Let us begin in a kitchen: we are boiling a pot of fettuccine and whistling, bouncingly, along with some imaginary tune. In our kitchen we open the topmost right drawer in search of some metallic strainer to finish this fettuccine-
It is our metallic strainer and it is our knife. But, the knife: designed to cut Kobe cows; designed to reside in topmost right drawers of kitchens. It is an actor, the mask worn to obscure the eccentricity of difference, the mask that appears as difference but is sameness. It is an impostor, a doppelgänger, which is it and is not it. It is a veil, light, translucent, through which we may witness the object, may witness a metallic strainer, may witness a knife, masked in a linguistic-
However, our usurper it is not the only trickster in the deck, let us notice our knife proper. What is this knife? The crests and valleys of the blade; the wooden handle; the point for puncture. Every eager component ready to give itself up, to whore itself out to it. The knife stretches out in our hand in its petite sensuality of body and organized substance: “The body so described is a body which is organized.”[i] But the body will not hold, things fall apart, the self wishes to be what it is not, the Iago-
But where is the knife located? Where is the knife? Heading out to sea on the Ship of Theseus. If knife is knife, and knife is it, where does knife be? If we are to let the revolution occur and it usurps our monarch knife is it still our knife? Is it but a virtual knife? A knife that cannot actually be in our topmost right kitchen drawer. Knife is it, yet so is metallic strainer. It has murdered both, both have given themselves to it. Nothing can exist; Nothing cannot exist. Nouns whore themselves out to it and it takes every noun; so that nothing is.
[i] Aristotle, De Anima, II.1
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