Date: Sun, 16 Mar 1997 14:03:50 -0800
From: Lucio Privitello <lucioangelo-AT-earthlink.net>
Subject: MB: Push, Plow, Ply, Plush. 


|
|------ "-- all this is 'like a dream of the night', a dream
	 where the form of the dream becomes its sole content.
	 Perhaps one could say that the dream is all the more
	 nocturnal in that it turns around itself, that it 
     |---dreams itself, that it has for its content its
     |   possibility." (Blanchot, _The Space of Literature_,
     |   p. 267)-------------------------|
     |				         |
|--"Art- [...]- indicates the menacing proximity of a vague and vacant
|   outside, a neutral existence, nil and limitless; art points into a
|   sordid absence, a suffocating condensation where being ceaselessly
|   perpetuates itself as nothingness." (Blanchot, "The Space of
|   Literature_, p. 242-243)  |
|			      |
|			      |
|--------"Death, [....] is a task, one which we take up actively,
	  one which become the source of our activity and mastery."
	  (Blanchot, _The Space of Literature_, p. 96)----------------|
								      |
			      |---------------------------------------|
			      |
			And the harp cries out "Master! master!", and 
Jack runs away with the last treasure. Some would even call him a lyre. 
Strings of it were left off, plucking (Olimpia eyes) to a tuned "Pool of 
Tears" in Alice'd adventure; yet from that too/(two), I turn to six of 
"...What Alice Found There", (and as through a looking glass), echoes of 
"'Master! Master!'" call back to Nathanael's dive from behind the 
curtain, while Alice thought: "He talks about it just as if it was a 
game!" How many tales from the nursery of language can 'IT' speak? This, 
bit of Push, Plow, Ply, Plush, reads, from the "poste restante" (seen 
here as a "ratalage porte/ponte/poste"); were water is still to be sipped 
>from the Lycian Well.[see, Sophocles, _Philoctetes_.] Even if they are 
indeed pooled from the Niobean characteristics of theory. Yet, what is 
still so "uncanny" is that dust is kicked up from such exiles. (One must 
recall Blanchot: "Whoever writes is exiled from writing,............"_The 
Writing of the Disaster_, p. 63), while again "When all is said, what 
remains to be said is the disaster. Ruin of words, demise 
writing,.....(ibid., p. 33), and there, like a 'suspended sovereignty' (a 
woof of why the warp still weaves Bataille/Blanchot so(wn) taut), a 
writing that writes as unsettling dust wrought from the travels of the 
disaster that calls it back up as one's breath. To write burying oneself 
alive? "Buried Alive"? (see, _The Archtectural Uncanny_, Vidler, 1992, 
pp. 45-55). Or Philoctetes' 'nine years dying'? Et Freud? Both threads 
could lead us to vol. XVII, again, from where primal, was not primal 
enough, and to where unfolding, twisted end-to-end, we Mobeius along - 
ustDisaster - retsasiDust - (D-ust-isaster--D-isaster-ust), speaking 
alacantocnapee (or alacantone,, or alacantometomb).  

"Phusis Kruptesthai philei"
Frag. 123, Heraclitus).
'L'hommoinzun',
Lucio Angelo Privitello