‘I sleep and wake up in another sleep. I used to call it the Hole, do you remember? A deep kitschy hole in the earth. The things I made desert me, turn ugly, they were ugly to begin with. There’s no escape except through you, when somehow your babble comes through me. Are you listening? It was when the words came that you arrived, in the beginning, and it’s when the words come that you arrive now, and leave, and arrive again in new forms, trailing absence all around you.

‘”The cause of its being is that it shall cease to be”, said Augustine of the present. I come to life through death, and you come to me through absence, like laughter. I’m unanchored like the present, like laughter that laughs at itself. — I enter Barthes’ darkness of desire, I live between blows, I’m hungry, I hate you. But sometimes there’s another night, says Barthes: the night of non-meaning and non-profit, when I expect nothing and accept your absence. I wait for you and my waiting becomes its own arrival, your arrival.

‘You’re my grief and my escape, hence the laughter. You’re my inability to shut up, you keep me from silence and keep me watching myself. Yet your silence would be the death of me, hence the laughter. I feed myself on other things while I endure your absence or forget your presence, and your absence becomes “an active practice”. I obey my training, shun kitsch and forget you. Says Barthes: “You have gone (which I lament), you are here (since I am addressing you). Whereupon I know what the present, that difficult tense, is: a pure portion of anxiety.” I manipulate your absence, turn it into whatever comes to mind. I make you responsible for all manner of things, all the while pleading with you to return.’


3 responses to “Return

  1. To write is to surrender to the fascination of time’s absence.

    — Blanchot

  2. Pingback: Absence | Notes for Nothing

  3. Pingback: Present | Notes for Nothing

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