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On our three metamorphoses: we first see in our spirits the bearers of a new modus vivendi; we are starry eyed

and naive.
We feel as though that the mire and filth of the quotidian, we can see an imminent utopic dawn. Hopes are
dashed first by the messianic deferral of the moment of dawn, and later by the dull realiztion, which grows in an
agonizing crescendo, that this longed for dream will never come to pass. Thus we begin the second
metamorphosis and plunge into nihilism and weltangst. We lose sight of dawn and, in the dark night of our
spirits, we accede to the spirit of gravity: we acknowledge that our feet are mired in quicksand; we accept that
struggle only hastens our demise, and, grasping at straws in an exercise in futility, either we buy in/sell out, go
limp and docile, and await, or, if by chance some fight remains in us, in a vain attempt to ease the pain brought by
our awareness of the nullity of our thoughts and deeds, we act to accelerate our imminent end. In some, and in
many others whom I meet every day, the spirit is strong enough to erupt into thunderous laughter at this
premonition of non-being. With laughter we escape the quicksand and set foot upon the solid ground of the abyss
of meaning, our freedom to create. We see this with utmost clarity the pellucid truth of this: only the abyss
beneath our feet enables us to become other and create. This abyss is alternately pure presence and the essence of

As it has been but a brief interval since my twenty-fifth year drew to a close, I find myself irresistibly
impelled to collect the fragments of thought that have survived my passages through time and place. I find
myself impelled rather than compelled, for it is neither the passage of worldly years, nor the date of my
birth, nor the happening any particular event, in their purely external, factical aspect. It is rather a power
acting from within which is operative here. Given that my predilection for reflection has produced sheafs
upon sheafs of fragmentary notes, it is possible to approach and present them as if they were those of
someone other than myself. In a very real sense these portray the thought of an other who has ever
accompanied me as each moment has passed – a friend and enemy, an advocate and accuser, an ever-
faithful and faithless companion – and yet, I do not disavow them, but rather maintain my distance; neither
can I avow everything said, even in this selective collection. They are perhaps most of all signposts marking
the avenues of thought I've taken or eschewed, the trails I've traveled and those upon which I scarcely ever
set foot upon before turning back. How many men in me have thought these thoughts, and what man will
re-discover and recommence them? Here I must break off and permit him, or rather, them, to be heard...

Has my passing left any traces to speak of? Have I been remembered by those whose lives I've touched,
whose path and mine intertwined, for a time? I would prefer hateful memory to being forgotten. Even
if my passing has left indelible marks upon some psyches, to whom would these inscriptions point? For
I fear that I change abruptly and with great rapidity, such that I may become unrecognizable, even to
those to whom I was once bound most tightly. The thought that I pass over with such ease, and
changes are wrought within me with each passing day, gives birth alternately to anguish and
melancholy. When all is said and done, when all accounts have been settled, the reckoning made, what
will remain?

The mutakalemim perhaps held a piece of the puzzle. Much as in the Kabbalah's tale of the New Angel,
the mutakalemim attributed to God the task of maintaining the permanence of ephemeral creation.
According to these doctrines, the unceasing attentiveness of God holds back the void. I repeat,
however, that this is but a piece, a shard, a splinter of truth – constant attentiveness is indeed requisite
for all permanence, for all stabilized being – inattention is change itself. Sleep brings great change – at
times with dream-distractions, at others with the soothing balm of dreamless sleep – and Death brings
the greatest change of all, for does it not display the greatest inattention and, does it not come as so
great a distraction that all being is forgotten?

Recognition, re-cognition, the recognition of faces newly seen and persons recently met are inevitably
colored by similarities to those whom we have already known. Is this peculiarity of the understanding
so embedded into the structure of thought that it is never possible to experience someone as new? Is
the primal experience of a new face at all possible? Remembrance, recollection, recognition, repetition
– can we ever have a first experience of anything, let alone a face?

Most individuals shun any consequential communication – as if to hide behind masks woven of empty
words. I want to bare myself to she who can bear it and bare herself to me. This is not enough! I must
divest myself of all concealment and bare myself to the empty sky itself! The hope for reciprocation is
but a ruse that keeps us clothed and isolate.

At a loss, I am foundering in a sea of confusion. Some subtle change surreptitiously instills a reluctance
to return to the place I once called home, to embark upon this solitary sojourn. At once I am Janus-
faced – at once I feel a somewhat unsettling sense of security in being, and yet, at the same time, the
desire for effacement, the desire to simply disappear into the night – the tension engendered only
grows. Disappearance or homecoming, homesick and longing for solitude...

