How do we begin in order to lose the plot?

Might be a long shot but
the philosophical cowboy or something called mannered epilepsy
an overachiever or the one begging the question
Or, whatever, Writing in strobe. To overexpose. To find oneself, through a flicker, in one spot. What finds itself casting long shadows. To be conscious of what remains in the Dark. Some black and white rendering while remaining in full color.

And if relating were a vector for looking then what?
And if reconciling were another?

And if the one begging the question would hold still would he be wobbling?

And so, E.T.'s ability to learn english wasn't formed by his mouth or ears - the quasi-mouth and pseudo-ears they write on all alien bodies - rather, by his finger.
So what if we were to take lessons from E.T. I mean How to speak with your finger? Maybe I've already been doing this. Fingering I mean. Stirring. Taking out the message from the bottle. But what else would happen if we were To point to and point Out. (e.g. to space out) To speak with our finger.
Maybe learning How to speak with your finger isn't so interesting after all. Maybe i don't feel the need to think it Through. Instead. To make a point out of Context. Alien logic, all that. Cosmic intercourse. To frame or to sit, suspended. Then, what else could we learn from E.T.?

Involuntary difference

I mean I have found myself a lot, forming, posing the texts having a fantasy to become a script. Maybe it was a lie. Maybe an excuse 'to make it clear', to put it to a 'project'. Maybe it is about the writing after all. And still, if it were a script, I wouldn't have to think twice to start looking for its image. Anxiety ridden, yes. Suspended by doubt, also yes. Some Blackeye to context. And if it were all about generating this Sayspace Fiction - a space where speech is addressed, where speech wants to feel Like a response (One, as a parody of Two). one that lacks. is precise with it. a space that cares for 'changing the subject'. wants to learn to think on the tip of the tongue. the index (finger). that puts the motive on a stick. that wants to become a blindspot, a big hairy one. a metaphysic blush. haste. has a queer need for speed. cares for the understatement.

But still, and I'm feeling quite sorry not to be able to be more precise to you. Maybe this has already been a very tiring thing to read. But maybe here and there some information got through. And I had taken up the idea to click send today. wherever i would end up.

memory as the first excuse. the dogateit.



I wanted to try to send you this text, message. Another bottled message bobbing the current. I mean is this the sound of opening-up? Or just what they call being caught by Default? A not. On one leg. Ok. I'm holding this tube right now. Making an effort Pointing it down. Slowly. Can you hear the waves rolling? Some rain falling? I mean I guess I could do some more weather Effects. Or just try to talk you out of the it. Whatever you want. But instead, let us hypothesize together. Let's exchange those If-so stories we've been entertaining all block. We never really met. Never really speculated together. Let's not talk about the could-be, would-be and all those americandream offspring's. Talking about the one writing you some so-so stories, in the middle of the night.. The one sitting behind his desk. The Alien trying to cash in on Romance. I mean if language is a metaphor for Sense, could the bottle be a sub?


And O, Blossoming parentheses. A sort of linguistic Romance. The bouquet you weren't exactly expecting to get. Now. Go to the door, at exactly 16:00. Open it, there will be a man with a bouquet of X. Take out the little card inside the bouquet. It reads: If parentheses can blossom, What would be the Compost? Some post-debris Culture on a string, some pathological Leftover or a worn-out worldview. A post-marxist, poststructuralist, postmodern, post-ist Culture. I mean talking about the desire that comes with the distance of the post rhymes so well with this Post-. (Some symptom for a time that considers itself posterior and secondary, a leftover of history itself. Quote Unquote. But what would the choreography look like and is it already happening? Me promising you Romance but talking General. Me fantasizing us climaxing but writing thoughts that cannot be easily fingered. Me wanting to sext you but sending you a picture of my but-and-what-about-That? Ok, forget that last one.
But it's a start. And yes, talking about speaking through the language and voices of whats written is exactly how I feel about writing in English. A language that likes to fantasize over the factual. When speaking facts, you can hear it panting.


Let's say, the dogateit. finding this message as if chewed on by a dog. Or How to get well on the leftovers. You know. the Subject as a Bad excuse. Let's say, I wanted to write all of you the same thing. A multi-headed receiver confined to a youreyesonly kinda reading. I mean, if Bathing is the image of melancholy, would suspension be the image of the Web? And if suspension is the new bathing what would it sound like? Some Oedipal Mothership? Or, Whatever might be called Spam. On Second thought. The reason something is an example. No doubt it queues. But I feel I want to click send. To respond and be eager in awaiting yours. Whatever it would be. You can take your time on monday after lunch, when I'll be having my session. Or you can just Chill. Maybe something will stick. I mean words is just a touch up, no?