Texts produced from materials obtained using Transformer OpenAI’s GPT-2 language models trained on works by French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan and my own texts. This is work is one half of a collaboration with Alan Cunningham, who entitled his mixture (his own texts and the same corpus by Lacan) ‘A Lacking Text’. We are very grateful for the support of the Art’s Council of Northern Ireland in 2020.

right. I have reached failure. this vague form of having ‘reached’. ‘neared’. meaning, a shape of ‘the realest work’ (or ‘being one’) here. (which in turns means, of course, that now this state of ‘reaching’ is ‘shut’ until this point where I climb. where I ‘ascend’. and BAM!, here we go, a solution: ‘easy’, ‘impossible’, hence ‘big’ (or ‘BIG’), altogether, ‘it’ being nothing ‘other’ than the ‘true path’. oh yeah. the true path. always the fucking path. never the ‘change’ path, one ought to note. hence. instead of a ‘transition’ (which could be something along the lines of ‘from less than ok to no less than perfect’, the paragon of ‘self’-investment, etc.), I now have literally no reason to do this. no reason within ‘reason’. haha. naturally. or, say, the no ‘idea’. naturally it feels. it. haha. connected to it all. yeah. linked to doing. which also means. not to ‘blur’, yeah, naturally. but to close in on the ‘self’. haha. to the point where doing this, in this way, is ‘forbidden’. for you, that is. ‘forbidden’ for you. as in. you know. the ‘nothing’, you know, in store for you. the nothing that you get. to do. the nothing that is left. of course. blah. and since you don’t. haha. work. that is. since you’re not. you know. since you don’t. ah. finish now. that’s the thing. the hopeless thing. the most unacceptable fucking. saddest. finish. thing. then. then. ah.


It could have been during one of my mechanical stepwise progressions down the stairs that the crux started to appear a little more worrying than usual. This was in all likelihood happening for the first time, yet had the distinct air of once more events. Or so I thought. For an instant I seemed to have felt happy, as if worrying could be power. Could it be power? I wondered. That is, might, brute and blind, I wondered forth, the dangerous thing. So dangerous, that some go as far as describing it as the thing that makes one stop thinking. Or the thing that makes one wake up to the stench of ‘No wonder!’, crying ‘Fool!’ before immediately falling back into the ungrateful void. Nay, the thing that would prevent even that, no thinking being possible in here, erasing perhaps even the possibility of waking, equanimously doing away with the fumes of consciousness and the milk of bad dreams. For short, the very thing anyone sensible would not fail to worry about. Yes, worrying thoughts all in all, I could not agree more, I swiftly resolved myself to think, before unilaterally shutting down all reasoning. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I looked for the entrance door. It did not seem to be there. That left me more than perplexed. How could it not be there? I thought I knew I was not insane but some of the questions popping to my head, while eliciting a fair amount of casual, stolid hatred among the guttier angels of my nature, did not inspire confidence. (Now an appropriate Canto quote: “Cut the cackle and do not believe ‘em”.) This reeked of a black swan, I could detect that even without lifting a single cognitive finger. How could a bare, unconfirmed once more even come close to this once upon a hell of a long time? And of all times, how come now? Thought-hares could have been started running. It could have gone down a totemic path: an agony verging on raccoonness. In plain words, the uncontrollable gnawing of a mythologically dexterous, facial-masked, and ringed-tailed hate, against the universe, against the self, the universe containing the self, the self mirroring the universe. (A not unusual scenario given the particulars of ‘mein gänzliches Ich’, my whole self, as my inner German Idealist calls it.) But fortunately the most forthright of my automated reflexes promptly suggested an outward thrust – ejection, ejaculation, discharge, regurgitation, eructation, flatulence – of the unwanted state, which, for self-explanatory, that is, definitional reasons, was deemed to be the very thing, the sought-after thing, the solution. Get it out while, at the same time, get oneself out of this (I dare say mess). For indeed in the case of hate occurring more hate can and does ensue, more often than not, with rather unwelcome consequences for oneself and others. Hence the necessity, in the event of the resurgence of ex-abominations, of the rapid implementation of self-driven measures of excommunication. (C’est le cas de le dire.)


(Hackneyed story, image I)

(empty) brain.
(causeless) mind.

(curt) brain.
(theoretical) mind.

(artless) brain.
(clusterless) mind.


The fact is, unlike previous bunches of magistrates (petty private lozengiers, lily-livered illiberals, less and less viable legitimists, or world summit warlocks), our present government in keeping has for some time been in possession of one stipulatory thing, whereby the superbold, especially those still in thrall to the Mysteries That Sum It All, must admit to be repeatedly fucked until becoming as juxtaposed as the Americas, as impossibly total as Eurasia, two necessary preconditions for remaining as incomprehensible as ‘it-speak’ – the macaronic muteness of what is generally understood to be the civil service of the North Indies –, which, for quite some time, although inexplicably, (is the pretence of being a great place no more than the decent resolve to treat one’s space as oneself?, and were that to be established, why even mention it?, except if it is only a question of getting us to talk about that in a politico or socialite sphere, leading to the predictable hurl of anathemas?, and all that despite the fact that the more salutary end to the question ‘How to come to terms with’ should not be, ‘Hugh Capet, Charles de Gaulle or Ronald Reagan’, but, ‘Chrétien de Troyes, Pierre Guyotat and Jean-Michel Basquiat’), which, as was being said, has been uttered, and, unquestionably, will go on being ‘unspoken’ – remember, ‘it-speak’ is muteness itself –, while war remains one of the weapons of choice of this and other groups. I suppose it was this thing – without a doubt a crown jewel of our prime-constitutional, semi-symmetrical countries’ mathematics, politics, arts (beyond the simple display of weapons), love practices (a litigious question that I could ask you to keep civil even if it sometimes happens that way sui generis), as well as extant principles (to refer to the exudations of those who are sat around the outer fire at the misty forefront of world literature: barons, indeed, of the one robber profession) – that would put even the bestwilling of us on track for centuries of bickering and betrayals, with entities from all over seeking compensation to boot.

