To be referred to, to be quoted, sorted, circumscribed by the gesture of the upturned commas, single or double: what does this mean? To be linked to, to be pointed at, made part of a discourse, drawn in, made party to it, beholden to it, responsible, culpable? A with-writer, a conspirator, a friend? To reference, be drawn in, made party to..... this is a dizzying thing, a moment of radical alienation (is it me? Really? Am I really part of this – am I here at all in all this?). To reference, to draw in, to conjure up, to evoke.... oh this of all things, this more than anything is to make neurotics of us all.
And, to be as sure as writing lets my me (my me-ing, my being me), this, here, in this instance of scribble, this indeed is where writing breaks with the reader, where the Schreibgesindel fashions its anonymisations and flattenings, disavows the readerly and turns she or he hat reads into a cypher.
You are empty, my dear. You are merely your scribblings, your muted voicings, your clicky surfeit.
What is more (there is always more, it seems, always something that doesn't quite fit, match or hold itself in he serene composure we expect from reading) you are dead. Made still. Held here. In this place. This is what is become of you, you cipher, you figure, you SCRATCH, you CLICK.
Here in this simulated scratching that only references the scribble of the analogue of writing as trope, a tiny little stabbing of cold and disassociated digits, individuations that float in their own isolation tank of voicing. CLICK and again hovering over the mouse, back again, and here we go again around and around – spell check, make right, sort through and make neat, tidy, clean and neat... always neat... neat. This tiny motion of stabbing the marks that disavows the scratch, disavows the paper that we imagine the scratch to break into over, that disavows the materiality of writing as a continued, glissando of noise, the scat of the scratch: this is now gone forever.
The sin of the keyboard.