writing is excreting. pissing, sneezing, vomiting, coughing, shitting, bleeding, writing. in writing, the menagerie of bodily fluids excreted-as-excess and excreted-as-foreign is given shape. molded, extruded, and excreted onto the page. writing is a liquid function of liquid minds.
writing-surfing the film of sensation which stitches together our presence in this cosmic texture, we excrete ourselves into oblivion. sensating and pulsating as vital organs vibrate and manic movements saturate this absent-frame called an I, writing excretes my I through my eyes through my fingers as the always-prior ricochets back and forth between itself.
but what is the purpose of this?
does writing have a purchase? does writing produce a purpose produce a purchase?
we are ever-pressured to produce pressured to purchase pressured to produce a purchase.
writing retracts purpose. the latter uncoiled wisely along the winding path of history.
writing condenses purpose. we write without purpose and search for a purpose after we write but the writing we write precedes purpose and forgets purpose. writing is to purpose as dynamite is to skull.
and yet, pushing towards purpose-for-others. christian-all-too-christian, writing must have a purpose – a purpose-for-others!
and this soporific imperative. what do we make of this?
purposes clog the drain of life-flowing-into-death of deathing life.
we are always filled with purposes. justifications. explanations and rationalizations.
where might we yet come across the purposeless ones?
there they are. frolicking and laughing in the dirt!
acting without purpose.
and yet, we are not children. would we be so bold as to claim our development has yielded no greater fruits than the purposeless play and total curiosity of a child? is not the child, too, the virtual partner to our overgrown purposeful living-as-surviving living-as-self-preserving?
Isn’t this the lesson of the film Children of Men? On post-apocalyptic Earth there are no children. what is the real tragedy here? is it the extinction of the species which childrenlessness guarantees? or, rather, the violent encounter with living-as-surviving living-as-self-preserving, with bare life disavowing solitude disavowing death. forever severed from vicarious living-through-children (they can be happy for us! they can laugh for us!) and our vicarious caring-through-children (we care for children as we could never care for ourselves!), we are abandoned to our own purposes, our own solemnity, our own solitude. what is tragic, then, is not our future death, but our present death. our transfiguration into living-dead.
the growing tension here, then, is one within the how of living. the tension between purposelessly playful living-as-dance, aesthetic-living, self-transformation and and purposeful solemn living-as-surviving, moral-living, living responsibly.
i anticipate more determinations need to be made here. micro-tensions drawn out and exacerbated. the tension can provisionally be articulated as the tension between experimental aesthetic play and conservative responsible moral-living. how to think the two and how to fuse the two. if we have slogged through two thousand years of Christianity, it seems hardly possible to imagine that its growths will be eliminated, and we are not even sure if that would be desirable.
And a final question:
If Nietzsche wrote, “Man is something to be surpassed,” and Foucault associated the Death of God with the Death of Man, wouldn’t we say the same about children? Children are something to be surpassed. The death of God is not complete until the death of Man is not complete until the death of Children. In other words, are we doomed to reciprocate between Manly Children and Child-like Men? Or might we find a way to blast through both, forging new bodies and minds for ourselves?