We become other in the selving which finds a multitude of possible
roles for self. Is it not a type of amnesia? But if one chooses this as a
style of being, then amnesia becomes a way to partition to the self. A way
to experience other richenesses. This anecdote reminds me of a story that
Baudrillard recounts in an interview called Forget Foucault/Forget
Baudrillard.
It is the story of a woman who chooses to follow one man all over
the city and environs. They never meet, and he never will know she has
followed him, and quite literally everywhere. She pursues him over city
streets and on buses, she takes the train with him. Goes along to the cafe
with him. She watches his moves and at moments imitates him. They never
meet, and he never knows about her. Baudrillard I think links this to his
notions of history and simulation. No matter. What the woman is doing (at
least how I see it) is rather like the man you discuss, but what she does
is voluntary. She makes the rules for herself to create a space of
anti-anecdote. A moving space of no return, for there is no reciprocation
that will ever take place. Seen from some point of view, she might be
seen as mad, like the poor soldier.
There is no centre or moment, (one thinks of Yeat's line, "the
centre cannot hold/ mere anarchy is loosed upon the world") and that is
the source of joy
and anxiety, for the narratives we live and die for, have
multiplied and not been diminished or
reduced to one centre stage of tragedy, and further than this, we live
with Misfortune untold, unseen and never imagined before, and not
conceived yet
by the ancient Greeks....
So what Olessia Tourkina says below becomes a positive choice. An
upward multiplication of the self. We are without families as spaces
which
drift the works of light and there is no night where identity can be
anchored - that is to say it is like love - a love that is found by
abandoning self and other . It is like a love affair between two who will
never
meet, the space opens out from misfortune and public disaster to the
creation of an archetype. It then becomes an artwork, un poem. Names and
places in liberty. The open carnival, the road between the faces of those
who have never met. The person's memory is restored to create fiction and
love.
Clifford Duffy * All my words are on parole*
>
> So, could we search for one destiny or in a time of total multiplication
> our destiny is suddenly to be found in other places with/out familes,
> names, ruled by fantasmic images, lost in ourselves, became others?
>
> Olessia Tourkina
>
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