Reflections on the Formal Envelope of the Symptom
The Certainty of Hysteria
Sacrifice and our Destiny
All those gathered in the assembly began standing up and
speaking. In my last life, I was the son of a merchant who beat
me across the back with a pair of glowing tongs.
Before that I was
the daughter of a jealous rival, one of the long line of smilers
banished to blackened chapters, and condemned to sweat beneath
vinyl canopies. Recently, I tried to prevent further interference,
momentum, and shifts, but a fly began circling inside my voice.
We will be the transportation, the bicycle or bobsled, the hill or
gravel path. Then we will drink our flasks of human acid, and
drift out past the hinges of falling stone, the platforms crowded
with martyrs trying to call home. It is only now that I realize I was confusing the bell with the
voice answering the bell, the voice hampered by the docile
propeller peeling back the sun. You were there, or someone
like you, someone so like you that you had become the one I was
addressing. I was there, in the noise of the ashes and lamplight.
Yes, I was there, in the middle of the sentence, its balcony of
vibrations, and there was nothing else I could do but jump into
the linoleum, plastic, and wood. He liked to unbutton my blouse in front of his mother. That's one
reason, the other is not worth mentioning, at least not here, not
now, not while we are where we are, doing what we are doing.
No, in this air,
its red velvet box, I would like us to stay as we are two
parrots nodding and screeching, broadcasting snippets of tales
told to us by one legged men in their foolish old age. How can I be worried about her? She is up there. She is beautiful.
And she has a brain. A man's brain. Certain phrases or starts of the body begin to be interchangeable
at every juncture, corners where words meet words. She was talking again, the motor humming in the dream's
backyard, the air full of its own decaying light. I was skimming
through my wardrobe, checking the moisture levels and
bacterial growth. This is perfume from the Milky Way, you said.
This is sap we twisted from our bones.
Subscribe to Lacanian Ink click here.