(This explanation is aggregated and distilled from letters sent to us by de Clérambault, after the former’s self-inflicted month of respectively detailed and rending, tedious and humorous, debate and correspondence with Fliess – a two-volume set entitled The Developments of the Art of the Psy Thing: An Analytic Study of First-Object Retaliation in the Writings of St. Paul, (abridged), Saint-Étienne, July 1927.)


On Structural Imperversions

All of them at once
Narratologically sutured
Unto my Sire’s

(Never Act Unless Your Act May Be Programmed)


at least for as long as. if only until. yeah. maybe forever. that is until. but. but maybe at least it wouldn’t be too bad if. yeah. if it. no. it wasn’t so bad. or. no. weren’t it so bad it wouldn’t be. yeah. hm. maybe. worth the trouble.


(Mainland Chinese exchange students playing fake Consolatio Philosophiae exam games on mobile-friendly double decker trams in Hong Kong.)(Freudian hookers graffing BADIOU IS A PENISNEID WHORE on Rue d’Ulm walls.)(Virtual reality aerobic people tending to do rather badly with STEM girls getting addicted to reading and study in general while still harbouring their old soft spot for algorithmic theory and reinforcement learning…)


The meta-circle, aka need made mine (ipseity no less than coal). We shall put forthwith one more line regarding it just so that it may carry on existing, even if, getting down to the nitty-gritty of it, the circle cannot of course be conclusively destroyed. So far!, the opposition vehemently hollers. They may have a point, some are on the brink of thinking. In fact, but this they all ignore, the only second nature lethal (apex) enough (statistically at least) for the job is the one manufactured for destroying self-destruction, namely in the Sovereign Chambers of Myself. Little thought is spent exploring this thrilling hypothesis, much to the despondency of most, as it is to be realized, or perhaps rather derealized, in due course. Instead, after a quick kerfuffle, the discussion resumes. Without much ado, or much discussing for that matter, it is swiftly concluded that it is inner fascism that prevents outer fascism from being terminated (classical innerism in action). Or the other way around, the opposition bellows once more. Bloody outerists. Political discussions can be forthright, not unlike death.


For a few decades I was led astray by one naked quantity – reward points for ‘stronger’ literature (my top hat – I respect but never wear the bowler variety –, for one, would have had none of it).

To my surprise, I never got stranger (in a good way, read: a stagnating psoas reformed, rabid trapeziuses disentangled, etc.) than when I started being faked by trolls.


(Tools of Power I)

  • insanity-grade resolve.
  • (fancy old horror futures shadow market manipulation proficiency)
  • warlike vapour capture facility.


One of the most striking features in aesthetic fathers (a paradoxical one indeed) is their failure truly to listen to you in your own little burrow. (Or was that in my head? The quoters, the friends, the YouTube comment filterers and voice mechanics, all just as cruel and annoying as ever?) Most supreme leaders come to you: they on the other hand remain crouched in the absolute plane of canonical snow. How do they do that? How!? And, perhaps more importantly, can it be made to go the opposite way? (For too long I languished, fucked, deaf, because someone, PAH!, because some Theatre of the Other was watching over all things of my mind!) How about: just get technical, while harnessing colourless ideas of quantity and speed?


work & method
dream: fingers on crack.
(wall of algorithms)

work & structure
dream: boreal/tropical steelforest.
(swamps of exile)

work & desire
dream: slagdom unbound.
(pits of gaze)

work & stricture
dream: hollow/hallowed hardship.
(swamps of yore)

work & knots
dream: guts.
(wall of mire)


Structural slit:

Structural purloined bar:

Structural depression:

Structural chocolate:

Structural crevice:

Structural letter:

Structural pain:

(Disposable Ladder of Logical Wisdom)


Doubt tumbled. Still does. Feeling it tumbling down right now. And like every time feeling that. Maybe. Something then being said, along the lines of: once again?, as said?, as repeated? Sometimes until a point of of saturation. Things having been noticed at last. Examples. Every little timeliness of debasement; the practical, if declining, weakness of neutrality; the tepid tugging; the swampy in-between; the descent into, yes, that’s it, the right there. Somewhere down the drain, what now?, an amplitude?, a frequency? The one feeble, the other ample, for good measure? Or rather. A black hole? A brane? Too far, yet again too far. All of this as a result of an excessive extolling of the digging more deeply into things. As deep as resources allow. Something hasn’t been right. Nothing in the brain would have been able to produce such thoughts. Feet instead, perhaps. Perhaps. A few feet and a path, assuming that, as a test, working hypothesis, for now, until further notice. That and some grand old hole, Ockham be damned. Trodden hard, as hard as the breath when gas is scarce. Known only too well. As if through the door and along the whole plane of knots a treading towards this bare layer, towards the real. (I, entirely aggressive, and grittier than ever before, have thus dug myself a few good kilometres of tunnels.) (Who was it already who said you ought to consider an analysis?) (Can any such thing even be done at such depth?) (You would have been tempted to say it doesn’t even come close but for the stupid ‘it says so (BAM!)’ (you complain, yet at every turn the ‘it says so (BAM!)’ proved the best possible experience/thought/word/etc., way ahead of the less assertive ‘it mumbles so (Huh!?)’ or the quizzical ‘might it not have snapped so? (What now?)’).) (You know you’re onto something (quickly boring back to the subject of getting to the right there) when it slaps back like a partner. The one you respect, the one you project onto, the one whose energy seems to scream, Mine, Yes, Truly mine, Never to be returned, Never to be lost and regained, Enthralled for real.)(Then you know you’re at least about right.)


(Hackneyed story, image II)

work note to self.

  • (lattice game)
  • (ultracool machine)
  • (base sex)
  • (abomination job)
  • (self-destructive elation)
  • (human/inhuman lusciousnesses)


Question of craft, or, as soon as I say work, question of self-organization (say that as it is, or, at least, according to what the voice dictates, flirting if need be with the acceptable margins of lucidity), lest it be the reverse, answers through other-organization (whatever that means, but boiling down to the usual question): what am I. what is it, doing?


