriting? How is our writing a body? A body of work?

Achooo Achooo.

Sometimes one has to undo the do.

Monday, January 26, 2004

Mona and lyotards,....

Mona never reads anyone but her Dad Deleuze. She has no time.Besides. Mona and Jill are the schizo sisters of desire. So why read anyoneelse when its already so rich and ruche?

Indeeding MissLyotards yer illimtiable illuminations're dust to our desire.

maRxan deL

On Saturday Plateau Curve, Carmen said to you:

Mona was sleeping and got this in the mail. The mail or the male. Not like the academics who don't reply to their mail, and live and die in the vanity of the quotability.

Jill riposte: Jill wrote:"a thought that might lead to a thread. Marx says that men make themselves of what history has made of them . We make choice in the midst of the choices that have been made around us. There is this whole level of choice and the ability to choose, and the assumption that our choices are more or less freely woven at least in the one moment in time when none of the results are in or out for that matter and we can make the future, our future. At least a future made inthe midst of the various other futures being made at the same moment we make our choices. Then I would say along comes desire, and screws it all up. BEcause desire obeys no rules, neither yours nor mine, nor the body's itself. Thus G+D'desire is always revolutionary.' Thus with fascism[]s and in particular with the Nazis. There desire as Reich says by way of D+G desire seeks its own repression. And they of course ask why. Why does desire seek its own repression.? For

Frannythought they were all polite bullshiters. Saying screw when they meant fuck, saying M when they meant B. So screw them all. I know the difference between brutality and violence and that counts said Papa Genet. We know the differences between sex and rape and rape and desir are sometimes.

Well Baudelaire and the others are always the food of dead academics books. Mona was pulling her skirts laughing. Was that book, or was that a man? Was a woman not a book when she was home? Shit if you cant read the effing book, use it as a bullet proof vest. Man. It is about how it works and all this ontological shit is just shit. Shit. She sighed as Jill wiped her ass on the toilet paper of desire. Shit. Is where the sun went when the wounds were healed. If you dont read poetry you have not a clue as to what Plato is about. Plato wrote because of the beauty of the youth of Athens. Not because of ugly snub nosed Socrates and its endless dialectical sodomizing. Adoration is the first lost philosophical category. I was a philosopher before I was born. In the gnostic womb I did the jim-jam. And knew the world was filled with death threats built on dialectical slums. Dialectics is nothing but a method that leads you to learning what you knew you already knew to begin with . At sure that kind. Shit they say. We don't understand. Well, kick that goddam Socrates out and YOU WILL UNDERSTAND.

Love, Jill. To Carmen.

End Envelope Not Elope.

MultiPlIcities ... BoDies....

And A NOTE Mona got back from out of town and saw that her notes had gottenlost somewheres in the ethers. The I was not a philosopher type at all.But a narrator of teller tales about Jill and Franny. Who were Jill andFranny the living sonsanddaughters of? Night. Night. So it was withmultiples and mixed doubles . One could never take to seriously at allthis one and many versus the many ones,, the ones, the twos, the bibilosof many and ones went on forver. Foriver and iver. One could on the otherhand live it, knowing full well that one was living it already. As withthe How to make your body withorgans plateau. Or when one made music ofcertain kinds. But all that attempt to be deliberate and essay like whenothers were so much abler at it, well that was no the way to be happy.Thought Mona thorougly. How to deconstruct one's derrida while reading theOutside of the fold was more like the breath which blew from theunconnected Baphomet's breath in the boy's theologic angelic death. Ofcourse there was a bit of class in philo no matter that Daddy D had deniedit. But he had fairly good job of declassing himself. Becoming a herselfin the praxis process and outside the world was real. Real as the Outsideand more than the sum of its seamless denconstructed texts which emptiedthe field of its very actual players. Mona being Irish could not help butremain skeptical with a punishing God lying around about every corner.Being a bisexual built for two and a butler with a maid for made and madelike in the hall and whore like in the bed, she knew better to button herbuttons and make her sex speak like any haywire of ethics and moralityi.e.e a Cain versus Abel or a Castor versus Pollux. Never read Freudmeself she said to me one day said Jill said the daughter of the Deleuzesister philosopher and laughed her brains out. Don't take yourself tooseriously. We had another day and hoped for rain. All that to say what you mean? queried Jill. No said Mona I meanin Paris I asked him what he thought three times x 3. No dialectic.I said fine, that is what Tristan said. And the adventure began. We wenton a merry many ways. Never trying to hard to adhere to an over regimentedethic of.

JiDeleuze and Dereader

Mona was biting her fingernails. Recallin' the look of the latteron the former. A poet had been written about somewhere several sometimesby the later. An old expression in philosophy Socrates took it to heart Plato bore it in mind. But he is the daughter of the Muse . She is the daughter of the daughter born without a father A Papa Mama Two directions at Once Like Picabia Or doing the Police with differnt Voices Ah,, yes . In paris someone said he was seen weeping after the death had been announced. 'I am seen as a naif....' Oui, Oui. I cld. never face Jean the way you did. Yes, he was a man of courage. Then Jill remembered meeting him the first time. What a splendid beauty he was. and that secret rendez-vous avec Franny Pierette. Yes, dem was de days, Not so cold. Ah, yes. So children as we pull the right or the wrong on trouve thereader is Outside Hors D'OEUVRE Outside . Where is Outside inthe Fold When the fold is two and Outside like say Lenz? OR Nijinksy and Genet meeting him and Father and then there was a time. Oui, oui mes enfants. yes, yes he did write that piece about Franny after all. After all and he did remember that time he was hiding friends in his apartment. Was it his fault, if he was so beautiful? He Was A Lover. Ah, yes. Jill recalled that Daddy Del. was not a great lover like DJ. But Claire said he was. Then it was true that J.F. had also written a moving tribute. A feeling for things one could sense in his fingers. Never accusatory. "Thanks for the article it was very good indeed." My pleasure she said as more messages came over the fax. She had reams of files, and factories of memories.
Plateau: Love 1469 - Shall we meet then next month in the place we always met afterseeing the films together. Non, they are in my head. No, I meant myheart. Oh you mean he loves the text more than you? Non, momo that is not what I mean. Well, then what? Nevermind You will see later when I am dead. But, he does not like mystery. Whereas I___________ To be Continued. 'thanks for the article . I knew they would criticize it. ' I changed my mind, I prefer a pen. Finally I prefer a pen.

