the schematic development of a non-human (fragments of a serial)

The repressed signifier gives itself up under cover of the image (Lacan) [The first few days of your becoming non-human, the beginning of the process of becoming non-human. You might wonder given the means by which you are infected why becoming non-human isn’t a sexually transmitted disease. That question is something for another stranger day…]

I get off the train and leave the station, get a taxi and ask the driver “take me to the Hotel Riga.” it was the last hour of my humanity, would i have gone there if you had known? but despite all that woe to those who want to hinder journeys as long as they are necessary. I remember nothing after getting out of the taxi, beginning to walk along the long drive, the path besides the road. the lights from the house through the trees, something like 100 metres from the road. a noise. pain. on my back, a face looking down at me. “leave him, he’s dying” the face vanishes and you can see the sky, stars, that was it. you cannot see the moon even though its above the horizon. (a few days later they will ask you, “do you remember anything?” you will say no, nothing.) you wish she was here to say say say goodbye to. so those who were there thought of those who were not there and so always those who are there think of those who you miss who are not there and all those who are there do and resolve to do something that occurs in memory of those who are not there. “Ërro” you say, her name aloud “erro”, you breathe her name. did those who were not there also think of those who were there? you never know how long you lay on your back, alone, dying. fading. you think of the children and regret not seeing them. did those who were not there think of those who were there…

you never hear her feet on the gravel, the sounds of people, of struggle, you cannot move your head, even moving your your your eyes to look is impossible. she is leaning over you, looking at your face. she is speaking, her mouth is moving, you cannot hear the words or understand them, the situation in which speech, exemplary speech, is forced to involve itself explicitly and specifically with the ground of language itself, has passed, language will never be the same again. the traditional way of saying things failed, it became a matter of penetrating, so to say, into the interior of language to break it open and question it in its most hidden connections. meaningless words are said to you “ i’m sorry…” she says, the last phrase you hear, she injects a syringe of blood into your arm, another into the wound in your stomach. “what are you doing?” a man asks her. “all i can…” she says… you hear none of this. you are already unconscious, looking at her face but unconscious, unconscious, whether one can speak of memory with regard to those in the house, the park. in a room you cannot remember an impromptu blood transfusion from her body into yours. she speaks to the virus as it migrates, copies itself into his damaged body. She wonders as the paramedics arrive how much of her will travel into his, your body. will there be memories copied from her to him by the virus? you can hardly be thought of as conscious … those who were not there have always been more numerous than those who were there and there are always fewer people who are less there than were not there and if all that were and will be there does this occur in your memory as as as they lie beside one another, a litre of blood and virus transfusing into his arm. you stop on the table, you die on the table, heart stops, the virus enters his head, his heart restarts… to be really there means to be there in the name of the woman detaching the tube from her arm, to be there longer and be more numerous than before means that someone, she, it can only be she determines he must stay, always has determined and will always determine there being there. together. you, no longer a singularity becoming more numerous than those who had not been there as long as those who were there one time. “numerology, counting”

an ambulance, they compress, they scan, operate, repair. the virus… to be there really means to be there, containing the name of those who it was before and it meets itself in a quiescent state and activates itself. repairs, becomes you, becoming you… You are unconscious under anaesthetic the operation, exploring and repairing the bullet wound, entrance and exit holes. identifying fractures. imaging, images. taping. you wake up, a hospital bed. you look. you have tubes. don’t move, the voice in your head says. in waves you become incoherent and coherent. complex lines of words meaningless and meaningful. “no anti-virals, antibiotics are fine. no warfrin.” you hear her instruct them, but don’t know what it means. you forget, you remember. she is saying to someone “i am afraid of him dying. that’s the truth that is the error. i think and then i think i am scared, i am scared of the thought of him dying. i’m scared by the thought of him not knowing how much i want him to be there. the thoughts and the counter-thoughts and my fears that run away from me. what would i say to Fern? …” erro, she leans over you. “hello, your awake.” you want to speak but you cannot. the noise in your head is a crescendo, and those who had been there before are still there but those who are no longer there will never return and become those who will never be there what memories are lost will never be recovered. “my turn to save you…” she says. and you see that she is becoming happy in front of your eyes. the words you say are incoherent, probably not even words. “lie still, don’t panic, everything is going to be fine. don’t speak yet.” A voice in your head says, your inner voice has split, your inner voice has split. an immeasurable amount of time passes as they detach machinery, attach others, you try and speak, the words sound different as if someone else is speaking for you. she sits with you. she looks better but is still worried. you ignore the doctor and hold her hand. she, erro looks delighted. whilst you say to the doctor; “doctor it hurts, am I going to be OK? “, “yes, is it bearable?”, the doctor looks at her. and those who had been there became those who were no longer there and only she remained holding your hand and those who were there will become those who return and will be there. your mind is talking to itself, who is that other person talking to you saying calm, don’t panic. awake, you think your inner voice sounds funny. look she is holding your hand. when they return they bring something with them which she refuses for you, it will do (k)no(w) good. more time passes that means sleep and the passing of pain and those who were there allowed her to sleep and your memory stabilized to sleep and wake again… “my head feels like a Heisenbuttel text,” you say to her. she laughs relieved at the lovely obscurity, that only you would say to her, because those who are no longer there were once there and you think that not to be there is something which you think is impossible, and you wonder if the possessions of the consumption are… and you remember the children again, one line remembering them a second or two before the other… this you say to her — “äre they allright?” “ÿes they are fine, they have gone to collect the cats…” in the name of those who have vanished, you are no longer there, you have become more numerous, fuzzier than she is, more openly multiplicit than you were before, no longer a singularity… who is no longer there and instead, instead, instead you have a name, and we are in that name… love you manage to say to her, love. And the one in your head says, “go ahead speak to her” and you say to the one in your head “who are you?” and and the one in your head says, you say, “you of course….” though you think you are laughing in your head the noise escapes into the hospital room… it’s shock, she says seemingly to him but really to the doctor, staff and anyone else who is listening and watching, the traditional way of saying things has failed. your inner speech has changed, your inner speech has changed. you are streaming out of the abyss caused by fractured bones and the holes through which a bullet have passed through your body. you don’t think “why aren’t i dead,” “why aren’t you dead,” instead its to think, holding her hand, desperate to not let go, though you know you have to, that to be there means to be there in the name of those who are there, they are more numerous than you are and and and you are immeasurably, you want to be there to have to be there, the voice in your head says. We are here, numerous, a multitude which determines has always been determined and will always determine being there. i can’t let go, you say holding her hand. if i let go i’ll… it’s all right she says. i am going nowhere, we are staying at the riga… you don’t know what the riga is, and then you remember… but here you are, and as you agree to let go of her hand you begin to merge, the two of you becoming one. for those who had been there, those who had become you, become those who you are… become those. what has happened to me? you ask her. i, we will explain everything when things are stable and we are at the riga… better the other voice in your head says. better you say to the other in your head.

