Idle Thumbs has a round-robin review of Orsinal, Ferry Halim’s suite of small games. As a rule, I think stream-of-consciousness writing is best left to the experts (like Woolf and — well, really, just Woolf), but they make a lot of great observations along the way; besides, you can hardly blame them for being lulled into a liminal state by Halim’s deceptively simple, airily seductive games.

If I knew more Freud, I could talk about Orsinal as compusilve repetition, an expression of the death drive. If I knew more Greimas, I could talk about it as a system of signs, of interlocking binary oppositions. If I knew more Lacan, I could talk about it as a source of jouissance that promises (but never delivers) a return to the Imaginary.

I don’t know any of these things, though. I just know that Halim’s games, simple as they may seem, are sublime, nearly perfect pieces of play. I could go on, but I’m having a hard time not descending into stream-of-consciousness writing myself, and you really don’t want to see me go down that road.