Too much, here, for anyone to read, that much is obvious. Too much – but why so? Why this too much of writing which seems to pour endlessly from itself? Morning again, the pre-dawn again, the curtains closed again: I am at the crossroads. Or it is the crossroads have returned, and that they have only ever returned. Why, on these successive mornings, have I been so close to what returns thus?
Imagine me, reader, on the other side of what is written. Imagine that, as though writing were a screen between us. Imagine that screen is alive with a kind of light – that it is made of skin, that screen, or a kind of living membrane through which soft light comes. It is to that light to which I imagine I’m close as I write; the light of creatures of the deep sea, the deepest creatures with strange fishing rods of light and glowing, macabre bodies. And isn’t it at such depths that life strips itself down to light and to the attraction to light? Or imagine a membranous creature dug from the earth: a land-jellyfish, but who does not move, who only waits, impassive, in the earth, glowing. That is what this writing is. That is what is shared by way of writing.
The pre-dawn again, writing again; the room with closed curtains. What time is it? Any time, every time. What time is it? All hours cross here; all of time is present here. Nothing begins, but everything is gathered for the beginning. Nothing begins – this is where beginning fails, where the day is curled back upon itself, unable to dawn. It is a warehouse of things which will not bloom and will not potentiate; possibility is suspended here, even for me – especially for me. Space without place, time without production. Space without dwelling and time which gives no purchase on time.
But still, what is that light between us? What is that light, like the milky white lens of corrective glasses? I imagine that what we share is blindness, that what we see is blindness. Yes, that’s it: the creatures of the deep, the jellyfish in the earth glow with blindness. They cannot see us, but there is sight nonetheless. Blind sight, sight subtracted from itself – you, membrane, are alive with what knows without seeing, with life as it understands so it does not have to see.
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