The extent to which I still flee... and yet I dream of remaining, I long to stay. Never ceasing to hope,
never ceasing to dream... and yet my hopes and dreams paradoxically propel my flight from myself and
my world. Hope is a betrayal of the future, imposing definite expectations upon the unknowable. That
is not all! Hope is also a hatred of the past – Hope says to the past: I will sacrifice you upon the altar of
the already ossified future. We thus take leave of the past prematurely – take leave of ourselves as we
were – and, drawn onward by dream-images of the future, we strive to impose form upon the future, of
ourselves and of our world.

The immanent life of things that appears most vibrantly in transitional moments is that beauty which
discloses our possibility-laden futures. This is why times of sunrise, sunset and the change of seasons
are the most beautiful and captivating – in these moments, immanent life appears as unbounded
possibility drawing us into the future – in a flash, the beauty of becoming is there.

On Loneliness and Death – Solitude is my pharmakon – venomous and healing at one and the same time –
I have a profound need for solitude and silence, yet I long for that silence to be broken by the voice of
another. Meaning, time, and language all arise in the interplay and commingling of beings. Nevertheless,
I dream of disappearance, to remain eternally alone with myself – even as the presence of my
doppelganger self disturbs my solitude. In total solitude the relations break down; deprived of any end
in sight, relations no longer bear meaning. Before we become aware of our mortality and before the
experience of the genuinely other, both time and language remain inchoate and without meaning. In
total solitude how much else ceases to signify? And yet, it appears that it remains in question whether
such solitude is possible. It is said that everyone dies alone. This is most often uttered ruefully, as
though betraying a wish for companionship unto and beyond the end. This wish I renounce, and I
desire this ultimate solitude more radically. One other, even she whom I love most dearly, would be too
many; I would rather make my end utterly alone. Most of all, I have naught but loathing for death upon
a hospital bed, surrounded by strangers concerning themselves solely with the extension of my vital
functions unto the last possible moment. I want my last thoughts to be entirely my own; I want it all to
break down into the meaninglessness of the endless procession of waves lapping against the shore. In
complete solitude the distinction between life and death might itself lose meaning. At such a silent,
solitary end, my doppelganger self would be the only one to take note – if he could!

On Writing in My Journal – Writing is an indulgence, an unwarranted projection of my interior world

upon the page in a language that is foreign to experience. It is to discharge an excess of language and
reflective thought; it is to indulge and pacify the compulsion to narrate myself in solitude. This is, of
course, a rank betrayal of myself, for there is no narrative that does not negate and violate. Narrating
ones own story rough-hews an identity and cobbles past and present events together into an unbroken
continuum and bestows meaning upon this, in order to petrify this identity, even before the inevitable
demand is made: “tell us exactly who you are!” The response is ever-ready, while every change leaves us
open to accusations of self-betrayal, for they then object: “But that's not who I know!” Nietzsche was
among the first to recognize this meaning-function of narration and storytelling: of the three
metamorphoses, both the camel and lion perform this operation, for the spirit must become a child
once again in order to renounce it. The renunciation of narration is the overcoming of which Nietzsche
spoke, and yet this overcoming cannot come to pass except but by way of narration itself. A new story
must ever be beginning.
On Impossibility, Desire and the Moment – It is essential that the moment of desire's fulfillment must always
remain impossible for us, it must always manifest the intrusion of the impossible into possibility. The
moment is no longer if it becomes possible; it becomes debased by actuality. Fulfillment must always be
viewed as impossible, for if that desired moment is ever to come, it must occur as the impossible
irrupting into actuality. The object of desire – the moment of fulfillment – even of potential, embryonic
desire, must always be regarded as inaccessible. This knowledge was always there – merely requiring an
insight bordering upon madness – that when viewed as impossible, the impossible moment may intrude
into reality once we cease to impose upon the future. The moment is neither in you, nor I, but rather in
the attitude of our encounter.

We are most entranced by our imagination and fantasies when the future and past are canceled and
preserved in one image in the present.

It is not so much the violation of ego boundaries that produces discomfort among others but rather the
ever-intensifying efforts made to maintain the integrity of the boundary.

Muse – Shake me, change me, perturb my orbit, my dear. Hurl me toward your solar gravitational embrace and
transform my solitary wandering sphere into a centripetal spiral about your sun... Or, should the fancy take you, cast me
aside with such violent force that I'm sent careening into the absolute void. I have staked my wager and we must leave all
to chance, for we die if were merely play at life. Tear my orbit from the earthly sun and capture my revolutions with your
radiant stellar embrace. Free my being from the everlasting suspicion of our oppressive earthly sun and let us celebrate this
greatest of revolutions.

These words are a gentle wind from the past; do they bespeak ought of the present time? Perhaps. But
there were, perhaps, moments bearing more relation to the present. Not the present as repetition, but the
past as precursor and herald – the past as informing the present and being intricately bound up with it...

