Who is the fairest one of all?

Allow me now to elaborate on my previous post--a long rant discussing my childhood and why I like mirrors so much.

So I said, mirrors allow us to see the physicality of our character. However, it's still a mirrored image, reversed from left to right. In this sense, they do not allow for a perfect image of ourselves. This is, in my opinion, irrelevant. The mirror still allows for essentially all that we would need in seeing our own face.

The issue of the mirror, however, is that which is presented by Mr. David Lynch so appropriately in the finale of Twin Peaks.

Here, as I fear, as it is clear in the mirror, Agent Dale Cooper is not as he appears. This is the problem with mirrors. Vanity is okay--we all love looking at ourselves. However, the mirror speaks on other levels. The mirror makes "important connections with the other realm. It has always opened onto the other place: the reversed world of the dead." (Rickels, 13) Lynch knows this, and uses the idea quite well.

If I were to attempt to suggest meanings for all of the bizarre locations, wacky symbols, and seemingly apparent "metaphors" in Twin Peaks (which is something I'd rather not do, but to make a point I will anyway), then I would probably assume the locale of the "Black Lodge" or the "Red Room" as a place where certain dead people go--be it a version of Hell, or the Underworld, or perhaps a bewildered limbo-Valhalla ("This is the...waiting room..."). Now considering that this "Black Lodge" is accessible to living man, and escapable by the spirits/beings that inhabit it, we must consider the gateways between the worlds that are presented.

Let me first examine the pool of "scorched engine oil," which marks the portal to the "black lodge." Is this not a reflective pool? A dark mirror of sorts? And is it not reminiscent of Narcissus' demise? Let Dale enter the lodge, encountering this pool--he does not return the same. He is possessed by the spirit BOB! And there, upon approaching the mirror in the final shot, he is not reflected as Dale, but as Bob himself.

This is the problem. The rule of the mirror is quite strict. If you don't see yourself in the mirror, something's terribly wrong. It seems the general understanding is that you're not quite alive if you can't see your reflection as it's *supposed* to be.

Why is this not the darkest fear of people? Why are so many afraid of the dark, or of what is hidden in the dark, when we can rely on our other senses to protect us within it? At least we have some defense there. But the mirror--imagine seeing the wrong thing! This is a terribly disturbing thought. Consider the vampire--consider seeing a reflection of only the space behind you.

In this way, the mirror is strict. It is not a machine--if we witness an incorrect reflection, then we cannot assume the mirror is simply "broken." Moreover, it cannot be held accountable for failure to provide a reflection. According to logical thought, this might suggest that anything we observe in the mirrored world is and must be true, or at least presented to us in a manner depicting truth. The mirror would not show Dale an image of Bob if Bob was not somehow, in truth, inhabiting (or at least strongly related to) Dale--all because the mirror does not lie.

A truth-teller. If there were an antonym of "liar," then the mirror would make a fine example.

Let's consider this "broken mirror" idea. Assuming we take it in the non-almost-literal sense of not functioning correctly (i.e. showing us the wrong reflection or none at all), then it is apparent that whatever we might be sensing here in the non-mirrored world is less than whole--there's more than there seems. Assuming we consider a "broken mirror" to be one that is physically broken, or shattered, or lying in pieces, then we are left only with several small reflectors--dozens of shards, all with the potential to show us something terribly frightening--and the mirror is only just deconstructed, broken into smaller parts that are comparably important. So we are at a loss for protection from this mirror world. Smashing the mirror would only make things more perceivable--power in numbers.

So is this what Pete Townshend used the mirror metaphor for in his opus Tommy, from which we hear the story of a boy set deaf, dumb, and blind as the result of certain childhood trauma, only to be cured later in his life upon smashing a mirror? Surely the mirror is a great signifier of a connection between two worlds, just like Rickels suggests, but I never quite understood the significance of "smashing" the mirror, especially in its relation to the curing of the boy, Tommy. I held an opinion for some time that Tommy must have been in the "dream world," the "silent vibration land," (Townshend), and by smashing the mirror he metaphorically transports himself to the waking life by means of breaking down the barrier between the two.

