Now the body-without-organs is also the space where multiplicity
can nourish its happeningness. Its possible possibles, and while doing so
consciousness comes into gear, making the space of ego happen. Thus the
cogito, and the splits which follow. But there is no way, no western way
out of the cage of ego. So the lamb must lie down with the lion ie. in the
cage of ego and self. SElf is the preconscious space of consciousness
prior to I. I is ego without self, self connection. The rest, that is the
formation of the 'person', the personal comes about as the more or less
historic unity of the two subjects, the self and the I-ego. At least one
could construe here a notion of personality (while assured by memory) that
would not lose the memory of its origin as multiplicity-flow, that is
desire in the body-without-organs, or better said the flow which is the
body without organs which is the [to paraphrase G.M. Hopkins] Heraclitean
fire of the resurrection of matter. But not the 'resurrection' in any
christian sense. It is necessary to keep in mind the centredness and
importance of atheism in this notion of matter. If one does not watch
with a wary eye, monotheism comes creeping in the back door. Keep a-theism
always at thefront of the project to maintain the split. Only by
maintaining the split can the splinter be healed. 'There's nothing whole
or sole that has not been rent, for Love has pitched his house on the
something something of excrement' as Yeats says somewhere in a poem. One
has to keep in mind the Baphomet andthe Klossowski project. resurrection
inthe demonic sense. A single peril breath. Not that doctors of philosophy
no better. Ask the two thinkers: they will say, it is not our fault if the
writers like Lawrence, Miller, Beckett, Artaud, Kerouac [add Klossowski,
andwhoever works in your roster] know more about schizophrenia than
pyschiatrists and psychoanalysts? So it goes. I read Klossowski much of
the night, and travel south in the winter. In the summer I steal myself
for the bracings of the body-without-organs, and do not worry about the
ambitions of my firey friends and others. We all have our deserts and
cities, myself I prefer the countryside, where there is winter there in
the summer. The summer, where is the unimaginable zero summer.
Where is she, when she is at home, and I am in her body burrowing like any
water snake. So God is a lobster, and I am onion. God is a monster who
has buried night, at least it is a quick death, she thought. It was not.
It was not midnight, it was. It was raining, it was not raining. How
sweet the dirty deals of double paradox and series. So we couple the
riding tides, and steel our breath. I am your lover. Ta Ta night now,
night! Night! Night. The