There is no accounting for the way that I have spent my life haunted by details. These are far from significant. Nor there is any stripping them of importance, for they bore little to begin with. In spite of this, they have come loose of the settings in which I encountered them and taken on a semblance of meaning. Such is the carved motif glimpsed beneath the display case glass, a small hole in a book bound and filled by the hands of Hokusai. I know not whether this motif, perhaps half a centimeter in length, arose from purpose or later accident but I was taken aback to find its distinctive shape marring a printout from the university. From there, it took its place amongst the others that I carry about with me to no good end or purpose.
Parfois, en pleine nuit, on arrive malgré tout à s’introduire dans la gare par une porte de côté. En franchissant le seuil, le promeneur se trouve dans un espace qui revêt un tout autre aspect. Nul signe de la vie n’est présent et tout paraît en attente du lever du soleil. Il passe devant les caisses vides et écoute attentivement les annonces muettes de la SNCF. Pourtant, dans cette gare devenue une dédale, la seule manière d’avancer et de rejoindre la vie consiste à se heurter contre les portes fermées et longer les quais, pour finir par revenir sur ses pas et retrouver la première porte, celle qu’il aurait mieux valu ne pas franchir.
?:?? am: The stay in Berlonne, one-time royal residence, and its winding cobble streets and stone facades cut short by the vanishing of the companion from the room, sought at lakeside vistas and beneath the horseshoe stair, to receive a call at last before boarding the train. Returning to the room to find a map of early Paris, now lost to memory, a swollen Seine making of the city a smattering of islands and bridges, the palaces a necklace of dry land.
8:00 am: The dream provides still further confirmation of mechanisms that have already been observed here: the translation of real places into the dream, the infinitely generative sequences of which the dream seems capable, the condensation and displacement of real-life problems. Yet the hint of some other problem here makes itself felt. If the dream-logic is truly capable of infinite generation, why does it then seem to limit itself to the (re)production of real-world environs, e.g. humans, human language, buildings, cities and interiors? Undoubtedly, certain of these take on unreal dimensions, shapes and appearances, but they remain possible or, perhaps better, plausible. In what would consist a dream that had truly drawn on its infinitely generative capacities? A non-Euclidean space, the void or something else entirely beyond human imagination and belief?
With the hair that falls away, a self is shed, and I invent a new one right there beneath the barber’s drapings. Without a doubt, it is the old self who goes to die in this chair for I invent birth and calling, lands and tongue, as I go. Inwardly, I liken it in some way to sleep, to that old thought according to which the self awakens new and unknown after consciousness disrupted. I am merely less radical in my claims.
The barber breathes Arabic in his hair though the conversation around slips into French at times, long enough to glimpse the issue at its heart, a debate on the likelihood of finding by satellite paradise lost. The talk tails off for a moment, the length of the morning prayer, and he reflects on the irony of the foregoing, that what precipitated its loss in the first place might prove the tool to its recovery and new coexistence.
I have made my life’s sole purpose and end the crafting of the highest form of futility; I have gathered and distilled the useless with an eye to manifesting the pointlessness of it all.
His hand rested coffee on saucer, and, so, it all came down to this, the last hour’s vapid summary of Hegel distilled to a single bon mot. Humanity’s gift and curse, to make of something other than what it is, reward and scourge.