A Brief Phenomenology of the Luciferic


First—a dissimilitude. Which is to say, a schism, a division inside the field as it registers the presence of something approaching—something silent, heavy, even dark. Then, a moment of pouring. As if a dark smoke were sifting down from the middle of the crown, a dark smoke that falls into his organs and waits. Then, a silence. As if something were imminent. And out of that silence: a bulge in the field—as if the field of the body were being drawn out of itself into an unrecognizable shape—a blur dissolving as it loosens the organs from their identification with their own forms. Then the organs begin to move against those forms --loosening from them and pouring their qualities up into the world above the head. The subject feels this as a great up-rush inside the body. The organs feel like they are being drawn upward as if by an astringent, as if to return to the stars and desert the form of the body --as if the body were a prison they wish only to escape. He feels himself sigh for what is forever unreachable, and it is as if that sigh were an identity, but it is clear to the subject that it is a false identity --an identity formed out of the desire life alone, and not the desire life as it shapes itself in the forms of the earth -- through earthly effort and earthly identification –but a desire that lives primarily through the earth’s dissolving. It is the sigh that is the giving up of hope in what is earthly—the attempt to free one’s self from the body as if it were an illusion -- as if the body were only another desire— a desire that blocks life from being in flow. But the flow the subject feels moves upward and away and not into and through— it has no human hope or aspiration, no pain, frustration, or sense of accomplishment— only avoidance and fantasy and a glittering that is merely the faintest semblance of what can be. It is the sigh that is an outpouring of a non-verbal desire then—that which seduces through its lack of verbal presence, its lack of any linguistic form, until all that is left is the edge of a nothing—the hot edge of a being that has no human form of its own, as it expands and moves upwards into the space around the body and out above his head.


It is exhausting. Day after day of it—the tired, dull burning that appears in each moment, as if the experience of being, the experience of human contact, of textual interest, of the visual, the aesthetic, the tactile—everything—were an insistence and a cogence, a need, indeed an imperative to ACT –and that the purpose of that action must be only this: to honor this burning that belongs only to the nothing—to act out the fantasy –to be consumed in what burns inside the subject as image. Though this is a consumption that is not characterized by laughter or presence, or in love of another, but in a silence that has only the immediacy of a wish. He has become a burning subject then — lost — without context --except as that which flames at the edges of the human as it unfolds. It is, as it were, a life of fire in parentheses. And in those parentheses the actual world is beside the point—lost behind the glitter, immediacy and warmth of the desire that comes from nowhere and retreats to nowhere, drawing the subject with it into fantasy and whisper. To make of one’s self a siren among sirens then. A subject inside the wish to become a desire —to call, to sing, to echo what was never there —kissing its bare need, fleshless, raw, and gone from everywhere