This connects quite nicely. If we take Rickels' idea that a mirror is a connection between two worlds, along with Townshend's--that a "broken mirror" is an open gateway--combined with the thought that a truly shattered mirror means higher quantity of truth-telling reflection, and mix those up with the idea of a "broken mirror" being a non-functioning one, then it is obvious that the broken mirror cannot be, in any sense of being "broken," telling a lie. This is because if you look upon a mirror, and see something that's not right, you cannot fix the mirror. Moreover, if you break the mirror, you will only wind up with dozens of incorrect reflections.

Now,

Say you've got a magical, non-functional mirror. Maybe you want to try some other mirrors along side it to see if they'll provide a different result. And say they don't. Say they all show something wrong. Well then you're obviously witnessing a popular perception of you in the mirrored world, and it can be understood as a truth that you are more (or perhaps less) than you think you are. Say the other mirrors do present you accurately, and you actually have a dysfunctional mirror after all. Well then now you've got magic, simply put, and turns out you can safely assume there is more in the world than you had thought! Like that, a non-functional mirror is no longer a non-functional mirror, but rather an obvious and easily-read symbol of some certain truth--because that mirror will never reflect you, no matter what you do to it, unless, I suppose, it just simply *feels like it*...

And there! If a mirror can *feel like* something, then that implies there is another world of perception and thought. If it *feels like* something, then suddenly we know there is a world unfamiliar to us, a world indistinguishable by our senses--one that is inside, or maybe around, or maybe behind (oh yeah, we can't distinguish it...)--well it would have something to do with the mirror, albeit sensory or not.

As a brief change of subject: One time, or perhaps dozens of times, English teachers at my high school would tell me not to begin a concluding paragraph with the words "In Conclusion..." They also told me not to bring up new ideas in the concluding paragraph. But goddammit, how is one supposed to leave someone thinking if they conclude with what they've been writing about the entire time?

In conclusion, vampires cannot be seen in mirrors because it is simply just as feasible for a vampire to exist as for a non-functioning mirror to do the same--thus the mirror is representative of a world separate to the one our senses perceive, representative of a world of ghosts that leave their coffins at night to suck the blood of virgins and other people and stuff, representative of a world where vampires actually exist. Vampires can't exist in a world where mirrors reflect them, otherwise they wouldn't really be vampires would they? They'd be some other blood-thirstin' sucka. We gotta have one magic, to have the other magic...

Oh no:

No, that's just a vampire on a mirror...

Oh no, wait:

Damn. Well that's rough for you guys, Hollywood. Edward... in a mirror.

Now I'm confused.

Maybe I'll post more on this thought process another time...

-CS

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall...

UPS finally delivered my copy of Rickels' The Vampire Lectures, yesterday. So needless to say, I'm a little behind in reading it. But alas, I've just finished reading the first lecture and now I need to write some things. Let me start with a story of my childhood, because everybody likes a good childhood story (after all, anyone can relate. Most every childhood is the same in some sense, or at least in the sense I'm about to present):

Mirror, Mirror... The mirror is something I like to think about quite a lot. I suppose I've been infatuated with mirrors since early childhood. I recall watching a home video in which I stole my little sister's Snow White toy mirror, claiming that she was going to "run out the batteries." I then proceeded to play with the toy myself, as if my magic touch would not hurt the life of the batteries whatsoever. But no, it was not my desire to save those batteries' lives that led me to rip that mirror out of her hands--it was simply my mirror-infatuation that drove me to steal in such a way--from my own family!!

In retrospect, I can recall several occasions in my childhood that could only have reinforced my love for reflections. I remember a forth grade theatrical production in which I played the role of Narcissus. Stupid Narcissus, never able to love another, such vanity! He rejected the nymph

Echo, was doomed to find his reflection in a pool in the woods, whereupon he would stay,

gazing in amazement at his mirrored self, forever, until he died. And from his grave grew the flower we now call the "Narcissus."

Such an elegant story warns of the consequences of vanity. And how ironic it was that this role in the forth grade made the crowd unleash a torrent of laughs (in response to my performance, of course), boosting my youthful self-confidence, my innocent ego, and suggesting to my supple mind that such vanity was means for a successful jest, and that to retain my mirror-love would mean great popularity.

