Backup

One wise man has noted that when a person writes, he draws letters on paper with the bottom of his pen and draws the same letters with its top in the sky. When we type, we press on letters from top down. A writing man unites this world and the above waters in the act of writing. A typing man unites this world with the abyss.

The keyboard is a field divided into little squares. Each square has a sign. Only the space key has none. Emptiness has no sign. A black square and a letter – the smallest text unit is united with the visual limit. The Keyboard is the Text. We use the space key to divide it. This is the way in which all texts are obtained.

The keyboard is the periodic table of elements. It is the very table Foucault was looking for. Yet when we press a key we are sending a letter into the virtual Nothing. A writing man materializes the text. A typing man de-materializes it…

What happens to a letter when I press a black or white square with its sign? The quality of mineral water is said to depend on the time it takes for a drop to penetrate all layers of soil and reach the source. Sometimes a fall can last a thousand years. For a thousand years through all obstacles, in complete solitude and total darkness a drop gets through. A letter is such a drop. What source is it seeking?

I stick a needle in the letter. I am a magician, a savage, a physician, I am an entomologist. The needle is sharp on both ends. To kill the text. Or to kill oneself. From text to blood. And from blood to text.

To hold the letter. To prevent it from falling into the abyss at any price. Back up. Back to the top. So that each hit of a key is like a blood oath of eternal friendship. Or eternal hatred…