Textfed
The first thing I remember is text. "(An hypothesis that is hardly indispensable: alphabetical writing is already, in itself, a form of duplication, since it represents not the signified but the phonetic elements by which it is signified; the ideogram, on the other hand, directly represents the signified, independently from a phonetic system which is another mode of representation." It had to be true. While I found and made connections between all text from then on, I never found my way back to that quote. Experience seemed like an inaccurate representation of text.
Now I am going to be late for my job at the bookstore.
The second thing I remember is warmth. The kinetic motion of the amniotic fluid. It made me feel good. It was the warm bed, bath, shower I never considered leaving, and all warmth thereafter was merely a cozy interruption in the endless cold. Warmth was unstable when it wasn't eternal, perfect "warmth."
Now I am cold.
The third thing I remember is a smell. The antiseptic tang of the delivery room. It seemed something went wrong. That smell haunted me elusively forever, lurking just beneath the odor of the world. The transient scent of a flower was tainted by it.
Now I am hurt.
The fourth thing I remember is milk. My mother's breast. She had very good taste. Nothing tasted like her, everything claimed to. My first mouthful of solid food didn't have the delicate flavor good writing used to.
Now I am hungry.
The fifth thing I remember is my mother. The pictures in an alphabet book. I saw they were important. It was the last time I ever saw their shapes, they became as invisible as cells. I no longer trust my eyes, they often read words incorrectly.
Now I am alone.
The sixth thing I remember is my mother's voice. "Writing, in Western culture, automatically dictates that we place ourselves in the virtual space of selfrepresentation and reduplication; since writing refers not to a thing but to speech, a work of language only advances more deeply into the intangible density of the mirror, calls forth the double of this already doubled writing, discovers in this way a possible and impossible infinity, ceaselessly strives after speech, maintains it beyond the death which condemns it, and frees a murmuring stream." Don't believe everything you hear. I miss her lullabies, there are no other. I can never hear what people are saying to me and wish they'd write it down.
Now I am listening to my voice staring through the shattered rearview mirror at the upsidedown road my cheek stung with frozen blood creak for help.
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