Saturday, March 15, 2014

reprise


********************
Jack, who hasnt been around in a while and, who was the
editor of 'L'Antioedipe' vaguely recalled a photo in a hotel. Near
a lake where the sun beat down and  THE crickers gave no funding and
no relief when the river ran
back to her dear dead dad. And Jill remembered there was no such photo
text that could ever summarize all the books she and Franny had written.
What a bogus idea to imagine one could 'summarize' the book she and
Franny had written. How presumptuous and Americane. Artaud dropped by
with Gherasim-Lucas and stuttered around the wall before leaping. And so
it was  the unreeling furniture came undone.  the sun swept
backwards over the folding of a strata and an abstract machine.  desire
skipped right past. And the scud missiles fell. Franny said, the only time
I think that guy Boodriard ever said anything that worked was when he said
the Gulf War never happened. So then I put my lyotards on backwards and
wore my genetics like a code, and found the Brownian motion quite funny.
Remember that Jill? she queried. And someone said I was with a photo! It
was Emmanuelle who took that photo, not Jack.

Then Mona found an inter-view with Jill about how she had met
Burroughs, the 'Americane' poet. It was very funny, and very unreal, and
very charming too.
'American writers have reached the point where the East meets the
West and you shall have the day for night. I am the dialogue between
diligence and damnations. One evening, if I recall rightly I met the
Americane poet Burroughs, he was sitting in the cafe Flore. He was wearing
his famous suit, and I could see the junky eyes lidding past cut-up and
fold
in as he sat there leafing through a volume by Count Alred Korzybski who
was Pierre Klossowski's half-double thought.So like all curious readers
and admirers of Burroughs I sent a leaf of my book. He turned and looked
at me with the cold steel authority of Naked Lunch and said, Have we met,
Miss Deleuze? I said no, but what a pleasure. He joined me we met the
night speaking past rose tinted rooms and boys with naked ladies hunky-bunky buttocks her warm clitoris   no more there than a pencil whirled past. Of course he took me from behind as Papa
Nietzsche had and had I was. I was monstered into many sex textases// Our
syntax was surplus as the gasoline from our schizophrenia made our motors
move faster.
There was more but Clare had not told the whole story so I shall, because
I am the truly delectable one, me, Miss Jesus Jill Deleuze.


Franny - There never was a photo that you took, Jack. Even if you were the
editor of our desire-machine.

I swear I did!, it was for Editions de Minuit. I was the rider of the
midnight book [you and Jill wrote it, and I rode it]which escaped all
faults had no contract. You were both broke that year, and Jill
sick as usual. Franny - I am not Jill and was not meant tobe.
Am an attendant therapist, one that will do to cause a scene, make a
swell in the revolutionary potentias of youth.

Then a shot fired in the air. There was no one. But and, and
night.
And and and more and amore. Amore and. And like Amour armour knights
riding past on coffee saucers, the ghost of Breton and Tzara playing
violins and Cd was there my child from other self I had no rub no genii no
alladin so I gave birth via my mouth. So there was no face to the child.
And could not say your name. I said William William. Then Beckett came by
and I was in hush awe of him. How exciting. And he had never read me.
Buthe Americane had. I had read the Americanes through my wife who taught
English. I had no Son who could speak what I was reading. So the wife did.
And she was very fine indeed and like Sartre she never failed a student;
and thatis why I said to Burroughs you have still too many trees in your
work too many totalities. He agreed giving me a cold burst of air.
American writers unlike French writers never pretended to know everything
and so showed suppleness and could change atext at the drop of a hat.


Franny said - I never saw that photo. I was already old after it
was over. I connected that image with the riots at St. Germain de Pres.
And I was never a Stalinist. But I was . For a day that lasted one year.
And Genet well he was rare.
Yes, you didnt fool around with him,he would kick your ass very fast. Yes,
it was good then, we had hoped. We still do, sitting here with Baruch and
Blaise, all my transiberian lovers and wages paid off!
I have no teeth now and no virus and no body, but I am very happy indeed.
Indeed with my existential territories and my imaginary loves. So then the
deterritorializing moment does out flow the capitalist surpluse, and as we
guessed it was how it flew. all those machines.


'The Americane and I chat  for hours. I asked him about Kerouac.
He said, Kerouac went mad with delirium paranoia brought about my alcohol,
and that he was trying to construct a production machine that would not be
addictive and repetitive com(p)ulsive, like glowing lights and nymphs that
choked their lovers. Or not. Or not. Something like. That. You see he was
a very powerful presence. Excuse me, have you got a cigarette, yes, thank
you. Well as I saying. he had the strongest telepathic aura that I had run
across ever. More than dead Plato for instance, no no, My English? Oh no,
I dont read English at all. But Fran explains this these things to me and
I make little rhizome nets from them. I catch them as they slip away.
Something like that hand which flitters and says goodbye in Proust. Yes,
you see what I mean. Very well. More coffee. Well I write to him de temps
a temps. I was most impressed with the way he was attempting to break the
novel down into parts that were ah yes notmoving the belt or keeping the punishment clear, avid,

refined, come along, moving on their own, and not being
dependant on totalities, yes, that was it as well as the sheer power and
beauty of his language which created songs in my own head. Where I lived
with my own dream. '


End. Now Franny G 'comes over' with Mona and 'takes' Jill home. Jill is
very ill, and in a wheel chair, or sometimes a cane. That is love, that is
called love, and it is immanent, not out there somewhere.

 Hypostatic Unions of Fictional  thingamabobs!

Part 2.

And so there was no space left after the great one had
gone. Not even a particle, so we went for strumming on harps and
transmissions of deterritorialized partitions between one brain and
another.


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