She said, "What's next?" I was feeling lyrical: "Darlin, I am going to take a stinging toke, rustle in the restless smoke, and hopefully deliver the punch line to my psychic joke."

Writing is breaching. --Derrida

Writing is breaching--a crossing inside that is not only unplanned, but unable to be remedied. It is an explosion beyond the border of safety that leaves one paralyzed with trauma. Life is about breaching--about the moments of crossing--where there is something inside of you that leaves you helpless. Life is about breaching--about one--another--something--crossing a border and leaving you traumatized in a speechless paralysis.

When it is love--we call it beautiful. When it is a lover, we call it by screaming its name. When it is not--we call it death--or something like it. We call it worse than death because it traumatized in a way that means we are still here to experience it.

Yes, life is breaching--about moments of decision that scare the shit out of us because it means letting something pass beyond the border where we are able to defend ourselves. Life begins with a breach and never stops being constituted by them. Life is about the space--the decision-between who and what can breach the borders of our personal sacred space.

Breaching--eruption--can result in anger.

Writing is anger.

Writing is the being-sick of the trauma of a breaching that is not love, but death. Writing is spewing-forth something that appears to be a congealed, coherent substance of sick resulting from the trauma of an unexpected breach.

Writing is anger congealed--the fabrication of chaos congealed--the chaos of death congealed.

Writing is life. Breaching is life.