Petros Patounas BIOBLOG

The formation of Desire is betrothalised in resembling a Breath, for along the treatises and the monographs the beautiful subject of language is able to inarticulate the progress in the process of verbification: the Breath is an Act and a verb: “Oh dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord God to these bones, Behold, I will cause breath to enter you that you may come to life.”

And the topology of that conduct, certainly divine because of its ability to be plasmatic in geographical elements, nothing akin to the static emergencies of the gaze where desire needs the fantasy to be the grail of its ground- oh, start saying the same Lord, pity to those who still have faith to the latter and not the letter, for desire needs to enter the world that is a fantasy of its own dimension because the true dream and nightmare of the subject are its life; and those who have been engaged in fantasy not through eyeing or listening, neither from fear of medusa’s head and not because of the sirens of the Other’s demand, but because they scented the aesthetics of inhalation, those have testified to the thousands that, that which is found in language is the letter never lost but structured- the letter is that which subsist in the signifying chain as a cry to the analyst to form questions of his orientation, no less ethical regarding his speech and cuts; for limits indeed have names, but orientations have letters and the identifications of the subject suggests with extravagant politeness to the psychoanalyst that it cannot fly away from that which hold it in the microcosm of the scene, crystallized it as an object; and the Lord’s angel has trumpeted that the prehistoric Other is not the Das Ding- for if the pleasure principle is to regulate jouissance then we ought to wonder through the gentleness of a hollow whisper what does regulate the Nirvana principle and what is its object- it is not intemperance since by itself is unwarranted to its temperament: the Thing is Fremde, Allien, Ξένον, but to Unheimliche because this implies the scene which is of the Other, not even known through the autonomy of the master signifier regulating the world of words of the subject; what has been said and written, translated but not transliterated, is that the subject attempts to identify with the temptation itself when is attempting to tame the Other of language with words- for if the Thing is identified with the Wieder zu finden, the impulse to find again, then it is an identification with Kinesis: and by the roars and cry of this Other, one ought to joke around with his own flesh and with the purity of an immaculate sarcasm, surely to say a few good words to this Other Form when the other is no longer there- the Other is replaced with the Breath of Lunguage, when the phallus’ topology of quantity is replaced by the knots of perplexity within that divine comedy where there are no binaries and God is surrendered to the ethic, plasmatic and dismembered ethic of an orientation beyond any object: the woman cannot exist within any principle that supports any binary but at the singing of the orinasal vowels of an inhalation of Letters designating to the analyst his place and his motion, that infamous «Ο σε βοήθεια καλούμενος βοηθός».

For, desire is what sharpen, to any given Lazarus’ life, from the realm of Objektvorstellung: the Act is the awakening, not separated from its articulation towards a cause, not an object: and to speak of the devil, in this case that certain demonian Kinesis of the Real, any given fantasy emerges around a disintegration of an vacant corpse: and how filled is a body without desire, a das Psychische body, made of the letters of a Πνοή του Λόγου: to this genesis, the man is created by the breath, through the woman.

The No-Body event, is to regain the Breath: feminine, too feminine for a libido that is masculine and pauperizes the woman to a not all, when she is in fact all-knots, which are not of the fathers unless they are Real- negation for that inspiring interpreter and technician who loves the Other more than he ought to and more than what his faith has allowed him: the real father is desire- and, from the limits of the symbolic and the inability of the Other to contextualize the breath – that drive of the feminine death, which the subject denied to receive the blessing of a body and of a paralyzed stability of the fundamentals of the gaze: that, that dear radical attitude of the paranoid articulated as faith, mistakenly faith to the Other and not to the Alien, poses the question of how much faith does the subject desire to declare its breath from the place of that object used to veil the veil itself in the form of a gap, to sonorous the primary affect prior to repression of the signifier’s trait- that Aλαλά of the Desire which is Alien, not though to Unbewusstsein because it is the stage of the Breath.