Interesting, however outrageous, that a famous writer can still come close to being perceived as a ‘hunk’, most likely due to, rather than despite of, a fondness for inaccurate Old English and prison jokes.

Interesting also that in the context of a medium-sized cooperative such as the European Union one can still allow oneself to dream of becoming as relevant as the grand-oldest of superstars (see above).


Object A

What is it in the unsaid that prevents me from undertaking the kind of analysis I need to come back to?

Instead, my apologies, everything is done in the name of putrefaction, light-heartedness,

and enthusiasmopolitanism. The Object A (“big A”) that comes into my head, with its eternal polymorphism,

is able to affirm its individuality in what provokes anxiety in me. To those

who may recognize the Gods of the Pantheon of Psychoanalysis in Professor Doktor von Pelzheim’s

excellent collection Novellen aus der Jugend eines torlosen Prinzlings (Berlin: Müllsack und Krampus, 1961, tr. Henri Lefebvre, Paris: Jetable, 1966),

the question of the end of analysis as the final diagonalization of the ‘/-matrix’ (“forward-slash-matrix”) in the analytic experience suggests

something at once more complex and simple – namely, how can the ‘better’ realize ‘itself’ as better ? Apocalypse, a User’s Manual.

I have made it clear and from here on it can only disclose itself.




At long last something that is that might as well not have been. Rather than the expected ‘what might have been but never was’. Or, even more dully, the ‘what if attempted might have been proved infeasible’. All of it because of a certain being stuck while considering getting started, despite persistent calls to drop dead, calmly but firmly, allowing for the optional shriek, ‘No matter!’, provided that it be as feeble a whimper as possible. Now, it may be tempting straightforwardly to prophesy that, this having come to be, it will never go away, or worse, as soon as it may have gone it would come back, reappear, as it were, its head as ugly as it is reared. Delightful thought, this vain musing about that which will never go away, and which perforce is likely to remain here, of all places, albeit out of the focus of some eye or other, if any is glaring, or to recede, or surge back, or even reemerge before diving again, this time hopefully forever. A slightly more difficult thought presents itself as it slowly comes to mind that some dare lump this sort of gobbledygook together with the likes of the reconquest of being, the ever personal happenstance of mishaps, the mysterious ways of others, the sly totality, of which, for lack of this, for want of that, I remain as unaware as I am of the proof-of-stakeout of the Real, followed by the thought that it would definitely not be me, bundling shit up like that, in ugly sheaves, really not my style, that I would never do such a thing, even in my worst fits of manic peppering of everything with predictable heaps of unrelated nonsense.


Still, the bit that broke did so because of the STEM thing. Back in the days, the days of writing this, as a human, that is, I stepped into this liking of ‘clicks’, of ‘Big Os’, of ‘synthetic dreams’, of the ‘open source’, or of ‘dataset preparation’. Would it not be for that reason that a reason not to break, not to break ‘it’, if or no if, was so difficult to find? But may have been nonetheless. It could almost have felt impromptu. Why did it not? Don’t ask.



down this

up that


is in now going to turn into something very different? from this meta-scene of mine, in my case? or will it be, on the contrary, and even if surreptitiously so, similar? it may all boil down to action, taken, not taken, attempted, unconceived, imagined, ill-begotten, that is, thought, tomato tomato, same adjectives apply, I suppose it may, and to what this does and doesn’t mean. the quest to solve problems, all my problems, all their problems. yeah. some real work there. some real practice. little unemployment. haha. yeah. however, ‘if’ some real work here, ‘then’, let’s be honest, ‘real’ honest, that’s for the worse. oh yeah. why? fucking fucking worse. always. but why? fucking worse worse. okay.


(indefinite) lack of direction (bad) in the
bastion of the (wavering) rule of


The Schema-monster

It’s the dream state when you’re in the hot seat and you can spell out all the reasons why. And if you’re in the hot seat, let me tell you, you really want to record those bloody reasons, oh yes, you want to write them all down, not only that, but you also want to get in a few bucks for your bang, hell yes, the curse of any self-respecting hot-seater – in fact, some go as far as arguing, this is the only way you stay afloat, seated or not, spouting there and then truths and/or the rest on tired paper skeuomorphs for months on end. The period 2012-17 was that, by and large. As horrorful as what future people will come to think. Remain in. Drop out. Remain in. They think they hate the tug of war. But, deep down, they know they love it. Soon after that, I die, and then, only then, others at last come to buy, and:

  • At first, they take many a picture of what is, unbeknownst to them, the very same problem. They try many different filters. Each time, they hope to find it, they fail. They repeat the process, they fail. Can they ever exorcise the devil of their inferiority?, know in their fingers the dactylographic order of the schema-monster? Nope. Darn. ‘Export thyself to JSON!’, ‘Subscribe to!’, the crowds yell impatiently as the same others keep taking more pictures. Here you go. Their demise couldn’t be any clearer.
  • After a while, they finish their business. In their profile-saturated brain it is as if it almost seemed to have worked. But I will emphasize just how irreconcilable the gap remains between their imaginary concept of ‘(national/cultural) import/export’ and my idea of a ‘nondeterministically invented dimension of reality’, and how it all boils down to this one irate thing. The schema-monster? Yup. Deranged, precise. That’s it.