A Therapeutic Practice - On a dark night, lit only by a pale moon slowly descending toward the ocean's
depths, I found myself alternately screaming into the sea and running heedlessly across the darkened

Here the temporal sequence is broken. True fidelity to experience is does not entail its faithful repetition,
whether in words or deed. True fidelity means, rather, to reproduce and preserve the epiphenomenal impact
or the aura, as W. Benjamin would characterize it, of the experience, and to let it inform the present.

But I digress...

Collapsing exhausted, I lay down, staring upward at the sky – a sky steadily darkening as the moon set
beneath the waves – where stars and nebulae returned by gaze. Transfixed, I hardly noticed the first of
three meteors, hurtling across the sky. At times the stars do indeed impel thought, although I hardly
mean the all-too-trivial thoughts of our cosmic insignificance. No. Rather, staring at the stars reveals
that we truly are only in this place and in this moment; a unique place in a unique time – or, a unique
time in a unique place – but no matter. Suffice it to say that this moment is our rocky promontory
thrust out into the midst of the past and nothingness. As Nietzsche aptly noted, it is not only the suns
light takes time to reach us, but the past is all that surrounds us in cosmic space, the past delayed,
overdue, or undeliverable. News of the past comes toward us upon angel's wings of light, even as this
present moment recedes and another one takes its place. If only we could anticipate the next moment,
perhaps we might catch hold of time – for even as our moments recede into the past, we do not; we are
that promontory, yet we must “be that ocean.”

Hypertelic Histoire – It's as though I've arrived late to the apocalypse, or to my own funeral. I survive
after the end of the world, or after the end of Histoire. Sur-vie, Uberleben, Sur-vie, Uber-leben, I've outlived
myself, or... have I rather leaped over life itself? To survive – to leap over a life, to surpass it.... but to
what end? Upon what ground will my feet fall? Or is survival rather the surpassing or transgression of a
limit, to be beyond limitation. I am now beyond all limits, I've surpassed the dead-end of one life-
histoire, but I have not yet crossed the threshold of another. In this sense, I survive not over life's limit,
but over a gaping abyss, melancholically awaiting a new beginning. There can be no palliative for this
melancholy except the long passage of time, a slow passage even in turbulent times. Perhaps it is but
the weather; despite its beauty, the first taste of autumn always carries with it the scent of melancholy.

So many times I've survived my own downfall. An infinity of times I have outlived the end. I stand not at
the end of History, but after it, for the Owl of Minerva has already taken flight.

I tire of possibility, the potentiality to be. It is wearisome seeing possibility escape, leaving me with dry
indecision and the impossible, the residue of possibility that evaporated before it passed into actuality.
It's always been this way, hasn't it?

Ever since that late childhood dream – this obsession with hypertely. For what seemed like an eon I sat,
patient and poisonous as the spiders of the dream, awaiting an end which has always already passed.

Ever since that late childhood dream on the eve of adolescence – I've been unable to fully comprehend
endings. There is a particular lacuna in my thought – I cannot grasp endings; even less can I discern
their senses. The persistence of the past in memory and the persistence of the mnemonic evocation of
times ante eschaton: two ways the past outlives itself with me. Even as the Musselmanner display life's
persistence beyond the threshold of death, so memories present to us the persistence of the past,
beyond the threshold of the moment. At times the persistence of memory is so insistent as to induce
forgetfulness of the great schism dividing the past from the present – the persistence of memory keeps
our backs to the future...

And thus... the future always comes in the form of surprise and surpassing.

...During these times we simply forget the passage of time and imagine ourselves as remaining in an
eternally unchanged and unchanging past, a past to which we are recalled by memory...

Little do we realize that the past is modified in each and every act of remembrance...

...A melancholy pang awakens me from my reverie, and I discover myself once again in my own time,
on the day after the end, wherein the excruciating truth borne by the past appears before me, plain as
day. And while I never truly experienced the end as it occurred, I still feel the persistence of the event
in melancholy pangs. If ever we live in the present, we live in messianic time; the persistence of the past
guarantees that no moment can escape its destiny, while at the same time as it engenders resistance to
new beginnings as the inertia of times past.

And yet, if we can but turn to face our future without losing sight of the past... Would that not be possible
only as Janus?