The complexive sensitiveness of the signifiers, with which psychoanalysts could have learned the aesthetic of the letters arriving to their assistance of a proper interpretation, for the letter is on the side of guidance for the clinician having that terrible function of Virgil- if one is brave enough to underwent a casual stroll, be that in a dream, towards the royal ways and dark continents of femininity’s systematized inhalations, to the fusions of the respiratory drive, of the sensual and the affective.

And let us say that the Copro-philic components are incompatible with the breath: to gain a phalous and a body one pays with the breath: a proper man does not need the phalous- women in their dim domains have this knowledge; the demand of culture and civilization upon the subject is not to sacrifice its sexual instinct but to disavow its desire: this is how subjects become inhuman- by belonging to the tribe of identifications: their membership actually raises the sexual instinct to the level of masturbation, be that with an object that is always coprophilic: the Hysterical Aura is actually the threshold to the Breath but one needs to spell properly the letters with his whole being.

And when the feminine transliteration of Σάρξ receives its cause’s incitements and thus the source of the drive is a no-body eventualisation, incincta from its purpose to repeat the subject and to coherent the body, and it passes into word, for the body of the drive is of no good in electrocuting the things and elements of desire unless one reduces the Act into a voice without a body, an automaton of the other’s jouissance: the structure of desire is an Act of faith: this has been revealed as an violent apocalypse of the declaration of letters from the signifiers’ prison to those who were poor in keeping their word but faithful to that statement that Libido is the same as desire: the only full speech is the Act.

And the poor in spirit but not in inhalation breath wrote, that the mythical language is the siring of the subject of the act- this is not a fantasy but beyond it and towards that which sculpts a myth, not an Agalma, precisely when it is dissolved from the other of language and subsists towards the Alien of Lunguage, to that which is structured not as a doing; it is at this summit of brutality and holiness, on and within it, to the seething arena of life, the so serpentine and the so holy, where the human being speaking and acting as, now a viewer of the Scene he has separated from, is commanded by his desire to experience the domain of shadows, that mysterious feminine light- no more and no less than what a noble wish eloquently, always, subsists, gently and subtracting the presence of that desire which is not born out of the object of the respiratory drive: the Breath which cannot be said, without been articulated for it needs an Act: that which cannot be said, is an Act.

And, in all his sanctity and evil, no, this epistle cannot be a letter marking the dimensions and circumstances of a body event because the body is needed just for the infamous fear of the Jews- so to accommodate and date the act into the world: desDing, destiny, is the past with a continuation, for those who believe in grammar and not to the mythological pathways of the signifiers- and of those forms that the letter chooses to gift those anachronistic subjects that speak of psychoanalysis through the spectacles of he who had actually lived and died.

And the angel has never spoken for he was ordered to Act beyond his own free will: this makes this being a proper servant, for its speech has never been his, neither his Act, besides that time when he dared to smell the hair of the woman- that is surely a Breath: every interpretation that aims in Remythologisierung is an evil speech: a proper interpretation allows space for the subject’s act by forming a new breathing signifier: good enough yet not enough when the Act is at the niche of the threshold, not as Hannibal ad Portas: yes it is – when the analyst is too afraid to speak of the matters of the world: life is a true Uncanny for the corpse who assumes a speech that is never the neologism of his own Breath. And because we ought to travel very far from the Δόξα, and closer, much closer to the Κλέος of the voice, and from language to Lunguage: be prepared to losers of your gender when the passage of the threshold calls you in practice to identify with the breath: this is the desire of the Alien and not of the Other, for the act cannot be repeated.

One is called need; the Other demand- the third and most cruel is called desire: it is the only way to place hunger under a cause, to symbolize it not with signification but with an Act, an Act always in plural and with objects that are great dark shadows of the nothing’s movements; it is the price psychoanalysts pay- they can either bray or pray and that relationship with the voice and deafness is a choice: one ought to be honorable and accept to recompense that imaginary cost of culpability for his desire, that which is Alien to the Other of Language, but not to the Breath that is of Lung-uage: this is the Act which cannot be said.

