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{Wednesday}

 
I'll have to address this properly at some point (and I have in fact been taking notes, on and off, here and there, for what is probably quite a time, now; little inarticulate squawks, scribbles, but all told, strung together, a certain Song may manage to make itself heard, or some kind of intermittant tolling, but anyway), yes, at some point, one point being, perhaps, in the muffled snigger below, and I hope it didnt feel unseemly, it wasn't meant to be, my ragging on the 'What Is Philosophy? Event Cancelled' - sorry: I'm laughing again... well, here is the point: behind so many jokes, there is often a sharper or shadow side, some Other meaning, isn't there? And I was watching this trailer tonight on More4, for a new three part series (next week, I think) presented by Slavoj Zizek no less, The Pervert's Guide To Cinema I think it is called, and my mind flashed back to this morning's laughter, and then back to the scary bearded man, in a boat, saying "the attacks of The Birds are OBVIOUSLY explosive outbursts of maternal super ego," and I know, I know, it may be said he is in fact telling a joke himself, maybe even against himself, or against the self-protective sureties of Theory, but nevertheless that "OBVIOUSLY" niggles me, or others like it, or an underlying tone or assumption at any rate, or anyway, regardless, in the middle of the trailer (or boat, ha ha) I suddenly realised, something I've been trying to half repress for months, which was something like: I no longer buy this stuff, I really don't, this feeling of feeling somehow LAPSED, The Lapsed Subject, ha, yes, it could almost be a Zizek paper, couldnt it, which is half my (ticklish) problem, that it's so EASY to do this stuff, and that at some point I stopped being engaged or surprised or invigorated (pro OR contra) by anything said in this general space or arena, and instead found it all blindingly obvious ('The Blindingly Obvious: Oedipal 'Blind' and Glare in The Birds' ...), a dogma, a carbon placed over any convenient object, I find the tone, the tone offputting almost as soon as the words begin, which ... oh, no, it's too late, too late already, I'm too tired, I should address this properly, later, later. OBut let me just say, of all the writing I've been shocked by, seduced by, delighted by, stirred by, surprised by, in the last 5 or 6 years certainly, maybe longer, virtually NONE of it has been Theory, let's put it that way. (I deviously insert and claim and cling to that "virtually", yes , because there might be one or two, something or other, Avital Ronnel I think, maybe, something stirs in my memory, something she wrote about Valerie Solanas, but that is a special case anyway I think... which we will come to later, later.) I mean, I'm not saying my hope for a certain kind of theoretical writing has disappeared, certainly not, but it lies elsewhere now, and must be inscribed completely otherwise. (Of all the writing I've been shocked by, seduced by, delighted by, stirred by, surprised by, in the last 5 or 6 years certainly, maybe longer, a perplexingly large percentage of it has been in private communications to me, more or less private let's say, I'll fling out a glib phrase here and call it "wemail" ('OUImail'? 'wemale'? the echoes aren't coincidental to the project I have cloudily in mind, I dont think, but anyway) here I re-open my very battered copy of Derrida's ENVOI from The Post Card... sorry, my mind went awry, then stopped, there, for a moment, I was trying to remember a quote but couldnt, something about deeper coincidences running through our lives that aren't really mere coincidences, ah yes. (Yes. Similar to my ragged guilty little epiphany tonight before the beardy burly man, it occured to me the other week, that I might have overlooked one of the most obvious candidates, if I were looking for reasons why I have felt so 'off', so absently burdened, so emptily melancholy, these last few years, as if burdened or distracted by some 'I-dont-know...', something gone-but-not-forgotten (or forgiven? or finished?). So: loves that disappointed, friends that died, dreams that stalled...? Nothing fit, not quite... and then I realised: I hadn't mourned Derrida. I had WIPED it from my mind. I had NO REACTION WHATSOEVER. Which, obviously, is not right. (I once quIPped to Mark Sinker, some glib line about "The Three Ds that had overturned my life: ... drink, drugs and [half a comic beat] ... Derrida. [PAUSE] And the one I really couldnt kick, the one that really fucked me over: [longer comic beat] ..... Derrida." (I may seem to be wondering far from my initial point here; or maybe even contradicting it. But I'm not.) I'm not going to say the 'H' word, but you know what I'm talking about. Something remains to be worked out, something un-repressed, re-presented. Something that was alive for me, and now feels dead.
Dead as a dogma.

But it's not enough to sigh and turn away; I should rather air it out, somehow, probably, sooner or later, some way or other, probably sooner rather than later.

I'll try and track down my notes; I'll watch the Zizek thing; I'll throw something together. Yes.

I won't leave it so late the next time. "I won't leave it so late the next time."
(Although perhaps by definition, 'the next time' is already way too late, by any decent measure.)

posted by Ian 6/28/2006 01:07:00 AM

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