An indescribable experience. It's like the sensation you feel floating to the surface of the water in a
placid pond, or like floating upon the surface of the wave-roiled ocean. It's the first chill summer
breeze; the breeze which sends a chill down your spine, presaging Persephone's journey to meet her
subterranean betrothed. It is an acceleration, a feeling of pure possibility – Persephone's downfall
comes to pass only so that a clearing may open, wherein the new may emerge. Such an experience is
precisely the inverse of all that is jaded, cynical and world-weary; it is the experience of a subtle shift in
the passage of time – a discontinuity of sorts. Shocked out of your quotidian reality, the future opens
wide and unchained from the past; with this shock the new becomes possible again.
This experience is a presentiment of a new beginning. And this experience is constitutive of all that
stands under the aegis of the much maligned word “love.” This feeling of possibilities and the absolute
immanence of the future as possibility that gives birth to love and allows us to truly touch the world.
Absent this experience, no love is possible, a lesson which I learned too late. What is this experience
that awakens us? And why is it evoked by autumn, by Persephone's descent and Demeter's
trennungsangst, a time which, by all expectations, ought to give rise to an opposite experience?

Must we become Janus? Must memory hold the gaze transfixed by the past, blinding us to the future?
Mneomosyne may very well be that cruel. For one day words spoke through me in these poems I

I... What a mistake I make every time I utter the word I to refer to myself. My self is not the I that
speaks. The I that speaks is not the self that is or has become. The I is always in the rose-hued dawning
of consciousness; I am always ahead of myself, my self is never there at dawn, lingering in the loneliest
hours of night.

I... Strictly speaking, I am nothing. Is there any trait, characteristic or piece of personal history that one
could excise from my very BEING? No. Not because none can be removed, but rather that NONE
TOUCH ON MY BEING. They are merely accidental, extra-essential, extra-conceptual; THEY DO
NOT CONCERN ME. What then is the I but the man without qualities? But then, I insist in my
absolute uniqueness, my absolute singularity. Indeed, the variations of the human are infinite, but the
variations in the concept of the human are nil! But were my uniqueness situated in the accidental, it
would not merely be unsatisfying, but rather it would, in principle, open the door to identity - would
my characteristics, history, etc be replicated precisely, so would the I. But I WILL NOT BE
REPEATED. I am a different I at each moment, each passing I becoming a part of my self. Deracinate
me; extirpate all qualities from my being; I will still be, but I will scarcely be at all myself.

My self is the ossification of my characteristics and who I have been. I yearn for eternity in this
petrification of the soul. Little did I realize this when I sighed and said that I was overjoyed to be
myself again. To be myself again. What a laugh! I can hardly suppress the wry smile that creeps across
my lips, contorting them as if in death throes. In this very utterance I became alienated from myself.

Who then am I? Can the I be at all? Or can I only be myself?

Perhaps this is why I can never communicate myself, why no one will ever see ME, why no one can
ever desire ME. I'm at once singular and fungible. I am...

Spent. I can write no more.

Eros and Mnemosyne

What am I to make of the eroticism of memory? How am I to see through this afterglow, these
aureoles, to the truth? The truth? There is no way. The past has already changed in becoming memory.
In becoming memory, I inadvertently, and yet inevitably, accorded each and every memory with a value
that exceeds its actuality. At every moment I FEEL. In every moment there is a residue, expressible
only in affective terms. In truth, memory is absolutely inexpressible. It is a futile endeavor to convey
either a factum brutum or the totality of experience. This is why I can lie in bed for hours, my eyes riveted
shut, my pupils fixed, as I explore the unfathomable depths of stillborn worlds. Stillborn worlds, once
summoned to appear before my minds eye, reconstitute themselves as a macabre dance of images. This
play of images is hardly innocent or innocuous - it rends me. Only through this imaginary
reconstitution of the past, can I receive the intensity that I crave.
Why cannot I become conscious of the fact that the erotic cast taken on by the past is the result of
hindsight? Why is it not possible for me to recall with equal lucidity the heartrending events? Why must
the past always be looked at with nostalgia?

Stockholm syndrome only scratches the surface. Sometimes I imagine that had I survived the gulag, the
memory of those years would acquire an erotic afterglow.


I imagine the personal deity to be the ultimate figure of suffering. With each passing step taken in the
direction of omniscience, I realize this. I do not imagine that I ever will approach omniscience. But,
with every thing I know indirectly my knowledge grows. At the same time, however, my power of
action remains paltry in comparison to my possibilities and pitifully limited in its domain. With every
knowledge beyond my sphere of perception my anguish grows. I remember as if it were yesterday, at a
concert some years ago I found myself haunted by the thought that "I know she's fucking someone
else, right now." It was not the mere fact of its occurrence, for I knew full well before and it had not
lacerated me so. But rather it was that I was thinking that thought at the same moment! Had I any
inkling of the profundity of this at that time, I should have instantly lost consciousness.

I imagine a personal deity as omniscient but powerless. Thus, knowing all, its anguish would be
amplified to infinity. It is no wonder then that there can be no such god. Such a god would have long
since died from the anguish of desire

While capable of such cruelty, it comes as no surprise that Mnemosyne has a second face in remembrance, reverie,
and imagination. With such means at her disposal, Mnemosyne hardly leaves the past untouched, just as she
illuminates past horrors with seductive aureoles. The inverse of melancholic commemoration, remembrance gives
the past a new meaning, a seed of the future.

