I am having a flashback;
people don’t have flashbacks.
If you have flashbacks,
see a doctor. Our perception of
our own local diner. I don’t have these
long, radical views.
Because they are very strange
structural, perverted, perverting.
What we want is mastery; we’ll put up
with any loss of logic; in the hands
of a narrative flow;
delivered. You would re-see.
Passion and obsession are here.
You’re being literary. We have no problem
being entertained.
Crimes and personalities, anything that
comes across your trail.
Did you come genetically coded. You had
a bad experience
with an oyster. The slimy is
one of the major food categories. Have you
ever eaten sea-cucumber. Yeah.
America doesn’t do innards.
Some bizarre thing. Substitute anything
you want for seafood.
Marginal subsistence, an acquired thing, what runs us.
It’s nurture, or it’s habit, or it’s right.
What we would call our expectations—you’re bound
to fail. It’s the name of the game.
Old people in wheelchairs: it’s no fun at all.
What is fun.
That you should want it.
I’m not outside this problem waiting in
DVD or VHS. Relax. And I don’t know why.
It’s a feeling of being connected
with the universe. Very few people
are full of people whose lives are
out of control. They didn’t even want
to be Paris Hilton. These non-people.
Enablers. Okay, so. The other side of the coin.
To be subject to Kitty—subject to that state.
They can’t grow into something very nice.
Jesus. Oh G/d. If you can’t make it happen.
We’re delighted to be carried along
by the killers. Constantly shifting.
To master the past—those are the pieces.
He saw someone he shouldn’t have seen and perhaps
someone would do the same.
Personas in their own flashbacks.
Flashback techniques make the past very past.
Bouncing subjectively in and out of the past.
A series of bits. Being able to talk about
great passion at all. He looks at her ankle.
Any other kind of object. Screen for his projections.
Suburban arrangement. Longing for suburbia.
We get caught in that split.
That scene that looks like no other scene.
What’s that face over there.
Something like how can I have more fun.
We do have a name for that moment.
Depression. The posing of the question.
More of a blank or an enigma.
More like a pal or something.
Satisfactory arrangements. That’s her
jouissance. Passed from storyteller
to storyteller. That the tale is masterful, passive,
waiting for anonymous death,
the blank death center.
Various axes to grind. Don’t wind up going anywhere.
We sort of want to move with, or he’s
withholding the who, the what, the where,
and the when. A newspaper or people reading one.
This must be the first thing ever.
Chronologically back to Christ, into
silent films, a kind of primrose path.
There is a point of view. Begins to seem
like desperation. What is that look about.
The most highly sexualized image, being able
to identify her, totally unbelievable.
A look of desire, the only thing it can be for
is death. It’s activity. Sexual desire
written on the face. Stable from the point of
view of the ego. Roil the water, whatever
might have really happened.
It’s not about how smart you are.
Covering itself with a veneer of plausibility,
overproduction of excuses—we are not reduced
to wholeness. The ego as a bundle.
What does that image look like.
The movement of repression.
I may not be finished; that’s me.
Showing us this unconscious view, what really me is.
Teaching is like prayer, even if it lands
in a different form. I’m trying to
undermine assumptions. That’s the time to get help.
You’re doing that because you believe
you’re going to do badly. G/d came down;
I was only drunk. There is some kind of
unconscious force whether of the ego or of the plot.
It’s the death drive. The most extraordinary
sexual look, glance. The one real stasis.
A frenzy of attraction and repulsion. Getting
kicked unconscious and getting shot at.
His smile at the end.
