This is a book without imagination in it. Or, the only imagination in it involves a certain inventiveness with structures—a gesture toward the failure of other systems of containment (memory, etc): what is invented here marks an absence, functions as an acknowledgement of loss.
Admit failure, I wrote, start from that place…
Dedication: “ to those who, in their time of need, have been renamed” or “have been given nothing—except a sweeter name.”
Is there ANYONE here who hasn’t declared their “commitment to excellence”?! Do it now, get it over with…
The split between the page you read (this page) and my writing (2009) then typing (2013) it—the intervention of time. The secrecy of the process (I think it’s secret). These notebooks, all that time… Days of silence. Lines scrawled on a page. Avoidance and shame and pleasure repeated to dullness and the increasing pressure to “write” which is to produce some evidence of “writing.”
The method is not the subject or is it / it is shaped by
Ways we frame the world determine how we respond to it. Keep breaking the frame in search of the most fluid most present response.
Learning to listen to the quality of the mind itself—to listen for capacities and the resistance of limitations.
To learn to speak—to trust the exposed mind. To trust, and then to worry or fret about what is thrown off scattered given away—oh why not? You must… And yet and yet—what’s given away seems worthless.