And the possessed object, haunted and visited by a spirit who was of language, born not from desire but from jouissance, beamed sentences and whispered with a Voice that was his, by all means, that the One exists in the Act, for, it is a sacrificial one- that is what he has said and then has fallen in silence so that the Other who infatuated him could articulate something, a mere Thing, through another voice, that which derives from the void of the subject: there is no Other of the Other but there is the Alien of the Other, the Ξένος: he has vocalised a song about desire, which, which is not of the Other but of the Breath, which cannot be said, and has disciplined, again with a voice that was not his own, those who have heard him, to identify with their own Breath because this is the way of the feminine and a semblance with consequences; and many, many, many and many, and too much of the many and of the sane same, have refused to abandon their beloved body for the sake of a Πνευματικόν Σῶμα, which, as soon as it actually enters the division marked by the mathematical bar in the fraction of the signifier, it does not need those elements reserved in loss of sight when the subject convenes the mirror, and the erogenous zones are abandoned to the saviour of the drive whose source, not of the σάρξ anymore for it has been dedicated to another rest and otherwise, have given leave to the subject of the Act: this is a dawn from desire and the father of the orphan, of that Ξένος who moves in perpendicular ways and not mysterious: it is the way of the Έναν Άλλο Παράκλητο because desire is not spoken but breathed.

And when the invented message has overflowed the manners of the atmosphere and even the of the firmament above the fantasy of the geological familiarity of the subject, it was dethroned that desire and its body, the Act, do not permeate under the function of partition as they have no relation to any parts and reproduction- they are One: the father of the Real is desire and there are no parts to be composed for this deus ex machine who offers its presence in acreaging in concert the subject of the Act whose scene is the cause in the world; and, furthermore, he has alleged, that possessed body, that the Act is one, for, its death is marked as soon as it is born: it is born dead and its destiny is not to repeat itself for it follows not the linearity of the signifiers: radical difference does not exist: because those types of interventions which might be called Acts cannot be compared with one another because there is no structure to these elements of the ethic called the Real- it is, indeed, a terrible think to listen to what one says.

And when the curse of numbers within the set argued and which, axiomatically, have received meaning through Pascal’s fundamental fantasy, is recaptured and reclaimed in a Miltonian approach by the desire of the God of psychoanalysts, who in all his honesty devotes miracles to the Letters, especially the α and the ω designating the birth and death of the Act, then, the access to the fantasy, to meaning and knowledge, occurs with the object stanching for loosing part of the subject, that which repression, for good or for evil, hold the subject to live into this world: how does the psychoanalyst know if, let us say, he has already cross the fantasy- and if this he is question has been marked by a castration, underprovided, as much as the feminine realm, and he is deficient of nothing in the real as much as a woman, where the only name of the father is desire, and the act the only division experience by the subject.

And the horseman who had no curse to carry upon the earth has arrived with empty hands, not having actually hands and neither a horse- and yet he was called a horseman- neither has it been verified if he was a man or a woman- and by a power bestowed upon to him by a saint who was not a doctor he has brought forth a speech: a number to the power of zero is always One- how correct you are my dear friend- and yet again the letter, that ignominious Aleph, to the power of zero is always an Act: the square root of desire is the act; the drive is royal but not loyal to the abetment of the One who is repeated but not of that One to emerge from the meaninglessness: the Letter becomes One when the subject has only his desire to hold together the fragmented body.

There is a crisis in psychoanalysis because psychoanalysts have difficulties in becoming sport legends- because they know not how to be athletic with the object’s acrobatics so to ballet with the letters: the truth is half said but the Ethic cannot be half and half- it is or it is not: that is a proper sexual position for any given psychoanalyst who prays in memory of a lost phallus, thrashing and glooming like with awareness behind the testimony of hiding the object so to cause desire, when, in fact, one ought to reveal its direct experience because this is the evangelism to the Act’s faith: the Act is Virology- it is the manner of the pluralisation of the Father, through which the subject becomes a verb.

