My2 life, my body is the cover story, the story that disguises language. Two lips moving against each other twice at once. Lips in the interzone. Telling one story that deforms the lips of this speaking. A mouth gone astray.
Over coffee in the basement of the Cathedral of Learning at the University of Pittsburgh, Colin MacCabe3 accused me of being the last High Modernist left on this forbidden Postmodern planet. A boy with his foot in his mouth wanting narrative. "A relic," he called me. Modernism's last scream cutting across the wounded galaxy. "It is a crime," MacCabe simulated, "to write onto mirrors4 against the image."5 You, my friend, are only a migrant ape caught in a gasoline crack of history.6
Hear7 infection begins. Memorex galaxy.8 Doug Rice is not any sort of High Modernist ruin. A last tape found in the waste land left behind by Krapp.9 Who knocks at the door when he's not at home?10 Never not at home any more. Always a machine left wanting.11 Even though Rice has spent most of his life locked, wanting to bleed, inside an Ivory Tower, he, unlike his precursing12 foreign agents, does not allude to the past so much as he willfully plagiarizes, pirates, the past out of history into hysteria. Rice is that Joycean moment of transcription. Rice is alphabetical Lucia, disturbed, sitting on the floor overhearing Modernism enacted13 before her very eyes between her father and Sam Beckett.14