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I find myself in-between. It feels like a rite of initiation, should I keep my eyes half opened and half closed, as in Mysteries?

There is an underground, and it does not feel grounded at all. I can look at it, it's a sub-ject. But I can tell its body also looks quite abject, it is indeed a corpse.
As the underground “neither speaks out nor conceals, but gives a sign” I feel I have to be umbilical. Navigate this navel string in order to communicate.

In-between and ad interim, is it how it feels too?
A body contained in an interworld for forty days and one thousand and one nights. A body that has no fixed shape nor clear direction. A body that is not one nor a sum. But nonetheless, a body that unfolds biographically.

It offers a hand for me to read, but when the future folds upon the present, what does a palmist see?

In-between and ad interim, is it not the sign of the times?
An interregnum which is neither the previous one nor the following other. A rip tide that drags and disorients, pressing breathtakingly, foreclosing the horizon. Though a rip tide always foretells a new wave to come, the stronger it hauls, the stronger it will impact.

In-between is “neither the ‘one’ nor the ‘other,’ but somewhere in the middle, like an intermediary, a messenger, an intermezzo: not the other stage, the other scene, but in between two sessions, with the time and space proper to intersubjectivity.”

Thirteen people AND your foot in my mouth AND a prodigy AND the dance of a pact.
It will all feel like facing a white void, staging the dissolution of the gushing Order into an uncanny, if not horrific, atmospheric mist. Formless, as a stain gazing at what you see of it.

Ring-a-ring o’roses… we all fall down.
For us all to fall down means to fall is a world. That's the premise of an immersion which is at the same time an emergence: “is it not the intention of every fable, after all, to hold one mirror up to another?”.
When a crisis occurs, the hidden, the out sided, emerges, for us to confront and, exquisitely, again sort. The word Exquisite, ex-quaerere, to thoroughly sort out, shares a common ground with Crisis, krino, to separate and discern: choice. For something to be exquisite, a choice must occur, thus an order, a system of reality, must plunge into a state of crisis.


For a millisecond, I saw a picture of a faun leaning against a tree with woods in the background. It was a photograph of a miner on his knees. Both the woods of the former, and the tunnel of the latter, bear the sign of the underground.
An immersion mirroring an emergence… AND in that stain you shall see a corpse, secreting blindly, as an abyss mollusc, an exquisite shell.









Does a corpse breathe? Because I can tell that this (not) one is animated.
Does a corpse have a voice? Because I can tell that this (not) one is speaking in tongues.
Asking diviners to con-spire.

Where does the voice come from? As if it's somebody else speaking. Do they tell much about themselves? As if it's a swarm of ghosts, warning that it was all an illusion, a shepard scale, manufacturing the belief of an infinite ascent. It now sounds like a past future. As the tone overturned, an immersion became necessary, to climb the scale down, to find the threshold at its base.
Esprit de l'escalier, when you know how it feels to be fucked over, the right words may be found là-bas.

When the future folds upon the present, what does a palmist see? Tunnels.
Like those under the stage of an arena, full of ghosts feeling what it's like to be fucked over by the government. Full of poets, "the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present, the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire."
Tunnels under a stage to come. Eerie, calm and dreadful, as a perpetuous hiatus. Or in tumult, a teargas mist echoing a thousand fucks. One may be a dead end, folding back to others, the other may be split in many other turns.
Beyond the ones or their sum, tunnels channeling the breath of an exquisite corpse, "a floating composition of neurological flows, of bodily and psychological matter that takes a form.”









Isn't it all about the eclipse of a clear future darkening what's to come?

Reason has ceased to be a human light, it diverged into inhuman abstraction. The light of its future doesn't cease for an instant to wound us, leaving a body in tumult. Embrace the night, as dark is the best thing the future can be. Only the night ungrounds the eye from the world that subjects it.

Enclosed like the hermit in the desert cave, a pact was made beyond the sight of the world, under the sign of the corpse - "Every hermit knows that the desert night is a cave, and the desert cave is a tomb, and that none of these are in any sense enclosures."

The light of the world demands that everything has a form, but the night dissolves forms, not into absence, but presence.

I am allowed to wander the caves of the inner desert of this corpse. A refrain resonates, it's the dance of the pact. Blind as a bat shaking tearfully over the white noise of the world. Bonded as a weird fractal mosaic that conjoins without order or shape. Formless, "like a spider or spit.”

It's a ritual held at the edge of a crater, staring blindly at its darkness. Like a threshold that remains shut in order to avoid the reduction to a singular meaning.
It's a ritual to bring into existence an exquisite desistance. Like a stage for a cavernous corpse desisting a singular, vertebral, direction.
It's a blind ritual for a future stage to be witnessed. "Only with eyes closed can we unfold the future, and with eyes opened can we conceive to enter it."

Paolo Gabiotti as The Diviner

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