1.
Trauma: open wound: torn flesh:
something in me not me, biting too much.
2.
Trauma: open wound: torn flesh:
the soft tissue between my skin’s surface and my bones, the unified flesh, is
torn, deeply, by an intensive magnitude that disrupts the very system of
sensibility and sense. It is too much, a critical upper threshold of affective
capacity is crossed and at once the boundaries of intelligibility are traversed
as well. No sense makes text, nor fluxion, home of nexus. The texture is
broken, dismembered. It blows up: discrete qualia and discrete forces, strokes
or blasts, within without, yet unknown to me.
Are
these ciphers? Are these scriptures? Are these language events? Or else the
vehement material embeddedness of my
suffering myself? Or trembling fingers approaching and avoiding the open wound?
Or silence, within without?
3.
Trauma: open wound: torn flesh:
something in me not me: It.
My
body does not forget the frozen gestures and postures. My apraxic body can be
saved only through touching, as if something in me and not-me were writing on
the flesh … and reading on the flesh putting their fingers on scars that
re-open and re-close always otherwise, meaning other than being, meaning
possible worlds, re-membering the dismembered body of mine. This is too much: the
labor of blind people, writing and reading with their fingers … acts of
imagining otherwise than being… through extreme joint ventures: we are the
nexus of possible Alphabet, yet unknown, within without absolutes. We work
together this matter, we—sympraxis, we suffer together, we—sympathos, till the
recognition of our uneasy flesh with fever of remembrance and blood so warm on
the face, like flashes of absolute light, within without, We—anagnorises,
through catastrophes of unlearning my river, till the climax of blindness…
4.
Trauma: open wound: torn flesh:
something in me not me: It dances more than gods and their nudity. The mythos produces what it signifies, within without, we-sympoiesis: the alphabet opens my possible flames. It carries the joyful rite of
imagining possible gestures, my selves, and their iteration with you: gestures
that gather themselves together, gestures that hold and caress and sustain my
sufferings with you, my doings with you. The Origin gravitates around the
gesture where my body becomes capable of dancing.
Post-Scriptum: Be
hospitable to bleeding wounds and welcome scars. For they can be angels in
disguise. Angels speaking over torn flesh, moving towards language, almost
capable of being a dancing body, together.
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