Writing: first I am touched, caressed, wounded; then I try to discover the secret of this touch, to extend it, celebrate it, and transform it into another caress.
A joyful force. Not a god; it doesn't come from above. But from an inconceivable region, deep down inside me but unknown, as if there might exist somewhere in my body (which, from the outside, and from the point of view of a naturalist, is highly elastic, nervous, lively, thin, not without charm, firm muscles, pointed nose always quivering and damp, vibrating paws / is veined, sunned and hidden, pale and luminous, nailed and permeable / per me able / ribbed and pillowed, coughing for want of volume, for noise, eyes quivering searching sorting for something in side, in the midst, about to bleed, a monster smile) another space, limitless; and there, in those zones which inhabit me and which I don't know how to live in, I feel them, I don't live them, they live me, gushing from the wellsprings of my souls, I don't see them but I feel them, it's incomprehensible but that's how it is. There are sources. That's the enigma. One morning, it all explodes. My body experiences, deep down inside, one of its panicky cosmic adventures. I have volcanoes on my lands. But no lava: what wants to flow is breath. And not just any old way. Le souffle 'veut' une forme. "Write me!" One day it begs me, another day it threatens. "Are you going to write me or not?" It could have said: "Paint me." I tried. But the nature of its fury demanded the form that stops the least, that encloses the least, the body without a frame, without skin, without walls, the flesh that doesn't dry, doesn't stiffen, doesn't clot the wild blood that wants to stream through it - forever. "Let me through, or everything goes!" (-Helene Cixous / interlude, -me)