by
dv itself
(DAY 0)
THE DAY OF WAR
she starts again at zero
a zero which appears as nothing but which she will carry as a cipher.
Women diffuse themselves according to modalities scarcely compatible with the framework of ruling symbolics.
Minx
/min xs/ n. a. pert, sly, or playful girl.
Woman’s behaviour has therefore been coded according to laws of exclusion.
This has had unanticipated consequences. For her stealthy gestures, body and mutterings have slipped out from his language and inadvertently into the workings of the war machine.
She is the sphinx that has no secrets. (She is a clod of fine soap wrapped in rough white wool.)
Her survival now depends on the military deployment of bastardized versions of his appropriation.Wars will be waged, fruitful lands be laid bare to scorching fire.
Serpentine tactics
are the mappings of her imperceptible advance. She marks her lines through geological cuts, metallic intrusions, technical scars. As these wounds heal, it is the crusts that are felt by the fingers of a trained hand. Tesserae.
Invisible to the strategy of the arborescent, specular war.
Minx
/min xs/ n. a. pert, sly, or playful girl.
Her maps cannot be read, her troops cannot be seen.
Scanners yield no image. Only touch will reveal, reactivate her meaning.
Forget Jocasta, forget Antigone, forget even Inanna. Head on East, in the Indian subcontinent KALI marks a different path. This is no secretive, intestinal exploration of muscle or meat. She is no such reservoir.
But is not over. K.’s intrusion into the ruling order of the day is a micro specifically planned intermittence. A cut through screen instigated by the gathering pace of radial spin. Her long and matted hair flowing wildly, her maddened laughter, her third eye scarlet, her greedy tongue, her huge hard teeth, her lips drawn back, her breast dressed by strings of severed heads with wild and awful faces.
Her garland was the intestine of the demon, her ornaments of bones in lust for blood and flesh. The earth trembled with her howling. She trampled heaven, earth and hell, crushed them beneath her feet.
Aimed imperceptibly against the organism, against the specular gaze, the reptile stirs. The third cerebral ventricle, home of the animal spirits, dismantles the human. The residual events of a blind weapon that defies sight. What remains are the traces of her rhythm, the smeared imprints of her movement– smooth skids–flatlines. A rhythm composed of speeds and slownesses.