This here. Always thought about, like the soon, as yet to no avail. Passive. Obsessive. Often weirdly to the point. Cassandra would be proud. Ugly, muddied, retreating into loathèd sameness. One thought still carrying it, or so it appears? No will, no hope, just this one thought hammering like the blacksmith that it is. Still considered a far too optimistic scenario. At times, screams. “Swallow me, sluggish void, I hate it all too much!” At others, disavowals, delivered with various degrees of solemnity. “Haha, man, where’s my shit today? Definitely lost it.” Returns to screams do occur. “What? No dissimilation, ever? Well, then, fuck you! Here, I said it. Sorry, not sorry.” Occasionally, ineluctable conclusions. “Same as yesterday. Or the day before. As ever.” Sameness, quand tu nous tiens! No firmer grip. Strongest of holds. Same obsession as above, same absence of avail. Despite distractions, which, make no mistake, abound. Take, for instance, the time-based approach to the plague of sameness, which goes like this. Asking the question: “What is the worst thing of all: the now, or the not yet? Ten more milliseconds? Or instead one more millennium? (As a manner of speaking: one more ideal length of time.)”, and if inclined to lend an ear to the Grreat Beyond, one is submerged by millenarist-sounding answers such as: “The despaired, the despicable, the rejected, the relicted, NO, the relinquished, the reified, the relieved, will come back roaring, rectal, repotted, NO, replicated, rictus-riddled, dawdling, doofy, their fingers fishing for Platonic narratives ideas in literary magazines girls quit reading in favour of Aristotle (‘marble six-packed headless busts hung on campus corridor walls, are you kidding me?!, it’s the ultimate philosexual combo!, I’m not giving an opportunity like that away!’).”, answers which are not everyone’s cup of tea, to say the least. But, as expected, there is little rest in store for the wicked, and even the bold who turn a blind ear to the previous pigswill may be faced with other forms of popular outpouring, some inspired, for example, by survivalist-ringing hogwash: “Do you want to stay here, brow-deep in the quagmire? Rot for the rest of it? I did not think so. Hence, your reaction should be, ‘Nope, do not count on it.’, instead of this renewed silence. I know what you are thinking. Temptations to hide far away behind this wall run high. But do not be fooled, this does not work. Walls are as porous as your asshole. Do as I say, and you may just have a chance. First, do not move. Ever. Otherwise. Otherwise what? Have you never heard of the leap? The leap? Affirmative. AKA the jump, in straight edge circles. Right. The big jump, I heard some call it once. I didn’t ask for details. They say it’s going to be all right, but it’s all bollocks, don’t listen to it. It only keeps the dream running, makes you soft, dampens your fear. They will come for you, and by then, if you are not prepared, you won’t stand a chance. Remember, your fear is strong, your ass, porous or not, will need it.” On and on it goes. Buggery. Ultimately, assessing the situation through the lens of detrimental health conjunctural risk factors (DHCRFs), batshit experts may be led to determine that it would seem best not to not work. And by that it is surmised they mean: don’t just work, work work! Pseudo-philosophically put: at last, work; at best, be. Simple enough.


better remain this sterile slug forever than to get downgraded any lower

better yet, be a billion time as screwed, as (un)spouting as the vast jellyfish of the deep rather than etc. etc.


No doubt the sky is a shield (even to one who opposes it), but celestial inclination is the enemy. And it is here and it is now. With us. The enemy. It is working. Oh yes. Day and night. Towards its ethereal goal. Oh yes. Nothing shall be anything but. Clouds and breezes. The high stuff. Towards this and nothing else it is working. Working hard. Harder than you. Oh yes.


the gnosis in the enormous cauldron of anti-French Europe is getting assertive


Aware of the fog in Venice. An odd state to be in when writing. I should add that this word, ‘aware’, despite being a fair description of what is going on, is not a word I usually like to use. I do feel that way every now and then, but by no means often, and I should say it is rarely pleasant. This Venetian awareness business was certainly not part of the initial plan, but so little of it has been spared the drain… So little remains, in fact, of the original blueprints, that there isn’t much for any want or will to build on. I spend a significant amount of time wondering how it is that I don’t ‘want’ to do anything. Were this all really about Venice I could wander along canals pondering this. Anyway, I didn’t give a very clear reason for this, let us say, waning, and that is probably because I don’t have one. This bit of unclarity may have been as much of a reason as I was able to provide in the current circumstances.

The absence of reasons has been repeated, like so many stories of old, repeated ad nauseam. I am still retching. The boring grey prose, littered with the same long examples of itself. This unshakeable aftertaste of lanky heirs roaming Gothic mansions corridors and conveniently silenced (deceased hence phantomatic) maidens. The silliness and the pallor. The dash of morbid drama. All in a strong neutral tone full of ‘if only’s and ‘until death’s.

Idea for the present. The want, the unwill, stressed as obstinately as possible, relentlessly highlighted, until its presence is not a threat any longer. Until it is the brush, the surface, the sweeper and the swept.


Somewhere in the grey groove.
Between peak and vale.
An inn with a spa. Somewhere
a ridge or two away. Amid
hail and war. A camp.


The sky is orange and all I can think of is my little servitude. Yes, I said servitude. Of the will, of the rest. Servitude, pet name for my tyrant. A curiously, almost charmingly circular notion. That I think of it as my tyrant is of no relevance. The true master always ends as the crumbs of its servants. This one, mine or not, fan of French toast or not, will know this fate also. From this Friedrichian peak I behold the long-term situation, whence none of this matters. (Nothing comes of it.) Something comes, which so far has only been the Negative (silence, or a reduction, for various obscure reasons, to this: a mere, an arbitrary, absence of absence).

A pause.

