“The schizo knows how to leave: he as made departure into something as simple as being born or dying. But at the same time his journey is strangely stationary, in place. he does not speak of another world, he is not from another world: even when he is displacing himself in space, his is a journey in intensity, around the desiring-machine that is erected here and remains here. For here is the desert propagated by our world, and also the new earth, and the machine that hums, around which the schizos revolve, planets for a new sun. These men of desire—or do they not yet exist?—are like Zarathustra. They know incredible sufferings, vertigos, and sicknesses. They have their specters. They must reinvent each gesture. But such a man produces himself as a free man, irresponsible, solitary, and joyous, finally able to say and do something simple in his own name, without asking permission; a desire lacking nothing, a flux that overcomes barriers and codes, a name that no longer designates any ego whatever. He has simply ceased being afraid of becoming mad. He experiences and lives himself as the sublime sickness that will no longer affect him.” [Deleuze & Guattari, Anti-Oedipus]
.but must i choose between truth and light, untruth and darkness? you and your sickness affect me, and so what then of it, you prick. must i take part, too, so long as you are happy? your cultural bullshit makes a we of i, but then what of the you? before it was about getting rid of this dance, the pronouns, because yes, we are all human, but your little hurricane can play with notions of society and take off when and if you please. what is wrong with choosing society, with wanting it, to take part in it, isn’t that here, too? i live it, plug into it every fucking day, on the bus, i wake up, step up, into, and fall back asleep again. some days are better than others. spring comes again. a mud ball shines like porcelain. i would like we to be happy, too. but if it’s my neurosis, your psychosis, still wanting to accept, just “somewhere not around you.” my love is a fucking wall right now, coupled with half-truths, awe-struck darkness and the grossest sadness. thanks for the process.
Posted by 丫 | more »it has to be
the last weekend, or another day.
saturday, 11am – he is reading after cleaning the table. the weather disrupted his plans again, and now he only wants to stay inside. he was supposed to climb the great wall today, in a bid to fulfill a childhood dream before leaving his dream city. it’s only a former dream city now, after he has lived for a course of time long enough to discourage him with its indefinite sandstorm, its dog shit, its careless coughers. but before leaving he wants to make it to the great wall, not because it’s one of the must-visit places. he used to be a poet, crazy about all the pieces of mao style, and is always waiting for the time, after scaling the great wall, to repeat that famous line: 不到长城非好汉. he always believes if he fails to reach the great wall, he is not a (good) man.
saturday, 11am – he was trying to clean up, or cleaning up would have him. the last days were too much and everything had to go. yet at the same moment that something leaves him, another thing fills or comes to take place, like a fluid machine. he had lived long enough to want to forget, and maybe that would be okay for now, a tyranny of the unexpected newborn child. (“What was/is the purpose of this takeover? Can we accept a notion of ‘perfection’ in the flow of cultural/natural events? Can we presume that there is always a balancing tendancy to the equation?”)he thumps along to the music now, singing and dancing. but what (good) man will this baby grow up to be, a nomad, an anxiety attack?
es ist nur eine frage der zeit
it’s only a question of time.
the inevitability. the irreversibility. the waiting. the hope. the excuse.
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