Not even a beginning, I tell myself. Not the barest of beginnings. But still, in the day that began with writing, and that seems borne along by what began there, before dawn, there seems a beginning, a way of being braced against what happens, a few sentences being set against silence, arising against it, as, I imagine a calligraphic sign, drawn at a stroke, arises against the whiteness of the page.
But it is delusion, just that. Nothing begins here, but this isn’t why it is necessary to write. It is not even failure that drives me, though there is no question of my failure. To wake, to begin, and to carry the origin forward in beginning: just that. To have allowed it to speak, the origin, as it rustles in writing, passing like the wind in the leaves in Tarkovsky’s film: no, I can never say that has happened, not here.
What would I like to say? What is there to be said? Only what sets itself against silence and lets it speak. Only what lets silence and in its struggle into existence, the one against the other. Struggle – or play, one rising higher as the other rises, finding their way into a sky I would like to spread around me, like the seven headed snake that spreads its canopy above Vishnu.
A sheltering sky. But where what shelters exposes, like the slit in the nomad’s tent that is the opening to God. A sheltering silence, slashed in the walls of sense: not the record of passing days the prisoner keeps by scratches, but its opposite, as if every day was the first day, and 1 + 1, as is written on Domenico’s walls in Nostalgia, always equals 1.
Lars Iyer's Blog 
