the soul

[Alan Sondheim]

the soul

I almost grasp the soul, which is obdurate, inert, hard as any real, ready
for the byte of heaven/hell, nothing liminal, intermediary. battles are
fought for it; the soul is the soul of war, of possession, the spoils of
war. it is the soul that motivates the imaginary of occidental thought
into anthropologies of conquest and conquest itself; it is murderous, of
value in the service of God. the soul is not the mark of reincarnation,
nor the mark of its own bardo-making and unmaking; instead, it is a thing
and a treasure which is unquestioning of existence, ontology, nothingness.
question the soul and our dis/ease is evident; what we cherish is our
ruin, and the ruin of others. the soul separates us from ourselves; an
invention of the desert of nomads, it is the last stronghold of a world
always already slipping. the legends of buying or selling souls are always
uncanny and always speak the truth of fable's metonymy. look to the soul
for violence; it is incapable of redemption, incapable of entrance and
exit; it is nothing at all but slaughter.