SHE WAS DISAPPEARING

Me, lunar: to cry out. To cry out? I no longer cry. But I cried once, didn’t I. I was crying out. I cried: the Supplements. I am no longer crying out. No. I was dying, fatal, relating the uneven world to the demonic world, obscure and luminous at last. Then she began to disappear, obscure and luminous. She was disappearing. The moon was growing, black, abrupt. The moon was vibrating, dejected. Mysteriously, the moon, pulling nearer to earth the grounds which would not coincide, was raising an immense field of clarity, almost similar to the motionless body, far off, dejected. Moon. She: lunar. And her temple, her wrist, her abbreviated knee were being erased in space and could articulate but this white verticality, unresolved, weakened, still full of that ancient resonance of a step, a cry, a gesture. From me. I am crying out.


Jean Daive
Le jeu des séries scéniques