A longer pause would have been preferred, but could not be granted: the fingers need to be at it again, and kept on to it, at all times. Which begs the question, do I have to have them at it every second if I want to be free? What sort of freedom is that? It would be nice if I could stop for a while. Maybe that would save my skin. A fool’s hope, naturally, in the shape of one of the numerous, intense reminders of what I cannot do without them as I toil to make it all higher, knowing how crucial ‘higher’ is, at once wishing it not to be so, reviling the ancient torture of having to go for it, energetically, strenuously, but without forcing, without holding on to it, whatever it is. (I felt like a mariner the other night. On the cusp of a broader, more decisive outlook. All mists ahead, ready for the fathomable threat of waves.) Maybe instead of saving my skin I could come up with thoughts on my still all too succinct inquiry into the nature of the Game. Under Game, read: the industrialisation of desire; sexual strategies of self-alienation; the lurid lures of pervasive lust; ruthless thrusts for progress; orgiastic urge meet archaic abuse. Countless sadistic joys and woes weaving a brand new Bayeux Tapestry of fanaticism. Or you could just save your skin. (If done in style, it might just get to that point where all question-begging would become, there is no other word, stupid. Something close to what the mariner had known when in the throes of the writing of her novel, which was, incidentally, the point at which the latter became, it sounds as stupid as it is, a work. More precisely: the point at which it might cease to become at all. At long last. Something, when transposed to the realm of the individual, akin to the dissolution of all fiction, and conversely the utter completion of the self.) The point of departure for this fingers/freedom dialectic was, and remains, the desire to do this and that, however ineffectually, so long as some doing or other is under way. And the other even more more immediate desire to flee. It was not always the case but of late I am all about the outside, the wild trail, the quiver of horizons. Anything but this, the cell, the castle, the swamp. (She somehow successfully turned this illumination into something, valiantly stepping back into the yesterday-smelling scurrilousness of writing. She had wanted to see what it was that was truly fucked. She went for it. She discovered the most probable, cruel and fucked-up brawn in which the Turtle of the World is likely to have been cooked up. Still. She held fast, she ploughed through.) Why are they all still here? Maybe it is I who is too querulous to do something about it? Or is it because I cannot prevent myself from knowing that anything could in fact be ‘finished’, perfected in the telling, in the writing, in the imagining, while never really getting the knack of the how? If I’m writing for anything, it must be for this kind of possibility. And yet one can’t fail to notice that there is nothing. Just the bed, the cage, the cell, the swamp again. Despite the work, despite the tedious entreaties and the competitive soul sales, nothing more. All this leading nowhere, that is here, and what matters still ever so very far. Very possibly also me forgetting my life, but that is a detail. Not running any more. Not reading Hegel. A quick Great Logic fix would do me good. Please discuss, as for me I am not sure. Or I am just too ambitious, that is, too imprisoned. This cage, that wall, and, in lieu of the head, the thought machine perched on my throat like houses atop medieval bridges or alien spaceships above cities, all willed, all fuelled by the inexorable pull of the ego. However, I take pride in being able to state that I strive to stay clear of such murk and instead, in the glimmer of hope that remains, which is inarguably the spitting negative image of the present gloaming, I witness and relish the twilight of the “in the eventuality of the failure to attain lunacy, please try writing the same thing over and over again” rhetoric. I too will stop. Impossible to think that this could be too nice. An excess beyond conceivability.


lain doubt
as power


How easy they are, those moments (when somehow readable unavoidably misreadable but most importantly if completely unreadable perhaps at least proofreadable) when I think, “When thinking about you, what am I thinking?, what am I doing?, thinking about doing you?, doing you while thinking?, or thinking about doing somebody else?, just doing people, anonymously?, I should add that I ask you this, doubt not my word, from a place of hatred, and ask of course for no hate in return, oh yes, go on, ask the genius for more, oh yes, rub that lamp, now, more, the people want prophecies!” But they are short. Then the voice comes back. Seek, Reek. Remember. The two important things. Those two, they seem to me to be the core, if nothing else. One, there is no way. Two, the way, were there to be one, is (SUPREME GOOD FOR THE DEMENTED!) walking. However, walking is of lesser importance than (BEING QUA SHOWER!) running water, despite the fact that it is the very air, (FATHERMONGERING WAR OF ALL THINGS!) the world, the (MATHETIC NOUS SIVE NATURA!) quantitative we live in, taken as a whole. Things get a little more complicated if I have none of this air (I could be legless, and crawl on the ground as I do in my dreams), or if the world won’t have me (after giving the finger to wars and mongers alike, could even a half-decent fuck-futurist expect anything less?), leading, in either case, to admittedly weird outbursts of impossibility, that are as pesky as they are elusive (unfortunately empirical evidence points to various, incompatible, and, you could say, almost sadly, independently distributed paths to impossibility, even if now the only credible answer to where mine lies is ‘nowhere’, or, perhaps (in so far as from the furthermost possibility the Ixionic rot may metastasize all the way to utmost quality), ‘in the mud’). Anyway, I can’t say much more at this stage (it feels like any inkling to the contrary can only ever be a superficial, deceptive notion, and even acknowledging its existence will get me misled, or trampled on, and that will be, to put it curtly, the end of me) except that I really can’t find it, the problem, or the improbable root of the problem, either, really, or rather both of them, together, bunched, the snug little fucks, two for the price of one. And while I lie embattled with this, or these, the numbers keep shifting – not unlike the shimmering scales of the dragon in the old ditch, with the hilt and blade (similarly at times one, or the other, with a selfish preference for two in one), of some heavy-armed psycho’s sword busy ripping tummies (“Not an unvaliant chap altogether but, thankfully, chargrilled on the spot by my death burp…”) – while, I was saying, I lay about struggling, helpless and lethal, puzzled by the return of the repressed in the guise of psychotic number theory, you, supposedly, you, bask in the enactment of the interchangeability between the calculating fingers of one and the wandering feet of the other. You dirty little specular image, you obviously can, and off you go, to this page!, and the next!, and that’s it!, you hop!, effortless and frivolous!, knowing no trouble!, no sweat nor tears!, through the vales and under the hills you rump down the trickling cascades. And no wonder!, that I should be damned to find you here again, frolicking at my heels, sinthome!, agalma!, matheme!, for that place is very, very well and truly unbounded, yes, and far, that place where I am attempting to go, that I am attempting to climb, where you claim to vow to follow me, as I am toiling to ‘reach’ the peak within, the K2 in my gut. It is a place of might and decay, as one would expect, high and low, dispensing the shivers and the frights, your kind of dive. Very private also, you would not like that bit. I call it the forge. The forge?! Why such vague, old idea?! The bloody forge?! You disappoint me. Also, something is wrong with the the vain clamour of archaism. Problematic. Wannabe prophetic. It couldn’t be less you. But apart from that, sure, I like it, I won’t lie. Coherent with the medieval bullshit. After all, it is true that people have forgotten the old love for iron. Now I disagree with myself. Again. After all, were it even possible for me to live here or there, to fashion the truth of starts, to pass as someone real, to work together with myself, to do something actual, to come up with friends, then it might come to pass that I would be who I have become. (I don’t want this life, that’s a start. I cannot see any variant of myself fit for the life I know even after training. Some have tried that very last option, it proved all too dangerous.) A life like in the Ironbound when the Yank world was young… Something important. As important as tankers and gas. I’m really not getting the good stuff out with this novel. How to go from here to here, art of the detour. How to rebuild, to think and, hopesomely rebuilt, to know change, when it barges in, on tiptoe. Once done, and when bored again, as it may occur, as has to others, if the chronicles are true, you may be wise to make a movement out of this. You are not wise. Ptyxism. Not a bad name. Nice to have one. What would be its tenets? Unsure. Let me think. No. Name first, think later. For now. At best, it could be a beginning. At worst, a way in which every possible form could be stimulated, leading to wracking destruction (among every possible gesture, every possible thought, in the growing midden, it is this bare, simple one with no goal, the least remarkable of them all, which turns out to be the the perfect wake-up call for Devil’s kraken). Consider the destruction! Imagine! The constant unthought, the repetitive endlessness, guillotined!, gulagged!, turned into black pudding and fed to the pigs! Sure, sure. Beautiful words, but to what effect? Always down here. Below ground, as it were. Better breakfasts, depending on taste, for many. Stuck with this humming. Hum away. Hum on. Deep in the grey blurting. Empty images. Known disgusts. A dork in the dark, with no hope of being. No future anywhere. Nor any tense, really, for that matter. Don’t make me laugh. COMMENT AWAY SO LONG AS YOU DON’T LIKE. I was saying that you can make me laugh. Except this is not hardcore, and not even when said with the haha haha haha haha haha of Rrrepetition. Funny, although inconsequential. Let me tell you something. If in the end you do hear me?, hear me scream?, madly?, yes?, with all the failure, the nearsightedness, the irrationality I am capable of?, well, if you do, then yes, perhaps the madness of doubt, the farce of despair might come at last within your reach!


