I have a tiny 20 pages of post-structuralism to summarise but can't for two reasons, because it's work and because it's incoherent. I actually answered a question in the exam saying I couldn't summarise coherently an incoherent article! I'm incapable of sinchronicity. It's really a battle of solipsisms (solipsistry), where we mutually accuse each other of sophistry.
What kind of a philologist am I?, says a facebook test I've recieved for the fourth time. You must be kidding me. I made no positive decision to learn from universities, I just went with the flow! I don't have a need to reproduce Quijote in a nation-wide Curriculum. Education's become quite the joke for the middle to higher classes, vis a vis everything's that's useless, and a classical education has that to boot. It's expensive, mobile; erm, yeah. LOL! Quite the reason why my diachronic Foucaultianism has always scared sinchronic Saussureanists shitless. Now, Saussureanesqueness is quite a hit; it makes itself proud about being coherently incoherent. Philology can spend 100 years repeating it, just like it's spent 200 years repeating romanticism. According to Saussure, my sofa is an apple. According to the romantics, a sofa is that that brings you pain. Romanticism is not a very good sofa. This is what you get when you spend money.
Because it's biology and little else. Or externalist Putnamesque Kripkesque with touches of Chomskyan internalism. Modal logic talks about modes rather than narrative thingies. Modes of existence. It's good shit. With a priori and a posteriori distinctions you're pretty muchy free to fuck art and dance. Counterfactually, hypothetically, fictively, factually... all necessaries and possibles are relaxed. So much for internalism, in truth that's where all the loonies appear. And the literaries, with that Canon full of extravagant flights of fancies, where language goes on holiday... from ordinary language. But it's ordinary language. And it's brimming with false dichotomies and problems where there are none. And so I dream about Davidson and Ayer in Rorty's classes. Rorty's problem is he doesn't like philosophy; he wants to wank, as do we all. He doesn't want to be part of a club that would have him as a member. Rings a bell. The homo ludens is above such departamental deontological obligations. How many times have you had sex at work? Why did you buy that object? Or why did you find what you just said so fascinating? Ethical alterity; the only obligation of the homo ludens is the proliferation of fellow homo ludens. Falsify this statement.
Cinema's suffered a huge paradigm shift thanks to me. Paradigm incommensurability now, in the cinema, implies that we really look at women in the movies where before we stared at authors and whatnot. Galileo-like. Curve narrativity, however, arborescent parabolas, renders us impotent idealists in the physical world. Women are only attractive if there's a huge story behind them. What kind of a philologist am I? Stevie Nicks.. at her finest in her rendition of SARA, for example. Quite the coke-addled soap opera rough voice drama queen bitch:
I'd bang her, but would she bang me?
So if it's biology it's money and little else. Versus C.P. Snow, Leavis' defense of the classics as imaginative flights of fancy strikes me as save-your-soulism cuz reading the classics is what he did and, certainly reading Dante and Homer, with the world as rich as it is today, can hardly have anything to do with imagination. From personal experience, an intelligent emotional bloke is him or her who says he's thinking about death or likes buildings in ruins, or something. And a normal person is him or her who thinks about tv and travel. Now, depending on the time of day, they're both last lines of first Wittgenstin, second Wittgenstein and Saint Augustine. And since ppl who think about something aren't doing that thing, him or her who thinks about tv is prolly scared shitless, while him or her who thinks about Saint Augustine and John Donne's metaphysical baggage probably has a God complex. From personal experience, I've seen that most people defend their own experience as sellable material. Again, 18th century materialism rings true. Thinks of all that sex in Voltaire, de Sade, Crebillon, Fougeret de Monbron, Vivant Dénot. Yes, it's sex. Rachel's Papers is crap, but it's great for one reason. And the quotes and such from the protagonist's entrance to Oxford are good shit. 'Leave the structuralism alone! Spend nine or ten months deciding whether you like or don't like the poems!', or something like that is what the tutor says to the post-Gloria post-Rachel kid. Quite the hero for booky wookies; if Kundera makes them think they can get sex if they read, 'because they're not kitsch' a Kunderesque woman dixits- Wittgenstein offers them immortality by subtlety. But Amis is too plot-addled, too much of a drama queen. Like most art. No, all art. Art by definition. The study of art. And latter day narcicism is quite the solution.
