To understand doing means to understand hope.
Doing is hoping for completion.
The typical image is that of the collectionist.
Atrocious, but true.
In the world I am doing, I project myself and see myself as doing.
I live life and don't want it to be anything other than doing, otherwise I would be afraid I wasn't living it, that I was letting it escape me.
Wanting, which dominates me, is nothing other than doing; wanting to do is a reflex form of doing that is also doing.
Work is a particularly acute form of doing, the obligatory form par excellence.
I do not have certainty of the doing that I am undertaking, but it is completion that I am aiming for.
I well know that this tranquillizing perspective is not really attainable, but I hold on to it.
I hope it is not so, even although I know that it is, that death will come and end the game for itself and not for me.
Completion is elusive and far away, it resides in the extraordinary rarefaction of quality and fascinates me with its fullness, that I can only reach with enthralling and dangerous intuition, however not lasting, but with the guile of desire, empty imagination that necessity fills with contents that are quickly assimilated into the productive process.
Destroying the work that oppresses me, sabotaging the administration of the world, I am going to pass beyond to look at what there is beyond the hedge that blocks the perspective of the horizon.
The project that comes forth beyond habit and conditioning can seem destined to have little future, sometimes even ridiculous, but it is a proud project all the same.
Ridiculous due to its vacuity and inconsistency, measured on the world and its coordinations, proud because it scales the heavens, lauches a challenge, risks and renounces accommodating pleasure for a different momentum, an impassioned destructive gesture.
I abandon pacts and rules and, out of the blue, risk strikes me.
My body reacts, defends itself, then attacks in order to better defend itself.
It is necessary that all this courage be subtracted by me from the rule of the will, otherwise it would be no more than a banal muscular demonstration.
I attack without wanting to demonstrate anything to myself, I want to attack like I breathe, refuse this world and the forced doing that holds it together, aspire to quality without wanting to want to do all this, without goals to reach or explanations to give to somebody, even an improbable revolutionary privileged referent and its (presumed) capacity to understand.
It is not a question of reflex or involuntary actions, but of actions with which I don't want to demonstrate anything, which I carry out simply because I am putting them into act.
The inescapable fact that I want to realise them is not my will controlling me, this only happens through that which I realize, that is: make a project, demonstrate, indicate, reassure and reassure myself.
This will needs to be put aside, circumvented.
I mustn't let myself be enchanted by words, they are not the only door to knowledge.
Pain can be told, but living it is something else.
Research costs fatigue and suffering, does not supply guarantees, does not accept pauses and does not consent one to rest one's head.
I do it once and I am a Sunday researcher, then I return to the weekdays that take me to appeasement and accumulation.
Possession comes to pay me a visit and inflicts its lessons on me, with which my anatomy breathes badly.
Ingenuous rebelliousness does nothing other than repaint the chains.
The theory of the destruction of work is based on the perfect intuition of the quality that I possess, in any case, to immediate consciousness and the world of forced doing.
All the same it is contradictory and tiring, it cannot boast privileges or purity, cannot put itself under the protection of the absolutely other.
It comes out immediately from this protection it entered abstractly and renounces abandon for the uneasy certainty of doing and calculating.
Coming out it does not accept not doing that would then be a not even very subtle form of doing.
Abandon must be conquered, laziness as a perspective is not enough.
Love of knowledge makes one stay with one's feet on the ground, more than knowledge and my love of it is required.
Whoever loves knowledge can simply be a collectionist.
Destruction is other.
It does not cut out what remains, it also goes behind the incredible, pulls out my soul and takes me elsewhere.
The sand runs slowly in the hourglass and time becomes inexorable, but it doesn't scare me, I am here waiting for it and look at the way in which I can perceive the end, daughter of necessity.
Action doesn't die, it doesn't die because it doesn't live in this world, it goes beyond it.
Action is not to be found in the totality of life like in the safe of a bank.
It is inside doing and cannot be reached simply by going beyond amending distress.
The contentment of doing, of doing that surrounds itself with justification and aims, resides in this internal content not in unattainable completeness.
Excess of doing is still action, and this is not simply a quantitative increase.
It is not a search for the absoluteness of doing, but is the inadmissability of the dream that enlivens it and upsets me.
Purification does not belong to me, I do not bleach it like a kind of better doing, I say that quality is elsewhere, but it is also here, in the world of immediacy.
I do not seek conditions of privilege, I am not an artist but an artefice, I do not create works of art but the world in its simple and banal condition of being there in front of me, every day, while waiting for my measurations and controls.
In reflecting on the limits of work I do not come out from the symmetry of saying, only passion gives me access, purifies me making me come out of the seat of producing, recognising myself as he who has another aim. Access to this aim is abandon, the inexistant foundation devoid of force, it is not the limit that I consider valid but the unlimited, that has no interest at all, the ever different secret of uselessness. This lack is a different presence, in the same way in which uselessness is in usefulness, everything concatenates and supports itself. Doing and acting do not counteract each other, they are the usual and the different, but these are interpretations that I grasp while I am in the cotton wool of the world.They are linked together, translate themselves reciprocally and transmit their sense and tension without every managing to reunite them. The attention of doing and the disinterest of acting unite themselves inextricably. Yet the absolute other is beyond the destruction of work, even if this going beyond cannot be considered the attainment of an aim.
Thinking of the destruction of work I think of an archaism that has no current logic, that of before and after rings strange. I try to explain the conditions of its appearing as conditions superior to simple forced doing, but I do not succeed, continually the words enclose the concept of destruction into the area of an aim, that aim that I experiment in the world through the suffering and the occlusion of my destiny in the face of the massive attack of work against me. I undertake the destructive step, propose a now immediately that zeroises my being in time, a rarefaction that I have no deductive cognition of, that I am unable to describe the movement of realisation, even if I work hard to describe it, to localise it in order to have a point of reference and make it known to the conspirators of the word who await the comprehensibile Green like so many sparrows, concise and clear.I know that the quality I can reach with destruction, of work in the first place, also participates in the knowledge of detail but I can't assault by it widening the explanation and interpretation of the latter. In the destructive adventure there is not a beginning on which to stand my feet, I am always with the same instruments in my hands that I had in the work fare. Action is born from doing, is decided in doing, and here embraces quantity and renders possible destruction thanks to the abandon of the accummulated fruits that it leaves to die among the rules of forced utility. The decision to destroy, if it remains only an effort of the will, even of the best revolutionary consciousness, remains unhearable in the coy daily signing in, while all around occasions for sadness are growing. Then I stop deciding to give myself strength, negation and abandon counsel me to put up my collar and face the wind. I do not suddenly stop serving the world and using its rules, I am not an angel, I only know that something is moving differently, a breathe of wind stirs the atmosphere, it is a hurricane and I don't know why. In a second I sense where to go, what to desire, what to destroy of the huge phantom of work that oppresses me, I praise myself as of a great conquest but I have nothing in my hands, emptiness and nothing, I do not recognise the usual forced connotations in what I feel, in the heart that is thumping in my chest. The world looks at me with different eyes. It is the moment of destruction.