What would it mean anyway to try and speak about ourselves and the world we live in? There are plenty of words that we could use, but has anything really been said? We talk about our seperation from things, and when we hand something to somebody we do so graciously. We are nevertheless forced to speak of relationship, to analyze the pressing against of our extentions on the floor, the space we take up, and the influences of the seductions of Thing on our sped-up world view. The sickness we never feel, our desire for unreality. The swollen, felty feelers of our lying language contaminating everything they feel so delightedly and with such rapid abandon. We still speak and, more importantly, criticize. And there is much to criticize. But is relationship still one such possibility? Are we not rather something more superficial; animals perhaps all along? Our bodies press against the floor and it is nothing special, we take up space, we forget always what we look like, the thing, invested with all its corporate intentionality, remains boring. (Warhol elevated his soup can to art, and we all clapped our hands, "good job".) Our language points us towards changing horizions, we step and we end up at the border of nothingness. Argument fails because we aim to convince each other of a feeling we all feel, but cannot analyze or repair.
I think the only thing left to write is cultural catch phrases.
Is this not correct? Is it too pessimistic? Have we left something out? What the hell are we talking about anyway? Is equivocation a stylistic device? Can we continue in this vein with justification? I imagine we wrote the above note while zipping around like a heavy light-beam in a walnut shell. Are we finally just dicks if we call it a light-beam of language?