Come

Come

Come

water

desire

speaks

Yes

I

am

coming

Come

I

seek

with

the

cherisher

the

mischief

of

the

whisperer

who

withdraws

among

and

among

And

often

remember

the

vast

wondrous

each

 

city lights heart.jpg

 

 

 

 

Zabriskie TV.jpg

 

 

 

 

melancholia.jpg

What

is

this

this

ecstasy

playing

and

laughing

and

slipping

and

asking

and

going

about

and

O

O

yes

again

yes

going

like

yes

yes

Yes

monsters

in

Time

infinitely

contrary

immeasurably

touching

through

between

like

giants

immersed

in

me



Fictions

The fiction of narrative begins with the fiction of beginning and ending—signs of the imaginary.

Narrative begins and ends with closure, segmenting reality into discrete packages. Life, however, is perversely indiscrete, continually embarrassing us with its promiscuous polymorphousness.

Neither end nor beginning (as story would have as believe), death is nothing but middle.

Narrative as the native mythology of mind.

Narrative both ground and horizon of those who wend toward ends. (Compulsively purposive, homo narrans is homo teleologicus.)

 

The patriarchal violence of closure. (The narrative obsession with conclusion, a desire for the law of the father.)

From the perspective of reality—intrinsically inconclusive—all narrative endings are bad endings. (In reality, maybe the only good ending is the end of narrative.)

Narrative closure is foreclosure. (What is foreclosed? The space of meaninglessness; the timelessness of aimlessness.)


drop

the

story


The neatness of narrative accuses it. In story, every complication is designed, destined to be explained away.

The entanglement of narrative, image, and sign—mechanisms of simplification.

Narrative may exploit ambiguity and ambivalence to spice up the plot, but in the end, it has no taste for inconclusion.

Narrative a voracious virtual reality machine, insatiably devouring and digesting reality.

 

Not satisfied with representing reality, narrative usurps it: styling itself an innocent distraction, story surreptitiously supplants reality.
Disembodying the body, narrative turns the body into a fiction:
—The body of story is a phantasm of desire.
—The body of story is separate from the world.
—In story the meaning of the body comes from the mind.
—In story the mind is a true reflection of the world, and narrative a veracious mirror.

Narrative’s imaginary communities have failed to live up to reality, fiercely unimaginable, ferociously unnarratable.

Narrative shapes how we remember the past, how we actualize the present, how we project the future. However, it has become clear that the shape of narrative does not reflect the shape of reality—"the shape of reality” being one of the fictions of narrative. (Reality not amorphous, however, but supramorphous, beyond the forms—and seductions—of fiction.)


drop

the

story