I'm reading. I'm looking at the text from a distance. As if I was looking at the city map. The city is a bit bizarre: all streets running from the east to the west or vice versa (or form the left to the right or vice versa) are straight, while all streets running from the south to the north or vice versa (or from the top to the bottom or vice versa) are winding . . . . . . no, the city is not bizarre at all, there are various cities, there are various types of towns, this one must belong to the type of text-towns . . . . . . I move my face close to the paper. I touch it with my nose, my forehead, my chin. I wrap the paper around my head . . . .




I am in a city. I'm walking across it. Some streets are straight, some are winding. Like in a city. Each house is a letter. Each block is a word. Difficult reading: I have to compose words of single letters like many years ago at school. Arduous learning to read. To read in a slightly different way or in entirely different way? Or maybe it is the same kind of reading. Exactly the same...... No, rather not the same. Because the letters are a bit different. A lot is going on in them. Each letter is like a book. Gosh! - each letter is like a library! And if I fluttered my hands and took off and hovered above the asphalt? Higher and higher – above the roofs. And higher . . . . . . Then every huge library would be like a small letter. I would never suspect that such a small letter could be a huge library. (No, not every one – there are houses where there are no books – but in every one there are some stories, plenty of stories, so every letter is a storary.) And the town would be a page of text . . . . . .




Once I described the town where houses looked like made of gingerbread. However, I didn't describe the houses – I draw them. Thus I had on the page lines of tiny houses (these were not the exact depictions of the houses there – rather small icons) and lines of text sneaking among them. It was long time ago. Not so long time ago I made a street-book. Or a book-street. It looked as if I took a magnifying glass. Now the houses are much bigger and drawn precisely and when the book is unfolded entirely it turns into the mock-up of the street (this is enabled by a special construction of the book – a leporello where each page has two flaps that can be either unfolded or put up vertically). The text is running/walking/flowing on the pavement and roadway, letters are crowding like people..... You are reading and you are walking. You are reading/walking – your reading can (should) last as long as the main character's walk, unless you decide to enter a house . . . . . .




Oh! That's interesting. Very interesting. Which house: a drawn one? a written one? a built one? Enter a house-house or a house-notion? (No, it would not be the same experience like entering the pharaoh's tomb in the King's Valley.)




Very interesting: to enter a notion (notion-word? notion-image? notion-sound? notion-smell?) To see a notion from inside. To feel it. To smell it. To sound it. To tap it. To [de]scribe it . . . . . . . . . to write on the walls, floors, ceilings . . . . . . . . to transform fittings and furniture into hieroglyphs, signs, pictograms placing them in the text, grasping them with the text . . . . . . . to write and with the help of writing to look for the exit from the notion . . . . . . . to write ceaselessly, in one go . . . . . . . . . to leave only when everything will be written (everything? what would it mean? I would have to enter the notion EVERYTHING) . . . . . . . . . the unity of writer's drama and main character's drama – the unity of time, place and action of writing and of what is being described – the unity of the one who is describing and the one who is being described – so, there would be neither the one who is describing nor the one who is being described – who would be then? . . . . . . there would be no description, since the writing itself would be the action, plot, drama, adventure . . . . . . . . while in fact my mind, the mind of the describing-described, would be the place of action . . . . . like the book-street is not the description of the street – it is a recording of what is going on in the mind of somebody walking along this street . . . . . . . then this house, the plan of this house would be the plan of my mind – a 3D model of it, a mock-up . . . . . . . . of my mind or only of this very notion HOUSE? . . . . . . . . . the plan of this house or maybe what I would write in and on it? . . . . . . . . . so this would not be a book-house, but this would be a house-book . . . . . . . .




Intriguing. Fascinating. We have always been seeing at notions from outside. We have been looking at them like we are looking at a stone kept in our hand. Or maybe it only seems so to us? Maybe it is just the other way round? Maybe we have always been inside notions? If we always were in the house, only walking from one room to another, from one floor to another, along corridors and staircases, we wouldn't know how the house looked from outside, our description of the house would not be complete, nor our comprehending of the house, although we wouldn't be aware of it. Likewise we can't handle the life, space, time and many other things, because we have always been inside them, we have been immersed in them and we can't get out of them . . . . . . . . . maybe this is why we can't understand ourselves, because we can't see ourselves from outside (a mirror is not enough) – likewise we can't understand the others because we can't get inside them. This is an awful, hideous, paralysing inability: to be at the same time inside and outside something, to look at it from inside and from outside. At the same time. SIMULTANEOUSLY . . . . . . . . . . But maybe we can get out of a notion? Maybe we will succeed?




I would enter this “house” and I would stay there until I found the exit. Then I would go out. Beyond the notion. Beyond the language. Beyond . . . . . . . .




How long would it last? Would I last out or would I perish too early like everybody did before?




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