obey: we ourselves were the unknown law that we obeyed. The renewedly original sin is this: I must fulfill my law of which I am unaware, and if I don’t fulfill my ignorance, I shall be originally sinning against life.
In the garden of Paradise, who was the monster and who was not? between the houses and apartments, and in the elevated spaces between the high buildings, in that hanging garden — who is, and who is not? How long can I stand not at least knowing what is looking at me? the raw roach is looking at me, and its law sees mine. I felt that I was going to know.
— Don’t abandon me now, don’t let me make alone this already-made decision. I had, yes, I still had the desire to take refuge in my own fragility and in the sly, yet true, argument that my shoulders were a woman’s, feeble and slender. Whenever I had needed to, I’d excused myself by arguing that I was a woman. But I was well aware that it’s not just women who are afraid to see, everyone fears seeing what is God.
I was afraid of the face of God, I was afraid of my final nudity on the wall. Beauty, that new absence of beauty that had nothing to do with whatever I used to call beauty, horrified me.
— Give me your hand. Because I no longer know what I’m saying. I think I made it all up, none of this existed! But if I made up what happened to me yesterday — who can guarantee that I didn’t also invent my entire life prior to yesterday?
Give me your hand:
Give me your hand:
I am now going to tell you how I entered the inexpressive that was always my blind and secret search. How I entered whatever exists between the number one and the number two, how I saw the line of mystery and fire, and which is surreptitious line. A note exists between two notes of music, between two facts exists a fact, between two grains of sand no matter how close together there exists an interval of space, a sense that exists between senses — in the interstices of primordial matter is the line of mystery and fire that is the breathing of the world, and the continual breathing of the world is what we hear and call silence.
It wasn’t by using any of my attributes as an instrument that I was reaching the smooth mysterious fire of whatever is a plasma — it was precisely removing from myself all my attributes, and going only with my living entrails. To have reached that point, I was abandoning my human organization — to enter that monstrous thing that is my living neutrality.
— I know, it’s bad to hold my hand. It’s bad to be left without air in that collapsed mine where I brought you without mercy on you, but out of mercy on me. But I swear I’ll get you out of here still alive — even though I’m not lying, even though I’m not lying about what my eyes saw. I’ll save you from this terror in which, for the time being, I need you. What mercy on you now, you whom I grabbed. You innocently gave me your hand, and because I was holding it I had the courage to submerge myself. But don’t try to understand me, just keep me company. I know your hand would drop me, if it knew.
How can I repay you? At least use me too, use me at least like a dark tunnel — and when you’ve crossed my darkness you’ll find yourself on the other side with yourself. You might not find yourself with me, I don’t know if I’ll cross over, but with yourself. At least you’re not alone, as I was yesterday, and yesterday I was only praying to at least get out of there alive. And not just alive — the way that primarily monstrous roach was just alive — but organizedly alive like a person.
Identity — identity that is the first inherence — was that what I was surrendering to? was that what I had entered?
Identity is forbidden to me, I know. But I’m going to take a chance because I trust in my future cowardice, and it will be my essential cowardice that will reorganize me once again into a person.
Not only through my cowardice. But I’ll reorganize myself through the
In the garden of Paradise, who was the monster and who was not? between the houses and apartments, and in the elevated spaces between the high buildings, in that hanging garden — who is, and who is not? How long can I stand not at least knowing what is looking at me? the raw roach is looking at me, and its law sees mine. I felt that I was going to know.
— Don’t abandon me now, don’t let me make alone this already-made decision. I had, yes, I still had the desire to take refuge in my own fragility and in the sly, yet true, argument that my shoulders were a woman’s, feeble and slender. Whenever I had needed to, I’d excused myself by arguing that I was a woman. But I was well aware that it’s not just women who are afraid to see, everyone fears seeing what is God.
I was afraid of the face of God, I was afraid of my final nudity on the wall. Beauty, that new absence of beauty that had nothing to do with whatever I used to call beauty, horrified me.
— Give me your hand. Because I no longer know what I’m saying. I think I made it all up, none of this existed! But if I made up what happened to me yesterday — who can guarantee that I didn’t also invent my entire life prior to yesterday?
Give me your hand:
Give me your hand:
I am now going to tell you how I entered the inexpressive that was always my blind and secret search. How I entered whatever exists between the number one and the number two, how I saw the line of mystery and fire, and which is surreptitious line. A note exists between two notes of music, between two facts exists a fact, between two grains of sand no matter how close together there exists an interval of space, a sense that exists between senses — in the interstices of primordial matter is the line of mystery and fire that is the breathing of the world, and the continual breathing of the world is what we hear and call silence.
It wasn’t by using any of my attributes as an instrument that I was reaching the smooth mysterious fire of whatever is a plasma — it was precisely removing from myself all my attributes, and going only with my living entrails. To have reached that point, I was abandoning my human organization — to enter that monstrous thing that is my living neutrality.
— I know, it’s bad to hold my hand. It’s bad to be left without air in that collapsed mine where I brought you without mercy on you, but out of mercy on me. But I swear I’ll get you out of here still alive — even though I’m not lying, even though I’m not lying about what my eyes saw. I’ll save you from this terror in which, for the time being, I need you. What mercy on you now, you whom I grabbed. You innocently gave me your hand, and because I was holding it I had the courage to submerge myself. But don’t try to understand me, just keep me company. I know your hand would drop me, if it knew.
How can I repay you? At least use me too, use me at least like a dark tunnel — and when you’ve crossed my darkness you’ll find yourself on the other side with yourself. You might not find yourself with me, I don’t know if I’ll cross over, but with yourself. At least you’re not alone, as I was yesterday, and yesterday I was only praying to at least get out of there alive. And not just alive — the way that primarily monstrous roach was just alive — but organizedly alive like a person.
Identity — identity that is the first inherence — was that what I was surrendering to? was that what I had entered?
Identity is forbidden to me, I know. But I’m going to take a chance because I trust in my future cowardice, and it will be my essential cowardice that will reorganize me once again into a person.
Not only through my cowardice. But I’ll reorganize myself through the
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