Date: Sat, 3 Oct 1998 02:28:19 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: In those.... // 



	**********************Fictions of ....//********************
	In those days Orpheus had never seen his lover. She was death as
it spoke the wheels of moon and sun. As it went down dark and she was the
lights at the end of tunnel and it  was Eurydice who had said she loved
him with her figures so floating and standing.So he said, I am the gender
which passes. Past the night of figure and fragment past the fragment
which was a whole and is now a part; O Part part machine and desire of
which are you, oh sentence oh lover. He never saw his lover. They never
met she was not the night of space between the sheets of beds where lovers
woke. Letters flew in their stead. Some ghost rollicked their beds some
ghost distance - never having seen how could they hurt, how could they be
coiled against the precious night of something and more like that. Grammar
escaping each time. She met, and so did he and she left again heading for
the plane. But what was there to say, when the face that was a mask was a
face before preface and endowment of bodily desire? Was there to say
anything except old love, trying to retreat itself? Then the niveaus
flattened down and SheHe could do no harm.

	Jill said: First you lose your pronouns.

	Then you lose your grammar.

	Then you lose your body

	and mind.

	After finding them call me, and please make an appointment.

	I need to see students when I am territorialized.

	Okay, she said. I am her . I am him. So grammar got left

	before pronouns did. Or something. Like that.
	Then when you have seen how the logic of sense is like the logique
of desire, I shall introduce you to the phantom of shadow and mix. Got
that, she said. I am the becoming telegraph of your woman self.


	Five minutes later the telephone rang. Itwas Franny, she said: I
need a revolution and bad. Okay so let us meet and rhizome the whole
thing. Okay? remember Isabelle, remember The Moment we prayed by the river
for an atheist rain?? They thought I was something. I was not. I was not
anything that close.

	Jill said " Listen I dont want to write that book while I am
drinkign anymore. I want to know I am really there... my subject loss is
getting serious...."


	Then Mona walked in and said:Orpheus I love you. I want you to
double-bind with me while I disarticulate a plateau, I am sticking into a
plateau again. She means she has no space in which to rove or flow anymore
than a minute at a time. things get very fast and sparse down here. So I
see  you have a flattery machine going again. October must be love. Love
for you and me of strangers and other  lover friends that meet and not.
	Orpheus was Mother. OF all desire with a D. Okay. Okay she said. I
am him, the photocopy of your love. No way. Yes, way.It goes theway it
goes. No way. No way.

	Jill writes. I can't finish the book there are too many holesin my
way. All that counter-transfer is getting on my nerves. Mona says, Yes.
Yes speak to me my never never nerves are 'bad.' Tomorrow never comes. She
said. And came in his mouth. No way. Remember the Links Between Day and
Desire. And that day was something, something. Take a thing, a thing
microdot, blastula,anything. Where the covers lead. When I am your body we
always make love. Love. Take a thing. A thing, anything.



		*************** Fictions of Deleuze/Guattari & Orpheus


	So Mona whispered I am him when I am myself a picture on a wall
beside books which whisper hooks and desire. Oh scholar of schizo-whirls
and Blakean dream warmth. Like a silver plaster before a columnar hate. Or
a speaking sign before the  index of revolution. And the surplus of desire
shall be the plateau of amazement. And so your content will be an
expression and your nerves will always be the fragile health of the smoker
and the  man with kidney disease. And the child will be the birth of
Miranda. And the May 68 will peel and purl over autumn and fall and
Orpheus knows Sappho when the carriage makes it way. And DeSade falls on
the street finally understanding Pascal's wager, and God will not be let
in the back door because I am Jesus Christ Deleuze dying for all your sins
of schizophrenia and more, and the night will be immaculate by your
celibate chastity belts and the machine spits out more. As Mona meets me
in the hotel and we are poor and we scrap out the fleas which this Paris
hotel this flea bag hotel has greeted us with. Yes I am God some of your
time when I am not slipping into the false drunkeness of the street. And
it ten thousand machines. And Father Lacan will not beat the drum once
again with his the mathesis of material wellbeing again and again and your
lips sing by shores and lips. Like my cunt and its cell bound boats where
men come to play and lift their mythical games and the full fullest body
is my sharing name and the Jill that I was becomes the moan that you are
between the c and d of the gender that passes between the finest intensity
you can imagine and I am Professor Nietzsche at Sils Maria and the silence
is the silence is more like that moment when he stepped off the edge into
the future that is always returning always making my way easier and So
I Artaud have no mother even though the Dada could do all the Voices and
I do the Poets in different Voices and I am part of the Beat hotel when
your lips are kissing me like any junky's lips meeting her lover's in
the space of between and limit O my lover. She



			saw


		it was the edge where the


	allegory 


			was



			and there 


		was No Body



			**** Fictions  of JillD and FrannyG and Mona


		*************** CD. 1997-98



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