If Language was not a game

Every day I lose sight of myself. Every day I feel as though ...

It's a good feeling. Maybe.

Artaud claims that all writing is pigshit.

He is right. He is also wrong.

To fall under no milieu, to be content with constant flux, to be only prey to the calumnity of history and yet feel no need to participate under its nefarious glare... a personal spiritual quest that is a means unto itself.

Autonomy? What do I mean? Create situations, navigate through the never ending excreta of human experience? Authenticate my practices, my reservations, my orientations?

If the mind could create its own space, materialize its own metaphysics, surmount a legion of the bizarre, the marvelous, a surrealism that offers no politics... I ask for too much.

I give too little.

I understand nothing, I find no problem with that. Why must even the innocent be subjected to the travails of the Reproduction? What do I mean by that.

Shall the brute, the glutton, the invert, the conventional, the ...

Fuck it. Even a blog is a source of much consternation. My sympathy lies in humanity. I am not sad. I am not happy. I shit contradictions.