DdeBorder and OtHerS

SO there will be no place to lift the victim "after" the revolution.
No, that was Tzara from before and the many unconsciounesses of the
literary mind. Or other things which rattled the antioedipal flavour of
the body electric and the lip letter error. What shall I err? he said.
Nay there is no err
There is no
as it stutter mutters and memory plays the prank
so close to the edge of the waters of the phoneme
and other close calls
like near reading which is the eye upon its thinking text. Called
deferral of the gift.
So then Franny said to Guy: I cannot my love, I cannot I am reading too
much of the body of others. IN the madness which suffers so much so

Ill faut ... retourne...

Sunday, January 25, 2004

D + D

D+D Jill meets D for tea. Yes, we agree. But you don`t like mP do youknow? I am the daughter of the Muse. Well, I am the son of the Stoica.Well Franny is the daughter of the BWO. And who is Artuad the daughter of?I am the all the daughters in history exclaimed Carmen. Yes, what a nicebook it shall be D. Yes, Jill. But only after my death. SVP.

Jill on deereader

Del on Der


...Round 14. Two for Deleuze, One for Derrida, with Levinas tieing up the score at  a quarter to one . Ethics as the future we see in the Other's face. i.e. we are responsible for the other from the moment we see her face. Which puts the score at Infinity is the goal. Ipso Facto we thereby reintroduce the Transcendent goody god. Ladies and gentlemen. We have a tie: One for the transcendentalists One for the immanentists which means God is about due for a come back in the corner here. Do I sense an Eternal Return here? A god who is peeking his [even a his! no less] Head around the corner? Ah! but this news takes so long to arrive, sighed Mona. And she bent down to tie her  left shoelace. Wondering where the bad guys went. Jill reached for a pack of smokes, and like all good'immanentists' she found her Nicolas de Cusa right beside her quivering couple of Abelard and Heloise. Franny sat back laughing [D was blushing in the corner] ah, yes, the world cup of metaphysics has never seen a game so close, a score so high. Good or bad or bad or good Right or wrong and Wrong and right I gotta use words when I talk to you.   




          Mona had been in Paris taking a course [yet another] ontranslating her old pal Jill when who shld. pop us with an always alreadymade translat[e]ion of an obituary. Well damn it! she sighed, all thatwork for nothing. Besides, was it all that hot a piece? Was it more thana self-tribute by its so-called writer? What did it really have to do withJill? O now is the winter of disconnect she thought and remembered thetelegram of death dancing on the stoic suicide flight through stairs andwalls as her lover's body plunged to the pavement. Then the otherdisseminated one cld. not be found not be seen. While translating andtranslating one morceau after another. One could sense the text comingalive under one's fingers and the slim supple prose rising like doughunder the palps of desire nudges and sweet sententiousness. O so then workon that other piece my friend. And the new translation into the English ofthe Antioedipus was certainly a worthwhile work. Better one than threetranslators all caught in the rhetoric of the 60's 70's. Mona imagineFranny's possible response. Yes, yes do translate us again and not letthat so=called identity confuse the readers about our differences. Therecan be no convergence. Or  could there, or was there. And so there was andthere was. Oh yes, that fellow writes about the ones who are dead verywell. Except for our father who art in Palestine nomad travel mobileschiz-flow you know Saint G. Hohoho Philos never changed, not really. Butthe affair in Paris was worth the time too that is for sure. She  wasvery good betweeen all the pyschoanalytical poses that is for sure. Eventhough she never revealed her ages. Besides what plateau could have an agewhen love was a stake. A dialogic unity of sorts might be suggested withthat model - model she thought and recalled Carmen's words that last nightwe were together. He said to her trying writiing about no one in the firstperson.See how schizzed out that gets ya. Ah! my little schizerenos andschizophrenes how avoided and voided you were with my lips so coolacross the caress lips space. Practice what you speech! Please my lover ofdivagations and folding tresses on the merry go round bodies, self andothers. Ah yes I remember how that boy kept tryin to tell me he was theone who had the goods that too much immanence was a bad thing. Ah well nowwe shall see, won't we with our double folded thoughts and our Oedipalravings and our Orphic judgments on the sublime beautiful and the eye inthe lie and the platonic word pharmacist and the sweet smell of deleusionsof grander and grander guattaris of wonder and spell bound choicesbetween the sheets of one and one and and and to n-th power alwayssubtract to arrive at the multiple. But when I go back to Paris, I shallalways seek your name.  







C... for Carmen called Jill, Jill called Franny who called Pragmatikos. What did CD mean? She meant:several things. Words seem to work, in  the words of Francis Picabia as Two Directions at once. A question is does the word call the child, or the child call the word? One question that can keep an episteme going for a long  time, no? However from the point of view of fictions Carmen thinks words work like magic. However being a taler of tales and words Carmen knows if the girlchild daughter asks what is a flower. She points to a flower. From there on connotation, and denotation begin their play. So it goes. Then one perceives a talent go to work or not . Some children are not interested in words except as tools for communicating information. Whatever the information is. A friend of Carmen's named Wordsworth says the Child is the FatherMother to ManWoman. However one is responsible for the day to day business and each parent 'brings up their child as they see fit.' Claire turned to Jill and said what do you and Franny say to your children??? Mister  Philoschizo??? Jill sighed and said: Philosopheme. More tobaccco curled aroundher lips as the philosopheme drifted upward dreams dreaming in plays of rich against poor. Jill mulled over the idea: well CD is hard to grasp because CD is into praxis and so an idea is only as good as its use ; but not use as utilitarian instrumentality but use as the instant between the breath one takes between several praxis which move the doer from one action to another.  After all Children are Lords of Lies and Flies and what adult would wish to impose upon them the baptism of words? None, but however one is Adam and Eve in the already always born. So make a choice. A word a day keeps the doctor death away. Thus words are material beings. Franny giggled. Read them poetry and show them where the implements are as well. Something like that. Besides, these are not just things one reads in books. Plateau: 1965 Praxis as word Instanter Poesia. 

Saturday, January 24, 2004

A pour Artééé

A pour Art... c'est une sotisse.



She said and blew her brains out. Bang! Bang!and then went the theory out the bloody window with her corpse. No artistneeds a theory she shouted out. Oh, no moaned Mona the maoist not anotherliberal. Oh no she said and asked where the translator was and wanted herslimmier voice more than ever. So smart in them was the days.  


Those were the good old days, before she bellowed, and blew her arse out, an Irish accent hanging from her , her cock a twisted bisexualbuilt for nothing, a punishing god down her back as usual the ugly misshapen crooks around her noise.

Dreams of her, he speaks all week, a groaning back, of loss and grain. She stammers in his suit. Of card and desire.

