It is a silent Sunday morning on Harris Creek, grey, mild air, and drizzle. As I remember it, I did not begin here, seated at this desk, tapping out these words, and looking out on Harris Creek. But if I cease remembering and think about it, I see the origin as precisely here. The origin is the dynamic structure itself which introjects a past and projects a future. The origin is the working machine itself, the time/space or engendering machine. It started whirring the last time the light came on.

There exists a cosmic switch that turns the genital machine on and off. It is that point along the time/space contiuum where it discontinues. The engendering machine exists in relationship to an unengendered machine. There exists machinery which works perfectly well without parts.

The body of the gens, the genitalized body is a temporary body, a mortal body. In the death of that body is the life of the unengendered body.

WAKING UP

Daylight leaks in, and sluggishly I surface

from my own dreams into the common dream

and things assume again their proper places

and their accustomed shapes. Into this present

the Past intrudes, in all its dizzying range ---

the centuries-old habitts of migration

in birds and men, the armies in their legions

all fallen to the sword, and Rome and Carthage.

The trappings of my day also come back:

my voice, my face, my nervousness, my luck.

If only Death, that other waking-up,

would grant me time free of all memory

of my own name and all that I have been!

If only morning meant oblivion!

Jorge Luis Borges