If you would let me write to you I would say such things that you would recognize as your own, once removed; re-find them through me across an ocean of discourse that pulses like the remnants of a Led Zeppelin tune still buzzing lightly through your veins an hour after you've quit jogging and resumed regular life.
They'd be your own, and also our own, because we're readers in common, of a certain sort, although not entirely (you are your own unique thing, after all, and something that I want to come to know).
That night in your hotel room:
"Le langage est une peau: je frotte mon langage contre l'autre [toi]. C'est comme si j'avais des mots en guise de doigts, ou des doigts au bouts de mes mots. Mon langage tremble de desir. L'emoi vient d'un double contact : d'une part, toute une activitie de discours vient relever discretement, indirectement, un signifie unique, qui est 'je te desire', et le libere, l'alimente, le ramifie, le fait exploser[.]"
Depuis
Who can forget Jean-Jacques seizing the little piece of meat that 'Maman' spit onto her plate, and devouring it with greed? I won't even look it up to quote it so much that I assume (perhaps wrongly) that it is ready-to-hand for you. What little he can get, he consumes as if it is all. And so I fetishize the music you listen to (the songs will keep me company in your stead), the books you read (they will speak to me of your hand that just turned a page). I am too self-aware not to know this, and so are you, but you let me pretend that it is otherwise. I am grateful for that.
Or this, in so few days' time (in a different language than above):
"This morning, I must get off an 'important' letter right away...but instead I write a love letter--which I do not send. I gladly abandon dreary tasks, rational scruples, reactive undertakings imposed by the world, for the sake of a useless task deriving from a a dazzling Duty: the lover's Duty. I perform, discreetly, lunatic chores; I am the sole witness of my lunacy. ... Born of literature, able to speak only with the help of its worn codes, yet I am alone with my strength, doomed to my own philosophy."
That night in your hotel room:
"Le langage est une peau: je frotte mon langage contre l'autre [toi]. C'est comme si j'avais des mots en guise de doigts, ou des doigts au bouts de mes mots. Mon langage tremble de desir. L'emoi vient d'un double contact : d'une part, toute une activitie de discours vient relever discretement, indirectement, un signifie unique, qui est 'je te desire', et le libere, l'alimente, le ramifie, le fait exploser[.]"
Depuis
Who can forget Jean-Jacques seizing the little piece of meat that 'Maman' spit onto her plate, and devouring it with greed? I won't even look it up to quote it so much that I assume (perhaps wrongly) that it is ready-to-hand for you. What little he can get, he consumes as if it is all. And so I fetishize the music you listen to (the songs will keep me company in your stead), the books you read (they will speak to me of your hand that just turned a page). I am too self-aware not to know this, and so are you, but you let me pretend that it is otherwise. I am grateful for that.
Or this, in so few days' time (in a different language than above):
"This morning, I must get off an 'important' letter right away...but instead I write a love letter--which I do not send. I gladly abandon dreary tasks, rational scruples, reactive undertakings imposed by the world, for the sake of a useless task deriving from a a dazzling Duty: the lover's Duty. I perform, discreetly, lunatic chores; I am the sole witness of my lunacy. ... Born of literature, able to speak only with the help of its worn codes, yet I am alone with my strength, doomed to my own philosophy."