And then I grew

older, just enough older for the effects of vanity to make themselves prevalent. I became a teenager, a boy concerned with pop and reputation.

This story is a common one, I am sure. To grow up in a materialistic society, be it good or bad, and to find one's self in a state of high school paranoia--worried about what each little clique is saying or thinking about you. Sure, this is all good and fine. But thank the gods that I, Narcissus himself, was able to question such vanity and self-consciousness.

To question is human as well, so I suppose that the act of questioning such youthful torment is natural--or at least unnaturally normal (if such is the way of the Political [or social, or whatever you want to call it] Animal that we humans are). But nevertheless, I at some point in my younger years (I write with tone of an experienced man, only for Narcissistic fun/play) began to question and invoke skepticism towards the world of the material--the societal or perhaps corporate constructs that cause us to feel some sort of need for aesthetics and fashion. I began to doubt such things, believing them "stupid," or "not real."

So I wound up focusing on the counter-aesthetic. The world of Rock and Roll--the world of the counter-culture (a world that is just as "stupid" and "not real," I suppose, as any other--I'll get to this, I think) became so glorious! It's a place where doing what you want is... cool? A place where breaking the rules is the only rule! So exciting to the youthful lad...

Anyways, I also got into philosophy around the same time, because like any cool, nerdy dude knows, rock music and a good handle on Nietzsche go hand-in-hand. So, to fast forward a bit, I thought for a couple years on the human condition (still a mystery) and on musical culture, and tied them together to create some sort of understanding about the worlds of "perception," and the ideas surrounding them. Essentially, I was able to realize at some point through questioning the objective of Mirrors, moreover of vanity itself, that perception is all relative, yada yada yada. SO! I got pretty into the idea of LSD.

I didn't experiment with the stuff upon discovering its so-called "potential to alter perception." But rather, I accepted LSD, and the entire hallucinogenic genre of drugs, as perceptive-modifiers. And of course they are--one can't argue with that. They alter receptors in your brain, so information is processed differently, etc, etc, so you can "hear colors." Whatever. I don't like talking about hard drugs any more. The subject bores me.

Why does it bore me? Because I've now experimented with an array of hallucinogens, and in hindsight I don't regret it a single bit. But if I were to sum up all of my experiences into one sentence in order to portray them to a reader, then I would fail. It's all too personal, and thus I don't like discussing it (even though I guess I am right now).

My point here is that there is one thing that somebody once told me about hallucinogenic drugs that has been engrained into my consciousness ever since. Whomever it was told me "Dude, if you're tripping out, don't look in a mirror. It'll freak you out and it's not cool!"

Don't open the box, Pandora! Don't do it!! Oh, you did it. Great. How was I to resist the mirror in a state of drug-induced perception alteration? By all means I couldn't. I can now say comfortably that I've gazed for long periods of time into mirrors under the influence of certain substances and have never experienced anything bad--moreover, it's probably increased my infatuation for mirrors at least ten-fold.

And it's because our desire to see ourselves is so STRONG! We political animals float through our days looking forward, witnessing our surroundings, planning, philosophizing, working! But how often do we get to reflect back upon the self in its most literal sense? It's simply so pleasing to look at your self in the mirror--because it's you! Or at least it's a flipped/mirrored version of you, which is the closest you're going to get. That's great.

The entire point of this blog post, which will tie into my next one (in order to make a better point) is that everything in life has to do with yourself. You can't escape it, so inevitably it's delicious to get a taste of witnessing the way you look. Life is a series of smelling yourself, hearing yourself, tasting yourself, dare I say feeling yourself, and sensing all these things once more in your surrounding context. But we don't get to see ourselves--or our faces, which seem to characterize us most--in any natural manner. The only method is the mirror, the only method of witnessing the physicality of our character.

-CS

Alcohol and Cigarettes

Fatigue. "I'm tired," says my roommate here at the Newhaus--that's what we call our house here on New Street. Such is the consequence of depressant drugs I suppose... Fatigue.

Oh, opposite of coffee, thou art alcohol--drug that makes one stupid, drug that makes one tired.

Drug that makes one make terrible decisions on a Friday or perhaps a Saturday night.

