This phallo-centric universe, sorely misnamed, contains circles within circles, spirals widening/contracting, black holes. Where is the grand expanding principle of the masculine in this creation? Is there nothing more substantial than the waves on which the warbled music rides? They infiltrate and permeate with their magnetic charms. Sounds pursue the piercing light while light predates the insinuations of sound. But this is not the oaken monument that we were promised. The cult of the standing stone with its strenuous secrets would lie down in laughter at that metaphor: waves, something akin to being fucked by a ghost. Only, the comet surges, cuts the black fabric of space, and penetrates the solar system, briefly, before hurling back into the blackness; at least here the cosmic clock recalls the nihilism of semen, the aggression of an orgasm, the proverbial "splat", all those possible (half) lives colliding with the nothingness...
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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