?????????? Questions the


Crooked fromthe wake by the old daddy JJ....
 ...are ye jung and easily freudened is what she said in her sleep. I too have seen the word symbolize and watched the debts grow and grow. Thenone day I became a capitalist. Said Mona and she watched as Jill andFranny laughed their heads off. Hahahahahhahahahahahah. She went andlistened to more Mozart.She was reading in her sleep her lips moved herlips to her unconscious and the ebb tide of noon ceased upon her. Her bodice fluttered at the lambent light glance of his tonguing eyes. Hahah she laughed in her head. No more dreams. Piss on the unconscious. Everything we see is false. I don't even want to know therewere women  before me. She said and rubbed her thought and thigh and waited for the painting to dry. So Mona alone in dreamdream land.

U for .... UnderWeAr


   U for... Underwear Mona came home one day and found her black silk underwear intatters, she had ruined shattered spaces between her holes. And roles between her personae and masks. After Spain she was not the same, the broken down wheels of fashion had gotten to her spirit. She tried someKant, then she tried some Milton, she tried some high camp and low camp and tried negotiating  with her hallucinations of: A univocal unicorn and spell bound rhizomatics emerged from hermouth. SHe said I am a prgamanticist. Really? asked Jill while jottingand scribbling notes for Cinema Calendar 1 & 2 of the Abstract Heart.Somewhere in cyberspace she had flamed her way out of contraptions andblack holes. Knowing that Pierette was always watching with Franny.O those were the days when they were both athousand vast sexesgendering their identities like spoons over words, albums, plates andnights of knights, galloping froth and horses. Once she-I was schizo fora week. That was a trip, let me tell you. I could not speak anymore, noteven read Victor Hugo, nor hear Plato's words even in my very deepwell-read subsconcious. Some name had started it, I was off and runninglike the stabbing of a lover's ghost in the cyber mists where no body, noactual fuckable body was tangible. Yes, I said tangible not frangible.Sometimes I went to church between masses and other things I was workingon. Carmen [who is always puffing at her weed, showing us the backsideof a very bright hoarse-voiced French intellectual]: Well Jill when youspoke of the under-consciousness that creates rules for self were youreferring to something in Freud that was originally a footnote aboutfetishes and the ways in which wives could be faithfully unfaithful totheir husbands if it was done in the proper reactionary manner of adeterritorialized subject which was no longer grouped in its totalitarianregime of alienated subject axis, and besides the need for proof whichevery lover must wear in her subject suit, was this the same as theseveral self concepts of a certain doctor who had been the lover inspaceetheres of a  poet from long ago but besides that the wench is deadand that was in another country [She takes a long haul], was this theintent of a critique you had made of rejection before the space timecontinuum had broken down and time had fallen before the movements ofspace and desire? Pierrette butts in: I see no need to be so personal when there isnothing left but Imaginary Universes and existential carte blanches ofcartography and spaces of movement and love. Jill: Now Franny is upset look at her gal's glasses steaming. [hecoughs a little and playswith those nails which gleam in the golden lightof black and white cinema] I see the way as a passage from one mode toanother, take the Sublime in Kant for instane. Well, you see what I mean?good well there are fools and idiots everywhere on this channel, abscondeddelights which cannot be explained by reductive thoughts no matter howwell expressed. I had cancer then, besides that. Let my patients go! Ineed no more clients. I am free to do what I want. I am Jill! I Am Jill! Iam Jill Deleuze! I am the deterritorialized line and I flee all passersbybelieve me! I am he! IT is I, Abou Ben Adam may my tribe increase. `His hands cover his face now sobbing intensely, and Carmen handshim a kleenex and a cigarette while saying, Now Jill, you see it is yourchoice. Then in a loving lovely act of infidelity she kisses him deeply.
 Like a lover should.

Friday, January 23, 2004

Mona 24 Plus

Oh but Jill new none of this was true
********* MOna was Deleuze's fantasy of himself when he was her. Then
some - If I am many I contra-dict the word verb of noun praise and it
raises the hell of night.

Mona wore new clothings one day. She had a shamble shack with all the
deleuze-o-guattarian accoutrements possible. She had a noun vase verb
possible, and an adverbial qualifier. Other things like night and
slippin' past the pediment pavement stone. With all the wrecks in St.
Denis, and the old shag hotels her father Genet had lived in, camped in,
slept in, jerked off in and wrote masterful books in. While dying of
cancer and other diseases. Oh but Jill new none of this was true
especially while wandering in the special homes and aums, the autistic
places of the dead. Like Ulysses and the siren, the nightingale's place
where ripped words chewed the weeds off thought.
Franny called her "one day" "suddenly" and "by chance". She said listen
I got a molecular revolution going here with my fifth plateau, and my
endless strata that have no home.

Was a strata a place or an endless judgement of god?
Was an anxiety of influence the denial of god?



Carmine writes, writes like a little pig...

F. is for Franny who is Jill Deleuze's wifehusbandloverfriend and is also the co-author with Jill and Mona of the series of books which some
people attribute to Gilles Deleuze and Pierre-Felix Guattari. This is not true, the books were by Franny, Jill and Mona. They are fictional realities, Jill, for instance, evolved the conceptualization of the Body-without-Organs when she was twelve after having read Artaud. She is totally becoming woman. For instance, she can walk down the street one day looking like a French-Canadian version of Marilyn Monroe, and the next day she appears as an ordinary woman-man with no breasts and male genitals.

All this was anticipated in the dada poetry of Tristan Tzarathustra. He made love to the pavement, and ate translators for sex and hobbesian oil for drink. Jill and Franny, and Mona change ages, sex, gender and book size at a moment's notice. A desire-machine, make one, be one, a practical realization of the theoretical possibilties in experiencing a thousand
tiny and more sexes.

A while ago back Franny said hello to Genet and Genet sent back a cambric cloth, a holiday from desire in Holland. Holland is perhaps to shy to exist. Cette homme avait ecrite une livre
charmante sur B pour Baudelaire. Un livre comme des levres de livre. Ah, lips book leaves....

'She is all the names in herstory as

she is tolled.'

But does she love history as much as history loves her...

