Red Thread(s)

"Someone begins to write, determined by despair. But despair cannot determine anything. "It has always, and right away, exceeded its purpose" (Kafka, Diaries, 1910). And, likewise, writing cannot have as its origin anything but 'true' despair, the kind that leads to nothing, turns us away from everything, and for a start withdraws the pen from whoever writes."
-- Maurice Blanchot, "Kafka and the Work's Demand"

"Someone begins to write, determined by despair. But despair cannot determine anything. "It has always, and right away, exceeded its purpose" (Kafka, Diaries, 1910). And, likewise, writing cannot have as its origin anything but 'true' despair, the kind that leads to nothing, turns us away from everything, and for a start withdraws the pen from whoever writes."
-- Maurice Blanchot, "Kafka and the Work's Demand"

"Someone begins to write, determined by despair. But despair cannot determine anything. "It has always, and right away, exceeded its purpose" (Kafka, Diaries, 1910). And, likewise, writing cannot have as its origin anything but 'true' despair, the kind that leads to nothing, turns us away from everything, and for a start withdraws the pen from whoever writes."
-- Maurice Blanchot, "Kafka and the Work's Demand"

"Someone begins to write, determined by despair. But despair cannot determine anything. "It has always, and right away, exceeded its purpose" (Kafka, Diaries, 1910). And, likewise, writing cannot have as its origin anything but 'true' despair, the kind that leads to nothing, turns us away from everything, and for a start withdraws the pen from whoever writes."
-- Maurice Blanchot, "Kafka and the Work's Demand"

I haven't been to the garden in quite some time now. I wonder if the dahlias have been cut down. Walking down the street the other day, I saw some lovely white ones in full bloom, under a rose bush.
"Not to weigh down one's thoughts with the weight of one's shoes."
- Nadja
To walk. Thoughtless and open. [The] dérive... where nothing presses, where something might occur.

Not a bad day, yesterday -- battling a cold over the weekend, and finally felt like getting out -- went to the university bookstore and bought some good but reasonably priced stationery; to write real letters again. ("I remember mail when it was called mail.") Looking at the philosophy/cultural studies section, there's about a foot of books by Zizek - and no doubles, either. A suggestion has been made (I think on Long Sunday) of a collaborative project to write Zizek's next book or essay. It could be possible, with some degree of effort -- certainly to fabricate a citation that is sufficiently "Zizekian"; he publishes so abundantly, who would miss - or catch - an errant essay? Perhaps he'll spawn an eponymous school, like that of Pythagoras. Perhaps he's merely the front, the public face for a Ljubljana writers collective. I was pleased to see a book I haven't come across any mention of: The Fright of Real Tears: Krzysztof Kieslowski Between Theory and Post-Theory. I opened it at random and came across the phrase "[The] objet petit a... that bone in the throat, that disturbing stain" -- and I thought, that's why I no longer need to write poetry: it's quite sufficient to take a book at random and open it to a phrase like that; attach it to a line or two from Histoire(s) du Cinema, say, and that would be a poem.

Again, not a bad day, and a fine night for the television: like a dieter, I'll break down what I ingested yesterday:
Watched the Zhang Ziyi / Maggie Cheung fight scene from Hero, all gold and red and fall-like, for a morning eye-opener; followed it with the Broken Sword (Tony Leung) vs. the king of Qin sword fight, green veils and black, and went out for the day's errands. Came home and watched Godard's Tout va bien: my god what an inspiration, yet not without melancholy: four years after May 1968, looking back. What was, what could have been. What word am I searching for? Legacy? Hope? And I stopped for coffee earlier and observed the children of the children of Marx and Pepsi-Cola. What legacy, what hope?
Gilmore Girls has truly been a letdown this season, and I've been quite ready to write it off. We need our guilty pleasures, but there's a point where the guilt exceeds the limits of even the entire Judeo-Xtian construct. The creator (of the Gilmore Girls, not the Creator) once said she'd like to end the series with a wedding; being that Lorelai and Luke are engaged (finally!) this viewer hopes they get it over with this season, maybe next, before the show turns to utter crap. I do not like to turn to television in order to not think, only to find myself thinking "what are they thinking?"-- wch has almost entirely been the case this season.
I was fortunate enough to find a used copy of Lars von Triers' Dogville DVD yesterday; I have an atrocious habit of missing things in theaters only to see them some years after the fact. I watched it on a rainy afternoon a week or two ago, was impressed enough to want a copy of the movie, and was so very glad to view the final chapter again: if you haven't seen it, by all means do. Two comments: whatever one may think of the media construct of Nicole Kidman, as in The Hours and To Die For (overrated, but no more so than the TERRIBLE Eyes Wide Shut [and I'd be remiss in failing to mention the underrated mood piece The Others]) -- but she really possesses an amazing ability to draw you in and make you forget she's the "glamorous and famous Nicole Kidman, Movie Star" -- it's captivating, engaging acting. Well done.
And as far as the movie goes: what a delicious moral tale.
And then the Seinfeld episode with Catherine Keener, a bit of the usual dawdling around the House of E followed by the South Park. I also managed to watch about six minutes of Sex and the City, a personal best. At times I can verge on cynicism, even misanthropy on occasion -- but let me tell you: the only conclusion I can draw from what I've managed to see of this show, is that if you truly like it, you possess a hatred of humanity deeper than I can imagine. Amen. Note: this post is, I hope, subject to hasty revisions and denial. I'm still feeling a little feverish. Finished off the night with a splash of A Zed and Two Noughts.

So I slept in this morning, felt guilty for as long as it took to smoke a cigarette, wch felt pretty good (what an index of health that is!) and stumbled around piles of largely unread books. The thought did occur to me that the pile could be substantially reduced if I didn't spend time engaging in the sort of useless viewing as described above. Except the South Park, wch made me laugh. And Dogville, wch is fucking great.

So.... my days off at at end soon, I wonder: do I write a novel? A lengthy piece with real content on Wong Kar Wai, or Kieslowski? Or what the movie You've Got Mail has meant to me? ("I remember mail when it was called mail." You think I wrote that line?)
Maybe Kieslowski, then.

I wish I could say I've been reading much...

But did see 2046 several times.