I cannot get it out of my head that this chronic and persistant despair I feel is either a personal choice which I am somehow making because I subconciously enjoy it (an addiction, like alchohol, which I deep down feel succumbing to is a weakness of will. At least alchohol is a /reason/), or else it is the influence of some outside agency, a compulsion from an external source. I suppose that is the nature of sickness, to be irrational, or anti-rational, rather. Not only is it beyond reason-- arbitrary-- it destroys reason and leaves wreckage in its wake. The trouble is this-- I am a happy person, who is depressed. The senseless and persistant pain, that is, the feeling of needing to claw my skin from my body and scream for-ever is persistant and at times overwhelming, but one has developed a way to, in spite of this, to take pleasure in some little things.

For example, Billie Holiday singing 'Summertime' and the light coming in through the bathroom window at the same time. It was very beautiful, and one could look up and smile acknowledging such. The trouble is, my entire life used to be like that, a flood of such experiences, and I took pleasure even in the claws and the darkness. But at that point, they had no consequences, and I was free. I had nothng but that with which one comes into the world, at least, when one is bourgoise, and I am decidedly that. It began to slip when I came up against the end of it, and I got used, as I am used, to not fighting. To tell the truth, I despise fighting, as much as I admire fighters. The effort overwhelms and makes one ill.

So now I survive like a woman living in Breslau before I kicked them out and set the place to flames (an action singularly charictristic of myself-- I will fight, but doing so is an act of supreme self-hatred, and I am furious with myself for fleeing at the end of it, though I know why I did). Never let it be said that karma is forgetful, She recalls all things. Her memory is that of Memory, and no crime nor blessing is unknown to her. Perhaps one day I too will rebel against the survival that my orgins of proper living has taught me to so deplore, and I shall go out in fire, fighting, and this time die as I deserved-- or rather, as I wish. I do not want to get into the issue of deservingness or no now, as it is infinately complex. No book will comprehend it.

I wish that the used bookstore had still had that Derrida reader I wanted, for then I could make a proper argument for the thesis in my head: a critical study of the Decentered Text in the context of Borges-- there can be no tangible Decentered Text for the same reason that there cannot be a map scaled 1:1-- such would be useless-- the true decentered work is a human life, and no text at all. This is why Nikolai Gogol went mad and could not finish Dead Souls.

But Borges probably already said this, or if not, he hinted at it.

Even in biograpy there is an element of fictionalistation, the same as inscribing a map on paper. Paper fictionalises, reduces to symbols. Perhaps I should not say reduces; but renders, transforms-- alchemizes is not the right word, for it does not dissolve into component parts, rather, it builds from elements. It is a simplification of complex elements, but the analogy cannot be alchemy or chemistry, which supposes that elements are simpler than the forms they create. Perhaps this is true in the sciences; it seems to demonstrate an observable fact, but it is not the case with lives, livres, nor maps. Nor metaphor, which is the quentisential map of life-- anaology and allegory. There are no base components to a life nor a land. This is why Sociology is a discipline doomed from the outset. This is why there is something lacking and gasping in the "pure" psychology. It is an attempt to alchemise something which is incredibly complex in its most basic form, and the components of which are meaningless and unimportant when divorced (or even considered) apart from the whole. As such, it cannot ever be truly discussed. There you have it, Jacques.

Under the dim flickering flourescent lighting.

Of my walk-in closet.

<<agé chose>>

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