atherine Malabou,

Cerveau et Philosophie : Une nouvelle définition de l'identité

"Vous êtes vos synapses": quel est le sens de cette formule, devenue le maître mot de la neurologie contemporaine ? Signifie-t-elle que notre identité est réductible aux configurations neuronales modifiées, tout au long de la vie, par la plasticité du cerveau ? Ou faut-il donner un sens nouveau à la plasticité ? Si les neurologues contemporains, Damasio en particulier, mobilisent Spinoza sur ce point, c'est peut-être parce qu'il n'est pas possible de penser sans la philosophie, la déconstruction radicale de la subjectivité entreprise par les neurosciences aujourd'hui. En confrontant l'actualité scientifique à la parole métaphysique, nous tenterons de comprendre que la plasticité de l'identité cérébrale engage aujourd'hui une ontologie de la modification.



1, 2 , 3 ,

interlaced finger
to high
roof ~



mr and mrs schizoanalysis

Mr and Mrs Schizo_ analysis got married once ~ now no one can find their name. Are they buried in the dead or realm of the astral sheet. Shipped to the rock place where dream are .

Yes they were married hand ~ in ~ hand in night ~ .

comment faire le schizoanalysis. Doctor can you speak to these twotoo??
est-ce tu parlez a ce deux?

Madame et Monsieur Schizoanalysis sont pliées on deux ~ et c'est quoi cette deux
sauf un schizo l'ami de leur cœur ?



as breath is your puff your body away from here there you sit behind your screen ~

Imagine someone tried to steal my words imagining they belonged
to them

but they've been yours
for months


of course

of course I m dead now . dont you see that. im ccut off. its the winding down . story. or the line out?
is that a place for tears

breaking the heart

no surf to lift my plane

where where is my plane

where where is my plane to you you toi you toi you you toi youtoire where is my plane to you you toi you toi you you toi youtoire where is my plane to you you toi you toi you you toi youtoire where is my plane to you you toi you toi you you toi youtoi

------------------------------- MaRAT SAde

"Il s’agit là d’une pièce mise en scène par Peter Brook avec la Royal Shakespeare Company, d’abord pour les planches, puis, pour l’écran. Du théâtre dans le théâtre puisque cette pièce de Peter Weiss revient sur les dernières années de Sade lorsque, pensionnaire de l’asile de Charenton, le divin marquis écrivait et mettait en scène des pièces jouées par les autres aliénés"


our King

Indeed ~ Our King who made all Possible in ecriture ~


odd socks

Odd socks and holy one

Cariboo not Moose
Wolverines not what was that other.. the North the North..


artic ice c ap

this great globe itself..

its not all bad we know that

in some way it good

our heart heat .

our golfed golden globe heat



neck neck

Now playing: A.-C.Debussy - Danse sacrÿe et danse profane, for harp and orchestra (1904) - 1.Danse sacrÿe. Performed by: O.Erdeli, Harp; Barshai Chamber Orchestra; R.Barshai, Conductor (Classical Music Archives - www.ClassicalArchives.com)


you think I forget ?

her eyes
your eyes
pointing _________________________>
neck neck
neck neck

broken neck

yes broken neck

neck neck

its cou
its cou
cou de cou de coup

off with his head!
ah! la guillotine!

pour lui

monsieur cou!
sans neck

yes Mister Orpheus has his head cut of coupe le cou!
but first his neck 's gotta be broken

Or necking as in kissing inthe dark in the car in the park
which none

which does not happen to this Orpheus

poor sucker of the seven winds of ___

absent de mot

scratch out effe ct

If shit was worth gold the poor would be rich
my brother has a lot of money a working worker maniac
he dont carefor shit for poesia so
tough argent pour Moi!
tough luck

love where is love, money?
love money?
money love?
give me money thats
what I want
art Poetry money Art poetry money
art Poultry Money!

Poultry like Bonnie used to say
a thousand years ago
chick chickchicken!

learn how to use

big chunks of dissertation done almost done done almost done almost done

but money money money
problems yes money alway money

money c'est l'argent! merdre a l'argent l'argen[e]t !

genet always had money he went to gallimard they gave it to him
made money, apparently from his plays not the novels.

hmmm lucky he. O genet father who i love admire
nearly above all writers of that sort

well i got no money like that so.
yes well debt. debt debt. credit cred it credit debit debit credit
eh? Mister Capital Marx

where is the Money, eh? the cash? eh. le cAsh Flow, eh?


