8/13/2015

La promenade

.




La promenade du schizophrène: c'est un meilleur modèle
que le névrosé couché sur le divan. Un peu de grand air,
une relation avec le dehors. Par exemple la promenade
de Lenz reconstituée par Büchner. 1 C'est différent des
moments où Lenz se retrouve chez son bon pasteur, qui
le force à se repérer socialement, par rapport au Dieu de
la religion, par rapport au père, à la mère. Là au contraire,
il est dans les montagnes, sous la neige, avec d'autres dieux
ou sans dieu du tout, sans famille, sans père ni mère, avec


la nature. « Que veut mon père? Peut-il me donner mieux ?

Impossible. Laissez-moi en paix.» Tout fait machine.
Machines célestes, les étoiles ou l'arc en ciel, machines
alpestres, qui se couplent avec celles de son corps. Bruit
ininterrompu de machines. « Il pensait que ce devait être
un sentiment d'une infinie béatitude que d'être touché par
la vie profonde de toute forme, d'avoir une âme pour les
pierres, les métaux, l'eau et les plantes, d'accueillir en soi
tous les objets de la nature, rêveusement, comme les fleurs
absorbent l'air avec la croissance et la décroissance de la
lune. » Etre une machine chIorophyllique, ou de photosynthèse,
au moins glisser son corps comme une pièce dans
de pareilles machines. Lenz s'est mis avant la distinction
homme-nature, avant tous les repérages que cette distinction
conditionne. Il ne vit pas la nature comme nature, mais
comme processus de production. Il n'y a plus ni homme
ni nature, mais uniquement processus qui produit l'un dans
l'autre et couple les machines. Partout des machines pro­
ductrices ou désirantes, les machines schizophrènes, toute
la vie générique : moi et non-moi, extérieur et int􀂂rieur
ne veulent plus rien dire.

----------------------

the two

 Rhizome
==========================
The two of us wrote
Anti-Oedipus
together. Since each of us was
several, there was already quite a crowd. Here we have made use of
everything came within range, what was closest as well as farthest
away. We assigned clever pseudonyms to prevent recognition. Why
have we kept own names? Out of habit, purely out of habit. To make
ourselves unrecognizable in turn. To render imperceptible, not
ourselves, but what makes us act, feel, and think. Also because it's
nice to talk like everybody else, to say the sun rises, when everybody
knows it's only a manner of speaking. To reach, not the point where
one no longer says I, but the point where it is no longer of any
importance whether one says I. We are no longer ourselves. Each will
know his own. We have been aided, inspired, multiplied.
A book has neither object nor subject; it is made of variously for
matters, and very different dates and speeds. To attribute the book
subject is to overlook this working of matters, and the exteriority of
their
relations. It is to fabricate a beneficent God to explain
geological movements. In a book, as in all things, there are lines of
articulation segmentarity, strata and territories; but also lines of
flight, movement deterritorialization and destratification.
Comparative rates of flow on

______________----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



4
these lines produce phenomena of relative slowness and viscosity, or,
on contrary, of acceleration and rupture. All this, lines and
measurable speeds, constitutes an
assemblage.
A book is an
assemblage of this kind, and as such is unattributable. It is a
multiplicity-but we don't know yet at the multiple entails when it is no
longer attributed, that is, after it has been elevated to the status of a
substantive. One side of a machinic assemblage faces the strata,
which doubtless make it a kind of organism, or signing totality, or
determination attributable to a subject; it also has a side facing a
body
without organs,
which is continually dismantling the organism,
causing asignifying particles or pure intensities to pass or circulate,
and attributing to itself subjects that it leaves with nothing more than
a name as the trace of an intensity. What is the body without organs
of a book? There are several, depending on the nature of the lines
considered, their particular grade or density, and the possibility of
their converging on "plane of consistency" assuring their selection.
Here, as elsewhere, the units of measure are what is essential:
quantify writing.
There is no difference between what a book talks
about and how it is made. Therefore a book has no object. As an
assemblage, a book has only itself, in connection with other
assemblages and in relation to other bodies without organs. We will
never ask what a book means, as signified or signifier; we will not
look for anything to understand in it. We will ask what it functions
with, in connection with what other things it does or does not transmit
intensities, in which other multiplicities its own are inserted and
metamorphosed, and with what bodies without organs it makes its
own converge. A book exists only through the outside and on the
outside. A book itself is a little machine; what is the relation (also
measurable) of this literary machine to a war machine, love machine,
revolutionary machine, etc.-and an
abstract machine
that sweeps
them along? We have been criticized for overquoting literary authors.
But when one writes, the only question is which other machine the
literary machine can be plugged into, must be plugged into in order to
work. Kleist and a mad war machine, Kafka and a most extraordinary
bureaucratic machine
...
(What if one became animal or plant through
literature, which certainly does not mean literarily? Is it not first
through the voice that one becomes animal?) Literature is an
assemblage. It has nothing to do with ideology. There is no ideology
and never has been.
All we talk about are multiplicities, lines, strata and
segmentarities, ines of flight and intensities, machinic assemblages
and their various ypes, bodies without organs and their construction
and selection, the )lane of consistency, and in each case the units of
measure.
Stratometers, teleometers, BwO units of density, BwO units
of convergence:
Not only do hese constitute a quantification of
writing, but they define writing as ilways the measure of something
else. Writing has nothing to do with