Mothers WrOte tO oTherS

Mothers wrote to others:
> Franny wrote to several narrative selves about Jill. Jill was the
> lesbian double author of her own texts called Schizophrenia and
> emphysema. Then Paul said I shall be: Some young boy tried to steal her
> ideas.
> >
> > Mona wore clothings one day. She had a shamble shack with the
> > deleuze-o-guattarian accoutrements possible. She had a noun vase verb ""possible potentials" "lost" craterszzzz .. Le schizo-tongue par excellence. "Not in St. Denis!" "I loved, the MAcdonalds in Paris... with the busts....
> > possible, and an adverbial qualifier. Other things like night and
> > slippin' past the pediment pavement stone. With all the wrecks in St.
> > Denis, and the old shag hotels her father Genet had lived in, camped in,
> > slept in, jerked off in and wrote masterful books in. While dying of
> > cancer and other diseases. Oh but Jill new none of this was true
> > especially while wandering in the special homes and aums, the autistic ** ANus*** Venus twotwo!*******
> > places of the dead. Like Ulysses and the siren, the nightingale's place
> > where ripped words chewed the weeds off thought.
> > Franny called her "one day" "suddenly" and "by chance". She said listen
> > I got a molecular revolution going here with my fifth plateau, and my
> > endless strata that have no home.
> >
> > Was a strata a place or an endless judgement of god?
> > Was an anxiety of influence the denial of god?
> ********* MOna was Deleuze's fantasy of himself when he was her. Then
> some - If I am many I contra-dict the word verb of noun praise and it
> raises the hell of night.************
*****She had a shamble shack ** the**************
> deleussible. She had a noun vase verb
> possible, and an adverbial qualifier. Other thing ought and
> slippin' past the pediment pavement stone. With all the wrecks in St.
> Denis, and the old shag hotels her father Genet had camped in,
> slept in, jerked Jill new none of this was -
> especially while wandering in the special homes and aums, the autistic
> places of the dead. Like Ulysses and the siren, the nightingale's place
> where ripped words chewed the weeds off thought.
> Franny called her "one day" "suddenly" and "by chance". She said listen
> I got a molecular revolution going here with my fifth plateau, and my
> endless strata that have no home.
> Was a strata a place or an endless judgement of god?
> Wasshe the sister od shells?

Was an anxiety of inf denial of god?

Thursday, January 22, 2004


Jill turned to Franny with her ass showing like any consumerastic tart ass crack leering at the whole world to see and go up the shitty fundament dump of dead desire and said:

Archive Fever. It is like shit piled up forever in a nowwhere box in space nothing land cyberfever.
Archive feevour. A fee for each death each day.

Yes/ real/Word/child

Rercalls the mirror wave of meremaid in plashing parsing and simony...

Jill says to synonym Franny Why have we kept our own names? Out of habit, purely out of habit... Also because it's nice to talk like everybody else, to say... ...moon sets when everybody knows it's only a manner of,not only the point where one no longer says I, but the point where it is -Yay! Mona and Oona a shell band of non-I! -no longer of any importance whether one says I. We are no longer
ourselves. ' Each will know her own. We have been aided, inspired,
multiplied.' Yes, she knows her owns.

Nous avons ete aide, aspires, multiplies.' How lovely it is in French with the aspirant of aspire itself the verbal mimicry of the aspirtationl multiplication of self....

So yes, saying to the child where is the flower and is it real is quite legitmate and most of ALl PRAGMATIC. And that is what we have in machine making. A ...practicality. ...

So my lover soak me in yer arms close to our birthdays. O my one.


CarmineDeleuze megaphone

She liked what Franny said: I dont buy that Lacanian shit no
more... I just dont believe it has more credit than any other model! A model is skin and bones, no less no More!!! She said that in an interview avec une certaine artist

: w[hore]ar machinezzzzz!

Carmine nota to the monsters of remonstrance and reply:

no no no no no

war machines are not carnivals

nor are they contraptions, devices, or orthopedic extra parts

At least that is what Daddy

told Oedipus before he wrote that book!

Wednesday, January 21, 2004

Schools and Goils!

Carmen, who is Jilly`s sister-out-law, wants to hug the signifier closer an allegory where there is none. She makes Satan please herself and colds the necessary facts to factotum , pleasingher sense of being at Sister Maria Buttocks.

CarmineDeleuze fiddles with subject headings to deterritorialize the sujet :Subject: schools! and goils!!!!

No less it was a Love Letter!!!

On Sat, CarmineDeleuze got a mail from

Jill sighed, puffed on yet another Gauloise and wrote a few more lines of his book about Michel. Ah, qui les jours sont long. Ah! Damn he said I cant write French as well as that Irishman! Monsieur Beckett. But Carmine I love your girlfriends verse. So sweet and deterritorialized.!

well I am going to Norway! any Deleuzoguattarians up that way!

then I am going to Finland! Any Guattarodeleuzianss there!!!???


She signets a ring madder to singler her nanny, her many into One.

Inside the archive, she finds the foraged timbre and adds Ireland to its name, knowing Eurydice is envious totally of Mona, Mona and Orpheus having their long forever love affair, affines to the square of machine and the dada of fortport.

There is No

There is No

There is No A[b]CDE[fgh]M[ijklmnorstuvxyz]mia

there is media

and/ res media

dna dans in the milieuzzzzzzzzzzzzz

in the middle like


;No more silly H'amlet!

Oh dear she whipped those old letters of Millers which her daddy
had read mamny times over!

'Everything I wrote was a fiction, but it was no less true'

she heard Michel F. say that one [k]night when he came over

to Se[e]!! Daddy! Deleuze!

So inleashs yer slippers we're going for Sex!!!

Never Interpret

Never Interpret,

Carmine says, her lips a big smacking round


does not mean dont think!

hek said Jill to Gillian when Gill came of age and met Guattari
and her sex shone like any brilliant light.

Tuesday, January 20, 2004


of course

universities are nonsense

racked with all the worst sort

s h i t



E V E R YonE KNows that

especially father Jill
with her becomings-woman

Carmine Deleuze On

CarmineDeleuze writes :

On the Other Hand

They're Not a bad place to hang out for a while

whilst you schizoanalize yer virus, yer bacteria

while rhizoming and rollin'

trasnalted for metapfour

Mona shrieks! pulls out her hair! A girl's body! a girl's body, a boy!

The four rounds of history (and translated into Finnegans Wake

The four rounds of history (and translated into Finnegans Wake)
versus the eternal return of Zarathustra - a machine of circles which
impedes the revolution.... which revolution... steps (as In Virilio) in
contrast to scaffold jumping... Dada verus the Surrealistic rigour, the
rigour of the free-wheeling. The long bust of out cycle versus the
monotheistic labyrinth of the straight-line history - as was Troy that
disguise for all soldiers inside the inner organs of the Mama Horse - or
the hroses of instruction which come apres the Wrath of the Tyger as in
peeling back my antioedipii I always look for the bacillus of immunology
versus ontology. A new epsiteme of letters which sockets the way back -
breaks the mobile letter of the post - surveillance against the subject.
The little madman inside Descartes. I don't even want to know there were
men before me.
Want even to know. Now you cant cross the river at all, and never mind
twice, saith Heraclitus AntiOedipus. IS it really just the difference
a letter that changes history. The Cabbala, the cabal of vowel and noun
around the zone flesh of grammatalogy.

what people didnt say

I'm not saying that the machines don't differ in what they do. Or that
they are the same. But that a choice between capture or flight is either
ethical and molar OR a matter of taste/style/ect. (i.e. doxa). Not that I
really care, for I am sort of tired of ethics.....
Personally I like dirty little bad little Baudelarian flows that
create shit and sperm drains that bust open FILTHY DRAIN PIPES SAid
Mona: Yea.

