‘An unwieldy commitment to resolute, almost absurd darkness’. Blah-feme has seen into my soul, but I am not Shostakovich. Laughter: to produce nothing – no work, only comments where a work might have been. I’ve done nothing, I know that – done nothing and written nothing, except on what I could not do and could not write. Until what I’ve written is what I could not have written. Shame: I do not write, I unwrite. Shame: I subtract from the world; I do not add to it. Laughter: but by my very presence on its face is the world lighter than it was.
I insist on it, my own inadequacy. Inadequatio: untrue. I did not keep my appointment with the truth. And enjoyed it. Where am I? Who is making me do this? Should I be here? Am I the only one here? Why can’t I say what I wanted to say? I blame the day, old adversary. I blame you: the day, with whom I cannot come to terms. And the day says: you are inadequate. You are feeble, fallen from yourself. I will not gather you up, nor hold you in my arms. And that is what I want: not to be so held. To be told: you will not be held. And still the chance I might be held.
Actor, how is it I know you are not completely dead? When you have an eye open to see whether anyone is watching you playing dead!
Lars Iyer's Blog 