lacanian ink |
We are all part of a World Wide Wake, a web of "semetomyplace,"
of spaces that flicker between the "crack" of perfect jouissance
and the "Fin" of the End--the circut that dials Joyce via Lacan.
During this call one of them laughs and other hangs up--and
re-calls again--each of them seeking to reach that real space where
communication is nolonger necessary because the symptom "says
nothing to anyone." LACANIAN INK 11 is a meta-lapsus, a re-cording,
which brings together different attempts at a topology of the
As always LACANIAN INK has fiction and art works that crosses
over the "void of Being" as knotted ropes that one can dangle on.
It is this element of the journal that gives it resonance, it is
the hard kernel that makes it different. "Italics" by Raphael
Rubinstein and "Next to Nothing," a selection from Lynne Tillman's
next novel, frame the question of the End and the impossible in a
visceral manner that the question begs for--certainly more so
than the essays. The silkscreens by Antonio Muntadas create precise
auras of the bite which link the hollow space of the mouth and
language of the self at edge of the void--they indeed "Point
to the sudden breath" John Yau's haiku logs speaks of. "The
Woman Who Filled Up the World Because She didn't Know How to
Exist In It," by Jan Avgikos fines the breath between
Father-at-the-End and Crack that the works of Lorna Simpson navigate.
The incomplete difference between objects and invisibility
which condition the body as possessed history--which must
always struggle against endless desire of the Master who
fails and the Slave who succeeds in the recognition of
never being more than the Lack without End.
". . .the old semetomyplace and jupetbackagain . . . ."