Change is not a break with the past; it is not at all a matter of forgetting that which is past. Memory
qualitatively alters the past. Remembrance resignifies. Forgetting, in the active sense of the word, is an
invaluable accomplice to this task. Space is cleared for imagination to create anew. We cannot hope for
the advent of forgetfulness with the passage of time; we cannot fall into the trap of thinking that time
heals all wounds, and that past time alone is sufficient for change. We must rather engage the past in
remembrance and the future with anticipatory hope if change is to come.

But what future may come? Why do I remain entranced by the thought of the end? In spite of my inability
to grasp it, the thought of it remains alluring and seductive. In an apocalypse-tinged reverie I transcribed
these lines.
Opposition to futurism on the basis of an allegiance to that which is outside of the futurist political
order, under the name of negativity, fails in the task of total refusal; for it is the political order, the
symbolic order, that designates the outside and unknown as negative. The outside is indeed lethal to the
closure of the system, but the rupture-inducing outside need only be designated as negative with respect
to the system....
× And what of the seductive thought of an end to history? What if the
political and symbolic orders became apocalytic; a terminal cancer of the system, apocalypticism turns
the order into the instrument of its own undoing. It is as though political messianism is a semiotic
virus, one that produces in the system, an intense drive toward the closure provided by an end. To this
is invariably coupled a political apostolism, one that regards the end as already having been
accomplished, and which stands in close kinship to messianism, but attempts to temper its suicidal
instinct. ×
Awakening from my reverie, my senses began to return. And yet language fell short of the mark; my words
could not convey the openness of time. Language kept me enchained to finitude, and yet I staked my
wager upon what is free from the iron law of language. Still, it was only words that staked my claim: where
words break off there is time and becoming.

There's something that I'm longing to say but for which I cannot find the words. What else could
explain the simultaneity of the laconic and the superfluous in my speech? Something ineffable must be
the source of these tremors that shake me and threaten the eruption that will break me. Some
portentous, foreboding thought lies hidden in the resonance I feel when I read in Blanchot "that
theologians have sometimes spoken of 'the smell of the end of time,' a sort of sui generis experience that,
amid real historical phenomena, would allow one to discern the breakthrough: being headed for its
end." Somewhere amid the evangelism of the future lies a dysangelic fate. Is this the ineffable that
makes me speak, that goads me to discourse, imputes to me the responsibility to make it impossibly
present in words? Is it that the future is to be bought at the price of its own foreclosure, that which
impels my prolific production of words?

I stake my claim in the rejection of all teleology and the refutation of all ends. What if it is that my claim
is to be refuted by the advent of the end portended by these tidings?

A certain nostalgia comes over me as lines of my histoire recommence. For the longest time I sought to
outrun my past, seeking to cast its weight off from my shoulders and into the river of time. There are
even some relatively recent episodes of my life, which I have sought to consign to the dustbin of
history. Which attempts to cast off the past succeed and which fail? Even where I did not actively do
so, I passively let the past slip from my grasp and into distant memory. Oh, how the past returns. The
dustbin of history is full of the detritus of my past lives, and yet there is so much that remains, and
which, on occasion, recommences stories long since interrupted. Today I saw an old friend, whom I
had not seen or spoken to in five years, in a city that I once called home, and it was as if the events of
the intervening time had made this meeting necessary. Over coffee, we mused over the very thoughts
that this event induced, tried to remember what caused us to drift so far that only five years brought us
into contact again. Oh, how memory lets the past slip. We could not recall a reason, it was but an
arbitrary interruption.

A piece of my self was returned to me today, pieces came back last night. The asceticism of a life
without past is in decline. Today was its disaster, its catastrophic falling away from the guiding star of
der Heimatlosigkeit des Vergangenheitlos. There's a certain lucidity returning, a certain engagement with the
world that I have scarcely felt for months. A past in part regained gives birth to a new Histoire, a new
future - es stimmt eine unbestimmt Zukunft.

I slip into German because my native tongue cannot convey the foreign character of this experience.
How had I become a stranger to myself, while at the same time I became much more akin to a friend
from a time long past? Did my Ichlosigkeit allow something else to come forth? Have the traces of the
past I bear in my memory determined my trajectory and given form to my future? At very least it is
gratifying to resume a friendship that ought never have been interrupted; its very possibility gives me
hope that my perpetual Proustian reminiscences of times long past do not signify impossibilities.

At the same time it brings a desire to revisit more and more of my past. How many stories remain to be
told; will I ever hear enough of them to sate my overbearing conscience? Ah, but this is the rub of it all.
There are pasts which cannot be recovered, stories that will never be heard. Perhaps it is better that
way. Is it?
Der Ende des Geshichte ist seiner zukunftige Geburt.

