Traumata: Sympathos calls Sympoiesis

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 the vehement burning matter, perspiring flesh of my suffering, 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 touch, as if something in me and not-me were writing on the flesh … and reading on the flesh, placing its fingers on scars that reopen and close again, each time 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 ventures between us, wounded animals of the forest: we are the nexus of possible Alphabet, yet unknown, within, without, far away from absolutes. 

Together, we work this matter, we—sympoiesis, 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 red rays of light, within, without, We—anagnorisis, 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 future 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.