Morning again; the pre-dawn again; this time I’ve kept the curtains closed. The room is an island that belongs to no particular time. The window cannot see me and I am not witnessed by the night. The exception – what it is to have awoken earlier than anyone! What it is to awaken upstream of the day and know its unfolding as it separates itself from night! I know at this time I am close to the gods and to my ancestors; here, at the crossroads the spirits awaken, and am not I, too, a spirit?
There are ragas of the morning, afternoon and night. Why shouldn’t there be a writing, too, that belongs to a time – or rather to a time that seems to unjoin itself from time: the pre-dawn? Who are you, exception, that writes these sentences? The one who knows that any life lived away from writing is a double life; the one who waits for his return and is no more than this waiting. For the appointment will not be kept; the pre-dawn is not punctual. What returns does not cease to divide time from itself.
Exception, will you always miss what you seek? But writing is also divided from itself; the saying of writing and the said are not one. How then to hear the address of the exception that would bear what is written here? How does it reach you, this saying? When a cat seeks your attention, it reaches a paw to touch you. How soft this touch! Barely a touch! But you are reached; the cat’s paw has spoken. Dream of a writing that would touch by way of what is said. Dream of a saying-touch that would reach you by way of writing.
The castle K. sees from the wooden bridge is neither strange nor familiar, neither remote nor welcoming; it is at one with the houses of the village. So it is with saying, the address – nothing other than writing, but other than writing. And isn’t K., by standing on the bridge, elected? Isn’t it that the castle has chosen him to witness its neither … nor? So too with the writing that elects the exception.
The pre-dawn: space without place and time without possibility. The pre-dawn: name of the event in which writing divides itself. Exception: name of the writer and name of the reader; who are we, elective community? Who are we, set aside from others and from ourselves by the address?
Lars Iyer's Blog 