Cixous writes: "I want the word depays (uncountry); I am sorry we don't have it, since the uncountry is not supposed to exist. Only pays (country) and depaysement exist. I like beings who belong to the removal (depaysement)."
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I leave Cixous and my journey down the three steps here, in my own uncountry. Although she writes more, on naming, on sex and the presence/absence of gender, on dying and flowers and Kafka's deathbed scraps of paper, I'm not there yet. I have read it, but I am not that far in my own journey. I will stay for now in the School of Roots, somewhere between Exile and Uncountry. You go on without me. Because this is where I need to stay, at least for now.
Unbeing is hard. Transitional, but I don't know to what. "Un" is not forever, because there is the dying to be done. And thank you Helene Cixous. I haven't found any other writer as curious as I am with dying and its inherent tangles with writing, with the writer.
So as I close this portion of my blog to Cixous, you know me. I am the one who lost early and often, and then almost for good. I am the one who dreams of creation and babies who are born, lost, and sometimes never found again. And I am the one struggling with my roots, what they mean to me and my daughter, who is calling me back, just now, as I finish this:
"Mama?"
