At reunions.
Note the irregular pattern of the veins running to and from the mother tongue in jubilant slide of dream-substrates––to read a world through glass in fog of morning, the edge of bliss so sharp it cuts the taste of iron in the mouth––the bite of dying life to living ends, running to sudden thunder, the wicked warmth of hot irreverence, its backslap pummeling affection.
Is that you? When were we?
Are we the only two here?
Hello, friend. It is so good.
To read you again.
Text as body of bliss.
To hear the text as living, breathing being, not to be measured against the normative strictures of the machine, and know its will to bliss. To find a text on which you can never comment, because you may only speak inside it. As, whispering, you might say into it: mysterious stranger, remove me from my common notions; remember me back into elsweheres that I may be lost in the constant introduction to what may never be written.
***
Notes while reading Roland Barthes’ The Pleasure of the Text (trans. Richard Miller).
