DG 003510 NS

Sequined sea of space-time / the multiple / an apparition of forms. Immersed, neither inside nor out, how can I tell that this doesn't go on forever? Undulating, an iridescent mirage that discloses nothing but desert without end or horizon reaching from the earth to the farthest heavens, extending to remotest space, countless particles multiplied as often as there are leaves in the forest, feathers upon birds, scales on fish, drops of water in the mighty ocean, atoms in the vast expanse of the air ... How much do I love thee? Let me count the ways ... Love is of course the immeasurable and the unaccountable. It's not the sequins that she wears, it's not her baby-fine blond hair, it's more the desert in her stare (Iggy Pop). The truth of desire discloses itself as nothing but semblance. But what is this auto-disclosure? Desire of course transcends the object, directed by the semblance of being immanent to it. Desire is always directed towards another desire which, without mediation or regulation, replicates itself endlessly in sequences so that desire is desire of desire of desire of desire of desire of desire ... Not signifiers but sequins: no longer zecchino, medium of exchange, but pure metonymy, pure sequentiality without order of priority or narrative, flickering in the full nothingness of evacuated exchange-value, the empty plenitude of digitality. Who could make a metaphor of it? Who would turn this multiple into the likeness of One? She puts on a universe comprised entirely of sequins strings, patterns emerge – life seems to glisten in semblants of being – in folds and clusters, in degrees of intensity, in the fabric of space/time, to arouse the desire of God, who names her the Universe, the One. But she is la belle noiseuse, querulous beauty (Serres), flashing eyes and glinting hatred: noisily not (not) one she ex-sists in the domain of the infinite with which she is continuous. Glistening jouissance, pure surface – not of the repetitive circuit of the drive (the brickwork, the crumbling walls, the undead historical process that goes nowhere) but in the en-corps (Lacan) which insists in the body beyond its sexual being (Seminar XX). 'It is in the traces of jouissance inscribed in this en-corps that we can, perhaps, discern something of the poesis—the something coming from nothing—that Lacan links to the contingency of being and, ultimately, to the path of love' (Suzanne Bernard). S