Bibliography
Cixous, H. (1994) Manna: for the Mandelstams for the Mandelas. University of Minnesota Press. Minneapolis.

Cixous, H. (1990) The Body and the Text: Helene Cixous, Reading and Teaching. St. Martins Press. New York.

Derrida, J. (1973) Speech and Phenomena: and other essays on Husserl's Theory of Signs. Northwestern University Press. Evanston.

Foucault, M. (1972) 'The Unities of Discourse' in Archaeology of Knowledge. Routledge. Great Britain.

Probyn, E. (1993) Sexing the Self: Gendered Positions in Cultural Studies. Routledge. London.

Spivak, G.C. (1996) The Spivak Reader. Routledge. New York.

Spivak, G.C. (1993) Outside the Teaching Machine. Routledge. New York.

Agneta Esposito

1.

Deconstruction does not say there is no subject, there is no truth, there is no history. It simply questions the privileging of identity so that someone is believed to have the truth...It is constantly and persistently looking into how truths are produced...Deconstruction, if one wants a formula, is, among other things, a persistent critique of what one cannot not want. And in that sense, yes, it's right there at the beginning. (Spivak in an interview, 1996: 27-28).

This paper begins and ends with questions. Questions not easily answered. Indeed questions that in and of themselves remain simply complex questions - loosely formed inside the ethos of an undecidable (Spivak, 1993). Here, in this now-instant, I wish to begin writing the questions I have in mind - yet they vanish as quickly as they appear, creating as it were a second scene of deferral. They wait the questions, still floating and flaying as threads in the brea(d)th of a mind(full) body. My body contains the imagined questions inscribed by an historical-present (Probyn, 1993: 13). Arrival will arrive it is arriving in the writing.

Moving processes begin the process without an ending in advance.

To begin from a position of disruption is the position where I begin. Disrupted, uncertain and curiously unsure of how precisely I am going to question. What shape do questions take? How do I question the questioning questions? Questions are part of an explanation that serves to

2.

untangle confusion. Confusion here refers to the tensions that exists in the in between. The in between in the cannot not want is part of the answer I repel and desire. Surely (certainly?) such tensions must promise multiplicities and possibilities. Multiplicities that are open-ended and possibilities in life itself. No time to sleep in a cloud of questions. The white fluff will not sustain me.

When did this discomfort begin?

Long ago and only yesterday I am sitting in a meeting. A new arrival to an emerging group whom speak compassionately of the refugees. The fugees arise? in the whispers of song that killing me softly engenders. Killing and living, slowly living and dying...embracing the immediacy of needing to question. Why am I here in this upstairs bar speaking about refugees? I know very quietly yet do not speak because I need to know why the others are here. This need eventually slips away and the focus comes back into me. With this movement the questions become clearer, they rise to the daylights surface. I need to ask what I have been thinking Countless questions weave into my day. At night is another story and I want to tell a story. To keep on telling stories, until I reach the point? where Day meets Night

and night dreams touch (her/my) inside truths .

Ending is walking hand in hand with(out) a dawning beginning.

Morning will come. It always does. Where stories and questions blend.

back to the beginning I go.

Like a little worm who cannot see yet feels her way around, I turn up to an organic group called v-i-s-a-s - it is in town. This is the site I place myself in - having arrived on invitation from a friend. My reasons for arrival are connected to leaving a place of silent memories. Memories associated with a far away land where I lived as a young child. I go to learn how I can assist in supporting the 'asylum seekers'. Peoples experiencing displacement, dispossession, exclusion,

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marginalisation - this list of containment goes on and on, contained in the walls of Woomera Invisible lines strangulate free movement touching acceptance and welcome. It makes me cry when I feel the pain a weeping heart is mine. And the tears the tears are always red. The colour of life and hope.

One of my motivations that inspires participation is the personal political commitment I feel to speak what is ordinarily unspoken. I don't want to collude with the violence of silence that wraps its tentacles around human thought. This structuring structure of metaphysical presence where absence is the privileged term. What is absent, invisible, never named yet names is the privilege that I abhor.

Strong words I know - they arise not from fixture - there is delight in changing the world.

One step three steps only little ones will do change happens in the processes of everyday dreaming

How can I help without being controlled by the Law of a paternal Father? Such a question which is complex needs space and I have only fifteen hundred words. Yet a gentle glimpse provides a taste of the fire that is already blazing. The questions and answers are intimately tied to the place that I was borne.

Woomera...I arrived and left the dusty beginnings only to begin again... the land of never endings lives in this moment of powerful being...being in the to be...possibilities (e)merge into something - creating creatively - imaginations are moving...processes are the key - which opens up to where

there are so many questions that avoid a language...they move with the sway of the body.

My body is one that experiences pain from a volatile and (dis)interested culture A culture where interests remain largely unspoken yet define and contain and contain The invisible lines form cage-like grids with tiny squares where eyes meet and depart There is no space to look into the eyes such obsession with the self as same - one Self - and the self that I write with a capital S is the self of a dominant culture that places value on bodies as sites of meanings which in turn are

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hierarchically named Such hierarchy is not something that people often speak because to do so is to question the self A self implicated in the fabric of language which in itself is the invisible line.

Invisibility sustains illusions. Illusions and singular truth. Wrapped in the paper of representation which is read with neutral eyes/Is .

What am I doing with the stories I hear? How am I (de)colonising? Why are the questions so loud and robust, forcing me to see? It makes me think that I cannot not want to hear some answers that live as unanswerable. I try to close the resonant sounds of an unspeakable his-storical presence. Accepting the differences of all those around me I begin by accepting myself. This self as a site mapped into the culture that I am driven to unpack and name. I drive into the realms of the social world that I am always already entwined. It is an inescapable mesh of interactions, explanations and billions of stories. If only to turn the ear to the other so that something may be shared.

I want to share my questions To reach beyond the dimensions of a singular page To slide my arm around the skin of an other, an other to the self and the other of (my) self Can I speak this unspeakable language that is formless in my mouth? driving over the cliff of language into the water of a dam below and inside this place I swim and breathe like a fish with many scales Shiny and bright I am filled with hope that maybe something will be named. What am I doing? Who I am manifesting in this very peculiar moment? What conditions makes 'me/she/I/you' possible? Will you help me learn? Time it takes to answer such questions that are at once general and specific They exist on the margins of a center invisible to the roving and fragmented eye. Silence precedes the passing of days with a keen interest in (un)conscious manoeuvres. Ruptured spontaneously like a yellow glass sun...I wait with bodies and days.

Days are what I have. Patience and hopeful bodies. Learning to question without a requited explanation is the ultimate letting go. And now I begin with a tiny particle that makes visible my questioning process. Right now it stands as the only truth and leaves with the flick of a finger

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...the approach of everything can only be done progressively and painfully and must very often go through the contrary of what is being approached