Inspatiences to the real

Inspatiences to the real

Note from the author/translator: this is impossible to pass on the sounds of words from French to any other language. Sorry for that. Some meaning may be missing.

Inspace is to space what water is to the body.

Of all the sentences strung together in [inspace or the reversal of visibilities] (L'inspace ou le retournement des visibilités - THX), it is this one, above, that has caused the greatest confusion. I was told, “it should be the opposite: inspace is to space what the body is to water.” The insistence was so great that I myself was caught up in the confusion. I had to make a cross-multiplication to verify if, indeed, my head was not twisted.

The question would thus be to know which of the water or the body is inscribed in the space and written in the inspace; does the suspicion of inspace correspond to a suspension of space? Or does the inspace serve as an excipient to the insipid space?

The body — what body? — is filled with water, and water provides to the body and waters the body: its cycle is independent of the body, but the body is not; the body depends on water — but which body? The living, physical, human body, and even, dare I say it, the psychic body, for I cannot conceive of a spirit outside the body, outside the living. It is even there that the question of the body arises — but which body? The symbolic body, itself seems to come from the physical, biological, psychic bodies; how then could it escape the necessity of water?

We are therefore not, it seems, in the insoluble case of the egg or the chicken — which comes before the other? — since without water there is no body — but which body? If it is celestial or said to be inert, devoid of H2O – that is to say a BDY, then yes, perhaps, one could consider the inspace in relation to space, the space-water — a small one of space — and the inspace-body; but a body which is not an envelope! The message is clear, unless it is stampeded. To the bodies-spaces no pancakes: we are born of water, of rot, of a rotation and, to consider our bodies out of its soft cradle raises a detachment proper to the thought of space – without i, without I ; it is undoubtedly – with o, dutekin – this attempt of beautiful escape, of full ahead flight, of general derogation to the insistence of the body to be there, without sleep, to consider oneself – with o and i – in pair manance, a maneuver of counter-nature revolted beggars, counter-culture. The power relation of (i/e)space, id est (that is to say) a proto-relationship of absence of exteriority can only be conceived in the sense of an interiority capable of thinking itself external-to-itself in order to forget itself – with o, i and e; a game of the goose to get out of the boxes and to conceive them only as actualized presence of a past, a potential future: the box as mark of a discharge; a small step for the living, a big no-step at all.

Worse, and to perfect this self-portrait line for line without petrifying for all that any presence (main subject of our pretentious practice – our, here, as hour capped of authority, which belongs to us, out of distribution, out of departure, built to wall) and, swinging the egg or the chicken, seize by the liquid interjection in the porous anfractuosities of the language the diverse unity of the senses, decency without future, to come is (almost) to leave, (almost) to leave again, (almost) to distribute. Yet, if we grasp in the interstice the difference from inspace to water, from space to body, we see from within how the outside can be unthought of and how we can conceive it only as a myth, as a foreign body, elusive though it belongs to us. The incompleteness of the fullness of the body is evoked and evaporates in the insistence of water to make body, the inspace of an extant.

Without this breathing patience, calm wave of the diaphragm in accord-dance, a step without knowing, a step in knowing, continuous hopping caressing the shores, a science step, a dance step, concordance of the tenses, accordance relaxation, a breath, an instinct, without this imaginary power, without hope of an encompassing knowledge (thank you Gödel), the real escapes me, here and now, for ever and ever and ever, I can’t escape from it anymore: the inspace is to the space what the water is to the body.