Category Archives: Frenet

Current

The need to to pluck words from the current that carries on outside you, leaving you empty. But that need itself works against you, and so this is your life, this reaching and withdrawing.

– Frenet

Always this double movement, at once too far inside and too far outside. But inside and outside what? As if one’s eyeballs turned inwards and outwards at the same time.

– Frenet

A waking, or half-awake dream. I lived in a room occupied by a man who had just died. I had the strength to look in the mirror. No, hardly strength. Did it crowd me or make room for me, the mirror? I made a hole in the door with a table leg through which they deigned to feed me. I had the cunning to grab their hands, to force them to touch my belly, my sex. Sometimes they enjoyed it. Sometimes I did. By listening I learned their methods and found my own. I learned to murmur back. I pressed my face against the mirror: my cheek, the back of my head, my hands.

– Frenet

Space

– To become yourself you must first be unmade.
– But I’m already unmade.
– That’s only half the battle.
– But I’m already defeated.
– There are different ways to be defeated.
– ?
– Maybe it’s a question of space.
– ?
– … of finding the space in which something may grow out of your unmaking like a plant that grows out of a broken shell.
– What space?
– There are spaces that free and spaces that cripple. You can be freed in the space inside yourself or in the space between you and another. You can be crippled in the space inside yourself or in the space between you and another.
– But I’m already crippled.
– Then find a better space.
– I have either too much or too little.
– Then find a space in between.
– Between what?
– Between yourself and others, or between you and yourself. A fertile space.
– Those spaces are only momentary.
– Then live in those moments.
– Time drags, one moment moves into the next and both are lost in the drag, like the spaces. All is one, all is confusion.
– You’re hopeless.
– It’s you yourself who’s made me hopeless, who’s unmade me.

– Frenet, Journal

Smoke

The aim of this journal is to end this journal. And if it was finished before it began, if it was dead before it was born? Then it should at least be aware of its stillborn state, of the life whose place it’s taken and to which it should give way. Let these words rise like smoke and the everyday speak in their place.

– Frenet, Journal

Between others

Love the other as yourself. What can it mean but that that you too are another, that love lives in the space between others? That love is a space that makes you by unmaking you.

– Frenet, Journal

The clearing of the everyday

I don’t escape into writing, I write to escape from writing. I am what writing’s made of me, what I’ve let it make of me. I want to put an end to it, to the whole paltry and humiliating enterprise.

*

I am looking for something. It looks for me too, through these words: it’s already here, calling me out of myself, out of writing.  Meanwhile I write to ward it off, awaiting its arrival, biding my time in infinite detours.

– Frenet, Journal

Another

I often used to ask myself how people move from inside themselves into the world with such ease. From, say, reading a book to talking with people. How, say, writers walked onto a spotlit stage to speak about their work as if the back of the stage were part of the same space as the stage itself, as if they themselves bridged the two by walking from one to the other. All I remember from such events, which I now avoid, is what the rooms and faces looked like, who spoke, how hard or soft the chair was.

To go from your room to a place full of people, from yourself to others – as on a tightrope of unknown length, suspended above an unknown height… To hear your self come out of your mouth as if through the mouth of another, answered by yet another…

– Frenet, Journal

Kindness

I confess my debt to kindness. Without small acts of kindness, my own and those of other strangers, I’d be crippled, cowed, alone. Soup brought to someone’s sickbed, a word of encouragement, a listening ear. Kindness is the last miracle on earth, a miracle *of* the earth, stronger than the chimera of truth and the chimera of love.

– Frenet, Journal

The moment

One moment submerged in the moment, the next, empty. But the moments themselves drift into one. Does it need me, the moment, to come to itself? Is that why it calls these words forth? Maybe it’s outlived itself, just as I’ve outlived myself. Does it want to escape or become itself in these words? Maybe it can do neither, just as I can do neither.

– Frenet, Journal