whitherward words

vague echoes of sleight-of-hand dialogue writing from an obsessively abiographical diary

(The Curse From Every Possible Angle)


Abstraction. Soft, dusty spot. If only it could be conjugated with the present… Would have to seem absolutely necessary. Not just seem. Be. Goes without saying. Does it ever

feel like that? Sometimes. Not always. In the meantime. At LEAST make do. No need to get upset. We all know there is little room for manoeuvre. At MOST. Yes. The symptom could tentatively be smoked out with banal shibboleths: “I

want to find a solution to my problems.” That sort of thing. “I will not renounce any given work.” “I will do real work.” That usually ends up being the oil thrown on the fire of the

absence of emulation I always swore my entire being wants to find.” Evil abstraction. ♥. I did renounce anything definite, any concrete trajectory, but

I may now have realized at last that this, ‘this’, abstract or self-absorbed, whichever it was, was not sufficient. In fact, my thought and writing, ultimately not much more than the psychosis of

WILL-TO-FAME and LIFE-THRU-OTHERNESS, at any one time, during the entire span of its inexistence, has been focussed on this ‘this’, in some way or other, and this without actual analysis, without

writing, without any other step, back, forth, internal, external, in any direction. Abstraction was hence the omnipotent (as it were, for it’s really been sterile as hell) ‘ruler’, and howsoever it should improve, or remain unconjugated, it will only become so or so thanks to something it other than itself. Let us say no more.


(Tools of Power II)

  • an air of fanaticism.
  • (an unfettered access to open-outcry fear derivatives trading rings)
  • a workable policy pipeline for waste.


The intimate interaction with the object is essential for us operating in it.

That this intimate interaction goes beyond any working relationship can be seen in this simple account of one’s sex in the experiential theory of the mastery of the master, where we leave our bare linguistic, material and spiritual day behind to chase a more vivid and confidential metaphor, that of a little black needle, and its movement either to, or from, language – a weapon so thin and a discourse so fragile we are bound to track only its shadow: tiny sharp clues of cum, sweat or blood leading us on the trail of the tip of the spear of desire.

This, however, is not object of our current analysis. Contrary to common perception – and I will not even mention now the evil slander mounted against our School – we have only been using taut language to teach our subjects, and nothing more. Indeed, one can literally only describe the ideas that we encounter and the concepts that we make, as it is known to us that from life to metaphysics there is but a single zone, this one field that, if treated as one piece of study, no other branch of science would have any strength to examine. Over this area of the world the Wing of Dialectic (considered the Domination of any subjective movement) hurriedly hovers, until reaching so complete a state of integration with said domain, so complex an entanglement, so thoroughly unfolded a sublation, that we witness the mutation of Being itself into a function of the world altogether. Nothing in this final landscape excludes the travelling Concept in its feathered form from the boundary of any doctrine, and that is the freedom which should, under circumstances deemed normal by the end of the Cure, apply to the Discourse of the Subject under the aspect of its relations to the world.

Thus, nothing that the subject experiences, in the subjunctive mapping of the positive and negative values of its mood to the spectrum of the domain of fraught relationships, can be an object of analysis, understood in the original sense of the chopping down of things into things, the familiar Aristotelian slaughter. For this peculiarly conflictual zone, or domain of antagonism, as it is often described, is not a whole made of parts, but something other, a dynamic and intrinsically disjunctive realm in which our perceiver questions and resolves the world, the realm where neither its objectness nor its subjectivity, understood in vulgar psychoanalytic terms, may be born. Indeed, I said other, as this realm is not our realm, but truly its own, the realm of its transgression, of its vision, of its dissociation, of its naiveté, in fact of its very failure to see any other realm, – most notably of course ours –, but ultimately also the realm of its possible exit from the trap of its solipsism: where it may find, lying around, lurking about, idiosyncratic, nontotal and diffragmentary solutions to its own problem. This other realm, then, is the realm that we, analysts, introduce ourselves into, by means of the language of the subject, in order for us to see through the other domain – the zone in which the subject codifies its being, from which it fortifies the immanent architecture of its self.

