Ossídio Gaspar

How I will end the decade

There are 10 more people than before

Other others and the endless years born between them

Ten on being ten more than ever and what life went into that

Another to an other and the decade of time that means every X years

 

A person I want to speak to is now older than the last time I wanted to speak

10 dates of dating the last ten times I said anything at all

And if anyone speaks to me, there are 9 people I cannot know at any one time

And they are speaking to me all the time

 

They tell me everything I do not know including the things I do

And there may be almost ten ways to every fact whether or not we count the fact of listening as just one fact in itself

I am spoken to ten years at a time

And I find a century in the mix when two decades spill over each other in the same breath

 

There are more years than people, therefore too many years for every person

Decades on decades of all the things overlapping in a time that separates 10 at a time

For 10 years a day I live for 10 people every year

I need both the mourning and the even-ing to stand at all before this decade of every lost decade

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Ossídio Gaspar

sixteenth of february, twenty-second of february, third of march

16-02-I am not yet thinking about this

I remove the third person as I speak to myself.

My limited point of view has to have a therefore honesty.

 

But then the only Question left is,

What sort of third person do I want to be?



I know the one I like and the name that does not spell anything else. Whatever existential that is this one in oneself. One for one all, that with nothing and I know that. The name I give in and should not have to come back. Popular religion but in the sacrificial repetition of a country in mind. The world outside the idea of the person who does not count up to my name, but is the count I take home. Inside and outside this numeral: one before and after one. The single limit to repeat some thing again.


 

I populate simply because I have no aesthetic.

 

16-2-I am Florid

I put sand on the floor.

Stay alive.

Caution with an ocean and clear my throat.

I obviously know what I am not to do.

Crystals for eyes and ice for I’s.

We live for no one.

Go, soon.

I am healed.

As you are no one.

 

Thinking out loud is yes to the world.

Having already been so soon.

Never gone, always here.

Because of your not-you

I cannot think erotically without touching myself.

 

There is no abstraction to my point, it is about reducing the moment to a state of emptiness.

Unused skin fallen on the floors of the season.

No time to flourish.

I stay alive.

And nothing comes of it.

 

twenty-second of february

You gave me a name

I took a name

And that was 1.

I was a kite.



I am the Y axis of good evil.

I put black pepper in my white rice.

Think about me on the window

Think about me on the sea

Water does not fill an ocean.

White rice does not go into black pepper.



I have a mood.

I am in a mood.

I do a mood.

Honesty is an autonomy.



Communication more or less believes in communication.



I give up my light.

Pink and red on the inside.

The share of flowers in brackets.

Yesterday,

I went outside

Today

(the past could have happened today)



Union is by chance

I am disintegrated by influence.

This makes sense.

 

Over-bitten finger-nail’s blood barely scratching the surface.

 

By

now

I

have

stayed

awake

for more hours than I could have possibly lived alone.



I am into games of multiplication without the law.

I waste a day to wait for a day.

I day a day to day a day.



My face is only an unfurthered decoration.

Unfutured.

I sparkle sparkle.

Sogging in hair air.

With a caveman headache.

Grown for a year

Spread over a decade.

Being and not Being well-known for its time.

(a joke about a capital)

 

third of march

I am a knight

I am a night

I am on my way

I am there.

Fuck with my horse

Fuck with my house

Hose me

That chose me

Whoring,

I am almost a person.

I want

That needs

Most of all.

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Ossídio Gaspar

Document (20)1(8)

I welcome myself to the world. So I should be taken out of context.

Eye to eye and the I to I barrier. The unshared maternalism of the difference.

I hospitable.

The self cannot be hospitalised.

Cannot care for what is not in itself to exist.

Think about Me when you want to spoil the Sex. I do the same and I confirm efficacity.

Can we admit self-hatred to political discourse? Who are we really about?

We doodle our politics from pretend attention.

Where is the scene?

It is now a kindness to admit to not caring.

Mistakes are confessions to non-suitability.

I am not the agent.

Sex Politics.

This is not an evaluation.

An unevaluated thing cannot evaluate. An unevaluated thing is only ever evaluating.

A person is still to be a person, just like a face is still to be put together.

The old language cannot speak about the sign. A new language cannot speak about the sign.

But still tell me everything and the room will be there to grow.

Give me an hour and we can make a day of it. The year of that decade and the decade of that generation. We cannot spoil what is still to be by still trying to write it.

We need to be history and post-history. If two things at once, we need more people than one person. More than one historian, more than one proletarian and more than one philosopher.

A generation can only be a reflection on its own self. All other generations are not people.

Only people can be generated.

I am a people. You are a people.

A people is a person reflected.

One to two to two too again.

This is one way of putting it.

They are because of what cannot be said in one time: by us, by them, by any one.

A saying is a saying because it says enough to not say not enough. Words of encouragement.

All politics, please. For, all politics to please.

Pleasant and not pleasant, conversation is not being a conversation. I am not talking to anyone. I to I and eye to eye – whereas now these never meant anything. There is no one to talk to anymore.

I hospitable. I only welcome myself to the world. And I oversleep.

I must redefine the border. Where transgression is a country in its own right. Where people not being people are more interesting than those who say they are.

I usually say for the not being said. Now I have to say for those who are said most of all.

Doodle as I listen, to pay attention to the minutes of the non-hour, as if being able to speak to someone is to be able to interject with their own para-lingual signs. But the sign is not up for discussion, just like a mother cannot be transmitted.

Doodle the doodle. Now this has to be “not paying any attention at all”.

Still, this is only a welcoming message. And I only really welcome myself to the world.

I still say that the war of the self is not sufficiently reflected and self-reflected in the political ex-change.

With so much difference, it is impossible to see it where it is still happening. We are lost in the myriad of great expression and minimised indifference.

To know difference is to be able to know the event of indifference.

We cannot change a whole people in a person.

A person is still going to be a person, an I to I in its own way, and never really owned in any way: welcomed to a world it is just about to put its full attention to.

A promise, like welcoming someone to something that is still not quite here. Like welcoming someone to a people who will never be here.

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