... Requiescas in pacem, 30. November
By using each other, each other's texts, we keep on living,
imagining, making, fucking and we fight this society to
death.
Your words in my mouth, my fingers on your texture, scratching, ripping apart, holding together, caressing, your tongue in my cunt. Your body, my flesh.
Why write in English? Why speak German? Every language is foreign, I am foreign within language. I am a stranger, an alien, estranged, dead. I am nothing without language. Silenced. Muted. Gagged. Strangled. Dead. I am dead because language erases me. What does it mean to enter language, the Symbolic, the Realm of the Father? To speak and thence to write is to make things vanish. Speaking thus equals loss.
Why do I have to find my own voice and where is it? I wonder where the idea or the ideology of creativity started. Shakespeare and company certainly stole from, copied each otherís writings. Before them, the Greeks didnít bother making up any new stories. I suspect that the ideology of creativity started when the bourgeoisie made a capitalistic marketplace for books. Today a writer earns money or a living by selling copyright, ownership to words. We all do it, we writers, this scam, because we need to earn money, only most donít admit itís a scam. Nobody really owns nothing. Dead men donít fuck.
Phallic identity's another scam that probably has to do with capitalistic ownership. I does not exist. I resist to exist. I am not. I is not. I be not.
No one is more powerful than the world: you can make, but you don't create. Only the incredible egotism that resulted from a belief in phallic centricism could have come up with a notion of creativity.
Of course, Woman is the muse. If she were the maker instead of the muse and opened her mouth, she would blast the notion of poetic creativity apart. When I copy, I don't "appropriate". I just do what gives me most pleasure: write. As the Gnostics put it, when two people fuck, the whole world fucks.
I make up nothing: I am a reader and take notes on what I read. Whether it is good writing or bad by academic standards doesnít interest me. It never has. What is, simply is as it is. One must be where one is. The body does not lie. Language, if it is not propaganda or media blab, is the body; with such language lies are not possible. If lies were possible, there would be no reason to write fiction.
To write is to read.
