I was re-reading what I wrote about Helene Cixous and Entredeux. In part, she writes this about entredeux, the place in between:
"For me, an entredeux is: nothing. It is a moment in a life where you are not entirely living, where you are almost dead. where you are not dead. Where you are not yet in the process of reliving. These are innumerable moments that touch with the bereavements of all sorts. Either there is bereavement between me, vilolently, from the loss of a being who is part of me -- as if a piece of my body, of my house, were ruined, collapsed. Or, for example, the bereavement that the appearance of a grave illness in oneself must be. Everything that makes up the course of life interrupted."
In the post below--subtexts--I was looking through familiar lenses, the ones that I wear much of the time, the ones that get mad at the realworld for interrupting my blogging. It's because I feel so much more alive when I'm writing than when I'm living.
I re-read Cixous on Entredeux just now, and my perspective did one of those flip-flop things, like when you stare at a line drawing of a cube until it re-configures itself. What if blogging, writing, is entredeux, the place between living and not living. Aren't so many of our posts "innumerable moments that touch with the bereavements of all sorts"? I do see my blog as everything that makes up the course of my life interrupted. Yes. I thinik that's why so many of us are here. Well, I think it's why I'm here.
more later...
