From: Ariosto Raggo <df803-AT-freenet.carleton.ca>
Subject: Re: the familiar you
Date: Tue, 23 Feb 1999 00:35:39 -0500 (EST)


> 
> not a jump or any kind of slide.  the story, my story cages a
> cageyness....it attempts to speak a faucet from which i cannot peg any
> lasting significance...only that it happens again and that it stems from
> lasting moments of undesire...a story about which i can tell no story...it
> interupts an evening of dancing in the basement of a club...where i went
> with friends often but always danced alone...a woman (once and still in
> some kind of collapsed spinoza time- a friend) watches me dance and i
> cannot dance to her gaze....i can have no intended audience without
> strangely nuanced modifications; i leave.  

  You just jumped big time and started sliding and dancing alone with
the oppresion of eyes all over you making your pores open up
liquidating your body in language... I can't help but start using
multiple you(s), split intentions... and another cut made in a piece cloth
now more patchy, more harlequin to make us laugh while I listen to
music, "all this talk of getting old is getting me down love... and I
hope your thinking of me..." and Bataille erupts from underneath: "we
need a thinking that does not fall apart in the face of horror, a
self-consciousness that does not steal away when it is time to explore
possibility to the limit" (AC p. 14). The horror that comes of course
from a useless consumption of resources and of time above all. The time
you spend reading me and the time I spend reading you missing me
missing you and boom! we are in the flow together, wasted beyond
comparison. See, how much you are moving lines along to nowhere, how
much do you think I value *that*? I like dancing alone of course...

>I move into a room with a lock
> on the door so that when i turn th lock i begin a ritualistic stillness in
> which i am not acting to meet someone...(YET i write to meet you-- the
> familiar you) i argue...it is only in the engagement with words...the
> typographic the aural insistences of mediated expression that the audience
> does not interrupt me...interpret me..(those words are never far from each
> other) 

  You acknowledge my gift to you reminding me how much I enjoyed giving
it to you and what fun i can have with it. Your suggestions already
inseminating the threads that will make up, give color to fragments on
black letters over cold corpse-like whiteness of reels spinning without
light projecting a movie gone blank.... That's how it works... we make
our dreams together catching what moves you and me and there find the
familiar you where me is more familiar than you since only now you
start to write in the middle somewhere and me, well, I write often
don't I and you moved to say something, anything, you slide near me in
your strangeness--unreadability...I want to scream Stacey... I smile
at the absurdity and clumsiness of such a mediation so simple like
laughter and... you know what's missing....

> a roomate watches me watch T.V. attempting to find inconsistancies
> between my words ...my engagement with a wordy being with that of
> reactionary watching of melodrama...the more naked instantaneous
> expression of YES acessability, YES vulnerability.  i do not watch T>V
> anymore.  INstead i sneak out onto the bus...the anonymous bus...and pack
> a lunch of fall apples...from which the summer (and industry) can be wiped
> again and again... code 4153 B.C Mcintosh 99 cents lb...look what
> information a job affords....i am going to the theatre the matinee in
> which i let a movie roll over top of words...i sneak into a second and a
> third...i am bathing..i am awash...i am not identifying or processing
> languagely; (can I enjoy more thouroughly my pragmatic self-refutation?) i
> am reacting...without anyone watching me...these are the moments i seek
> out...there are fewer and fewer eye-dips Ariosto...because on my desert
> eye-land the inconsistent inconstant i addresses a you...a familiar
> you...the once legioning nightmare of broken glasses and only texts
> becomes a way of life...on my eye-land i am blurry because the wor(l)d is
> blurry...there are no spectacles here.
> and what seperates affection from affectation?

  I don't know, this is where familiarity tells the story, you just
know that's all but you worry too much and so early in our
*correspondence* in the Latin sense of this word...the local idiom of
this list certainly lends itself to story time, lies against time, the
proliferation of semblance, appearances, make up time which is best
after a good and serious wrestling match, a good cut in the fabric that
says, "yes,yes  here I am and I know you..." which means you risk a
good grip impossible to put off... that's not mean just a touch to
sense the seriousness of a player.

ariosto
> stacey
> 
> 
> 



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