Analysts ought to learn, besides dancing with the letters within the shadow of the signifiers, to swim in the ocean of their false knowledge and partial meanings- for, each and every time that the Ethic of the Real, not its knowledge but its ethic, for which, indeed, we ought to say something about, proves the master of habituation and inhuman experience wrong: consider each session a disappointment of your spiritual pilgrimage to the Real along the analysand who carries himself the weight of his jouissance, if the Ethic does not prove you wrong at least once- and, from the metaphor of the subject, which is precisely that which brings one to analysis, the orientation ought to be to the Act of the Subject, there where the metaphor goes through its Μεταγραφή and the nucleic acids of the Λόγος are cleansed from rabies: it is transcription that produces cloning or viruses- never the Transliteration.

And if the drive articulates a path, as it has been mentioned before, one to dissolve when it emerges, it tests its ground from where it was engineered through the subtraction of chaos from the novel truth of the Απολεσθέντος Λόγου, which is that minute topology among bedlam from where it was lost, when the chaos itself has replied to its own echo: the Απολεσθέντος Λόγου is the Act, the Breath which cannot be said.

To say everything is sadistic: indeed, my dear friend, but when, if not when speech is not accompanied by the act: what is a set, is veraciously the scripture ruled out from the said: the spear of Longinus has precisely that direction, to bring forth that which is not in the analytic room; but it takes an ethical, helpful hand, a gaze who can actually see the object in the mirror, to utilize this orientation of the Ethic and the formation of the No-body delighted by desire: let it be from some sort of an ideal, and let us call it the analytic cause, and the spear of destiny will have its army of Janissaries.

For, the message, not of the messenger, but of the Apeiron Nothing, one or many deriving from the empty space covered by the topology of the drive and which ought to remain flexibly Nothing so to accommodate the desolation of the body, like two lovers in no demand for the Other to represent the erotogenous zone, does appear in the vehemence to desolate the subject brought forth by the intentionality and logic of the Legion speaking through the subject’s voice: who are you- my name is Legion: for the practice is only the structure of the voice of life, of the world and not of the Scene, which does not appear in the stasis of the structure: practice of the letter grasps that particularity of the Apeiron’s phonemes.

The beauty of love is what is excluded from the unanimity of one’s image and the mirror’s reflection of that same image, for the threshold, one of the many appear with the pluralisation of the chain of Acts forming destiny, which is precisely what the eyes reveal, is the veil of the Nothing through which, in uncharacteristic ways, almost sacred, the voice as carrier of love reaches the place of love’s domicile where love resides behind the look and its organ, the eyes, and where one may encounter the rhythm of letters but not in musicality, not notes: at that moment we ought to speak, if we can, for the alteration of “resides” into “recites.”

The love of the feminine is the prayer of the Breath and certainly without a body precisely because it is not needed: it is a pilgrimage by its own right for a man to travel that distance, from the eyes to the heart: one among the many ought to love the cunning voices of the forests, and thus to identify with the Breath and the Act itself- that is a noble use of one’s body.

The knowledge of the psychoanalyst- that the Woman dedicates herself to that which has no forename but indulges the Letters to the dimness of kinesis: that it is not, the Not All but the Not Always the Same, and, as such, one may marvel without a question mark not so much indispensable for the act of an imaginary inhalation, the kinesis of the eulogies of the breath tickling the underarms of identifications and their signifiers parodying the so called body, which can be feminine as long as the so called man has exchanged the phallus with the Ethic and has gone further than the binary of good and evil: this cannot be a body event, hopefully not, because it would have been a miraculous Act, and because a female vulture cannot make love with the Breath unless she is fed by the words of the Father: and the Act that is to reveal, which is of not of the Other but of the Alien, which is an Apocalypse to the psychoanalyst and the psychoanalysand alike, even to that one who is not there, that Real, brought forth by he who has been called a sophist of faith and his inability, has marked in his ignorance that the Nothing veils the Apeiron, where the dimensions, for, the signifier journeys with the drive form the Arche to the end that becomes Arche, uncontested from the fantasy and pinned not with the stigmata of jouissance because it is not of the Other yet remains of language: the Father of the Real is the Act, one of many that do not maneuver the Ethic.

