From: Ariosto Raggo <df803-AT-freenet.carleton.ca>
Subject: Re: 
Date: Mon, 22 Feb 1999 14:06:53 -0500 (EST)


> 
> i work from a place so unfamiliar that i dont think i could read up to
> you....even with dippings into Bataille and Montaigne...with all his flaps
> and patches and kidney stones. i am still attempting to construct a few
> ground zeros for myself.  Not a what is language but a how is language?   
>  do the omissions and lieings that shape some of my
> movements operate as a sight to examine intentionality, language and
> subjectivity?  the body is not a text..i am not a text.  so tell me what
> do you think is happening in those moments and spaces between being and
> language (can language be being?) or the moments between language and
> another layer of interpretation...i need a story..tell me a story.
> stacey
> 

  I am tired of telling stories. why don't you tell me a story, make it
a fable, stacey ... "once upon a time.." anytime and anywhere there was
and then this happened but these obstacles had to be overcome like
reading more books :-) --think of the adventure as a quixotic ladder
but I am helping you too much. You tell me a story bring in Rorty and
that pragmatism if you want. Let's be practical and forget the ladder
and start in the middle somewhere, a clearing in the forest or a
deserted island in the open seas or an oasis in the desert of language.
There is so much outside language, in fact most is outside language.
Really, how much can you tell me with language about your body just to
pick a random topic? Almost nothing, no? There is these sand
dunes....made smooth by the wind and all the libraries are buried like
the remains of Ozymandias and you have these fragments that constitute
a start of something, I don't know what, but something of interest
stirs the imagination and there while we walk and talk and our
footprints are erased we stumble on Montaigne and see nothing but
appearances, illusions without depth because we have forgotten how to
read--each other most of all--and in spite of our dumb distance we touch
base with the elemental and I see your naked face for the first time
and that's all I sea... Undrinkable you remain until we learn to
separate the bitterness of your tears and quench our thirst for a
story, lies gainst time.... We don't know what brought us out here or
where we are going. The heat of desert has burnt our bridges and hopes
and we find ourselves without a project and that feels good somehow,
almost a happy semblance, a shining forth of language as a shimmering
wink... 

And then i do a reality check and it tells me I have to go to work,
Ariosto



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