Research is the new sex. Neither homo, nor hetero it will apply to all. It is the new labour of equalised love. Research is the disenchanted word of psycho-therapy. It disinfects its origins in hypnosis, influence and the forming word.
Much research is a Trojan horse for psychoanalysis; a viral infection in the subject, secreting the imperial aims of another power, the university. Pretending to science it subsists on a myth; Babel in reverse—a megalomaniac project to untie the confusion of tongues in restored towers of universal ease.
Research extracts the bare life of subjects to render it representable to the authorities. In the process all passion is proscribed. In this it assists in the auto-castration of subjects in the service of the economy.
Lest an unsupervised form of life starts to make its presence felt, research ensures that therapy stays on course to render the subject personal and personable. Psychoanalysis might collude with this but at the slightest opportunity and despite the intentions of the protagonists the subject may also get utterly carried away.
‘Everyone agrees research shows everyone agrees’. Thus mantra replaces the uncertainty of memory.
Symptoms are listed like prestige stock. Number one investment is panic. The mock efficiency of therapy promises resolution. Never. Always, my grief is immeasurable, your desire forever elusive, her face, an enigma.
Today you repeat the same in despair. No exit, but glad to see me nevertheless. After a pause of Summer, you speak again in the same place at the same time. You reiterate yourself strangely. If my attention
falters you slowly remove yourself. I orient myself as willingly as I can, this resistance of air between us. You speak until sense diminishes; this time with less worry. You wonder if I'm plotting the evidence. I'm just here, aren't I. Come tomorrow as you will. As you will be, And, when it ends, as you will have been.
When I saw you first, your beauty impressed. You dream about me in mundane ways. I'm held in your highest esteem but when the door shuts, the puppet goes lifeless. I heard you say, if I carry on like this, it could be dangerous. And it's only what you want, your heart's desire. But it's threatening your life. A life that is yet to come, so unrelenting is your desire.
What will be the final evaluation?
He never gave up and died in the attempt; all contentment sacrificed.
You were a girl. In the blink of an eye you see an old woman. There's no time like the present but this blink has you image trapped . Will there be duration between young and old. Can you endure what you are becoming? Can we both bear the wait?
If only I were a director.
Effect yourself. Prepare but don't look back.
Enter.
Lights.
Music.
The measure of time.