Do not be content with meaning or an interpretation that does not pin on the joins of life’s navigations, for the practice’s principles are those of the subject of life, be that of the unconscious: a proper intervention, let us nominate it as an interpretation and not a foreshadowing apposite for Teiresias, is what creates space for the revelation of desire- that is the orientation, and psychoanalysts ought to travel life, so to practice: I mean the orientation of life, because it is easy for the impostor, he who manipulates signifiers, to set up the Freudian Déjà Raconté, this time from the ideal position of psychoanalysts, a true hallucination for one’s Act: Love, that Letter, La Lettre d’amour that is uncouthingly barbarian in its vociferation principally and presently to the revivification of desire, with sounds that are not Greek to the ears of the Greeks, been remunerated and wedged, approximating the algebra of an inspiration that is cuneiform, within the phoneme’s relegation to the urinary trait, beside the signifiers of fantasy, to be fed by words and a space-time of Nothing: the scene of the world, as long as it is universal, it can have the support of the woman∙ and, from the abyss, which language, a chain of signifiers of subjectivity answering simple human questions of how to reside in this world- have been missed by psychoanalysts because they have too much faith on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum, for, very few shall taunt their mirrors so to teach them their prosthetic mouths in speaking of the Letter and how it was revealed to them: Francis of Assisis, an uncivilized man of God, has been in the realm the et comme océanique, and yet his scene has been brought into the world with a negative mark, certainly stigmata of Lunguage, I mean this infamous –φ, a dishonor in the act of copulation because that which brings together the bodies of speech is the breath as long as it is stage on desire: it is here where the philosopher has been correct, that the subject ought to love the forest and fairies, for it is not, indeed, enhanced to die within the dissipated offers of a deceiver.

The Subject was in the signifier, and though the signifier was made through him, the signifier did not distinguish him, for, his desire was disoriented towards its own Act: it is a subject of Letters and of a body in flux, for, transliteration writes- it does not read.

There is no Metalanguage but there is a Μεταγραφή for the reason that the subject of the unconscious cannot replevin what is its endemic – and thus the subject subjugates the amphitheatric horizon  of his desire, harmonious with the Nothing and the Voice, I denote that villainous qualitative aspect of the Drive mentioned by Freud, which is not economical and does not endow Libido but to desire alone- it is at this overhaul of life where master signifiers become aware of the desire of the analyst, and they, having a right to be heard of their own, speak to them: from the moist on the wall of psychoanalysts’ knowledge where the signifiers entertain their Ουσία from the dedication of the Other, the written letters, shapeless and in constant plasmatic Kinesis, the subject is called upon the altar of responsibility to transliterate desire into a destiny of a cause, a DesDing: and from the object to die for, to the Cause to die for- and from the Δόξα of the Gaze and the exposure of the Imaginary to the grounding into the scene, to the Κλέος of the Voice: even further than this: to Lunguage, to the Πνοή του Λόγου, because the Letter dwells in its home-less-ness among the discourse’s royal roads  and the master signifiers, hidden and hiding, not meaning, but a bearing of the Pilgrim of the Freudian Cause, to which Dante’s encountering with Beatrice has been ripened into the wealth of encountering that light, not of God but of a cause, this same light which, in its silence and never spoken or thought of, hegemonises because of psychoanalysts’ fascination with death and not life, assisting in the existence of the Shadow of the Object– for so much does a shadow need light in its appeal to the eye of the beholder, him who does believe that there is no Other of the Other, but cannot even dare to have the slightest faith that the Alien of the Real, which is beyond the Father, and to which women dedicate their inhalation and their bodies, desiring that faith of the No-Body, of the Act, and of the consecrated fortitude: of that Breath which cannot be said unless experienced through the Act of Lunguage- for, that which cannot be said is an Act, not a doing.