__ cause them to flee, too.

Mona Looked at realized Nobody was right or Wrong! none were offthe
mark! But! that flows were flows and and and and And and not either/or.
was Where it was at.
Of course some flows are razor sharp and others are awfully gooey Andy
warholish Disney Goo.
Mona Says NO: But what does she

Monday, January 19, 2004


D is for Dead

and deleuze was not dead, realized Jill one day.

she rushed out to see to sEE the movie.


: g

G is for gutted and then Franny said:

Guattari is not dead either

just sleeping in your head .


yeah yeah yea! she was always a finder and keeper of lost whistles and keeps, the Irish girl`s red hair singing

On the June plateau of old ___ Jack found a text he'd forgotten she found and texted
Elinalow: wrote

I got another call and another text in my mail box, but what this
has to do with the film I am working on is beyond my ken. I love you
anyhow and tell Jack he is my man. No one else can replace him.
To me he is like this: "He heats he sings he bounces when he
walks, sunflowers surround him, scents of petunia dance around his body.
How desire machines his make! How flow breaks its part when near him. I
feel like the huvva-huvva Hegelian dialectic when I'm around him.! He me
makes me want to scream! I feel the ideal in his body like so many
justices (of the peace), singing in discord 'break him break him! he mine'
I can feel my sexual parts growing and growing like so many open petals
just busting out and wanting to go! O! to go! like so many breaking
rivers down my legs! O"

This is from a woman who thinks she is love, a vampire. A nun a
stealth board switch operator on the countdown to apocalypse and love.
Something like a hippie dream come true. So many comings in her desiring
fuck. So many parts switching their position, their piston, their
postilion Illyian like so many desires without a lack making their way
past bed and bores.

Mona scratched her head and wondered why. What did any of
this have to do with schizophrenia? Or the schizzes-flows, the
break-flows, the mows that blew down the castle of intent, or the
breakin' of water in the dam[n] of desire? Nothing she realized as she
swept past the mirror image of herself past a million sizes. And Plato,
what a twit! saying reality wasnt real unless it was in the Ideal, or
the Eidolon if that is how it was spelled. O Orthography of the
graphemic self and the body self painted numbers of word texts, all
sliding down the deterioration of self.

What was self, what was memory?
Fanny wrote back - "Paul Celan says you are my name and that is who
I am." Felix wrote her name on the side of the refridgerator of the
clinic they worked in. Then others came in the shadows silhoutte of the
schizo poles and black holes where the spinning self wrote rhizome rhizome
rhizome. I am a pack of rats and I am a box of books.

Down with violence, she wrote, and said her name.

These are mine, all mine. Jill saw all this and went nuts, went



MonA read her glasses Deleuze add the Difference Engineer and knew she was in the right place, Rimbaud in Haraar.

;; Some man writes ... The notion that schizophrenia, the
condition of akrazed concepts, might be caused by a virus has recently....been suggested. This, as will be demonstrated, is a misunderstanding is .. Yes, says Franny its true! ...
produced by strategic power's inability to cross the singularity. I shall on the contrary, argue that schizophrenia Is viral, that it is the very Virus Virus Virtue ....nature of virulence, empiri.......cism, and hence the true ,,,,,,(the True! Ha!) nature of the brain....
Concepts, like the schizophrenic, are universal agents of
production - celiba........te machines - which produce at such a rate, changing ............
constantly (c.......lose to the fBWO), that the category of causation becomes .........
confused, inoperable, leaving only a contiguity of affects, a density of
empirical detritus, and a techne of Viral Empiricism.
from Contagium Virum Philosophia

In Truth, there are never Contradictions, apparent or real,
But only degrees of humour Says Dely.

So laugh while you walk to the nearest viral bank of concepts and get your tickets ready for the Greatest Show on the Earth. Viral Skepticisms, holy rollers of dust and schizo bits ofthe full body with Escape. And No Satan there to set you free of the Godly territories which have accumulated around your lines of escape.

I am not Artuad, nor was meant to be, am an attendant schizo,
who can split a wave, fold a rhizome, and play the momo.
It's the way it goes in the deterritorialized spaces
with Jack and Jill and the others as they ride their ways
past the dead faces, the spaces you put on to writhe your way
to work.

Sunday, January 18, 2004

: J pour

Jill coughed and said: J is for jerk and joyce and take my pick me
up back then. And then she said. There is no pronoun after the plateau.

desire -- Desiring Launch

Mona was desire and said hello to all nouns. She had a Renaissance view
of things through her telescope. She said hello to all nouns. She had
Franny and Jill, Jack and Antioedipus, she had Orpheus and territory and
difference, she had biographies. She had nouns that became verbs and
verse, she had auto-mated re-verse which animated her fellaheen selves.
She was working on the days when Jill taught Spinoza, and the nights
that Felix-Franny was giving seminars on the body-without-organs and
desire. She said good-year and good-day to all perpinquities and
knights. Mona was a friend of Shem the Penman, that was the way the
verbs went in the French philosophical tradition. She was a worker of
two kinds: in the mental health fields and the poetic fields. She was a
truck driver.
Mona was a book driver and book reader, she read proofs in the wake of
the question and answer method. She was search for a method, and method
for a search along all the byways of French accent. She had no training
in the German philosophical tradition. She was a name with a verb life
and eating the kraft dinner desires of being a subject-a which was
fighting seriously to escape her object status as a consumer-subject. So
it went, so it went, and it was positive. It was a new year, a new life,
a new love. Words to kisses she love sent.

All Embryos pass this way

the self that is free
is the microword of

So she stuttered in the language stilts of the another year.

SenSation and IdEnTiTy

Once and then Mona wrote a thesis she gave to Jill with her opthamology exam as was the gravid condition of heR she was beholden then to night and ray its seeming connection to prayer and rongrong.Or Rause or the others of the i.r.c. of id identity and its flux and fulsome. Its slum self was flumoxxed by the xerox of candle bit, its nano second of refuse.

