Morning. Freedom to write whatever I please. But to write what? It pleases me to write, that is true – to form a phrase and then a sentence – to complete a paragraph, but what to write? The old dream: to mark nothing by writing except writing. To mark only the advent of writing, the ‘I was here’ scratched into the wall of the day. Then, when I look back, it is as though I left my scrawl on every day that led me here. Only it is not my scrawl I want to find, but a signature that trembles because it cannot mark the one who writes. The trembling signature: the name I write in order to sacrifice the name. I would not have been the one I am, and isn’t that the task: to mark the one I’m not, the one I have not been, these days and weeks and months?
Lars Iyer's Blog 