<documenta X><blast> Autumn Fictions of ...
cd (cwduff@alcor.concordia.ca)
Sun, 21 Sep 1997 14:13:08 -0400 (EDT)
Franny had not seen Jill in ages. She was a lonesome assemblage
all by her selves the grievers. Night was a pair of toes in the love lorn
ways of women and other becomings. Who was who in this world of ebbs and
becomings? What was the reflection which cast all darkness down? Jill had
been away for so long and, there was no night left for the translator of
spills and lights. Other animals which crept along the predatory path of
desire, and desire's wheels. Couple to couple, safe house to safe in the
big city that is the way it went. Disappearing up the tunnel of discontent
and its civilizations, its telnet fractures of post-human trauma. What
could she do but see her way past the forest? Jill was holed up (no
doubt), in some room in the 25th. arrondissment of their favorite city. Of
discontent and enlightenment. Waiting for the revolution and other
becomings and nights that swore down the paths of sailors and one handed
lover life. Oh dear, oh me, oh my she swore and rubbed her dictionary
bare. What became of all the old translators in time, where did they go,
who wrote their biographies, these noble traders in words and things, in
puzzles and pieces, in astrolabes and building bricks made for rhizomatic
sands and wonderful pieces of bodies that wandered fleet into the night of
dream revelry? Part dream and part soft talker in the desire telephone of
the hope of the sixties, seventies and other old time memories of Spain,
Sappho, revolt, world wide 68's that never ended but created rather a
permanent revolution of spinning change, and exhausted young girls
breathing their numerous desires of wealth, poverty and love. To say
nothing of love, Franny was one of them. In all the Englishs she knew. And
all the space dictionaries which Mona had leant her in her time of
territorializing and deterritorializing. Something hummed at the back of
her head. Maybe it "was" Mona. Maybe it was Jill Deleuze rocking and
rolling in some secret pad in the city. The city, wherever that was.
'Cause no one was sure anymore what with space having been saddled down
and bashed to pieces.
So Mona finally called and said I need your assemblage, your
emblematic desire for forest and wood. I am your nomad in the between
spaces of your sex looming high with many tilted sexes. Many minorities
between your legs. Some dream I had told me you were there.
Franny looked at her dread calendar and realized sadly no one
had mentioned the anniversary of her lover's disappearance. Even
though it had been in 1993 he had vanished without a trace. What would she do without
him, and his molecular escapes?!!??? Would she turn to James the reader
in one last desperate glimpsing wish to see the truth. All that was in
quotes and she knew it. "....wish to "see" "the" "truth." "She" sighed
once again and became the pronoun of her selves, not like the proud
producing desiring machine of her absconded lover. Lover yes, yes! She was
captured down all the schizo grasses of her territories and french and
english too. Well it was time to go, she had to wake up her unconscious
factory, labour day was over and all the May days had gone to sleep.
Perhaps (mayhap!) forever, or foriver. Oh no, she said and suffering the
moment suddenly Jack was there, her boy hero, Jack Klossowski, and she
breathed the breath of him and sighed.
*****
Then a word whispered to her again. He was not dead, only
sleeping. Talitha cumi she said and he rose like the day in her arms -
love.
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documenta X Kassel and http://www.documenta.de 1997
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