you think of the children, the cats, but can’t let go of her hand. “ are you feeling well enough for visitors?” “ yes as long as i can see them…” and there as you wait, syntax and tenses slowly return to your inner speech… then, then, inner speech, inner speech. are there any non-verbal forms of signification that makes you notice the difference in the way your mind works? are the other senses different from how your mind now works? your thought-work has become more coherent, still two lines of speech simultaneously in your head, a montage of attractions, multiple words collide and produce a third. which when spoke become as one. she, this woman whose hand you are unable to left go of, hears a single word spoken, and yet now_as _you_think_of_physically moving you think she doesn’t take the production_of_meaning for granted. meaning is negotiated not only by the speaker and listener, except now you feel as if there are two of you speaking and she is the third holding your hand looking concerned in the noise of the room, and eventually you can smile at her. this, this, you open your eyes and smile, smile at her, my head feels fine, my mind is aching, my mind is aching. you are feeling much better, “i am feeling much better” you say to her.. “i hey, you can move without hurting. “ she tells you she can see that and helps you sit up, where are they? the children and cats are at the Riga, where we are staying, there are guards there and here. outside the door, for the first time in days the production of sense is working. you made it, you are going to be alright, this is good, she says, sternly in the quiet of the room i would have missed having sex if you had died… when we feel better, you say, non-verbal communication is never totally separate from the verbal. i feel weird you say to her, but still I feel OK… verbal presence is back, she says to you. your right arm is bandaged and does not move very well. In the early evening after she has helped you eat, she helps feed you and you remember for the first time what she is… And then late in the evening alone…and those who had been there, an immeasurable amount is in our possession which continues to grow is what which we we disregard and those who would be other cannot be trusted with the memories of those who are here, there because we who are no longer part of the collective find ourselves here where we would once have been there… not to be here, you think wanting to go home with her, the possession of her and still being accumulated by those who enable you to hide. You find that pronouns reappear at midnight, initial capitals reappear, In the name of those who are no longer there and are still more numerous because they have simply existed longer, and whilst they may no longer be here they are more numerous and we are hidden nameless and we are there in this name… this sleeping name. This person who can choose to treat words like everyone else. everytone else. synthesis. repairing.

and those who have been there became those who were not lingering there and those who are will become those who will no longer be there and of that which they did or did not do will be like the false memory of those who were not there and took something from them and and oh wait what did you lose? you stop, all the sentences in your head stop, stop, your head is weird. you feel fine, what did you lose and what is no longer there and what was taken from us who are no longer here, what have we become, you say, what is this something with them that cannot be there any longer that they have taken with them? what amount of things have you lost that you would have resolved to keep in your memory, what possessions have we lost your voices ask you and what facts have been forgotten which might have been in your possession just before this. what possessions have become part of you and what ones have arrived that were not thins before…

because those who are no longer there might once have been there

and then you look at her. i’m sorry she says. i didn’t know what else to do. she and you both ignore everyone in the room. her culpability you, you say… the other you in your head says it for you, you are saying thankyou to it as it speaks. to be here is something i, sorry we are grateful for, still there is something which we think is a consumption of a possession we want more than merely being accumulated. She smiles at you, the only person in the room, in the world who understands what your saying. She reaches out and touches your face “in the name of those who are no longer here and who are now more numerous than before because those who are no longer there who were less numerous before and now are more numerous and have a name and we are in that name…” two people, touching faces. synthesis. So, he says, your not schzoid after all he said. She smiles. Welcome.

Days have passed, it’s the end of the week and your body is feeling better as the virus repairs your body You don’t know how long it has been, two, four or six days? We need to get out of here, you think to yourself. “ Hey, I feel weird. But better than yesterday.” You say out loud looking at the nurse. As you look at the nurse the image looks sharper, in focus, what you had been seeing as a double image sharpens, focuses and becomes one. You say — “Hey, Hello. I’m alive, that’s amazing…” You are feeling as one person now. The doctor tells you what happened, that you’ve had two operations and are recovering… Can we leave this place and goto the Riga? I must hold onto my inner speech, not let it escape into the world… The repressed signifier gives itself up… After a week you can pretend to be human. You are interviewed but you can tell them nothing, your body recovers and a few days later you are sitting in the solarium at the Hotel Riga… The ground of language.