=====================================
Ça
fonctionne
partout,
tantôt
sans
arrêt,
tantôt
discon­
tinu.
Ça
respire,
ça
chauffe,
ça
mange.
Ça
chie,
ça
bcl.Ïse.
Quelle
erreur
d'avoir
dit
le
ça.
Partout
ce
sont
des
machines,
pas
du
tout
métaphoriquement
:
des
machines
de
machines,
avec
leurs
couplages,
leurs
connexions.
Une
machine-organe
est
branchée
sur
une
machine-source
:
l'une
émet
un
flux,
que
l'autre
coupe.
Le
sein
est
une
machine
qui
produit
du
lait,
et
la
bouche,
une
machine
couplée
sur
celle-là.
La
bouche
de
l'anorexique
hésite
entre
une
machine
à
manger,
une
machine
anale,
une
machine
à
parler,
une
machine
à
respirer
(crise
d'asthme).
C'est
ainsi
qu'on
est
tous
brico­
leurs;
chacun
ses
petites
machines.
Une
machine-organe
pour
une
machine-énergie,
toujours
des
flux
et
des
coupures.
Le
président
Schreber
a
les
rayons
du
ciel
dans
le
cul.
Anus
solaire.
Et
soyez
sûrs
que
ça
marche;
le
président
Schreber
sent
quelque
chose,
produit
quelque
chose,
et
peut
en
faire
la
théorie.
Quelque
chose
se
produit
:
des
effets
de
machine,
et
non
des
métaphores.
La
promenade
du
schizophrène
:
c'est
un
meilleur
modèle
que
le
névrosé
couché
sur
le
divan.
Un
peu
de
grand
air,
une
relation
avec
le
dehors.
Par
 ___________________________________________________________________________________________________

6/02/2015

.. Henry Miller analysis... ... dig it ... there's no mystery ....


____________ Go back to the Hamlet letters all ______________ it's said there much to the point ___ _______________lest they forgoe/forget ________________________war is the shitty id gone banannas ________________________Love's the big machine keeping the world go round not black as in Dante ________________________last winter walking along the river you nearly died. __________________________________oedipus the god /each one of us/is your mother ____________________________________________________________

5/31/2015

Une politique de la folie par François Tosquelles

Une politique de la folie par François Tosquelles



//
vous lisez...
folie, philosophie, politique, psychanalyse

Une politique de la folie par François Tosquelles


http://cliniquedelaborde.pagesperso-orange.fr/Auteurs/TOSQUELLES%20francois/Textes/texte6.htm

Revue « CHIMÈRES » – Automne 1991, N°19

François Tosquelles est un psychiatre psychanalyste d’origine catalane. Réfugié en France à la fin de la guerre d’Espagne, il travailla dès 1940 à l’hôpital de Saint-Alban, en Lozère. Le texte que nous présentons ici est la transcription intégrale d’un film , réalisé en 1989, sous forme d’un entretien avec celui qui fut le fondateur de la Psychothérapie institutionnell




https://deterritorium.wordpress.com/2011/10/05/une-politique-de-la-folie-par-francois-tosquelles/

5/11/2015

Waiting for ... 'reason'

.




We do not use the terms ‘normal’ or 'abnormal.’

                All societies are rational and irrational at the same time. 

They are perforce rational in their mechanisms, their cogs and wheels, their connecting systems, and even by the place they assign to the irrational.

 Yet all this presupposes codes or axioms which are not the products of chance, but which are not intrinsically rational either.

 
 It’s like theology: everything about it is rational if you accept sin, immaculate conception,                      incarnation.


 Reason is always a region cut out of the irrational - not sheltered from the irrational at all, but a

region traversed by the irrational and defined only by a certain type of relation between irrational factors.

                                        Underneath all reason lies delirium, drift.”

 Chaosophy Félix Guattari

 .
 

4/20/2015

'Onty'

.



Onti-oedipus. cat. cata catacomb combing combing the earth &air a  fine fiddle care  ~  there ` music taking the easy out?  not music itself whatever thatmight be but it's projeuniteurs? n'est c'est pas? writing is always hard. er? is it ? are you not amusican.  Once if i remember I was a fine musican.

a   pyhrosis of bleeding.

 _____________

.... that's ...

_______________________________________

   that's how the machine works  .. it stops.. breaking down and it's not so fun when yr in it a ferris-wheel carriage coming to a halt
  a head-ache smacking you in the gob
    sniffing nose bleating heart
 a weird weather pulling stiff on its dogs

   mooring? no not mooring moiled but the unpleasant kind a disjunctive disjointed_
ness and the 'hurt of tears' paying out their hot scalding

 desire a broken puff on the dry tongue
  a weird page in the southern wind 
  not a tripping fancy page


   and the guilt that musicans make you feel provoking you with their never ceasing  promisicuity a nice game to play banging on  strings, keys, horns, blowers, blinkers, tom-toms day and night bin
  of it never ending
   metamorphosed into the car monster its nasty bright lights beaming on down

  for the wander-schizo it's harder peregrinating            round and round

     so the question becomes how to find new lines/&times to cut
  


|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

love

||||||||||||||||||||||||



"People don’t like love, they like that flittery flirty feeling. They don’t love love - love is sacrificial, love is ferocious, it’s not emotive. Our culture doesn’t love love, it loves the idea of love. It wants the emotion without paying anything for it."
-(via 5000letters)(


_______________________