I really felt that you were shattering the atmosphere around me, that you were creating a void in order to allow me to progress, in order to offer the expanse for an impossible space to that which within me was potentiality only, to a whole virtual germination that must be suced into life by the interval which offered itself.
Often I placed myself in this state of impossible absurdity in order to try and generate thought inside myself. There are a few of us, in this era, who attempted to attack things, to create within ourselves the intervals for life, which didn't exist and moreover didn't seem ever to belong in space.
I have always been struck by the obstinacy of the mind in insisting on thinking in terms of dimensions and intervals, in adhering to arbitrary states of things in order to think, in thinking in segments, in crystalloids, in thinking that every mode of being solidifies as a starting point, that thought not be in instant and uninterrupted contact with things, but that this fixation and this immobilization, this kind of erection of the soul into monuments, arises into being, so to speak, BEFORE THOUGHT. This is obviously the ideal condition for creativity.
But I am struck still ore by that unrelenting, that meteoric illusion which instills in us these finite, planned and predetermined architectures, these crystallized segments of the soul, as if they were a huge malleable sheet in osmosis, a kind of communication turned inside-out. Far from a weakening of control, I see here on the contrary a far greater control which blocks contact with commonplace reality and allows these more subtle and rarified contacts, bared down to the thread which ignites and yet never breaks apart.
I envision a well-worked soul, brimstoned and phosphorized by these contacts, as the only acceptable state of reality.
Yet it is I know not what unknown and unnameable lucidity that permits me to capture their tone and volume and compels me to feel them myself. I can feel them because of a certain insoluble totality, I mean the feeling of this cannot be questioned. And I myself, in relation to these disturbing contacts, feel in a state of incipient tremor. I would have you bring to mind a void brought to a standstill, a mass of mind buried somewhere, having become virtuality.