Can I write the name Lacan upside-downward? Can I flip Lacan on his head? It seems that
the Real is in a peculiar place, that the Other is a contagion. The Other is matted in the hair of the old
school-woman or the teacher laughing in his glee over stupidity. I have wondered how many times I would have
to rip the binding of the good book, The
Four Fundamental Concepts. Everyone
that understands Lacan is flippant in their presentation and stodgy in their
attire. But, Lacan is not captured, but
is an ever-moving target. He reminds me that at the absolute
limit of what I can think or desire is death, fear, horror. Again, I just glance over my left shoulder, a
pillar of flames and white hot embers on a backdrop of darkness, which has no
horizon itself. There is no bottom, no
end to the utter light and darkness, as far as I can tell; my memory does not
serve me as I notice sweat drip over my eyelid and down my face. I must carry-on to the degree that I am not
overcome by the monster behind me. It is
a limitless plunge forward or backward, but unlike with Nietzsche, who falls
into a pit, there is nothing but a hot scolding flamed pavement ahead of
me. I shan’t look back, especially as to
go on the hunch that I would be engulfed and necessity is what shields me from
that destiny, back. My passion is self-destructive
as I do not linger, but desire to press into the heat of my seeming, forward
pushing, desiring-machine, which is my desire itself. That desire has the capacity to evoke and
promulgate such destructiveness, its capacity of a thousand strong-persons. The disguise is the disgust that my desire
trudges up,; the passion or eruptions and enjoyment. The limit of my language touches on something
eternal and eternity is a construct; I am afraid my desire leads me to death’s
door.
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