Friday, 22 May 2015

Writing may be 
dreaming as a glove turned inside out.

Reading and dreaming may be the same experience registering on different sides of the glove.

Yesterday I invented a memory.

Today I invent in memories.

Tomorrow I will test an invention of forgetting.


Max Klinger
The book is meant to stand in for the person. 

The book is an elaborated name.

Can we not all be named by all names?

The king's man is beheaded on The Kingsway.

This text is redacted on Royal Way.

Names and trails mark the passing.

In the naming of name, which is scored throughout the book; in the naming of the name, which is found in the reading and in the dreaming; in the read and the dreamt which sail together, so do a multitude of papers flutter to a standstill.

It is heard as the one to be heard. 

In standing still, a name is heard. 

The hearing of one name which is calling the full passing, the full trailing, the scratched pendant of person.

Stillness is therefore writing the whole book.

Of every fragment and every broken stature a secret task; to elaborate this statute which says: language.

Which says: that this dreaming and this reading may so continue into all that is done.

This dreaming and this reading may so continue, snagged on a nail, pulled off between teeth, dropped in the woods.

All done is turned inside out. 

The journey is always unrecognisable.


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