sliding, falling, gripping, tearing, straining, slipping, spilling and then boomp.  the concrete, the pipes, the cobwebs, the walls, the dim lights in the coridoors, the grey color on the walls, the door, the crack, the yous, the nots, the byes, the mights, the haves, the have nots, the roars of the trucks, the wheels splash splash splish splosh,  the gives, the gots, the dirt, the grot. have I endured, I have, I have not. I live I rot, I rot I live and  what can I do to stop the endless shopping mall. A thought to bear, an ear to there. where is there? is it the myth? an amazon of here or an amazon to there? and who are the butterflies, are they to the amazons a window to the door, brrrrrrrrrop, a crash, a groan, an empty solipsistic sigh, a wing fluttering by, I trawl the pages desperately in this electric sky, I begin to think, then I start to cry, and once i feel I cannot stop, I let myself go and cry and cry and cry and cry. but stop. I hear that the day has not yet gone by? sob, slam, crash, bang, watch-out for the grate, too late. it fluttered by, through the spoke, past the gate and around to which or is that who, what or why?

turning in circles is your namesake, ennoia. your name, yo/u/i/w/ennoia. butterfly advises… beware the traffikers of the unconscious. what does your dialectics say about oppression, or does it only speak about repression, which is down to you, witch-machine-cultural myth? inhibited action? what is your lost language? do you have one, too? is it witch-machinic-mechanism? the dialetical we we wee all the way home. where possibly, there are no butterflies, or amazons brazenly baring their body-breasts, only to be misunderstood. creative self-creative re-creative relationship to discourse. exclusion, difference, (re)appropriation, elimination. or shou…transformation…

your ill-fitting thought, perhaps lacunae, absences that signify…like glenuri, gliding backwards, with your head preventing your slipping into the grate.

@font-face { font-family: “Cambria”; }@font-face { font-family: “Lucida Grande”; }@font-face { font-family: “TimesNewRomanPSMT”; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: “Times New Roman”; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; } Is sorting out the answers to these questions an important part of the process of coming to grips with what is at stake now?  @font-face { font-family: “Cambria”; }@font-face { font-family: “Lucida Grande”; }@font-face { font-family: “TimesNewRomanPSMT”; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: “Times New Roman”; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; } Or rather, is it better to explore some of the informing assumptions of the objects at play here in an attempt to understand the limits of my capacities. It seems very easy to hate the greedy, the rich, the men, the monarchs, the idiots (who want to be like them), (the others list can go on and on), but to what avail?. Perhaps what I want to discuss are ideas or possible alternatives to this classical capitalist economic organisation that exploits, and how masculine subjectivities are produced and re-produced by the existing global economic patriachal order to continue on in this maddening deafening violation of humanity. (small ask) Perhaps what I really should do is begin by pointing the finger directly at myself and ( in a not so freudian tragic scene of dramatic mise on scene) say, “me?”, or rather “I”. Perhaps what I really want to happen in this action is to continue looking and speaking. To look at the role I play in this idiotic drama. To speak of why I just abjectly continue to perform this? But how to do this? I avoid mirrors like vampires. It seems to me that this objection to look is a response to the larger contradictions that lay not far beneath the surface. Contradictions. Loss of control, lack of confidence, the confusion that comes with the disfunction of power, all which need to be faced so the move to a multitude and then to singularity can be discussed, yet is this contrary obstacle insurmountable? Where to begin in speaking?

frison? why wont my computer go to frison, is it because it is american? if so, can I blame it, even I refuse to give a capital letter the respect it so deserves, language and nation states, who are they and what is it exCtly they want from me? is it not enough, enough, have I not had enough of them yet? Obviously not, not till I have expired and they have every last drop of me and I and he and she. well, smaller case will have to suffice and I set off in this episode of exquisiste live corpse to reply a reply that invigorates the I in me. and who does this me think it exactly should be? Be it I he they we she or ze? i think ze is a little silly, but why not ze, it is at the end of the fact-o-ry and probably demands more than me. well, aparently. so to the factory and outside to visit you and me, over the screen and not so far away, to run and scream but not away. but what of the seriousness of the day, buy, sell, eat, make, make, make, make….verbing verbal verbosities of vile vitality…away away away….from the screen to the sun of the shade. from the I of the me to the they. the I in me wonders, as the glow of the screen flickers, on and on and on.. what does time say? where does it stay? is it invisible or an endless relay? Should this situation persist, please please dont run away, and if time gets on your back, knots, cramps, pushes you, push, shove, drive it to the nearest homestay…. it is only a fraction of the great disorder under our feet today and it will abound if you make it go away away away, and when like the truth it comes bounding back. anecdotely say that someone said that as a lack, the truth hurts, and I desperately try to avoid it. to use the boring old one trick pony of hegel, i say that  avoiding hurts and I desperately try to make it my daily truth… so back on the train to the summit..over the screen and not so far from today. the three posh ladies laugh and why shouldnt they, like the riders of the apocolypse, they have their cake and are eating it as they gallop away, while I tussle and toil with time to give me less than more to be in love today….

why does it seem to be so easy to hate? to cover, to throw the first stone?

How do I consider others?

Me, you, them, us, she, he, it. Do they define a negative of to be? What or why is this difference so compelling? What is the fascination with otherness that I seem to have? Is this what may be defined as representational practice? Or, is this difference possibly the ‘spectacle’ of the other?  And are we not forced rather violently through culture to signify our otherness or for want of a politically acceptable word, to practice it? Is this not how gender is constructed, deconstructed and constructed again, with another I in another space in the heirachy? Practice practice practice? The performativity of being other requires practice?  Does this mean that I am performative in the sense that my practice itself produces a subjectivity as it is reflected against the practice of another? Or can I cultivate an “other,” that would defy the monologue of patriarchy and express, through language, a relationship between self and other that might expand upon this space?