As a fleeting nota bene, remember that despite the importance of the latter, it is entirely and forever the subject, and not the other domain itself, that remains a mere construct and representation of the other. This is what needs to be examined at present. This examination leads us directly, as already hinted at, to the emergence, during the process of the subject’s construction of its realm, of the mechanism of defence. The defence presented by the subject is most apparent, and therefore easiest to detect, in the way in which, in the dual act of creation and exploration of its parallel zone, it renders its discoveries inobjective and asubjective, bringing about their transfiguration into functions of its own heuristic monologuing. These functions must be conceived as taking place, as any of my so-called students know, within the bounds of the Discourse of the Subject, which has often been interpreted simply as an expression of the subject’s exclusive attention to what cannot be seen. Beware of that grave mistake! There is no such thing as attention, nor expression, let alone any ‘simply’ of any kind worth mentioning, in our present enquiry.

No, what the experience of analysis teaches us is that, as the subject comes close to appearing, in the moment suturing the revelation of its structural prohibition to the manifestation of its individuality under the cleaving bar of the Other, it necessarily also signals to both us and it – the prohibition structure – that its – the structure’s – having been conditioned by itself – the subject – can only result in a run in all perpetuity along the Borromean stairway of its heavenly goals, and this even as the reconstitution produced during the analytic process spans the entire domain between what is at hand here and now in the locus amoenus of the session, and the crystallization of what is called the ‘normal revelation’ of the object, opening that slim but enlightened window allowing us to conduct ourselves so as to be the first to unfold the truth of the subject’s objectal distraction, be it through the reenactment of the punishment that it devotes itself to in lieu of self, the surrection of the description of what it fails to realize in its other zone, or even the utterance by the subject of its own Name of the Father as the one true entity that does not know who it is.

As the subject stutters along in the meanders of the Cure, it appears to formulate its own responses as one who knows the steps lying ahead, only in a different, shuffled order – an aleatoric succession of virtual events which, from its point of view, it initially does not understand, sometimes even without even an inkling of what is at stake, but, insofar as it grows more and more concerned with what it cannot know, it may gradually take intimate possession of, materializing in the slow depersonalization of its own discourse – that half-thinking which it knows not how to grasp but only how to verbalize – its resolve to structure its object within the very fabric of the zone of its mental form.

What are you trying today, then, you might ask? Let us make things even more unmistakably clear.

Once fully absorbed into the inebriating maelstrom of structural resolution, the subject is grounded at the outset in a zonal network, the soil of which exposes it to the experience of this sociogeological auto-migration of the layers of its Discourse of the Subject. In this point of departure, as in others, it is likely that the geometry of the subject’s matters’ downward and upward flows will undergo further transfigurations, to a degree remaining often undecidable due to the decrepitude of so many analysts’ mental network; but even in such cases, and despite having the most reasonable grounds for suspecting that we will encounter disaster at the first sliver of departure from either manual or doctrine, flow upheavals appear to be much more stable than what I have been able to describe already in my seminar on the subject last year.

At this juncture, as is already apparent, one can expect to find that the subject is overcome by the possibility of bringing the sediments making up the fragile mud of its subjectal object to adhere to the nascent topology itself – by the sheer fact that it is subject to its own unconscious, in other words that it is a human in full underground possession and under the full tectonic aggression of beliefs, and thus fully subjected to the oppression of stratified movement – which is made less possible if one only only believes that one is supposed to be lying about the image of mothers being the ossified ghosts of brothers. Beyond the revolting nature of this suggestion, one must not forget that the penile anatomical structure of the maternal intercourse has been proved irreducible to any form of brotherhood, this is now commonplace, by the ontology of our psychoanalytic system.

Surely you do not ignore that it is premature of you to hope that anyone finding out about this could be sympathetic to any of your concerns. That you seek to do so in any manner is almost inexcusable, so much so that I am determined to be given the license to take the matter into the School’s hand, a capital move that I am sufficiently prepared for without it threatening to be able to lay any claim to that space which is still for me the ideal of my own interests and of yours. You have been warned.

To conclude, the appropriate conceptualization of this alluvial sequence within the subject, at least so far as you deem me able to see anything in this murky business, can only be effectively accomplished if in a manner that I may have described in terms recalling my worst episodes of overindulgence basking in the fiery oil fields of psychoanalysis: namely that this is a sequence that takes as long a time to unfold as even the hastiest of terraformings, is replete with eruptions as volcanic, with rings of fire as pacific, and deserts as spread as any psychotic eagle, neurotic albatross or pervert salamander might wish for – a thought that is, as you can imagine, as satisfying to me as any can hope to be, notwithstanding any counterexample I may have observed to date through the action of allegedly sturdier or speeder subjects’ intersubjections.

What is this obstacle, then, that is both entirely obvious and yet so deadly effective in thwarting any effort to relate our endeavours to Freud and psychology in any simple way? That very Freudian thought which is the prime source of the dialectical idea that I am holding myself entirely in the favour of, and which constitutes the inverse of the paradox that my career has led me to experience? Finally, what does this mean for the community of our students?

What Freud taught us is that the intimate interaction of the core categories of the subject with regard to its own subterranean unconscious is sufficiently situated to warrant having the depth to contract a decisive relationship to, or nurture a lengthy interest in, such complex serenades as the form of reality, the endian type of truth, the impermanence of teleology, meticulously differentiating from these the strata of individuation, the impossibility of stratospheric belief, things thus grounded in the realm of psychical reason, the essence of which is precisely the form engendered by this object pitted against the limits of Freudian anthropomorphism. I am therefore interested to make this object that is there what it actually is, no more, no less. For this destructive impulse is not intrinsically noteworthy, nor is it a scientific feature of the original desire. It is my most candid feeling that it cannot form a desire nor take one for another. This experience is, again, sociogeological, and I believe this statement fundamentally to lie beyond epistemology, due to its latent determination to find itself a form of fantasy docked to the Real, more often than not involving a dead animal at its centre, through the corpse of which the creative pulsion can not only be addressed, for the object of their desire remains something beyond their professed beliefs as an entirely abjective one (or antelegible: from that time of archaic gore and prelinguistic all-against-all), but also be revealed as having nothing to do with the subject’s individual preoccupation as a blood-thirsty question mark, nor with what within it draws from the lava of the deep its stalagmitic essence as a sole condition of its own desire: I – pay heed to the hollow scream of the subject, for since Hegel it is only I in effect who may embody the problem of ethics – I make my own Id.