Sensation requires no identity as it already is the very form of the
molecular-physiological level of identity. And "identity" is questioned by Deleuze in The Logic of Sensation; therefore identity has shattered itself in the folds which have creased the surfaces which are examined by Deleuze in his close reading of Lewis Carroll... The actual question (one which is posed urgently in Repetition and Difference) is how does sensation connect itself to the logics of unity and time; time, that is, as a sensationalist artefact imposed on the body and the body's sacrifice to time.

Some Moon growled Some moon broke the Sky!

Deleuze in this case means time as the linear force
which has escaped from the Greeks until the present moment. It is this notion of time (linear and chronological) which Heidegger and
Bergson opposed, and which Deleuze, throughout his work, is at pains to defeat, undo and circumscribe. Deleuze sets out to open another
navigation of time, time that is material yet not sensationalist-bound, nor logic limited. Circumscribing time in the multiple will become the thread or rather strand which leads the thinker to explore the "substantive" as the rhizomatic formulation.
The rhizome, of course, with its multiplicity of entrances and exists
becomes the alternative image-model which he will later invent with
Guattari, thus lending a botanical grounding to the new metaphysics of their larger project. It is this novel metaphysics combined with the revised ideas of time which destroy and undo any remnants of the ancient Aristotelian concepts of time which Deleuze and Guattari reshape ....

Reshape! my eye thoughts Mona``s mother inside the metaphysical shell of her wake, her shoe done down in the motorcycle girl`s harness, her hardness too for that matter,and then there was some in those days that had a data data

Saturday, January 17, 2004

welcome to thee and thou again

Welcome to the world Jill, Franny and Mona. A space of becoming and multiplicity, a desire-machine opening doors (deterritorializing) and closing (reterritorializing) them. These fictions are the work

missed moi-soi-meme sememe missed massives missives

refired texts ...turn a man to woman, a woman-becoming happen in a text becoming a space of Event and desire, assemblage of nomad spaces and striated times... poet stutters in desire, language stammers, a real communism of desire happens, takes place, the Event. The wound we were born to bear, with love to bear it, to take it to heart.

the goodby and repeat Difference

the repeat was the sign of the Antioedipus and her friend the Antihead.

mona knew trueand blue

Mona tells her friends, and readers...

 it would appear you have read these texts literally.I would suggest you not read them in this way. They are as indicateda series of fictions. Each of us expresses her grief, rage and outrage inthe ways they know. We are each of us multiple, schizo, and ravers. Yes,we rave in our dying, but yet we reach with the words to express somedeath, some pain. As we know the voices of email are deceptive, illusion,collusion and not the voice of a woman or man. A voice, a human voiceforlorn in the death of the night. Each molecular sliding along thebroken chain of signifiers releases the moment to find paths ofresistances and poetries which are the voices which speak liberty,freedom, and homage, even honour in the last dark moments.As all of us, or many of us, have lost our bodies in the dark night ofsublimation.

...Mona knew there was a veil between her and being and nothingness.> So the song went, at least according to Jean-Paul Sartre. So it was and... is. And night was day before day was night/ And becoming was before being... at least according tothe readers of the old guy. Heraclitoris. Who knew> giving head was a little like resentiment. In that one went down to the> bottom between the legs of some space or other. Too many took all this... philosophizing seriously. Too seriously for her to take. Make, take, break> your own. There is no iron clad philowalking along this path. But that> made it no less rigorous  or challenging. After I destratified my Jill I knew she was a raving lunatic. So it went and goes. And so Orpheus met Jill dancer Deleuze and they were always loversfrom the beginning of time.

Mona`s last StanD...

Mona's Last Stand in December of 1998, when the bombers attacked the old society on the River... (and she thought O to be in Baghdad now that bombing time is here) she got on her magic carpet and killed herself. It was her way oftaking a stand where nothing could be stood. Under stand the stand that slips away from its death. and there was and was not a city calledBaghdad. She wrapped herself in Differences and Repetitions and knew thenthat history was the thing she wanted to escape with, to drain a death-wish born at the heart of a dead civilization. No plural self of beingwould could resue, as like America, she had prostituted all her hearts. So Mona called Jill who called Deleuze who called Franny who called and and named Guattari and then they went to see the poet. and there were the airplanes of death, and the Mother of all Battles and so it disappeared through night and day bombs dust and carpets. And she knew there was no logic of sense to this except the double blind bind of checkmates her and the girls of the drab world street. And so it was on the487 th day of their sojourn. (and so I returned home to Baghdad and saw these things --cylinders and deaths and what kind of town is this? what sort of town is this?)

Friday, January 16, 2004



Mona read the word "Share" and gagged. Share was americanpyschology and not reality. She flipped through her copy of MP and AO AndLogic of Sense. Nowhere did she see the word Share. Down with share andwith shares  as well. down with the word asshole and vulgar americanslang. Mona who had lived with Deleuze and Jill Deleuze all her life knewall this railery was sillysense and waste of breath. And went back to herwork. SHare !! my Eye Being GuattaroDeleuzian was not about sharing.NEver it was about the Monster. The Monster!!  Boris Karloff!!! ANd shethrew a couple of earthquakes, hurled sky and nambypamby california into the waters of boring pyschologies, cussed the word sharing and the wordasshole. I love philosophy, beeped Franny. I love you, Jill said . Good -- let's read some Plato with our potatoes!! I love spuds and suds and scudding.!!!! A little bit of jazz matazz to make me happy. How about some DunsScotus for lunch, andsome KarlBarth for supper and some good old NewConcepts for Dinner. Then Mona thought of the difference between Concettaand Concept in classical Italian rhetoric and contemporary philosophy.

Some words from the Ghost-text of Guattari:

Ghost Guattari was haunting Mona, and Jill passed then by the window slowing snowed her bodies into the pavement, missing the Invention of God, and the belly button that unhooks to leave the arse falling away...v oids upon voids dripping its ooze and primal slosh.

Here were the words Of Uncle Guattari`s :I am God most of the time when I dont have a headache, when I
think of everything and nothing, when I'm not slipping down any Satanic slope... Then I understand quite well that one might settle oneself downin God or that one might settle him on a pedestal. I will not repr oach --- Jill was happier to read this than any day.
anyone for that.
On the other hand, I can conceive that artists may feel obliged to - Yes on the other hand, of Mona`s double delivery articulations, there was an arcane =--
uproot that sort of comfort. Consider neuroleptic divinity; consider the vertigo of abolition; consider the extreme moment of creation.
Is that to say that God might only be the privelige of the
simple-minded? An atheist like Pascal screams out God like a wild beast. And that is intelligence stripped bare.
It would be advisable to distinguish God from belief. It is from the latter that all fool[folly]-ery stems. God is only a spell cast upon existence. He comes along like hail, sometimes dew or storm. Bel ief in turn, puts onairs of freedom; ups the stakes; imposes itself; stretches itself out over the socius.
Isabelle Stengers wrote me one day to ask on which conditions and at what price I could do without God. The answer is not speculative; it is a thorn in the flesh. All of that costs a great deal. It's inconceivable!
Unbearable! Sauve qui peut! And God for all.trans. Charles Wolff - Chaosophy, Semiotexte p.51; Felix Guattari.