Beyond the eight o'clock blue of August twilight

Lies the truth we now see, that in our grandeur and temerity,
We have outlived the <fin de notre Histoire>, and in our sur-vival
we bypassed this end, and yet stand suspended above the abyss that it is.
I have ever lacked the sense of endings, death and departure are the unknown
to me;
in me;
The deep blue sky, as it prepares to erupt, whispers to me,
that the end was always already completed, and elevates me
to that apex of poetic grandeur, from which I can see that
at the end of History, every ending has touched my heart, inscribing
seductively this truth – that every ending has been dear to me.

A crack of thunder shatters the immense silence of this kingdom of ends

Illuminated by the lightning bolt, this silence is exposed as refusal
– As an obscurantism of ends –
And shattered, torn to pieces, a new truth is born; that each and every ending
Has been but the inverted image of nascent beginnings waiting to be born.

The sense of our hypertelic Histoire will never again be the same,
for the lies of stillborn worlds have been exposed – even if
our Histoire was finished before it ever began, it is now possible
to inscribe on my heart, on our Histoire, a new truth – that the end
was no more than a beginning, and that death and departure have no sense,
are the absence of sense,
– except as rebirths in joyous non-sense.

What is it that we mean when we speak of a "sense of reality," especially when speaking of an alteration
of that sense? It cannot be a sense of the simple "that-ness" of reality, i.e. that what I perceive is real.
Were it so, alteration could not mean a qualitative change, it would amount to merely diminution or
augmentation - but what does it mean for reality to be more or less real? Even felt unreality changes
little about the world - its thatness remains. It is a sense for the "whatness" of reality? No. What else
can reality be but reality itself? It envelopes us, we breathe it, whatever it is.

Each day a scent, a sound, a sight, leads me out of familiar reality. I lapse into a reverie. I see paths not
taken, lives that might have been - stories told that might have come to pass, had life unfolded
differently. My mind conjures up worlds never born. Imagination overtakes reality. Is that it? The sense
of reality? Whatever tells us whether we are awake or dreaming, whatever divides life in the world from
the life of the mind, whatever differentiates the real from the imaginary, is this the sense for reality?

But is the imaginary any less real? Is this the other genera of reality? The imaginary is the real in
virtuality, the real is merely actualized imagination; what might (have) be(en) and what (was) is. So the
sense of reality is merely that by virtue of which we restrict the encroachment of the virtual into
actuality... what happens when this sense breaks down?

The experience seems quite familiar, although I am quite loathe to say that I've experienced the same,
for that would be too presumptuous. Disconnection, dispossession, alienation: they are all too familiar,
they become all too comforting. The joy of dispossession: a freedom that comes only when a future is
not to be shared.
I think that there may simply be some of us who need this freedom, above all. I am not sure, though,
that the word and trope transitory properly expresses this - to be sure there is wandering, a transit, a
drift into and out of the lives of others, but there's another side to it, at least in the ephemerality of my
own experience.

Rather than transitory I would say, metaphorically: poetic, lyrical, musical. Life as poem, life as music:
the transitoriness of an orchestral movement, or the flow of a poem. Episodes in life overlap and
return as themes: we are the experience produced harmonically and in resonance with the past at any
given point in time - dispossession then is the disconnect between what we are as a harmonic product
and the themes that constitute use.

But themes return, and so do people. The freedom of dispossession is the allure to which others are
drawn and at the same time that which allows us to revisit the past, free of its bonds.

It is far harder to experience a prolonged lack of this disconnect, which is where I am now. The
profoundest testimony to the joyfulness of dispossession and the freedom it gives is that by the end of
this year, I will have abandoned all that I hold dear here and dispossessed myself again.

...and thus a theme long dormant will return.

I know little if anything about actuality, reality. The world of this habitual denizen of idealistic dreams is
shattered with every transit from virtuality to actuality. Failure, at least, preserves the virtuality of
success, whereas success, having shuffled off its eternal coil of ideality, leaves me either divested of
dreams or, more troublingly, with a reality for which I never actually planned. I've relegated my dreams
to remaining phantasmic, and am caught aback when these phantasmic traces first sketch a reality and
then become starkly, preternaturally real.

It is far easier for me to accept and overcome terrible, even catastrophic events. At least such events
affect the ideal only indirectly. But when the indefinitely deferred messianic dream comes to fulfillment,
the ideal is first changed, for the actual effects are still to come. All events take time, said Nietzche - All
events take time because their effects are first felt in a particular domain and then propagate, which
takes time.

Everything has changed even if it remains, in some ways, in latency. My psyche, however, has been
shaken. How do I become?

