Morning Writing, Night Writing
Morning writing, night writing. Morning writing bears with it the old misery, but disgust is still lively, disgust can set out to seek and destroy, disgust is on the hunt. So is morning writing a kind of falconry. Disgust seeks its quarry. Disgust goes out to find its quarry, and so does morning writing carry with it something of the old misery. So does the old misery trail behind it like the tale of the comet. But the comet's head is disgust, active and youthful, born to itself again and seeking its quarry again. Yes, disgust, in the mornings, is on fire as the sun is on fire. Disgust is the morning, the song of the morning.
Evening writing is wearied. Evening writing, wearied, is emburdened by the day, and all that has happened. Evening writing, enwearied, emerges, if it emerges, from what is crushed. It speaks of what is crushed. Disgust is tired; there's no comet and no comet's tail. Sometimes, it is true, there is a kind of wisdom. No longer falconry, no longer despair's leap from your arm, no longer the seeking of the quarry. No more seek-and-destroy. But wisdom, instead, the days' wisdom. As though you'd grown old in the passing of the day. As though by that day you had grown old with the day.
Tonight, disgust lies down in me. Tonight, the old misery is already asleep. Then I am always up too late - up too late, outliving misery and outliving disgust. No falconry. Disgust does not leave my arm. No comets; misery does not trail behind disgust. Today, the whole day spreads out before me. There it was, a whole day. What happened? This happened, that happened. What happened? This and that; the day turned, the planet turned into light and then dusk, and then, too early, into darkness. It was night too early. Night, at seven o'clock. Night at seven bells, too quick.
And now I wonder whether the events of the day, the whole comedy, happened only to bring near to me, signifying across signification, the night where the sign would be lacking. What happened? A great deal - and in the end? What happened, in the end? The sign lacks. It is night, and night brings forgetfulness. I've forgotten what happened - or it is that what happened happened such that something failed to happen. As though what happened as the events of the day failed to accomplish itself. Or that the day itself was incomplete, that it had been worn away, and what I come into contact with now, what draws me towards itself, is the non-event around which the day turns and every day turns.
The turning of the everyday. I would like to say, I learnt something today, I learnt something of the day and what happens when the day is over. I would like to say: night-writing comes after the day is complete and there are lessons to be drawn. But I know this is an alibi, and the day has not finished. I know what happened was the non-event of the day, its non-finishedness.
What began did not end. What began, in truth, did not even begin. What began did not begin; there was no event, or no event that completed itself. What began did not began, and what ended did not end. Night, but nothing has ended. Night, but the day has not completed itself. Night, and the day remains stranded, and for this reason, the night is also stranded. The day is stranded, it has not found and completed itself, and so too is the night stranded, because it cannot mark itself in its difference from the day; it is as though night lagged behind itself, and was too late for itself.
Dilatory night! Tardy night, incomplete and uncompletable! Tardy night, tardy day, how I can measure you? But I am measured by that delay, by that dilatoriness. It measures me, that delay; it is the wearing away of my day and the wearing away of my evening. It measures me, but only because it is without measure. It measures me, the measureless, as I am worn from myself. For the day does not support itself. What happens as the day does not support itself. It is incomplete and does not finish itself. The day does not round itself off. The day runs into the night, without completing itself. Day, night, both incomplete.
Measureless day, Measureless night
Measureless day, measureless night: who knows this, who experiences this? I have always known it and always experienced it. Write to mark time in the day. Write to stamp an hour on the night. Write to say: It is 9.52 PM, and I am writing. Write to stamp time on the occasion. But know that by doing so, what is night is already lost. As though night could only be expressed in the infinitive, the 'to night' and writing only as the 'to write'. As if the 'to night' and the 'to write' were entwined, each in the other, each incompleting the other, each unbecoming the other.
So is writing likewise measured by the measureless. So is writing likewise the unmeasured, as it accords with the measurelessness of the night. Both unmeasured, both in lieu of themselves. Both in lieu of themselves, but by writing you have a way of measuring the night. For you can end the flood of signs, as you cannot end the night. That part of writing ends, as you cannot end the night. So do you come to terms with the night. So does the night offer itself to be written, and writing becomes your game with the night and your game with the day.
In the morning, it is different. The whole day opens before you. There is too much day ahead of you; it is still undiscovered, still the repository in which events might complete themselves. But later, at night, the whole day is that which incompletes itself. The whole day is unworking, and unworks itself in writing. The whole day is unworking, and the night is the unworking of the day. Night and day, unworking and writing the unworking of night and day.
Writing unworked and unworking: but this is a way of coming to terms with the non-happening of the day and the non-happening of the night. I know it as such; blogging is a transparent alibi. Blogging is already the attempt to stamp being on becoming, to stamp time on the timeless. It is 9:58; it's dark; it's been dark for some hours. 9:58, a glass of Cava, the heating on, clothes drying on the radiators. 9:59 - time has passed, but time is immobilised here, as I write.
Time arrested by writing. Time arrested, time recorded as though I were in control of time. I could say: nothing begins here, not at this blog. I could say: nothing ends here, not at this blog. But what I write is written in the box called 'Post Introduction'; it begins and will end. Yes, it begins - it will end. But this is my alibi, this is my 'why I write' and it is a lie. Why blog? to mark time; to divide the infinite from itself - to substantiate the 'there is the day' and 'there is the night', or rather to allow that 'there is ...' to resonate in writing.
There is writing
There is writing. Perhaps. There is writing - but only if it is a writing unworked, a writing unworkable. Yes, it happens - there is an event, but only if this event parts writing from itself and suspends writing, the happening of writing. There is writing. Writing attenuated. The 'to write' stretched across the day and the night: yes, this is the dream. Infinite attenuation, writing incomplete and unworked. Writing that unworks writing and wears it thin.
10:06. 24 minutes until Newsnight. Night; only the reflected room on the window. I can't see the ugly yard. Blackness and then this room reflected in blackness. Blackness and this room, this little cube in the glass, reflected. The room, reflected. I do not see myself. I keep the curtain half-closed. I do not see myself, but what would I see? The darkness and then my reflection. Darkness and first of all the night, and the night's darkness. As though I were Narcissus, but Narcissus, now, who saw what he was not. Night-Narcissus who sees what he is not, and loses himself by writing. Narcissus who resembles himself and resembles the night across which he sees himself. The night that does not complete itself. The night unworked.
The day does not support itself; the night does not support itself. Do not immobilise it in the form, 'the day', 'the night'. Do not immobilise writing in writing. But this is what you have already done, which means your writing is always your writing. So do you betray the day, the night, and what fails to complete itself as the day, the night. So do you betray the 'there is writing' by writing. Begin, write, but know that by writing there is betrayal. Begin - end writing, end your post, press the button marked 'save', but know you've betrayed writing by writing.