And nobody pays for education. It's the only thing you pay for where you have obligations. Which is what makes it doubly, triply laughable. Which is why so much education tells you it's when you pay other things that you're committing yourself to obligations. And also why it's between socialists and catholics; it's what's known as a long-term investment. Harharhar. Because if it's about fun, well sure a uni beats a tv But internet kicks their arses! Which is why it pleased me to inflitrate 'the concept of university as a hormone bath' into literary academia. Wonder if they published it; it was perfectly legit, modal logically so, I wonder if it'll have academic visibility. In their twenties, kids who have spent 5, 10 or 15 years educating themselves exist. Klaatu! So my diagnosis of the world ten years ago, as I wasn't quite able to explain the uselessness of school to a menacing high school director because if I did, I'd be thrown out because I wasn't paying the requisite 12k euros a year! Similar to the censorship in this blog. This blog, btw, is a lot less extroverted than it may seem. In facebook, like in physical life, I only speak when spoken to; the links in facebook follow an introverted advertising line. so if you're reading this, it's entirely your fault. Coupled, naturellement, with the extravagent flights of fancy, with language going on holiday. Now, it can only go on holiday when it's not on holiday, don't you see? A doctor isn't infected. Ok.
Quite the joke. Leaving home is quite the joke. Working just to go on holiday is quite the joke. Ask anyone without food whether they'd have enough with food and shelter or if they had their mind on travelling, travelling, travelling... (Ask thirld worldlings what they'd think of first worldlings and they'd be amazed at the work-simulacrums they get up to) I actually accepted a family offer to go to one of those 4 star Paradores 10 or 12 years after the last time out of some kind of absolute whateverness that goes with decision-making, or burgeoning nihilism.
Jonathan Rosenbaum doesn't like HIGH FIDELITY. But that's because he's a socialist. Or because higher education is socialist, just like secondary education is capitalist. Modes of existence, on the other hand, are what they are. This is SAY ANYTHING...
It's good shit.
Edit: Well, that was cruel. Only one week of that and FOX has already claimed copyright infringement. Odd because it had been around for a year or so.
This one's no where near as funny as the 'I don't want to process things and sell things.. so I'll just hang around with your daugher' scene I posted above:
For an acute obligation-phobic such as I, posting once a week is naturally not my cup of tea.
Listening to vast amounts of music these days.
The only thing missing in my life is sex, but I'm quite the Shohei Imamura when it comes to that, 'it's too much hassle'.
This will hopefully inaugurate- lol- a stream of lazy stupid posts, finally on a par with the author's true nature.
Think ANY GIVEN SUNDAY but by a bunch of Garfields; words are too ethereal to be but a joke. Do I have an opinion on anything? No! Of course not! I have no such need! I'm what I do, not what I say. It may sound like metaphysics and maybe it's the bleeding obvious, taken for granted and skipped away from by the huge majority. But words are just maps we use in our frantic measuring meters- in times and tips of measuring meters- to establish our definitions of other people. They're like sex; i can't think of them without giggling.
It's typical of this generation; so much for cars, in truth there are no battles to be won. Nature- space- was beaten by our parents. And thank you, truly. But we simulate the battles with those 70s and 80s Sidney Lumet- mini Serpicos- pics from years of wild aesthetics... we're so free it's just about finding manners of remaining interested. Wow.
If you elaborate in certain manners, you don't have to fight nature. Think the 'many alternatives modern life has to offer', from LOCAL HERO.
So there's Barcelona F.C.'s fine form, Madrid's hilarious slump, Sarda's charming interviews of priests and NBA night games, my flirtatious and unconvincing return to the filmoteque via Buster Keaton, this is pretty much it. If I'm not convincing you, try speaking to schoolteachers 20 years your senior. It's not about sticking to one speciality, so the history of epistemology receeds as sociobiology kicks in...
As for the combo of introversion and extroversion that leads to this blog:
The only game left is the nature of time, the very thing this blog attempted to ascertain with giggling rhetorical flourish. It isn't about words. With grammar, they receed. No drugs, no drink, no injuries, no dramas. No words. So it's just time.