Can You dig saith Jill deReader how it works, now....
trans. Charles Wolff - Chaosophy, Semiotexte p.51; Felix Guattari.

Thursday, January 15, 2004

: Dancer Danger Le Balance lance le Dance

: Dancer Danger Le Balance lance le Dance

A desire machine: mona`s reading daddy`s words as they `blaze across the page` and she Stuns:!

Par example: Man Ray's Dancer Danger, sous-titre,
'impossibility' offers two degrees of of absurdity:neither the clusters of cog-wheels nor the large transmission wheel are able to function. Insofar as this machine is supposed to represent the whirl of a Spanish dancer it can be said that it expresses mechanically by means of the abusrd, the
impossibility for a machine to execute such a movement - the dancer is not a machine. But one can also say there must be a dancer here who functions as a part of a machine;this machine component can only be a dancer;
so par combination on arrive avec: la danseur et la machine a
desir. And and and they are beside one another:

and BWO is: other than desire but all the abyss of desire in its recurrence."It is nondesire as well as desire." Seethes her teeth, Mona. Intervenes a strange strata and it flips over, and opens a paranoid machine which bites hogs and hews into the desire machine. First come the machines whirring humming
crashing banging and the flows of the Big Desire without Organs Full Body of the Earth and then Boom Boom Bang they combine with Dangers from Mortality. Suddenly in the Line of FLight a Line bounces Back, Smashs
against the Wall the Wall. and in the synthesis there is the ENergy which
bashes into Form some Subject Shape which creates the Paranoid Monster
often Known as GOd iE. the Strata And the Molecules and their flight
along and over the plane of consistency Scream we are Born with No Body
No Body has Love.

"All creators see with their eyes closed"

There is no choice.

Molecules and mortality.

: Balance-Sheet Program

Franny wrote to Jill and Jill wrote on the left hand page, and
then Franny did a little revisiing and then Jill did a little touching and
brushing up. SO there was desiring machine which was a word thing object
in English which worked so well, who would ever want any other thing at
all ever and ever forever. Which is not to say or write that another term
would not work. So why not, if it works, don't fix it.

Desiring machines have nothing to with gadgets, or little homemade
inventions, or with phantasies. Or rather they are related, but from the
opposite direction, because gadgets, improvised contraptions,translations,
adaptions, adaptors, and phantasies are the Residue of desiring machines.
Some sexy thing that explodes the tool, the phallus of worn out appendages
and market values. Not the weak and depressive dilutions of small business
economics; As they the above name objects are under the sway of specific
laws of the foreign market of capitalism and the home market of
psychoanalysis. And we all know that psychonalysis still has its effects
in psychiatry. Where monstrous bastard inventions like shock therapy
machines still continue to sway shock and dominate the drilled in brains
of victim patients.
Now Jill got home from La Border clinic one day to find herself at the
grave non-existent of KathyAcker and there was a sadness there was the
writer rogue bandit was being called names like contraption. But machines
like sex machines didnt go away so fast. What is he like I wrote? Do you
know Guattari? She said: Franny is very nice, she hugs me all the time
even though I died of cancer. I am at the petit objet subjet B now, and
I am becoming woman all the time. There are no clouds where I live.

I am a labia pierced female. I am f'email. I am deleuzians of guattari and
knight. I am the infinite pleasure of the texte. I amthe end of the
literary space. I am the violent storm of your apocalypse.
I am against the space that says fuck yer ass. There is a woman underneath
allthis sodomite. Measure the pleasure of the sodo-metrics as the
Renaissance saith. O Ben Jonson knew where of he spoke. and Kit of
Deptford knew whereof he spoke. The espionage of the self et. al.
SOmething like that. And now we find the analogy that is criss crossing
the flows of the capitalist river being denied by all weak-kneed class
invested kiddy kids. Oh me O my, How paranoid in the night of the rivers
where the espionaged self is ruler of the death of the plaints and
complaints. How late we are with our anxieties and ruths! O rue is the
sadness of the man with the mono-theistic monon-maniac cry. But creativity
always takes place where it takes place no more or no less.

She said to me after class while in the cafe on the Boulevard:

He was a good teacher while he lasted, and her hand reached under
the table to grab my you know what. She rubbed it up and down and down and
up and we both wrote the same paper about bacon and fat and logical lovers
fucking on the sly between the coffee cups andthe dirty under-lined books
of love and taste. And LAter I was clariefied by an Irish lass while she
sang and we spoke song of the love unspoken between us in the class of 97
and the hammer noise of her desire was my song. And the Chinese girl was
my legs and love even though she had too much to speak in one sentence of
brilliant lover lovelove.
Later he boughtme coffee; She said she wanted to have sexual
harrassments charges brought against the guy because he said asshole too
often in class and he thought that was sooohhh rebellious and wild. and
Playing dumb on her never and nerves. and LAter she told me she looked out
the window and saw my face. My face, only my face.
Desiring machines cannot be equated with the adaption of real
machines, or fragments of real meachones, or to a symbolical process. But
what we have said Franny is the processual movement praxis of the ethical
aesthetic paradigm. So there you go she said and sat down on my lap. The
dancer combines with the floor to compose a machine in the perilous
conditions of death and love. I am the dancer of your machines and love
sex fuck drivers, truck drivers and moon driers. Dadadeleuze desk please,,
dadaguattari night clerk at your service. SO she said that is how it goes.

A writing machine.

