“’Instead of God chance.’ This means nature insofar as it
occurs, though not as occurring once and for all but as surpassing
itself in infinite occurrences, excluding any possible limits. In
this infinite representation (a representation that quite likely
is the boldest and most deranged ever tried out by humankind) the
idea of God explodes like a bombshell – divine impoverishment and
impotence clashing with human chance!”
Getting a grip? Easy! Though…I myself in control of myself could scare me. Exasperation. Depression. Excitement. My life, or the lack of one is my state of mind. Less and less do I question to know. That’s something that pretty much leaves me indifferent. And I live. And I question in order to live. I live out this search, enduring relatively harsh ordeals – harsh because of the jangled state of my nerves. I see no escape at this point. I’m alone with myself, lacking any previous means of escape – pleasure, excitement. I have to get a grip. If I don’t is there any alternative?
Endlessly, we annihilate ourselves – thought and life falling into the void where they dissipate. To call this void divine – this void at which I have aimed, at which my thought aims…
In the prison-cell of the body what can we do, other than provoke glimpses of something beginning beyond the walls?
Get ready for the night, the rumours on waking, a gradual feeling of learning and remembering ////
My life, strange and exhausting, tonight weighted down by grief. Spent hours waiting, suspecting the worst. Then finally – chance ###########
I reasoned like this. My life is a leap, an impulse, whose strength is chance. And now – at the level at which I presently gamble my life – if I lose chance, I collapse.
Meet me at the crossroads, meet me at the edge of town. Outskirts of the city.
Borderline dreams. New Mexico, sleep – death’s friend, death’s sister. An abandoned motel, flowers and dirt on its walls. Darkening, swift shadows lean on the meat your body to allow breathing. We lie here stolen in the cold night. Strangled by doubt I relax in your secret wilderness, your teeming emptiness.
You spoke to me. You took my hand and led me past silence into cool whispered bliss.
Anguish, anxiety, preoccupy me and gnaw at me. Anguish is present and hovering over possible depths…I raise myself up to the limit and see the ground of things opening up. Like an unwelcome knock on the door, anguish is present. Which is a sign of risk and chance. In its demented voice – chance urging me. I “rise up” out of myself, flames growing right in front of me. Bitter scent of smoke, fire-night //////
What I loved in you, I loved to the point of wanting to die from this love. Not some individuated existence but the universal aspect of you. Although this aspect is what risks itself, risks me.
I can’t take risks without this anguish of feeling suspended. But to take risks means to overcome anguish.
With your eyes, wary, gleaming. Warm creature of silence. The rustling sex against skin. The wind withdraws all sound. In bed that night, blackness burned. Savage destiny gone mad with fever.
Dance naked on broken bottles, feet bleeding and stained. Shards cut stripes across your mind. Dust, knives, screams. Nightmares along the divine corridor.
How can you know chance unless you’re filled with a secret love for it?
An insane love creates it, hurling itself at your face in silence. And chance fell on me from heaven’s heights, and chance was who I am //////
To gamble or to question “self”…
Chance, endlessly contested, endlessly gambled. If you had decided to embody chance right down to the last molecule, you couldn’t have done better. Every flowery exhalation of you, the hectic flush of your cheek touches it. Appearing – although through anguish…Then disappearing so suddenly that anguish…As if night alone could precede you, as if only night would follow you. But each time without intending it. Appropriately (if you are chance).
Insanely loving chance, you gamble everything…even reason itself.
Finally chance is purified. It’s freed from all minor objects and reduced to its own inner nature. Chance is no longer a solitary lucky response to the simple fact of risk. In the end the response is chance itself – gambling endlessly, putting questions, wagering all possibilities…
Summer sadness, the highways of this cancerous town. Ghosts in cars. Electric shadows.