Head Trauma

1

Where is my mind? Where is your mind? Echoes ring. Ping, ping, ping, nothing. Drip, drip, drip, away. Dipstick love for fantasy fuel. Ding, ding, ding, let us begin.

There is something common to us all: head trauma. A baby dropped headfirst; a cyclist crashes without helmet; a boxer answers the bell for one too many rounds; a child is smacked with a chair; drugs frying eggs, deep-fried brains; and some merely breathe, exhale, and wither obliviously away.

Now, where should I start? My recollections are rather unreliable, what with the head trauma and all. I remembered being born to a crash and boom. I think it was a car crash or bus crash. No, no, it was a bus crashing into a car; so I guess it was both. Ma was riding the bus. The boom and crash induced labour. The bus driver delivered me, slapped me on the butt, and told Ma not to let her boy to grow up to be a bus driver. Days later, Ma saw the bus driver in the paper accompanied with the caption, "Bus Driver, 49, dies; brain damaged." Ma would never permit me to ride the bus again. I often suspected that I was also conceived on a bus. But that is neither here nor there. I rode my bike 10 miles every morning to school. That took a while. Rushing to arrive at school at a reasonably tardy hour, I often forgot my helmet. I rode 10 miles to school, nonetheless. And honestly, I recall little about those trips. Although one time, I smashed into the side of a bus when I took my off the road to look at Julie Newmar bend over at the bus stop to pick up a penny. I can't recall much after or before that. As a young boy, I adored the scent of paste, jiffy markers, and gas at the gasoline pump. Oh, what pleasure I got from simple scents! My penchant for sniffing and producing odours inexplicably did not endear me to my peers. I was an unpopular kid. I frequently ended up dangling flaccidly from the top of a flagpole in my underwear. And I would usually fall head first into the pavement, get up, brush myself off, and went search of my clothes. There was absolutely no pleasure in that. That was a rather redundant remark I suppose; but then so is this entire asinine exercise. I remember there was a time I could fly for a brief while. I would ride hard and fast towards the gorge by Ma's farm, get air and soar. The landing was rough, but that does not need to be said.

Head trauma, right? This is why I am here talking to you all. I don't know anything about head trauma. I don't have a spike protruding out of my skull like Wyatt over there. I mean no disrespect bud when I say this, but thank Ma I don't have a spike sticking out of my ugly face. Let's start by musing about destruction, the assumed consequence of head trauma. It is assumed that trauma is irreversible, what with the destruction of grey and white matter. It withers eternal; at least we like to believe it does.

Destruction is an innate human instinct, equal standing to survival. I love destruction. But that's probably the head trauma talking. The destructive instinct makes saccharine illusion untenable. What is on the other side? Nothing. Heaven is fluff; and fire and brimstone doesn't keep us from butchering each other. Why? First, there is no fluff or hellfire. Only abyss, some would contend. Second, destruction is necessity. Without it, there is only stagnation. We love destruction for a reason. And lastly, we destroy "reality" for the sake of reality. Scare quotes are arbitrary, but so is reality. If a singular account is accepted, infinity less one is excluded, dismissed, and voided by faith or ignorance - one can never tell the difference between faith and ignorance. Exclusion for the sake of parsimony, it is understandable. I cannot claim to understand eternity, regardless of my head trauma. Fleeting apertures appear to us - inspired flashes or fleeting glimpses; just to exhaust the clichés. If reality is glimpses and apertures of the infinite, there is no structure apart from what imperfect constructs provide. Head trauma, huh?

What do college kids do on most every night? Yes, they kill brain cells. For what reason do they do this? To destroy withered cells for the sake of renewal; imbalanced equilibrium, as some would put it. That and to get laid. From my personal experience, once cells go, they're gone pretty much forever. Only destruction stays. That is an oddly liberating thought, so on and so forth. A few brain cells is a small price to pay for, what, five or ten minutes of sloppy sex, and yada yada yada. