Instead of producing words, one should be in the business of carefully producing spaces. To insert oneself into the world means to find a space within which to situate oneself, from which the world can then emanate, yet this space must be found within the world. Before the text on a page, there was an empty space, but the spaces cut into the text. Every absence is originary but also a cut, both inscribing and inscribed. It is in this sense that absence has the character of the world, as water or bark crease and fold off into the space that generates them – the local is the cosmic. Words themselves float along with the log in the water, getting lost or seeking shelter in those same creases while upwelling ripples and creases of their own. They might seem to lay on the surface of things, but they hide and upwell. The sensuous realm is one of many folds where vision ever encroaches upon itself, and time is the infinite dimensional loci of the world’s inscription. World and word has a gaping luminous origin that disperses it, that renews the world through its emanation at the same time that it emanates from within it. This element glows and can’t be told apart from its glow, yet can’t you see that which glows?

The inscribing inscribed nature of the world is such that one moves from a worldly givenness to cut the world open, or rather that the world performs surgery on itself. Our conscious operation to bring unconscious elements forth is an unconscious operation, so that the world has the character of pure revelation. The actions we direct towards our exteriority cut into our deep interiority, which is why our dual directedness exists as on a circle with nothing outside of it. The world has an Ouroboros-like character. We dip our hands into our own collective skin to reveal fire and metal, as we ourselves claw into our promethean liver. The infinite dimensional loci that we inhabit and that inhabit us have the character of texture. As the nature of these loci is as unfoldings of unconscious elements, we first give an account of these loci retrospectively as junctions of conscious elements that have been brought about. It is as a thorn penetrates skin. The thorn and the skin do not exist beforehand as ‘penetrating’ and ‘penetrated’, but as elements that are brought forth into conscious being through the penetration. In terms of conscious elements, what exists is the junction, and the two joined elements come later.  A ‘point’ on a circle is defined as the absence that gives birth to the two rays that stretch forth from that point and that ground the movement that is the point. This is why the point has the character of time, as it is the movement of inscription that gives rise to the inscribing and inscribed.

The wind blows, giving rise to two regions: that from where it blows and where it is blowing. The movement of the wind, the wind as a gradient, gives rise to the two poles. The gradient is the unconscious origin of what it joins, hence the mutual falling and inscribing inscription of unconscious and conscious: the unconscious gradient is first (wind as pure wind), from which two regions form (the conscious elements – e.g., east and west) across which the wind can blow, across which the wind finally blows (the conscious movement that reaffirms the unconscious element as conscious material phenomena, or, wind as wind, blowing from east to west, reaffirming itself in its movement and directionality).

The topic of content is approached in the same way as that of the space. We recognize that there is neither form nor idea, but an opening. Cutting and cut, a game we started with one foot inside sleep from which we tried to recuperate life in our retrospective approach that explained “how it is that the wind blows”. It is this sleep that one must be determined to shake off. Life, as we saw, cannot be constructed from the outside but is a self-construction. Writing is a physical materiality and belongs to the Earth. On the other hand, writing is vision, and the one who writes is a seer as the seeing Earth.

A Mortal Body

Let us proceed once more from sleep to gain a glimmer of its antipode: death, which must be understood as synonymous with life. This death cannot be experienced by any individual, yet it hides within the negative pole that is one’s physicality – the subterranean body where death and air meet. The negative pole thus dissolves the positive pole of consciousness as the circle dissolves the point it contains. Proceeding further, the Earth doesn’t hide depths or shelter mystery: all flowers are torn along with their roots from flower mouths, for the world is vocal especially when it does not speak; it forms an open throat and might be characterized as vibration or humming – the “voice of the voiceless,” wind with no origin or direction, wind as pure origin and direction. Before we caught sight of the Ouroboros from the outside, even if we claimed that this outside was simultaneously its inside, but it is only now that this being has been brought to our proximity with the character of a ‘Who’. For there is a hollow chasm from which a voice howls, a chasm which gives birth to an echo, existing only as that which echoes. The blood drips from the wolf’s tongue and glistens on the soil as it sews itself into the flesh of trees in the continual madenning that wraps itself around everything – the echo as an echo of itself that sustains the pregnant chasm and its voiceless voice. Ends give birth to beginnings: eternal seeking, slithering, reverberating, imposing world. The only question that remains: Who is there?