Out of the mouths of babes.
But Stavro you have entered into such a relationship, insistently, though I kept trying to tell you. Any relationship between youth and age is by its very nature unequal, and on both sides, whichever way you look at it, though youth is bound to win, if only because it is youth.
You keep calling me young I feel so old.
Retaining a trace of hierarchy however despite youthful demand although the horizontal coordination degenerates, according to the narrator, into useless chatter between I promessi sposi who will go on as if.
Veronica!
Armel!
You look more beautiful than ever.
Because I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you I’ve missed you terribly.
On a point of information may we interrupt.
Oh go away with your politics we want to hear this course.
What is this reactionary culture you’re dishing out comrade the bourgeois idyll is over you can’t perpetuate it for ever. The revolution is upon us which has been long preparing out of archaic flaws, bouleversing the boulevards back into bulwarks as the city opens up its legs to receive the flood of the vox populi. In the beginning was the parting shot.
And as Marx said personalities and events recur, the first time as tragedy the second as farce.
Revolution is only another matrix, dismembering the paternal inheritance in a Macte Jovis followed by fratricide. To eat is to be eaten for you too will be fathers dismembered and ammazzati.
Phooey. Rhetoric out of a lawsuit over property in Syracuse, a disembodied vox.
Revolution is not an institution.
We demand the abolishing of all idylls and a complete reorganisation of generating structures.
Truth is an outmoded institution.
Precisely. Words imply the absence of things just as desire implies the absence of its object.
Yes and discourse occurs only insofar as there is lack of sight, eyelessness is not a provisional state but a structure.
There is a flaw in the judas-eye.
Rubbish. Our object revolution is very much present, and desired.
It can’t be both that’s a polarity. In any case the punishment never falls on the euphoric term, only on the poor Yorick.
He’s dead.
Safe.
Words seeking to be true become false and inversely, words seeking to be false become true. We end up experiencing the feelings that we pretend, one can’t speak, or write, with impunity.
What set pieces of author dead dying and half dead are you dipping into like cannibalistic survivors comrade?
Look it up. Are not all idées reçues?
We demand the closing of all books and looks and the closing of this institution of learning the conspicuous consumption of texts with built-in obsolescence and a capitalist narrative economy now crashing into a middle-class crisis.
And who will close it, an arbitrary act of your fake authority?
Rules are made to be broken in an age that is earthquaking from evolving permanence to permanent revolution.
But from the point of view of the object exchanged the debit goes to the left.
You book-keeper, footman of the bourgeoisie. Close all the books I say. There have to be textual disturbances since you’ve all fallen back into the old ruts, regressed into archaic modalities that simply no longer exist and which can therefore no longer be imposed.
Hear hear.
Oh go fuck yourself.
Very good my friend it’s better than fucking your mother. Who do you think you are, bourgeois little boys dipped carefully into a bloody eye and swaddled in a castration complex to preserve the dirty little family secret that structures society each tale-bearer carrying his code in his mouth until he has eaten himself silly and soft and flabby? That way recuperation lies. We dip you you dip us in a permanent circulation of value-objects with always something added, ex nihilo, swelling out the portrait of the object instituted by itself as a value although its semes are false, with the moving signifier pointing to the falsehood but incapable of decoding it so that although long desired it is maintained in a pregnant plenitude the piercing of which, both liberating and catastrophic, will bring about the end of the goldicondeological discourse.
So that the fat magician lifts you up busting out of sequence to switch the lights to quell the audience he says dragging you out into the wings of a carnival all hierarchy dissolved although you scream not now not now see you later you-narrator the show must go on first we must change the subject find the missing prop the thirty-seventh veil the white white rabbit mannikin out of a black hatch consulting his watching consultant as he falls into a faint.
Meanwhile the timetable crashed into by the bouleversing bulldozers of society as subversion of the text has slipped into another, the talebearer has given birth to another tale-bearer, spokesman of a reality which merely seeks to appear true, separating the upper and the lower waters into sea and sky fornicating with earth in a death-battle with time for a trophy that drops into the sea and rises, feathered in foam, the signifier of signifiers beneath which the truth escapes for pigmaleons into its own depths, retaining its mystery, reflecting at the surface only the sky, despite the underwater plungers.
Iconostasis.
What do we do now, Jacques, the story of our loves has been interrupted again.
Coitus interruptus.
That’s not worthy of you.
No, I never like it. I gather there’s a pill now to structure the family which structures society.
The family has crumbled, together with Oedipus.
Unthroned.
O let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings.
And kings’ daughters.
Undroned.
Transferred to the other place.
A stylus she can’t cramp.
The anti-hero anti-rescuing her from an anti-monster in an anti-romanzo.
It sounds very negative
and therefore singular
and therefore replaceable.
We could clean up the dirty little secret.
Or abolish it.
All deletions in the deep structure must be recoverable, that’s a law, written up there as you would say.
That way recuperation lies. For you are not my master except by a purely verbal gentlemen’s agreement I am yours.
A trace of hierarchy however has been retained despite demand in an institution where the old learn from the young and discussion frequently overflows the framework of this one point. Can a point have a framework? All purely verbal gentlemen should be eliminated. No, every fact of language must be first analysed as a global, social phenomenon. And what about mere linguistic ladies we demand an equal right to elimination. No, to analysis as global social phenomena. You don’t have the floor it’s Jeremy’s turn. Oh god is he still here? Well very briefly I simply want to say the problem isn’t where you think it is. Oh it must have gone out then it was here a moment ago that means we haven’t got a quorum, the problem must be present.
And if present then no longer desired since desire implies the absence of its object as words imply the absence of their referents. Since we are talking about the problem it must therefore be absent.
Slipped through the rectangle of time
into a rectangular stanza into which you
enter saying once upon a time
there lived a credibility obitu-
ary black framed portrait as
an absent value-object of desire:
hence all the semic portraitures
that in the wabe did gyre.
So what do you think, should we kill off Larissa?