Or perhaps a Sunday afternoon, if the occasion is right.

"Opposites attract," to quote Paula Abdul, or maybe to quote everybody else who has said it. I guess I'll even quote myself here.

To depress is to "make sad or gloomy," or, more importantly, to "lower in amount or value." (Dictionary.com)

Oh, such is the opposite of the stimulating nature of caffeine, or of nicotine--of the aforementioned substances that bring one to a state of acceleration.

But is it?

I must question, here on a Tuesday night--after sharing a few beers with friends--if this truly is opposite at all? To make sad or gloomy--to lower in amount or value--is this not, in certain senses, the effect of coffee and cigarettes? Yes, they may stimulate, but eventually their effect must expire--eventually one must experience the feeling of "coming down," the feeling of losing such stimulants in one's blood stream. Do these stimulants not bring one to a point of sadness, to a point of gloom--do they not precipitate the ensuing period of sobriety, a state lower than that of the accelerated?

These questions must be asked--a stimulant enhances the nervous system, a depressant numbs it-- but both effect it regardless. I must pose the question--is alcohol equivalent to caffeine in the same sense as the soldier is equivalent to the artist?

Surely.

Just a few thoughts.

And goodnight.

-CS

Coffee and Cigarettes

They go together like shoo bop shoo wadda wadda yipitty boom de boom...

Sip, drag, sip, drag, slurp, puff, sip, and so on. What a pair. Smoke, steam, robust, smooth.

Symbiosis. Synergy. Making people feel at ease, as they rush a little bit further towards death.

Acceleration. Stimulation. Progress. It's the way of the future, it's the way of the past.

So how's that different from this?...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MorDCtBPR8

Accelerate your life... As a friend and neighbor of mine once commented to me, doesn't that just mean die faster? Accelerate your automobile--watch that odometer tick, tick, tick, up, up, up; one day that car won't work anymore. The faster you go, the sooner you'll stop. Life seems dependent on speed, pace.

What is this desire for acceleration? What is this desire for instantaneousness? Need we accelerate faster and faster when the ends are always inevitably the same? Life has its ups, it has its downs. It's all part of the system.

One method of analysis I learned in Parasites class:

Systems: Sy-stem. Etymology:

system

1610s, "the whole creation, the universe," from L.L. systema "an arrangement, system," from Gk. systema "organized whole, body," from syn-"together" + root of histanai "cause to stand" from PIE base *sta- "to stand" (see stet). Meaning "set of correlated principles, facts, ideas, etc." first recorded 1630s. Meaning "animal body as an organized whole, sum of the vital processes in an organism" is recorded from 1680s; hence figurative phrase to get (something) out of one's system (1900). Computer sense of "group of related programs" is recorded from 1963. All systems go (1962) is from U.S. space program.

--From http://www.etymonline.com

"Syn-" means together, likewise that's where "sym-" comes from. Sy-stem, a group of related programs. Sym-biosis, life, together. Biosis, Stem; life, program. These are two ideas that are undoubtedly intertwined. Is to be educated in the Navy not the same (same: also stemming from "sym-", or moreover the Germanic "sem-") as to submit one's self into a program? Is it not also considered an endeavor which society would claim to be a "life-choice;" a decision regarding the way of living one's life? Is it not the formation of a symbiotic relationship with the Navy organization, and a "sim-"ultaneous integration into a system?

It's all happening together. To drink coffee and smoke cigarettes is simply to enter another system of stimulation, another way to accelerate one's life. In this sense, to be a Navy Seal is to be a beatnik, a poet, an artist, or any other occupation which might entail the occasional coffee-smoke.

What separates them? Social identity, of course, but society separates everything. The artist, the soldier, both paths of life. Both parasites in the human world. The soldier is trained, he is shaped into a follower of orders, one who will fight and obey commands for a benefit that he deems reasonable. The artist is trained as well, not to fight, but to analyze--to attempt to convey certain old ideas in forms that have not been used, or perhaps new ideas in recognizable forms. One might suggest the soldier is a destroyer, the artist a creator. But once again, to destroy is to cause an end--to create is to cause beginning. Both are causal, and both are inevitable. Being only exists with its counterpart, non-being, and vice-versa.

