Date: Fri, 13 Feb 1998 17:01:33 -0800
Subject: MB: Re: De-Levinaxiom


Edward Moore,

  Respectfully, what was the question?

  Are you, like MB, interested in 'an arena' beyond all critique and
exegesis?  Or do you see ultimate possibilities?  Some kind of limit in
what's possible?

  The reason I ask is I'm doing a paper on metatheater.  You yourself
mention 'acting out' as a 'breaking out'.  

  I got this feeling that when we feel [much as your post(s generally
make) made me feel] constrained for whatever reason against uninhibited
improvisation, that scripted lines, or memorized (because related to a
finite number) 'components' of thought, unable, yes, to penetrate 'all'
'things,' let alone be 'open,' although (because theatrical/fictional)
are not "called upon and utilized (expressly) in  moments of need", but
are therefore related 'to the survival of the individual' in a more
subtle if not subversive manner.  

  A mind can, in other words, correspond less then to those moods you
mention, 'allowing only a select number of types' AND is AT THE SAME
TIME necessarily less related also to that 'primal' state of solipsistic
emergence (at least on the surface) you speak of (at least on the
surface.

  Sorry (in a way) this is not in plainspeak.  It is easier to write
faster this way (right LP?), but I think what I'm going on about has
something to do with how we can read the most ludic, encrypted, or
singular texts (ecce Daniel Carter et pals), and addresses a conflict I
imagined noticing between Lucio and Ariosto on the Batman (sic) list. 
If what I'm alluding to is true, either of these individuals could deny
it, but I wouldn't be obligated to take them seriously.  I could play
dense and engage anyone on anything!  The play's the thing!  The irony
of Friedrich Schlegel, and Pirandello, in this way, can save us a lot of
grief (not to mention the weight of determinists who never ask
questions)!?!

  This is also how I appropriate Artaud.  Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong!

W/ a nod in defiance 
of the identity of chaos, 

Don Socha