W. dreams of a thought that moves with what it thinks, follows and responds to it, like a surfer with a wave. A thought that inhabit what was to be thought like a fish the sea – no, a thought that would only be a drop of the sea in the sea, belonging to its object as water does to water.
Pure immanence!, W. cries. Being thinking itself! What does being think in us?, W. wonders. Don't let these monkeys think about me!, being says. Especially him, monkey boy supreme!, that's what being says, says W.
A fold of order in chaos. A pocket – temporary and fleeting – in the formless void. That's what he dreams thought to be, says W. Thought, the pocket thought forms, would itself be temporary, fleeing, and open to change.
Thought would ride along chaos, not resisting it, not holding itself back, but riding with it, belonging to it as water does to water. And when it is finished – a thought, a life of thought – it should be turned back inside out like a glove, and it will have been shown to have only been made of what it would think.
The thought of God would be made of God, the thought of time made of rushes and pauses; the thought of space would ache with the distances between stars. The thought of tears wet with tears, the thought of thirst parched with thirst. A hungry thought, a dying thought, a thought of feeing that is all feeling …
A thought of the disaster that was itself as disaster: will that be our contribution? Will our catastrophic thought be a temporary enfolding of the catastrophe of the world?
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