Serres would suggest this as being only two sides of a triangle. He would close that triangle with a third side. What is this third side? What is is that links the ideas of symbiosis and systematics? He'd probably draw this out something like this:

Heidegger would call the third side, on a triangle concerning "being" and "non-being," "becoming." Just the same, Serres would suggest a similar cooperation between the two corners bordering the "third side." I'll call it "Stembiosis."

So it's full circle, or full-triangle. Triangles are stronger than circles anyway, and everything's made up of triangles--or at least anything can be broken down geometrically into triangles (I guess except a circle, but then we have to discuss infinity more, which is basically what I'm getting to anyway).

This is causing me to think a lot about the way the world works. Yes, parasited as we are, constantly interrupted, I can't help but go about my daily business in a manner of A, B, C, systematic planning. But I particularly enjoy this idea of equivalence that Serres puts throughout his "The Parasite."

Quite often, it seems unreasonable to think about the world in terms of its infinite, full-circle, parasitic relations. It may hinder common thought, and retard one's ability to live life "to the fullest," to quote everybody. To think of life as a circle seems like giving up; to assume the end is the same as the beginning, and to then fill in the third side (which I would suppose is the life-process itself) as an equivalent of both others is to suggest that nothing matters more than the moment of birth (or conception if you see it in such a way), or the very moment of death, or than any given moment during life--and all the same, nothing matters less. This causes my daily routine, which might entail a cup of coffee and a cigarette in the morning--or maybe registration for the Navy in the afternoon--to seem void of any sort of importance, considering it's just as important as, say, brushing one's teeth, or perhaps giving Freud's "first gift." It might seem to take away the thrill of shouting "hotbox!" in the event of achieving a game-winning scoredown, and then again, it might add certain positive intrigue, or perhaps excitement to the event of something banal like paying bills. "It's all relative," says everybody, "Just live life to the fullest."

But just when I thought my concept of infinity and inter-relativity regarding systems and symbiosis was coming to a stalemate, I am benefitted by music. Ah, music. Upon re-reading the first chapter of The Parasite, I am glad to have noticed in greater detail the idea presented by Leibniz, the idea of the seventh chord. No--infinity is not harmonious. Not everything is equivalent in importance. The first gift is not the same as a scoredown. And no, it's not all just relative. It's all interrupted. The seventh chord never rests--it resolves. It resolves to the fourth of whatever chord the seventh is placed in. The I-vii becomes the IV, C7 becomes F major. There is tension. There IS resolution. There is an end, there is a beginning, and yes there is the in-between. And yes, they're all related on a triangle, or a circle, or whatever shape you want. But it's all going to be interrupted, and that just means that as relative as things might seem, they only get more relative. Yes, relativity is relative. Coffee and cigarettes go together well, the Navy is a good choice for some people, but regardless of systems--regardless of symbiosis, things are different. And because things are different, things interrupt eachother. And because things interrupt each other, you and I can enjoy certain things in general. That's what's important. We know there's a beginning--we know there's an end--we KNOW THERE IS A MIDDLE, but we can DO IT ALL! And we can have a damned fine time all the while.

Tension gets resolved, Mr. Fox wins in the end, hotbox.

Amen.

Silencio... Silencio...

A response to Friday's class...

Please allow me to list some ideas about silence:

• There is no noise during silence.
• Silence can also mean no activity whatsoever--tranquility, if you will.
• Silence is often considered peaceful.
• Silence is often considered uncomfortable, perhaps awkward.
• That which breaks silence often has more of an impact (gains more attention) than that which blends in with sound and or other activity.
• Silence allows less distraction.
• Silence allows more distraction.

Given the right time and place, all of these ideas I believe are true.

Now, allow me to list some ideas about authority:

• One is not to disobey or disrupt authority (I'd consider this the definition of authority--that which has more importance, and therefore should not be interrupted)
• If one has authority, then he has not been interrupted successfully.
• Authority can aid.
• Authority can destroy, ruin.
• That which disrupts or disobeys authority has more of an impact (gains more attention) than that which obeys and follows authority.
• Authority can provide protection.
• Authority can provide danger.

