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Writing is a kind of schizophrenia. There are multiple selves and voices cast across varying fields of space and time, building the relationship between the subject and the space that defines and describes both – the language one uses to paint the space of the subject.

I cannot separate the language of the object from the object itself. They are the same phenomenon as far as my consciousness is concerned.

I dreamed, half dreamed, that I ate breakfast twice before I woke fully and actually did.

The discourse, the architecture, the language of space remembers the first time I became aware of presence. In the mirror, I took up space, consumed it – or defined it.

There is violence in being read. Signify me and my disparate parts. The house my father built.

I am traced. I am imprinted by him. Not him, but the words I use to remember him, to know him, and therefore, know me, curled beneath his drawing board, listening to his pencil scratch the paper.

Writing in circles. Inspiration is theft.

Beyond this moment there are only words.

Define presence.

Define space.

Define schizophrenia.

Displace and dissect. Layers, levels, process realized in violence, defined here in sound, cacophony, radiant voices, translated into stone, steel, wood.

In the house my father built, my skin breaks and my words pour over, extending to the ceiling flooding every corner, revealing every crevice.


The words I will become. The words I will become, that I will be remembered by – the space I will occupy.


Language is divine possession (Takolander, p. 169).  To exceed, transform, trespass.

The space of language, the realm – alien voids, otherness, scales of difference weighted by perception.

I imagine language as a parasite, a distinct life form that “colonizes” human brains to “reproduce” (ibid, p. 169).

Language is an infestation, an infection – like an idea.

Within contemporary thought and culture – even in film, where “ideas” are translated into a kind of infectious disease that can be experience and ransomed but never erradicated, never cured.

Constant translation between the expression of the idea and the words that define or explain the idea.

All I have is language – an affliction that inspires constant hunger, ceaseless movement.

It is what it is what it is but it cannot be without the sentence and its syntax, without its words and the presence they inspire.

To understand it not to understand but to translate from word to objects – webs of association, dependency, an exhaustive process of thought and movement by which meaning is created.

Within and only within this process do I define myself. There is nothing. The object dissolves memory and storytelling – my attempts at immortality – how I will extend.

“The other gives form to our selves” (Ibid, p. 170).

The ability of language to trespass, transform, elevate, remove – I am in danger of slipping, my misinterpretation condemning me to a fall, the collapse into obscurity.

In language I am both solid and fluid, resounding.