Is the self site specific to its ‘other’?  Is it doomed to be produced and re-produced again and again as I?

δηλον γαρ ωs υμειs μεν ταυτα ( τι ποτε βουλεσθε σημαινειν οποταν ον φθεγγησθε) παλαι γιγνωσκετε, ημειs δε προ του μεν ωομεθα, νυν δ’ ηπορηκαμεν. [Plato Sophist 244α]

“I have long been (un) aware of what you mean when you use the expression ‘I’.I,
however, who used to think I understood it, have now become perplexed.”……

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and still i can’t find my voice. so many questions unanswered, they ring in my head till my ears ache. my voice trips down my spine, into the thick of my shoulders forming subjects of knots, this subject that subject, be this or this or this. but never that. be quiet, don’t ask the one question that locks in my spine causing paralysis of mind. and my back becomes a fortified wall that i hope one day will crack like frida kahlo’s. but so far it remains strong, my spine, the muscles refined and attached, still flinch at the touch

What should i say to you now? how was your day dear? such banalities that can never convey anything at all that i may think. i turn to my mind and it feels empty. how does your mind feel? is it mushy? my mind feels rigorous when i move. when adrenalin flows through my neurons, connecting, igniting. like i can wrap myself around my mind and shape it, mold it when i am in motion, connected as a part of my body. it’s almost like i have add sometimes, my attention span idling when i’m not moving, and then getting lost in the repetition of jogging on the spot. that’s when i forget everything. and i need a tuner to come in and stop me from revving too high, to stop the oil from flooding me too fast. so that my thoughts have time to ruminate rather than getting eaten up by the infernal machine. The infernal machine that needs to be fed, topped up constantly so that it can put out constantly. as if there is a part of me that needs to be shut-up, kept occupied, drugged into submission, so that my other sybil can escape unnoticed. The escape, all for the escape. why does it seem that one needs to be silenced so that another can speak? Is this the frisson that the french love to analyse so much and that the americans abhor?

ever so very clumsily, on a bright keyboard with a dirty screen, and I’m not sure that the words will be what the words promise to be and the books that should be so much more, aren’t everything, but sometimes, they nearly are, nearly, but not quite…and is love more than the what love should be? while I make these mindful calculations, a figure of a man and a woman peer at each other across a bright digital sky, asking, mixing, hiding in a colony, a studio, while lurking in a city were the subjects are subjectified to rigorous extremes, captivated by the sound of their own colony against a backdrop of self appointed and approved post-post-modernity… as I, a real silhouette, lie to the queen and all her good horses and all her good men, hoping she will never find me here, in my concrete nirvana, and put any of it back together again, but, as the choppers fly overhead, I fear they will find us, as they have done, again and again. and what of the fight, the big bigger biggest fight. what of the search for love? and how does the fight and the word and the voice find its body in me? is it somewhere amongst the array of the multitudes of zeros and ones that float in my head, it seems so surreal that the seagulls always fly by at night, squawking a pathway over our factory, always at night, keeping me awake, but I think its not the gulls, but the voices of shame, a shame of inhumane humanity, that I fight to not play a part of this game, of which of course I do, hypocritically so, but as my love already said, the greek gods play us perfectly, in their play, which continues to spin in my head.

…most of the time I don’t know what to say. i look across from me and i see foo peering over the wall of technology, i hear him speaking to me, but can’t see his mouth, just his eyes and his voice, trying to connect. how do i, ‘i’, begin a story? a constant expressive block that spans all formats. mass insecurity dogs at every turn. i don’t want to come across, as…and i don’t want to be caught in the subjective maze. nor do i want a big brother reality tv diary type affair…
bbut splintered, between a thousand must do’s. like the woman who has so much to do that she does nothing. like the woman.
so here, perhaps is a story about me, who i don’t want to write, to say, to be self indulgent, because of the guilt. self absorption is a cardinal sin.but father, i am a sinner.
As i think this, I can hear a plane over head. the other night, as i lay in my barely there little studio, i could hear a chopper, searching through the nite. and i think the future has already arrived.
and as i write this, in secret, hiding my inner most self of fear, i hear my lover walking out the door. going to do the dishes.
my barely there little studio is in bow, in the deep east end of london. i love this part of london. it is dirty.
i am part of a generation who works, all day, every day. i don’t earn much money, mostly i work for data miners who want to steal my identity and sell it back to me. but i don’t want my identity. i want to break it. i build my bank in the capital of culture, while my bank in the capital of finance remains empty. and still i serve.
Largely, i live in my head. in my mind i can pronounce all the greek gods, playwrites and philosophers perfectly. but they trip from my tongue like splinters. my solace is reading. words, books, voices, to try to help me understand worlds that vanish through my monkey fingers.

“WHAT AM I,” then? Washed since childhood in the waves: milk, smells, stories,
sounds, emotions, nursery rhymes, substances, gestures, ideas, impressions, looks,
songs, and foods. What am I? I’m totally tied to places, sufferings, ancestors,
friends, loves, events, languages, memories, all kinds of things that obviously are
not me. Everything that attaches me to the world, all the links that comprise me, all
the forces that populate me – they don’t weave an identity, though I am encouraged
to wield one, but an existence: singular, common, living, and from which emerges -
in places, at certain moments - that being that says “I.” My feeling of inconsistency
is only the effect of this foolish belief in the permanence of the “I,” and the very slight
concern I give to what makes me.