Given the right time and place, all of these ideas, I believe, are true as well.

So it looks like silence and authority have some things working together.

Let's take the fine example of Mr. Tony Prichard, and the folks who showed up to hear him teach on Friday January 22nd, 2010.

During the course of this class session, Mr. Prichard spoke very little, and at one point resorted to not speaking (silence, at least on his part) for mostly the remainder of the class. Where does this leave the class? Silence replacing authority? Shucks.

I liked the class, though. It was nice not having a teacher, or a professor, or authority, or whatever you want to call it for a while. Or at least, I should say, it was nice having a replacement for them for a while--just to see how things would go, you know? Or at least, I should say, it was nice believing that I had a replacement--or should I say it was nice being tricked into believing there was a replacement. Allow me to explain what I mean in one sentence, or maybe two:

By Tony's not talking/speaking/making vocal noise, silence filled the classroom, causing our attentions to be so directed at Tony that he had more authority than ever. Silence took the place of authority and spoke to the class these silent words: "Talk amongst yourselves, because I didn't say so."

So we forgot about Tony (or at least gave up on hearing him talk), and commenced our own conversations. This made me think about this "authority" idea, which Mr. Nanotext was so intent on having us explain. To quote plurk, "Nanotext [asks] what sort of authority do I have, and why are you letting me have it?" (http://www.plurk.com/p/3h676z)

Maybe we're paying to give him authority...? Maybe it's self-inflicted? Nanotext, do you have authority simply because you asked that question? Certainly the question entails that you do have authority, or else you could not ask "why are you letting me have it?" By this I mean, if you had none, then the answer to "what sort" would be "the none sort," after which asking "why are you letting me have it" would not make sense in any context as far as I am certain, thus proving that either you have authority because we are letting you have it ("no authority" requires no permission from us), or perhaps you do not have any authority whatsoever and have created a question that is meaningless to answer (given x=not true, to ask why x? is like trying to divide by zero).

The fact of the matter is, we all paid attention to the question, let it shape our thoughts, considered it valid in every sort of way, because authority is what Mr. Prichard, or Nanotext, or whoever was asking, had. The power to control our minds... To interrupt our thoughts, and implant new ones. To make us or break us (thanks grading systems).

And then Mr. Prichard was gone in silence, and we were without a leader for a moment. No more authority. So my question is, did the silence take the role of the authority, in once again shaping our thought processes into ones devoted to class-discussion purposes? Or perhaps, did Authoritative Tony (form of: man) almost literally--(to be continued)...

A side note:

I must use the word "literally," always almost un-literally, by placing an "almost" in front of almost literally every utterance of the word "literally," for fear of:

1. scrutiny towards my perhaps slightly incorrect usage of the word.
2. using the word correctly to a person who's understanding of it's definition is incorrect (confusion).

For the supplementary "almost" has almost literally no definition, and only suggests a state of becoming, as opposed to a concrete being or non-being in any given form. "Almost" makes almost literally any word mean almost literally almost anything that you could almost literally almost want.

...(continued)--become its doppelganger form: Authoritative Nanotext (form of: silence, plurk-lurker) who holds just as much power, but is so unfamiliar to us that we are tricked into believing the authority has been shifted to us?

Aye ca-rumba. Authority, to me, once meant "My parents, and the cops."

I wish it was still like this, but no. Now authority means a lot of things. Some things... Many things... Something. Anything. Or at least maybe anysomemanythings that shape thoughts, or just influence anything in any way. And is lack of authority really a lack of authority? Or is it "almost authority," or maybe "almost literally authority." I'm almost certain it's not "literally authority," almost.

Okay I'm almost there.

C.S.

More words about context, in a different context.

The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr... Pretty great book. I can't help but admit that. But the context issues presented to me are just plain blowing my mind...

So we have this story of a cat--a rather intelligent cat at that--all written in the words of mankind. And, the story itself is written upon paper that also contains the story of Mr. Kreisler. So we have two stories. We readers could each as being in the context of the other, or we could find ourselves reading both as in context of a novel cunningly written with two plots intertwined (in the context of E.T.A. Hoffman's imagination, I'd imagine), but regardless of what's what, we can't avoid the fact that each plot has something to do with the other.

