paratext: recombinant discourses

marking off the edges of a text / the space left empty by disappearance, the distribution of gaps and breaches, the openings that this disappearance uncovers / the break that founds (again) a certain discursive construct and its very particular mode of being / discourses are objects of appropriation / practicing transgression and thereby recombining danger to a writing /

I invented the color of the vowels! - A black,
Language is alive in the land of childhood.
E white, I red, O blue, U green. - I regulated
Since language and the flesh are not separate
the form and movement of each consonant,
here, language being real, every
and, with instinctive rhythms, I prided myself
vowel has a color. A is black; E, white; I,
on inventing a poetic language accessible some
red; O, blue; U, green. The form and direction
day to all the senses. I reserved translation
of each vowel is instinctive rhythm.
rights. Language is truly myth. All my senses
It was at first a study. I wrote out silences and
touch words. Words touch the senses.
the nights. I recorded the inexpressible. I
Language isn't only translation, for the
described frenzies. word is blood.
At first, this is all just theoretical.
But I wrote silences, nights, my despair at
not seeing you and being in a crummy
hotel next to you. I saw wrote down the
inexpressible. I fixed vertigo, nothingness.

Eugene Thacker
from "In Memoriam To What Is An Author - Foucault/Acker Paratexts"

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Festive 50, Week of 7/14/06

1.-50. "Just Got Paid," Rapeman

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"'Woah, why have I been fucking this piece of trash?'" -- Steve Albini

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Why Mira Can’t Go Back To Her Old House

The colors of the Dark One have penetrated Mira’s body
All other colors washed out
Making love with the Dark One and eating little
Those are my pearls and carnelians
Chanting beads and the forehead streak
Those are enough feminine wiles for me
My teacher taught me this
Approve me or disapprove me, I praise the Mountain Energy night and day
I take the path that ecstatic human beings have taken for centuries
I don’t steal anything
I don't hit anyone
What will you charge me with
I have felt the swaying of the elephant’s shoulders
Now you want me to climb on a jackass
Try to be serious

Mirabai
1498 - c. 1550
translation: Robert Bly