Writing says: I want to read myself. To scroll through my own archives. Writing says: I want no readers. ‘Off the scroll’ it says at the bottom of wood s lot‘s page. Post links disappear into the archive.
But now imagine writing bent over itself, reading itself. Writing whispering to itself as it reads. And now dream of writing reading your own archives (its own archives).
A million words, written for whom? For what? Can you remember what you wrote? But writing remembers. What do you remember? Writing remembers for me. But what does it keep?
Is there a way of keeping that is also a releasing? A way writing sets itself free? Imagine this: a reading as marvellously neglectful as the sun on the receipt on the car park tarmac. A reading that benignly forgets, that lets disperse what is read, and frees it.
That’s the kind of reading I wait for. That’s what they wait for, these words, written to be forgotten.
Lars Iyer's Blog 