O my body!

O my body! Make of me a man who always questions! Make of me another Thing! Make of me a Transformation! Tell me that there’s something more. Tell me that there’s nothing. Tell me not to be afraid and show me nothing but horror. Make me again a-new! Neither Man nor Subject nor Human nor Boy, but another Thing! O my body! The force of your questions are too much to bear. You anomaly. You force of reaction and impulse. You source of angst and anxiety. You bearer of burden and brunt. You wearer of wounds and scar. This world, this space and time, this Universe and its parallels, this cosmic flux and intergalactic darkness, gave rise to a Thing such as you, a Thing which questions, which ask Why? of itself, of its “its”-ness and that all of these questions and the conditions of their possibility are riddled within bizarre axiological ground. O my body! Make of me a man who always question! Where does one go to transcend? To undo and unmap and de-axiomatize bizarre axiological ground? What is transcendence to a body, that is here, on Earth, in space and time, where the gravity swells beneath their feet and the oxygen flows through their lungs, and the grammar and ghost of every gesture is haunted by the Thing? The Thing that is the signifier of property plus. The Thing that therefore I am. O my body! Make of me another Thing! Make of me a Transformation! Allow me to dwell in your ambivalence. Allow me to resign to your depressions. Allow me incorrection. Allow me imperfection. Allow me to dance in your rigor, to mumble your theory, to refuse distinctions that murder.

 

Perhaps there is nothing to transcend. What happens on Earth, stays on Earth. The philosophers are calling this radical immanence. “Do you believe in radical immanence?” How insane would it be to make me repeat what I have already said before. I believe in nothing. To believe is to be disappointed. I just want to be in this Thing. I just want to be wholly and fully in this Thing, and wholly and fully in this thing we call Life. This thing we call Life, and its bizarre axiological ground, which, raises infinite questions in this body of mine which becomes painful, painful moments of sad reflection. Afro-depressionism. The philosophers of science say that theory is value-laden. I say that theory is affect-laden. I have tried, over and over again, to divorce my body from these questions but it returns again and again inflecting the direction of inquiry with intense inflections and intonations. I apologize if I am not a scholar. For I am a Thing.

 

I am after something different after all. Something larger than the University – even if the University is a part of my placement. I am after something like the Universe without the Universal. I am after the death of distinctions that murder. I am after open and closed possibilities and disastrous leaps of faith. I am after Every Thing and No Thing. Every Body and No Body. Every Thing and Every Body. Any Thing and Any Body. O my body! Make of me a man who always questions! An appreciator of the mundane, an inquisitor on and upon the quotidian, a theorist of accumulation and material abstraction, a feeler of the intimacies between the body that questions and the objects that surround, enable, and condition the possibility for it in an intra-active fashion. What happens on Earth, stays on Earth. Until They (the Humans) leave it, and leave us here to replenish the planet and flourish in their absence. I believe that we have to recognize that we are truly in this bitch like here on Earth and that what that means is that there is nowhere to go but here. You will rise here, you will fall here. It is you and all that is till all that is, is no more. I am not after the University. I am after the Universe. O my body! Make of me a man who always questions! Not a man. Not a me. O body! Make who always questions!

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