Unconscious Static
(April 15/06)
This is fucking mercenary, this inability to differentiate between substance and dreamscape. No signifiers: just the absence of a distinct signatory. The ego-less-I, sitting in the roar of thoughts thought without a signifier or a signified. Perhaps this is the other Other’s work, perhaps not. A tam-o-cantor, quail blue plumage, or a regent’s plasterboard with braiding and serge waistcloth. Another mistake in logic, one less logarithm to tamp into the ungodly Turing machine, cogs and wheels rusted into Derridian sift. Appearances are mislead, they seduce one it mistaking a caliper for a lever, a mortise for a pestle, a dry biscuit for a helot of day old bread; pumpernickel, rye—light, dark and ecru—seven-grain, no grain, prairie millet whet with barley, rice and buttermilk. If I had the option, which surely I don’t, I would hightail it out of here and be done with signifiers and signified(s) altogether. Fucking Lacunae and his jouissance, a symptom is nothing more than a mnemonic trace gone bad, a faulty transmission, an enigmatic message without a decoder ring, unconscious static. A patriarchal cockfight with a phallic understudy, a signifier up the nativity hole, for the jouissance of it, nothing more.
Lacuna can be credited with making a caricature, a satire out of the effect of affect. Reading Reading Seminar CSX attests to that, if one uses one’s decoder ring and doesn’t get mired in the jouissance of it all. Skillet-cakes and dry melba hosts, a wholesome panacea without the offal aftertaste and insipid whooping. I write this from memory; traces left behind in discordance of grammar, syntax and morphology. A cacophony handed down from one generation to the next; a not quite there, quite heard or listened to, the mnemonic origin of the original sin of language, the Babel that disjoins the signifier from the signified. The unconscious keeps us at a distance from ourselves, from one another, at the cost of forgetfulness and an intransigence that is never easy to misremember. I have trained myself to remember how to forget how to remember, and to forget the moment of origin, the originary sin of language, the wedge driven between what is signified and what signifies. All else is nonsense, hyperbole and linguistic hearsay, a staccato jangling, bedlam, nothing more than bad manners, heresy and lacuna. I signify nothing, and prefer it that way.
This is fucking mercenary, this inability to differentiate between substance and dreamscape. No signifiers: just the absence of a distinct signatory. The ego-less-I, sitting in the roar of thoughts thought without a signifier or a signified. Perhaps this is the other Other’s work, perhaps not. A tam-o-cantor, quail blue plumage, or a regent’s plasterboard with braiding and serge waistcloth. Another mistake in logic, one less logarithm to tamp into the ungodly Turing machine, cogs and wheels rusted into Derridian sift. Appearances are mislead, they seduce one it mistaking a caliper for a lever, a mortise for a pestle, a dry biscuit for a helot of day old bread; pumpernickel, rye—light, dark and ecru—seven-grain, no grain, prairie millet whet with barley, rice and buttermilk. If I had the option, which surely I don’t, I would hightail it out of here and be done with signifiers and signified(s) altogether. Fucking Lacunae and his jouissance, a symptom is nothing more than a mnemonic trace gone bad, a faulty transmission, an enigmatic message without a decoder ring, unconscious static. A patriarchal cockfight with a phallic understudy, a signifier up the nativity hole, for the jouissance of it, nothing more.
Lacuna can be credited with making a caricature, a satire out of the effect of affect. Reading Reading Seminar CSX attests to that, if one uses one’s decoder ring and doesn’t get mired in the jouissance of it all. Skillet-cakes and dry melba hosts, a wholesome panacea without the offal aftertaste and insipid whooping. I write this from memory; traces left behind in discordance of grammar, syntax and morphology. A cacophony handed down from one generation to the next; a not quite there, quite heard or listened to, the mnemonic origin of the original sin of language, the Babel that disjoins the signifier from the signified. The unconscious keeps us at a distance from ourselves, from one another, at the cost of forgetfulness and an intransigence that is never easy to misremember. I have trained myself to remember how to forget how to remember, and to forget the moment of origin, the originary sin of language, the wedge driven between what is signified and what signifies. All else is nonsense, hyperbole and linguistic hearsay, a staccato jangling, bedlam, nothing more than bad manners, heresy and lacuna. I signify nothing, and prefer it that way.
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