Like slamming one’s head against a wall to love … but that which is her is and cannot be there. I can’t say why except to a say there is no clear way, no clearing between here and eternity … she and eternity. Nope. That’s all there is, those that aren’t you and can’t speak to with or how of you. How are you>? I sit here wondering, typing. Typing, typing, typing, because the only thing worth thinking is that which you can’t concretize, that which is forced to remain a stranger to metonymy. We may all be signifiers, but I ride on no syntagm. Funny to think that the communicable lies between the two poles of incommunicablility, the real of someone’s tone of voice, the quality of their gaze, and the overabundance of information, the significance scrambling, the signifiance of metaphor. It’s in bed that metaphor and the real meet up; metonymy lies in a toolshed … that’s another room entirely.
The mother, the body, abjection, the father in individual prehistory, einfühlung, the imaginary, primary narcissism, the paternal, the unconscious, the mirror-stage, the object of desire, love, hostility, the phallus, castration, repression, the signifier, the Other, the ego ideal, speak, rinse, repeat.