The drain of the real

As I mentioned near the close of the last post, the post you are currently reading is another example of the "endless circulation around the always missed piece," the Zizekian understanding of the real. So, what is the real of my kitchen, and why do I keep circling around it—by which I mean, of course, avoiding it?  

It is the sink. What is a sink? It is literally a nothing, a gape or an aperture that gives the consistency of a kitchen to the kitchen, the real that structures reality, if you will. It is a drain or a vortex to which we sacrifice the crumbs and remnants of our subjectivity, sweeping away these objets petits (a), and at the same time creating our "alienating armor of identity." Without a sink, there is no kitchen, no cooking is possible—one can still prepare food in a kitchen without an oven, a range (let alone without a toaster, a blender, and so on), but it is impossible to prepare food without producing an excess, the hard kernel of our consumption that cannot be eliminated (literally cannot be eliminated by our bodies): bones, scraps, peels, indigestible bits, refuse… How appropriate that out kitchen tiles turned out to be identical to our bathroom tiles.

Enough Lacan. Today I did more on the walls—all the drywall is up now except for my moisture resistant piece for the backsplash and one patch for a hole in the soffit. I got to use my patching plaster (of which I will need a whole lot more), and do more drywall taping, which is kind of pleasurable. I call the patching plaster "cancer paste," since the warnings on the back suggest that if you even look at it, it will give you cancer.

No updates tomorrow (Tuesday)—we'll be in Chicago looking at crazy shiny sculptures, but we'll look at tile while we're there (and do other art things, too). Mostly we'll probably eat. And no pics today, either—there was a lot of work done, but it's not very photogenic yet.