COUNT THE PRESENT DAYS UNTIL TODAY ARRIEVES (THE PRESIDENT OF UNITED STATES)

 

They research, inscribe, connect, consult, explore... an immense multidimensional electronic image, almost alive in perpetual metamorphosis, flourishing at the pace of invention. A CENTRAL PLACE FOR DISCUSSION, NEGOTIATIONS, AND POLITICAL DEVELOPMENT. A mediating tissue between the pure intuitive intellect and its world, between the collective unconscious and its world. EVERY READING BECOMES A DISCOURSE. A relativistic space subjected to consultation and inscription, like the Stock Exchange. The inscription itself performs a "surgery" (cuts, stitches, grafts, discontinuous operations in general); the consultation, in turn, is equivalent to a massage-folding of Space (inflections, continuous operations).

"But foolishness is not my greatest evil." In due time...'' I thought 'a thousand rapid political landscapes will pass by: a screen of statistics, toys with ashes of diplomatically crushed weather''.

My speeches were not mere pretexts for anything else; they came from the core of the intellect that constituted my life experience... there was a blatant stamp of persistence in everything I said and in the consequences I (chronically) was reaping.

Classicism, mandarinism --- they will say that I recreate myself hastily, anarchically, through the arrogance of my gestures; that I am "looking for an ideal type within myself, after the other, represented by the ever-victorious hero of children's magazines, withered under the impact of the epidemic and the recession; and that under so many pretexts of valor I discovered that I do not possess everything I would like from political power, that "farce à mener par tous"; and that power, immediate objective means, the relationship of wills, the capacity in the strict sense of the word to constrain – do not exhaust the motivation of actors, and that I go from the oval office to the diversity of command specifications, present in relationships of influence, to close to where twisted nerves disgust the whole body with the chaotic exercise of spontaneity; and that I see, without reflecting, a thousand justifications for each of my absurd behaviors.

Behind the scenes, the same astonished sobs of misplaced targets. Then a bit of childish excitement, almost immediate exhaustion. My shadow grew, acting on itself at the level of cynical reflection, acting with excessive force on a weakened audience, made tender and insecure by the military, health, and economic scourge.

"Ten years or more will pass without the possibility of redetermining all the mutual blockades that have arisen in the economy of global exchange."

"Certainly, we have gradually buried ourselves in a profound protectionist abjection with no cure."

"And now it is by your own weight that you and your country will come to keep us company at the bottom of the well."

Deep down, they had no idea what kind of man I was, and of course I didn't care—while the systemic crisis was demanding longer periods of obstinacy from me if I wanted to continue sifting through "lucky breaks" amidst the horror that had been pushed to its extreme. The ongoing political gaze told me it could always be increased, the soul of inflation was elastic, capable of digesting the good results of a recovering economy, and would vary according to the nervous overloads in the world's image, and the terminal strategies of those mute forces that did not frequent the limbo of official figures.

The trap-event, the snare-person, were all the more dangerous the more they were, of their own accord, linked to the same pirate law and the same mask of sincere deflagration. Obviously, I would soon lose the sympathy of the last non-American sympathizers, but I intended to erase the humiliation of the homeland's unpopularity by overcompensating for it with an invariable mechanism of resurrected impulses.

THAUMADZEIN, the astonishment of the ancient Greeks. The BODY is all there, poised, like a closed claw before the audience; the family behind, huddled, merely touches the string of a bow that does not draw: a hesitant action, one might say a vibrato of action, at a self-limiting speed that is not fed by anything visible (without the risk of a short-circuit extracted from domestic life and transposed to the political sphere, as until recently). THE BODY, then, besieged by itself, fixes its eyes on its own shell, language shoots from the transvalued nerves at high speed, devouring each accurate word that leaves the mouth, in flight (then I begin to stutter, to open suitcases in spoken language, in front of the spotlights --- while from the Nietzschean animal "capable of promising", on the platform or in the media, only that suspended, enigmatic interest remains, a decision-making metal twisted by the voice, evaluated from all angles by the financial authority of the central bank, which forces the jaws in an outline of who knows what.

And the political continuation on stage is sustained only as a mere foil to the conflictual or peaceful virtualities of the economy, guided by the Establishment to seek only the meaning of events and not a meaningful story. Rhetoric regulating rational ideas and, at the same time, a cowardly utopian practice freezing notions of progress against the cold skin of reality.

Against the vacillations of time and its dull inflections, I awoke whole again, taking pleasure in expanding, with radiant, learned, and unsurpassed words, the lying memory of all my loves. I had known up close all the bloodthirsty factions of the modern world and won the war of parties in America; I had exposed political corruption in all media, and now I wanted my satirical and tactical remains back, my frank pretexts for simulacra. They, in turn, continued to dig one communication abyss after another in the news, but it was all lies.

The desire to command, to
dominate and not be dominated,
without the risk of lightning or short circuit,
extracted from domestic life,
and transposed to the political sphere.
The BODY is all there,
at the ready, like a closed claw;
the family behind, cowering,
merely touches the string of a bow
that doesn't fire: a hesitant action,
one might say a vibrato of action,
at a self-limiting speed
that feeds on nothing visible.
The BODY, then, besieged
by itself, fixes its eyes
on its own shell, language
shoots from the transvalued nerves
at high speed, devouring
every accurate word
that leaves its mouth, in flight.
The audience takes the impact in the face
while the Nietzschean animal
''capable of promising'',
on the platform, remains only
suspended interest
and a metal twisted by the voice
forcing the jaws
into a tentative decision.