09.06.2014

My selves and my Ends. There are no other entities in the world I am more sick of. Why, they’re all Others’ others, too, too misperceived to persist, and too recognizable, too recognized to grow. No one wants a piece of the known, deep down. We like surprises.
If only there was no need to pull anything together, to assume Unity and posit abstract organisms as something concrete, real and socialized. To presume to “begin.”
We abhor beginnings. I am B’s alter-ego No. 5, a prototype in the middle of older selves, between Chuck, A’s beloved B, and the “expat-rising,”sunken into the substance of, or (really) with, travels, travails, toils and unemployment, job hunts, forums of rhizomatic pretensions, infidel lovers and irresolute dreams, bankruptcy, wasp stings and swollen hands, symbolic gestures of friendhip from other positing selves who really want to Get Close or Die. I am a substrate, the template for conflict and progress, the production of desire, anyone’s and no one’s.
Particular things as specific people (or perhaps vice-versa) is a horrid idea. The very worst practice. I did this decade backwards, I was a Lacanian in Saigon, and will be a schizoanarchist in New York. How is irony so precise, yet inaccurate?! I say the latter because matching ends reach objective irony, while others yield only the subjective, post-modern, double-framing sort.

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