It's settling in now. I feel my structures of thought undergoing a tectonic shift - performing a dance of
concepts. My weltanschauung has been exploded...

Some urgently question the reality of the past; I question urgently the reality of the future. It's
something I never find myself believing...

Quite literally, the event is still on its way, taking its time. But already it has initiated the sense-making
process in my mind. Can I reduplicate and live the time of the event's happening?

Mere inchoate thoughts - their relations are not yet fixed – and soon I will be perturbed from my orbit
within this inertial void

Yes, this orbit that goes nowhere will soon be disturbed. I've closed in on myself, sedated myself, just
to get through the days; I've intoxicated myself, so as to live with nothing new under the sun. These
days have rendered me inert; by the end of each I am spent and lapse into deep, but uneasy sleep. Of
course there are parts of the day I love and look forward to, but the routine of it all drives me to
distraction. Literally. I have not had the will to write for weeks, being so scattered and distracted. Every
day of work is like every other, and sleep comes with the anticipation of an early waking and yet
another day.

Bin ich zufrieden? Nien. Stattdessen, bin ich friedlos. Trotz dem Tatsache dass ich ein Platz habe, habe ich kein
Heimat. Ich bin ewige friedlos und Heimatlos - wird ich im Zeit ichlos werden? Oder, war ich einmal ichlos, und seit dem
Zeit bin ich Ich gewesen und jetzt muss ich einmal wieder ichlos werden? Im jeder Fall, das Friedlosigkeit bleibt...

New Sequence

Suddenly, I'll be thrown back into memories of some aborted infatuation, some fragment of a narrative
that never grew, some tangent to my life on which I never went. These memories, these fragments, they
are more powerful and evocative than the actual loves of our lives. In fact, many of the actual loves are
surrogates for these loves that never were, lives that were never lived. It paralyzes me. Leaves me
transfixed. At the same time, an understanding dawns in me. An understanding so far reaching that it is
at once unsettling and yet yields a feeling of utter placidity and tranquility. Like the calm before an
October storm, the storm which, in the calm preceding it, brings almost unnaturally warm air, and as
the winds whip up, the air acquires the fragrance of ozone and there is an unmistakable energy,
crackling in the leaves and in me. It is this moment, an unsettling tranquility. I am held in limbo, in a
field without gravity, at once drawn like a moth to the flickering light, while at the same time despairing
of any fulfillment of that desire, held in the transfixing aura of desire without any expectation, yet with
a vague, senseless hope; the feeling that were I to have the courage, I could render that (im)possibility

At the same time, there is the necessity of being open to new narrative and new imprintation. Trying to
relive surrogatively the missed tangents and paths of the past is an injustice to the one with whom one
does so. I can't put anyone through that knowing this.

A certain clarity descended upon me last night as I lay in bed. Memories that I had repressed out of
pain came flooding back in full vividness, rich in tones of emotion and sense. Suddenly, memory brings
no pain, no regret, but rather a joy beyond discursive description. Suddenly, the future once again
stands open and at hand; and the present is fleeting yet susceptible to a slowness in which all stands

I've invented a surplus of answers, but have I really asked the right questions in the first place? For
example: I came to believe an answer was to be had to the question of identity, and therewith I was
able to evade the questions of authenticity and of playacting. These latter questions were not asked and
as such remained unanswered. Rather than dispelling these questions as false, the fundamental
nonidentity of self with self complicates them on the very ground of their meaning as questions. What
does it mean to playact in the absence of the identical self? Does then the identical self and authenticity
itself become a playacted role no less arbitrary than any other role? Does the term playacting imply a
conscious 'will to pretend', or can it be an unconscious acting? Moreover, what does it then mean to
pretend or lie, if the lie is indistinguishable from truth? Or rather, what does it mean when truth
becomes radically undetermined? To be oneself is a patently absurd proposition, yes. But what does
that injunction then mean in this changed context?

Is the self-destructive impulse inextricably tied to the imperative that commands from within to risk all?
Is not playacting implicit in self-overcoming? Does then every role carry a risk of being carried away?
Or is that very carrying away the essence of overcoming?

It is strange to read the marginalia of one once known who thought that I was truly known. It evinces a
fundamental misunderstanding both of the text and of me. Nevertheless it carries a melancholy aura of
the past, never to return.

All imagined images are the future in inchoate form. All questions contain their answers in a similar
fashion. Where I wish imagination to take concrete form, I can will only that the questions remain and
impel this coalescence and concretion of the imagined, dreamed future. Where once I knew, again I
know not. The unforeseeable immanence weighs heavily upon me and brings a lightness of possibility
that can remain ever only undetermined, indifferent and yet indispensable. Blanchot writes that radical
change has no present tense. I think, in this, both too much and not enough is said. Kairos is the
impossible inversion of this formula; the impossible present of the radical rupture.


