an invitation
How do you understand the communicative force, or the necessity for understanding? How do you understand understanding and its role in, let's call it an overtly artistically motivated linguistic undertaking?
Well, I'd imagine it's hard to define what you might consider to be a linguistic undertaking that is overtly artistically motivated over and against or up next to what you might consider to be something like ordinarily motivated language. I suppose there's other modes like (emergency) speech acts or the informative form. One question I might return to myself — that which informs, disinforms, misinforms in the service of anther non-serviceable kind of information. The informative mode undermined by informalism, the will to inhabit an inhospitable space inn laanguage, to seek out the in uninhabitable within the unhomed, the homeless, uncanny of language.
But was I to take the word at its word? To take your face at word value. To take the word. To mistake you for your word. To take your word. For it. To take it on your word. To take on your word. To take you up on your word as it, is to let you tell me that it is as it is, and to run with it; and if i were to run with this dog gone train of thought, to hop on this train, to train hop thought with you, that would be to agee and say, okay: this is an overtly artistically motivated speech environment— alinguistic environment that takes speech as its as its vessel, and writing as its covert mode.
That this is what you're hearing now— what you're reading now, after it's been transcribed. This is speech that knows it will be transcribed and is thus already writing, not only through its awareness of its own futurity, but by the attitude it inhabits. What is a writerly attitude? You you ask me. I can hear your voice. I know you're asking me.
At this point, the dialogue becomes a monologue. But the the speaker, the writer, is imbued by and sectioned off into and absorbed by the other, the other voice. The one speaking is interpolated by the other speaker and the listener (who listens in the snow). The interlocutor is interpolated by the interloper.
The interloper is invited in. The mere presence of the interloper is an invitation. Unlike so many everyday situations in which my subjectivity, or at least the one closest to the surface of the socius, the recording surface— now, this is the real explanation (writing as explanation, explanation as explanation), the answer to the interview question; one one device falls away the other resurfaces; aa mask, the accoutrements of an actor, an outfit, a costume — In everyday life, I get the feeling that people take automatic liberties, or otherwise imagine that one's presence— to present: here again, preferring presentism over and against representationalism. Repressentism. That my presence, that one's presence, in this case, my presence, is an invitation.
Inevitably, it is, acertain kind of invitation, anyones presence. And we find our ways to be easy and agreeable, to agree to play the game, the language game of other people (between wittgenstein and derrida). No one makes the rules. We cannot first step outside of the game to define the rules, and then commence the game, playing by those rules, breaking them all the time.
The rules are always retroactively manipulating circumstances, setting the stage, giving shape to the particularity of the situation. To switch from the general mode to the individual, to individuate myself from the general, my presence, I declare — I find myself declaring in everyday life— that my presence is not an invitation. For what? If taken transitively, what objects does invitation take?
None. Personalized presence taken intransitively. I mean it with a period. It does not take the form of an invitation. It does not beckon or call for the other, finding a hardness there, and always working to dissolve this hardness, but not struggling with it or against it as much as I may seem to be emphasizing here. Becausein truth, the easy dominates. But by force of will, not by nature. Naturally, I think, if I'm making a claim about my natural state—which I'm also saying is highly denatured by the socius or the surface of my connection to my unconscious or an individuated connection to unconscious— in general i makae a habit of decoding totalities, disentanglinng tongues from this socius; my denaturalized nature, hence my predisposition toward the oblique, the incommunicable, the in-formal, the mode of incommunicability as a kind of celebration of the true and the real, one image of a genuine search for the novel.
And when one says novelty, there's cellophane wrapped around it, connotatively. But when I say novelty, I mean an encounter with pure contingency. The vacillation between all that vacillates. In the vast relatable—in the vast stream of relatable content, it is incumbent upon me to present an alternative, and in that case, i haven’t got time to test it, to see if it works, to learn of it’s nutritional content, like a new drug that has yet to reveal it’s ugly side effects. It's an unaapproved nutrient that should nourish one's own capacity to grow stomachs.
It doesn't fill the stomach to create a future absence of that same substance. It creates a substance that then generates a substance made of that same kind, that doesn't need the propagated vessel or the propagator or the proper gator. The alligator in a white tuxedo seated upright at the dinner table at the dining room table. After returning from the dance floor in the ballroom where he executed a square step waltz with great finesse. It's always my hope that what happens, all that is rejected, all that is negated, happens that way to give rise to a new son.
A new son. A fatherless son without violence toward the father or blame for any transgressions that are only vaalidated in the tragic mode or Oedipal system. But it is always my hope, implicit in the kinds of negation that I witness myself in relation to and in attending to, that these negations become fully what they are.
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