everyday is a temperature:    insects that hide in the grass. they said givenness is not a text and that we walk on our heads.. the image is thicker.   truly uncanny. beyond yet close.      one cannot get enough of it. warm air in autumn.   golden tussock shining in the sun.  walking and walking. in the warm air of the day. silence. even more than the image. sense.

the sensibility of a shimmering force. effervescent . a fine word. something shining. she likes what light does…   winter is full of the shining. what the camera sees is astonishing. everyday. unhuman. and writing can be a sort of violence with regard to presence.

does he say this? is he at the door?  bordering. the experience of being within an outside or remaining inside safe in numbers.     

she says due to a weakness in language.

no he talks of emptiness, as if the void were empty rather than full. does he say this? the virtualis swarms and is inseparable from the actual.

the colour does not shine. rather it is chalk like. flat and soft. colour can be love.  complete to its own sense. it does not care about the human. this human loves it for no reason other than the sense of it and feels complete amongst its unknowing.          submissive?   i do not think so tim.

colour has never submitted a single complaint. matter wants nothing to do with language and wants nothing from it.

translations. the white anxiety of our sail.  henry liked mallarmé though. he had much to say about him and what henry said was more wonderful. or more wonderful to my head. well back then. since then. more.

the sense in the space that opens up can fall on you and suddenly you are alive without words.  we all know what that is. it is the strangest of things. attention. attention to a contemplation without knowledge. a sort of bliss.

sometimes it is unbearably hot out at the lake. it rarely shines. often it has no water. the sky shimmers out there though. marvellous clouds travel there. and the strange rocks of course.   the sudden silence or the wild chirping of crickets. an occasional frog. much distance. the cranky machine out her window will often sound like a cricket in the night.

whatever adds to singularity only an emptiness, only a threshold: whatever is a singularity plus an empty space, a singularity that is finite and, nonetheless, indeterminable according to a concept.

what is thought in the architranscendental quodlibet is, therefore, what is most difficult to think: the absolutely non-thing experience of a pure exteriority.

kim pieters