Doppelganger – Last night brought us to an end, and yet still I hope against hope. Even so, my hope
travesties my love. But what choice do I have? Love, like time, can only be regained in memory. What
was most strange was that I had unmistakably experienced premonitions of this event, as if it had cast
shadows into anterior time. Not once, but twice I caught a glimpse of one who might very well have
been the doppelganger of a past love, a shadow of the past portending the immanent dissolution of the
present. These visions threw me into a reverie which ended with the event foretold. I'm now adrift, lost
in moments. I cannot piece together the meaning of these events; it is as if in a dream. Like hope, a
story would be a travesty. I want to lose myself in order to preserve the poignancy of love, however I
am all too much alone with myself.

I have embarked upon a journey where unto I do not know. I have for a long time longed to live in a
manner congruent with my thought. I am approaching a ground-zero of intensity that perches upon the
horizon. This ever receding truth is what I pursue. It is no longer receding faster than I can approach, it
hangs star-like above the horizon, illuminating my experience with an invisible sheen; my days become
moonlit. In the throes of this metonymic pursuit inchoate and half-conscious words flow from my
mouth, as though passing through me from somewhere unknown. It is as though time regained is to be
found in these intense moments, but not only that. Were my thoughts with my words? No. Prescient
knowledge flows from the moment, through me. Truth on the horizon reaching through me, pulling
me onward. In its grasp I catch a fleeting glimpse of that which is to come. That which is to come also
speaks in my dreams. I cannot see what is to come but I can feel its attraction. Magnetized now, I can
no longer stop. Am I any longer autonomous? Am I responsible? Can I answer for my acts? It is
definitively not radical heteronomy, irresponsibility and unanswerability. I can refuse. But yet, I cannot.
I have not yet even begun truly to act, yet I feel my future transgressions in the chill of the coming
autumn, latent in that thin air of the last of summer. Perhaps even a refusal would still lead me onward.
In fact, I can see it. I must not become blinded, I must stare into the sun and retain my sight. Into that
moonlit sun I am gazing through you. Who are you?

A Manifesto on the Renunciation of Truth in Love

First paradox: Contingency/Necessity – 20/20 hindsight is the rule constituting the crux of the
paradox. In prospect all is Contingency, in retrospect, all is Necessity. The paradox reaches its limit and
is truly aporetic in the moment of action. The manifold of possibilities that remained latent until this
moment is suddenly reduced to one actual state. Thereafter, the actual is that which must be, that which
must be. Reduction of the possible to the actual: this is also the reduction to the present tense of “to
be,” that denies the flux of becoming that is possibility.

Second paradox: modes of knowing. Knowing in the mode of the knower versus knowing in the mode
of the known. Subjective knowledge versus objective knowledge. All knowledge is refracted by either
lens or some admixture of both. The paradox arises in the attempt to know another self-conscious
person; the mode of the known is inscrutable and unknown except by fallible revelation, and this
paradox prohibits knowledge of another in the strong sense. Self-knowledge becomes paradoxical in
another way – in this case the knower and the known are one and the same. And if we, as the good
Freudians that we are, attempt to dissociate some portion of the self from the self that knows, we
return to the original paradox. We can thus only know ourselves tautologically, or in the same deficient
mode in which we know an other.

A peculiarity of my thought: an understanding dawned upon me while riding the train – I operate with
no regard for any conventional concept of truth. For the sake of communication, in everyday
circumstances I can certainly affirm the pragmatic truths necessary for mundane existence in a world
ruled by the laws of language. But always within is the crucial caveat held in reserve, that this is only
“true for...”

Caught up in paradox, a response: Love necessitates falsehood, or whatever is worthy of such a

moniker. Truth is, in every case unter uns, a bipolar agreement of divergent assessments yields a truth
valid for both. External reference be damned, the two are all that matter; and evidence too. Truth's
pretense to “objectivity” falls and truth and lie collapse into an indifferent state, affected only by willing
belief; or rather, willing suspension of disbelief. A carefully kept and cautiously guarded lie is thus
indistinguishable from truth, given that no other pole emerges.

And still the insurmountable problem: why is “truthfulness” the paramount and distinguishing virtue of
love? Why do we ceaselessly seek the “truth” about our beloved? Is a mere consequence of the
sovereign value placed upon truth? By what right is this value accorded to truth?

Nevertheless, there is no necessity to the value of truth. Anything might well be more highly valued.
Even the most pitiful, microscopic, infinitesimally small pleasure, even the most inconsequential of
ideals, can outweigh “truth.” A lie between lovers does not differ from their “truth.” Indeed, it is their
“truth.” Perhaps our truths are nothing but arbitrary pleasures that we treasure above all else, which
would be crushed by the weight of “objectivity.”