Mona loved Jill once again.

repaRtiTion and IonS

In those days Jill was working on the theory of duration andcourage. If being was nothing (as Parmenides had hinted in that treatiseof antiquity 'Duration and the Being of Stasis') and nothing was not theabsence of the plenum but  the double other of the oriental way ofperception, then perhaps the transcendant could find an entry way into thethought which is always already not known. Sometime in 1911 Bergeson hasresolved this problem of the concept of duration; yet resolving it meantthat courage, like the other 'classical' verities and virtues could nolonger be placed in the context of living, and the life entire. Forinstance, when first perusing Proust, and the sentence had been read downall its several pages of meandering, following with each delicate stepanother logical disjunction, another logical splitting which led yet toanother path to be followed, was this not then a partitioning of theprocess which led to synesthesia and not the totality claimed by the olderlogicans of sensual unity; or worse yet was it not a bifurcation whichled to a decomposed self and its senses that left the Hegelian dialecticstranded on the high water of intention and synthesis? Perhaps this wouldsomehow be connected to a Hum[e]ian nakedness espoused in the early notesof the British thinker.Alas, was the thought which one had while pursuing this particularthought. Then there are the banks to think about, and the great deniers,the neutrilizers, and  the many who conceal their own interests behind thenarrative of folds and strata. So Jill leaned back into the shadow  andthewinter years wherein justifying the loss of the revolutionary charge byrecourse to pure self-interest. Forget the Kantian rule and hurl all ethicout the window, man was not created to be a means to an end. But this wasnot a thought to easily shared by 'les autres.' Especially when 'lesautres' had nothing to lose; naturally it goes without saying they alsohad nothing to gain thereby. One could love a stranger more easily thanthe fellows who garnered the fellowships and the cash-flow. And then theyspoke of resentiment. Pah! what would they know of hunger and loss ofcommittment and loss of dignity. How could this new group of intellectualbandits gain any perspective when self-interest was their only interest? So Deleuze put her pencil down, lit a cigarette and turned toClaire and sighed. "In an age of pure cynicism how can one expect even thesimplest courtesies to be met, so this is the elegiac legacy we are leftwith dear friend." She also sighed the years of winter and disconnecteddiscontent and civilized nature dying away in the broken machine ofdenial. At the end there was little left to say to the enemies of goodnature, the concept of the friend was 'perdue' along with all other actsof courage mental and otherwise. The conservative reterritorialization iswhat Franny called it in one of her own last essays. So they waited anddeath came then, creeping, knocking, howling, slurring its words, huggingits guts, clearing his throat, slushing his lungs. And then Spinoza cameto meet him. At the window, by the ledge and Gherasim walking the wallsand the river plashed with its call and the air shot softly by but fast.  

 So Mona woke a then den the darling verbs, her spoof and rhyme, the substantives of bodies and show-offs making a hare`s nest of intent. Before juice and padre the sons of liar, and of the factory of ants there was no song, merlining along the squire of

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

Petit Objet-A

Mona called herself one day and told her tale about the four
spaces of disjunction and re-junction.
Did I ever tell you Lecan-can was a dancer? That is how
he foud the petit objet-a. HE was dancing and he was wearing his tou-tou and one night on stage he was Gazing in the Mirror and then there was a crack and he looked at the bottom of his feet and there was a little thing, really a tiny pebble pricking his big toe. And he bent down to pick it up. And when he bent down his mirror image escaped , and the gaze got a away and when he continued to look way way down to find the pebble he realized he had found a petit-objet-a. But being a psychoanalust he knew he could not (no typo there my dear) tell anyone the truth. They didn`t know he was a can-can dancer and so he had to disguise the truth and so he schemed and plotted and Said:I wont call this an Objet trouve like my
friends the Surrealists but I will give it a fancy-pancy name that nobody will guess and That Name will be Petit objet-A! And so it was that he came up with a new term. And all the other girls laughed at Lecan and one of them kissed him and he became a man. Known as Jack Lecan instead of Jack Shakespeare. then Later Franny Guattari who was working with him broke away and started to REALLY help people who were Suffering. And they was a poet Named Velvet Boy and Velvet Boy Had a cock he wanted to Put in a Woman to make his Cock Happy and her Cunt Happy. So he Invented what he called the Petit Subject B and they went together very well the CockandCunt cause they are called the DoubleSujectSex which is BORn of
LovelustSexfuckmenow Day and Night and Ineedyouyouneedme Double
BodySexLover oneSelf.
So Mona had a rush of tingle-ringles when she read this note that she had authored to herself from her friend Jill. Now Jill really was a dancer and lived in a whore-house or a brothel and was writing a book called One Thousand Whorehouse and One Hundred Brothels and One Hundred Bordellos and One Hundred Little Objet-A's and One Hundred Little Sexes and One Hundred Little Oedipuses and One Hundred Little Machines and One Hundred Little Dictionaries and One Hundred Little Snapdragons and One Hundred Little Signifiers and One hundred Little Fingers and One Hundred Little Letters and One Hundred Little Bibliographies. Now Jill was a very quiet girl and had been sick quite often and knew she had to work day and
night because she was not going to live as long as her friend and
colleague J. Or her best writer friend and enemy JG. But K lived longer than them all, and realized for a long time that laughter was the true wager on which we bet our souls. So it went and Jill and Mona and Franny continued to write their many splendid fictions called philosophy . So it went and there were many who worried for nothing. But nothing was nothing ad so it was creatio ex nihilio.

Ring One

Mona had not seen her path past phenomena when she saw the "light
at the end of the day." Sustained by endless routes of renewal she knew
all social workers were workers. If not right, then rong. Or wrong in the
telling of the night and their bachelor machines. But wait, was there not
a paranoid machine mixed in there with her Satanic desires and fires? Was
there not a deferral to be had with the way ethics wound down and became
the sustained absence of the moment of its mediation and meditation and
congregation and something somewhere as in they all go marching down into
the earth to get out of the sun? Mona used to live in Scotland but really
lived in Montreal. Where the nights grew younger by the day. She had seen
the end of postmodernism and knew it was the end. Now she said to herself,
Sheeye am a poet[ess] and must be what I am when I am what I am.
One day F[r]anny called her twice in one minute and she knew she
was in way over her head. So it went and so it was. She hastrawberrieses
for breakfast and night for lunch. Her apparatus of capture had her by the
short hairs, and night was done. Sometimes she said to F[r]anny I think I
should learn the english language so I can speak english. She giggled as
she said this, and the night and the day was one.
Jill cried out when she heard this and said, I am the territory
that always is outlandish even when you speak to me. She cleared her
throat and F[r]anny could her lungs gurgling and rumbling, because Jill
breathed too much and there were not enough cigarettes in all the world to
help her stop smoking. Jill would drink to have visions de temps a temps,
but nevertheless she still kept breathing. I am the outlandish and I come
from the place where alphabets are born. Then injured and innured and
perjured. And so it went.
Thus Jill had a self to. And Jill was Jesus on Fridays and Jehovah on Sundays and Elohim on Saturdays and on Mondays, she was VenueAphroditete.Andnd On the rest of the week she was just Jill. Whoever "She" was. ....