my studio apartment

__________________________________________ -----------------------------------
my apartment stuido a mess/ loving mess of creator /painter/writer/poet.
bed / hall way /workspace/ e_ AHAHhah E COKKING cooking /space or closets
hidden books in ther e/parts of old computers/ boots/coats/ clothss mittens/winter spring summer/ radios/ stuff string, cords,c ables.
shirts ties, hats,? no no hats all lost..! Shit I lose hats all the time WINTEr
books here there everywhere what book is that? o I forgot that one, old letters, cd/discs/ old /pcs...
---------------------------------------- even this video dont remember it... toothbrushes... glasses, case,,, papers papers. bills... toothbruhs. dental floss... scarves where are the scarves! lost again... nice tie, got that one twenty years from John for John's wedding _ two friends named John what a life eh? not even all my book s'here thousands, in basement now.... some time.. yes, books books my darling dear books... <this onslaught of art. here this cove off the current just of the crazy Boulevard... _________________________________________________ phone... kitchen shower... shoes, coats, rugs... pillows.. futon... food fridgedaire... outside nice neighborhood people making a living.. life, a strange color of many coats. _________________________________________________________ ----------------------------------------

fantomes fictions

fantomes fictions

hands i do not feel

eyes i do not see
tongues i cannot taste

hands i cannot touch

this blog

everthing that is here is try out stuff / drafts. / whatnot....

as for m well thats another story...
my real is a division between


the other things idont post Anyhwhere...
and then dissertation/ yes.

well one cannot be sure .. its winter

things are rough
money is tight very tight



shit man, sometimes/

i feel like a motherless

i dont wish to be the cause of pain to anyone

this world is a conspiracy that gets in the way of love and lovers

i dont get it
i really dont

poetry fits in there somewhere


a night
with my heart
in it
maybe im dead

dying to be reborn

in 'my" neighborhood i feel like a prisoner / somedays when i go out and each day i must the Ugliness
my eyes

i think of goya
and i must turn
ugliness into art

where is the face I love
her face and eyes I saw
in this world of not touch

oceans air

where i live is just another shit box war zone
another dump
another place on the edge
all this could go
so quick

in this mad crazy world



over the falling sea
the sea seayou hear elmbut it aint no morejust willow talk willow tick-tockin the shaggy isthmusbound by craterthought and hungry penny hand-me-down you rushed overtaking these matters in hand (took these matinees in hand) (bare gloss of) merited a lover's gasp we came like that two troubadours reckoning on the end of brittle bone ____________________________ in thistle down ground you jerked away the handscovering night's only rain frosted with your intaglioed lair
Labels: vers~. by c.d. 11/20/07 Delete
Edit View as when ~ lover wing, verse to
as when ~

yerr breath is filled with something

as when
which is breathless

between teeth and b's

o that other pressing place



as when a sonnet snare it track
fumble over the high ground of its pentameter

or corseted crossing the rhetoric of its accident
you've sent the face this amber shell
carrying back its smitten fare

when it worked around the couplet
hankering a couple's lovered body
clacked by the Sunday coup-de-grace
pause its turn to legitimize grace of your hair
yer handing this finger clandestine
Sunday and moon clocks over
gathered in your sneaky feet

not necessary to you swill porches round-abouts
and card moochers

this is not night
a sonnet bearing down like a geese
out of shadow
a permanent toss between every expected page


Labels: lover wing, verse to by c.d. 11/20/0



Do you think Lucia Joyce's "madness...."

4. Do you think that Lucia's madness affected Joyce's writing? Do you think Joyce had writer’s block at any time?

Fritz Senn said ----- It most likely did. --- I can’t tell about writer’s block. Obviously there were long periods when Joyce did not work on the Wake, because of problems, eyes, Lucia, lack of inspiration, maybe writer’s block. (This is not my area). --- [Another question: Do you suppose Lucia could read FW? If so, do you think she could understand it better than others?] No idea. If she had read it, or ever could, she might well have picked out meanings that are hidden from us.
David Hayman said ----- Of course it did, but not in any simple or straight forward fashion. Joyce's relationship to his daughter, his wife, his son and himself figures in the book on many levels and defies analysis. It is prime matter if not primal matter. On the other hand, he wrote the book with Lucia firmly in mind. She figures in some of his earliest conceptual notes as a model of young femininity. If her madness predated the composition, then it may have infected that part of the book, but madness is a theme in Joyce at least from Portrait. It frightened him as it does most of us. His daughter's madness left him helpless and in denial, but the Wake is bigger than that. --- See "Her Father's Voice" (much reprinted but available in the James Joyce: the Centennial Symposium). That essay treats Lucia's [auto]biographical papers and her dreams. See also "I Think Her Pretty" [James Joyce Annual 1990] in which I treat the responses to her behavior that I have found in one of Joyce’s notebooks.

more at ___ Of course Joyce, the Joyce terrain is a disputed territory ~ but more at the place where I quoted from They may give you some ammunition.