"HICHIZED WRITING"

When I dare to set my eyes on a shining surface of snow, I become aware of a fixed pattern of tiny optical mirages—specks of my vitreous disposition, similar to frozen microbes—that always float, usually unnoticed, in the field of my third vision. These inorganics, or allies, are also part of the tensions of my Self. And all the casual bytes of spontaneous memories are also part of my Self, just like that repetitive voice that, with its endlessly recomposed fictions and indistinct recollections, keeps me company during hyperactive insomnia and possesses such a seductive intelligence that, at times, I cannot deny seeing in my own Self only an X-pole that serves as a support for all the psychic and poetic phenomena of the world. And I never remain indifferent to these states; quite the contrary, I greedily absorb and collect them, like a vampire, remaining committed to them as a superconscious and alert support: a concrete totality that contains and supports its own qualities. I feel that I am nothing outside the concrete totality of my states and actions other than consciousness and pure intent, gliding through a volatile infinity of data... nul signe de tailleur: chaque matin de la terre ouvrait ses ailes au bas des marches de la nuit. Without a doubt (I thought), I am transcendent to all the states I unify, but not as an abstract X whose mission is only to unify. The infinite totality of states and actions can only be reduced to a single state and a single action in samadhi, the supreme identification of the mind with its creative principle. When I sign my name, for example, and I have done so frequently in books and pages, I find it increasingly difficult to go beyond the K or the K.M.—something in the rhythm of my traditional "K.M." suddenly imposes a forced pause, a freezing of my motor muscles, usually at the top of the "M" or at the foot of the isolated "K," so that the pen's ink, if released by a sensitive tip, begins to bleed, to sketch a blue star leaking from the other side of the paper. This spontaneous, almost mystical (I think) hesitation in what should be a fluently practiced signature (ma tombe et mon retour) I think is also my Self. A flaw that betrays my deep being, like a fracture in the Antarctic ice sheet that reveals an alarming blue sky in the deepest part—the rocky foundation, the radioactive boulder, so to speak, under the dim immaterial light of my literary, philosophical, social, and tantric performance. So the World, from this point of view, comes to be conceived as an infinite synthetic totality of all things; a World that we reach beyond our immediate contours as a vast concrete existence. In this case, the things that surround us appear as the extreme point of this World that surpasses and encompasses them. And the Self becomes for psychic objects what the World is for things. But the “appearance” of the World on the “horizon of things” is a rather rare phenomenon, almost an illumination and, in the case of a greater awakening, almost a “collective initiation”; but special circumstances are needed (very well described by Heidegger in Sein und zeit) for it to “unveil” itself.