Now, I suppose I could read simply one of the plot-lines while ignoring the other. For instance, every time I see the letters "W.P." I could simply skip ahead to the next "M. Cont." and completely ignore the Kreisler story altogether. This is, I suppose, what bothers me most. Because now I'm stuck reading Tomcat in the context of ignoring half of Hoffman's work, thus making it only half of a Hoffman story, which suggests to me that doing this would take the story completely out of context, if you will.

So this is my lament. I'm beginning to understand the impermanence and flow of context from place to place as our thought can alter it. Constantly our entire understanding of the world is interrupted--be it by the ring of a fresh plurk, or by the interjection of some complicated words from Kreisler's biography into the story of an incredibly educated feline, or perhaps the sudden desire to post some blogged wisdom [I wish that to be pronounced "blog-ed wisdom," (here is an interruption within another parenthesized interruption)] in the midst of reading that very book, Tomcat.

The best part of all of this is that from a certain context, from many for that matter, these words would mean something, or anything completely different from the idea I'm trying to consider here. And how wonderful it is, that maybe I've written sense and nonsense ubiquitously and simultaneously, constantly and never, and yet it all means something to somebody somewhere, and changing from context to context to context like a ______(fill in blank with simile that would best fit the context).

-C.S.

A First Blog Post

So this is blogging. Blah Blahg Blog. And here I am. I've never posted a blog before--though I've always meant to. I suppose I just needed a little push to get it started. So I send out my thanks to Nanotext, for making me do this once and for all.

I would also like to thank Mr. Nanotext, as well as Mr. Austin and Mr. Derrida for pushing me to great questioning of life, the universe and everything--or maybe just some things--through the means of deconstructive literary analysis. Gee whiz, I thought I had a good handle on philosophy and the language arts, but I suppose I'm wrong.

Or am I?

I'm stuck considering the idea of "context," these past couple weeks, just as many men before me have. Perhaps, in one context, the word may convey the idea of... Let's say: "a situational determinative of meaning," or something of that sort. That was my understanding of context for most of my life--something that determines what stuff means. But woe is me, I had never considered that a context might have had a context...

This is what, I suppose, is the groundwork for the deconstruction presented in Austin and Derrida's writings. Now, I'm only beginning to dig deeper into these ideas--but what I'm understanding right now is this:

A context can change depending on anything--one could say a context can change depending on its context, which is thus alterable depending on its context, and so on and so forth. This, I hope, is the general idea of Austin and Derrida--to suggest communication is something perhaps subjective of context, moreover all words can mean different things depending on when they're used, who uses them, who's hearing them, why they're said, etc. etc.

So for a few days I was at a loss, as I'm sure you would be if you too had:

1. Never heard of deconstruction
2. Never considered context's intricacies and inner workings
3. Never seen Cronenberg's Shivers, or for that matter, never analyzed a horror film
4. Never considered a beneficial goal to skepticism

However upon some deep and thorough mind scraping I've been able to figure this stuff out in a general way. I get the point of deconstruction, and I understand it's not like skepticism at all--it's just a method of breaking stuff down to it's roots of impossibility and infinite, sometimes paradoxical nature. And no, it's not a reason to be depressed, nor is it a reason to give up--but rather it's enlightening! As Mr. Nanotext Prichard has made it clear, by witnessing such irregularity and ever-changing definition in literature/communication, how can anyone help but be left in awe of the way words affect us on a daily basis? We truly can't explain them. We truly can't. Really.

So I break stuff down, shred it to pieces, break it apart, and attempt to find meaning, all the while knowing that the deeper I go, the farther I'll get from it. And that's the point! Meaning is subjective to context, which is something that is seemingly undeterminable. How stellar. How majestic! How infinite and divine!

It occurs to me only now why it is that I am supposed to be the acid-blood from Alien... Or perhaps I can see now why I am parasitic in nature. Depending on the context, of course, I could be the blood burning through the floor and ceiling--a metaphor of course, "I" being the blood, the "floor/ceiling" being any text I can imagine. I am a parasite, squirming through text, living and breathing with it, changing depending on context of context, blah blahg blog...

Until later tonight,

-Cowboy Sterling