a home of floating fethrs
So that's it. The last little bit of tp on the roll. I'd like to thank everyone who crossed paths with this li'l skidmark, few in number as they may be. I'll leave it up for awhile, let everyone say their goodbyes (Ha! as if), and if you'll indulge me, in no particular order, here are the top fifteen shantytownest orgasms ever:
muh manmeemown mormasms
get down
i wanted to be a forelock dangling from under your cowl
inauguration inoculation
architectural gonorrhea
what's this? a keyboard? wow! let's hit it with our fingers! pap pap pap pap isn't it satisfying?
filibuster
like my new uranium? depleted it m'self
finally someone recognizes it
come back to the five and dime, desiderius erasmus, desiderius erasmus
well there's always something to be glad about
jamie foxx dishes on his new recipe book
no relation to biz markie, unfortunately
oldthink is crimethink. doublethink is goodthink. oldthinkers unbellyfeel ingsoc
bank holiday
Bartlett's Quotations tells me that Francois Truffaut said "airing one's dirty linen never makes for a masterpiece." This tells me that a) Truffaut never read Saul Bellow, and b) I don't need to feel that badly about never having seen The 400 Blows. (I know, I'll get to it.) But as I end this blog, I've had Herzog on the brain, because it strikes me as a kind of proto-blog, a man's own witnessing of his dissolution (and rebirth) through stacks and stacks of effluvia, letters to newspapers, colleagues, dead philosphers, his ex-lover and his ex-lover's therapist. And sure enough it's there, the apologia I need.
And this is not from fucking Bartlett's.
I would argue that we have fashioned a new utopian history, an idyll, comparing the present to an imaginary past, because we hate the world as it is. This hatred of the present has not been well understood. Perhaps the first demand of emerging consciousness in this mass civilization is expressive. The spirit, released from servile dumbness, spits dung and howls with anguish stored during long ages. Perhaps the fish, the newt, the horrid scampering ancestral mammal find their voice and add their long experience to this cry. Taking up the suggestion, Pulver, that evolution is nature becoming self-aware - in man, self-awareness has been accompanied at this stage by a sense of the loss of more general natural powers, of a price paid by instinct, by sacrifices of freedom, impulse (alienating labor, et cetera). The drama of this stage of human development seems to be the drama of disease, of self-revenge. An age of special comedy. What we see is not simply the levelling de Tocqueville predicted, but the plebeian stage of evolutionary self-awareness. Perhaps the revenge taken by numbers, by the species, on our impulses of narcissism ( but also the demand for freedom) is inevitable. In this new reign of multitudes, self-awareness tends to reveal us to ourselves as monsters. This is undoubtedly a political phenomenon, an action taken against personal impulse or against the personal demand for adequate space and scope...
It just goes on. Page 163, if you have it. What he ends up saying is that the modern technologies can and are a vehicle for delivering Good, as in Good vs. Evil, and what it is ending up leading to is the proliferation of the "inspired condition", a state of grace accompanying comfort with death, knowledge of truth, having and giving love: all of this is available universally now, or at least in most of the western world. All these choices are practical ones that we make every day, no longer esoteric fantasies to be observed only by kings and clerics.
Plus this is 1960's, so the technologies he's speaking of are pre-revolutionary. But it's only the more true now. Click on "next blog" till you find a language that works for you, and you'll see.
I'm wriggling around it. So is Herzog, and so Bellow. But the real thing I'm saying is that opening your mind isn't just about being a passive receiver of every kind of information. You also have to open it the other way, and get what's inside out. It doesn't so much matter, (thank God for me) if it's observed or not. The thing is, it's available. And once it's available, it finds a way into the horde of collective consciousness somehow or other. To write it down somewhere there's a chance it will be read is to teach yourself a little about your own monstrousness, and to gamble that you might repair a bit. It's worth it, it is so worth it.
muh manmeemown mormasms
get down
i wanted to be a forelock dangling from under your cowl
inauguration inoculation
architectural gonorrhea
what's this? a keyboard? wow! let's hit it with our fingers! pap pap pap pap isn't it satisfying?
filibuster
like my new uranium? depleted it m'self
finally someone recognizes it
come back to the five and dime, desiderius erasmus, desiderius erasmus
well there's always something to be glad about
jamie foxx dishes on his new recipe book
no relation to biz markie, unfortunately
oldthink is crimethink. doublethink is goodthink. oldthinkers unbellyfeel ingsoc
bank holiday
Bartlett's Quotations tells me that Francois Truffaut said "airing one's dirty linen never makes for a masterpiece." This tells me that a) Truffaut never read Saul Bellow, and b) I don't need to feel that badly about never having seen The 400 Blows. (I know, I'll get to it.) But as I end this blog, I've had Herzog on the brain, because it strikes me as a kind of proto-blog, a man's own witnessing of his dissolution (and rebirth) through stacks and stacks of effluvia, letters to newspapers, colleagues, dead philosphers, his ex-lover and his ex-lover's therapist. And sure enough it's there, the apologia I need.
And this is not from fucking Bartlett's.
I would argue that we have fashioned a new utopian history, an idyll, comparing the present to an imaginary past, because we hate the world as it is. This hatred of the present has not been well understood. Perhaps the first demand of emerging consciousness in this mass civilization is expressive. The spirit, released from servile dumbness, spits dung and howls with anguish stored during long ages. Perhaps the fish, the newt, the horrid scampering ancestral mammal find their voice and add their long experience to this cry. Taking up the suggestion, Pulver, that evolution is nature becoming self-aware - in man, self-awareness has been accompanied at this stage by a sense of the loss of more general natural powers, of a price paid by instinct, by sacrifices of freedom, impulse (alienating labor, et cetera). The drama of this stage of human development seems to be the drama of disease, of self-revenge. An age of special comedy. What we see is not simply the levelling de Tocqueville predicted, but the plebeian stage of evolutionary self-awareness. Perhaps the revenge taken by numbers, by the species, on our impulses of narcissism ( but also the demand for freedom) is inevitable. In this new reign of multitudes, self-awareness tends to reveal us to ourselves as monsters. This is undoubtedly a political phenomenon, an action taken against personal impulse or against the personal demand for adequate space and scope...
It just goes on. Page 163, if you have it. What he ends up saying is that the modern technologies can and are a vehicle for delivering Good, as in Good vs. Evil, and what it is ending up leading to is the proliferation of the "inspired condition", a state of grace accompanying comfort with death, knowledge of truth, having and giving love: all of this is available universally now, or at least in most of the western world. All these choices are practical ones that we make every day, no longer esoteric fantasies to be observed only by kings and clerics.
Plus this is 1960's, so the technologies he's speaking of are pre-revolutionary. But it's only the more true now. Click on "next blog" till you find a language that works for you, and you'll see.
I'm wriggling around it. So is Herzog, and so Bellow. But the real thing I'm saying is that opening your mind isn't just about being a passive receiver of every kind of information. You also have to open it the other way, and get what's inside out. It doesn't so much matter, (thank God for me) if it's observed or not. The thing is, it's available. And once it's available, it finds a way into the horde of collective consciousness somehow or other. To write it down somewhere there's a chance it will be read is to teach yourself a little about your own monstrousness, and to gamble that you might repair a bit. It's worth it, it is so worth it.
posted by gibletquesterrs at 7:53 PM
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