What does this feel like from the perspective of what I do?

And this point, a step-by-step evocation of what we have seen so far, plainly transposed into the routine of a morning like there are so many, has been suggested to me by an enlightened colleague. Consider me, therefore, from this moment on, the subject. What is the zone defining the obsession of my absence of soul? In other words, what I am doing actively today to maim the body? Every day counts. Have I been castrated since I woke up this morning? And if not, why not? Has some Godhead’s brooding beard come between my daggered arm and my filial penis? How does my failure to incarnate urfatherliness make more or less distant the moment to cut through the loops of my knots? Our intimate interaction with the topology of myth suggests that this question is not without its edge, one that the more specific, and perhaps also more irreverent-minded among us would not fail to answer by another, along the lines of: what is the penis, if not the ductile edge of the graph of the anus of the mother?

This would not lead us too far, but astray.

The centre point of the use of Abraham this morning is to be reflected about under the auspices of another reference, the Delian dagger, pride of our current League as it was in times of yore, which hovers over the head of our Multineuronal Alliance as if Damocles himself had been our main subcontractor. From the look on your terrified faces I deduce that you do not welcome this day in the life of the subject, mineral though it may be. What might be difficult to conceptualize for you today, rabid students of the Organic Left that you are, but, I assure you, that would certainly not have been hard to define as essential for the Second Coming of the Virtue back then, a rare common ground of agreement between hoplites and desert-ridden Israelites, is that it is the locus of the avoidance of sacrifice, and not its dreary, if supposedly modern, reverse, that is negatively assigned to the formation of the earthquake fault of the individual. Before you raise your knife and start pelting me with useless refutations, believe that I speak to you from vantage point of the latest advances of science, without a hint of archaeological equivocation. Besides, this is really one of the rare points where Homer and the Psalmist do agree.

I am pleased to see most of you have scuttling back into the dens of inner peace, and I applaud this shameless display of self-control. Now. What do we need to do, on top of what I have striven toward so far today, in order to deal with the rampant misuse of epic-biblical analogies among anointed members of the Order of the Symbolic Leap? Trust me, this is not the first time I dive in hard to establish in front of you a didactic sequence of the lubricatory signposts of my mastery over rogue literary discourse.

First, note the striking similarities between the first minute of this uncanny linkage with the hairy divine and the moment of sacrificial montage in which our characters first meet their indivisible part, on the second page of the chapter at hand, the Approach Toward The Elevated Crusty Portion, a prime jewel even in the pearl-littered meadow of this paragon of all pastoral books.

If you remember last month’s session, the first page had been instructive for what it means to be a father in the fist place – following the crafty analyses of our trusted guide in these matters, the sly yet anonymous academic critic wreaking havoc in the hallowed walls of this most distinguished institution, the University of the Arts of Old England’s School of Drama, one of the very few still to teach the most direct ways to play meta tricks on tenured whales! Following these wily analyses closely had allowed us keep the atmosphere of the chapter level with the purest psychoanalytic or anagenetic air.

What defines this air?

I have let you set this issue straight, which you will be able to do in our next interactive-speleological session.

In it, you will be able to come to terms with the fact that the intimate interaction with the object is a material infrastructure complex that can never be explained by Reason alone. An elegant more geometrico proof of this can be found in The Erotic Woman (London: Penguin, 1943) by the Dutch-Iranian psychologist Diane Ghamsari-Eckes. The proof is well worth your time, but keep in mind that the volume in its entirety may not shine by its infinite pornographic richness. It is an elaboration that only is sustainable by other kinds of psychology, and by that I mean by psychologues lying on the cheeky side of sensory canons.

We have introduced this topic to this assembly through a discriminate use of the modern dialect of said canons, which means perhaps a little differently from the most creative ways the English language is already being used in The Lancet.

The language that we shall see next year, starting today, in your dreams, will be an effort to craft names for the subject’s identity using the mining method that I mentioned earlier, as well as a phenomenon that I shall begin to speak about, a sort of desire-based extraction idiom that I created by using Serge Kegel’s style of practice.

In the longer term, I am going to show you how to use the the dialect of canons, and I want it to be an experience of the extreme, professionally speaking, in terms of the number of dialects, but also in the catalogue-like density of the canons themselves.

It will then only be a matter of time before you write on this subject as if you were yourself one of the three thousand and three canons that I am referring to, namely, the innumerable metamorphoses of the object of the subject, determinable despite how multifarious it is found in diverging contexts, which are, because of their demiurgic relationship to the subject, the Babel-fuelled languages of the symbolism of need.

And when, that is, if, you get to write on this topic with a bit of respect, it will be because you will take into account the substantial differences between the statements that I have made in an attempt to show to you why a certain subject is found in such and such convolution, while others are found never to attain knottedness to any noticeable extent. In a way that irreducible discrepancy is a real hermeneutic danger, which is why I have to warn you again in no uncertain terms against the specific impact that the subject has on its metaphors.

What is to be gained with this vigilance of every minute is an active yet, most importantly, unwitting difference between ourselves and those monsters whose resource is to to decide which schema to use to understand certain facts, a plague I referred to earlier in our discussion of the son-culling chapter.

We, on the other hand, can sleep-walk without a worry into the wide lands of the Cure confident of our greater knowledge about the subject’s lithospheric existence in the quoted dialect, so that we can gradually witness the creation of that domain with only superficial attention, spotlessly following the requests of any kind of context.

Finally, in the time I’ve been here, so long, you may sigh, I can affirm I have completed the essential sketch of the canons emerging from the latency of this book, defining the domain, the crust and the zone, with respect to the object, the subject and the personalization of the structure of its desire.