On becoming homo fabulans: on the efficacy of narrative
imagination
On becoming homo fabulans, that is to say, on wounds becoming scars…
The scar appears not when bleeding is absolutely dried, but rather when bleeding is converted into metamorphic matter, the matter worked through by productive imaginings, innovative connections and motions between images, making them approach a new body of language…
1. Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me not me: things past.
(yet past
right here right now).
Is it my mother or my father? Is it one, none, you, me, it? I become it. And the depth of it surfaces and resurfaces. Time-space and all cursive realities are stuck, summing up, fulfilling abnormal geometry. I did nothing. It just happened to me. Or else my deeds were not-me, not-actings of mine, but passions injected by extreme powers, striking from unknown. Deeds merge with events, powers from outside, disjointing, dismembering, disarticulating the body of capable beginnings. Me is thus magnitude of sufferings, no longer home of origin. Estrangement and alteration happen to me, abound in me, rule over me, without a proper line interweaving a sense of beginning and a sense of ending, and a sense of flowing in between. Estrangement and alteration because there is no shared sense of navigation, no common sea, whose tempests would be nothing but life-expanding, life-nourishing, peripateia to be named and storied, and eventually celebrated with all, brothers, and demonstrated to all, brothers, and reenacted with dance, all night long, as in the Origin.
No name names thee. It. It blows up. It happens. It encompasses all there is. The time-space and all cursive realities stop and become heavier. It is full of it. Violence of not-me—on, against, through, me. Flesh surrenders and opens up. It bleeds, without flowing. It is stuck: there is a blockade in the threshold: liminal hotspot. I am the closure where it repeats itself, reinforcing its law of intensity, its empire of intensity in myself—on me, against me, through me.
3. Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me not me: It.
This suffering is without Origin, sheer power of anarchy. The organizing force of my aboriginal place and aboriginal cycles vanishes; other gravity, unknown to me, operates. On, against, through me. It makes unreason, non-sense: the voice and the body implode, ground down. They plunge into muteness and paralysis. Or else they explode like unbounded, raw, high-pitch, vowels, too far away from language, sheer yelling, without Origin. Both muteness and yelling signify my dismembrance and my bodily self-deixis without signs. For articulacy requires the most impossible labor, a body capable of being held and gathered.
4. Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me not me, biting too much.
5. 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?
6. 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…
7. 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.
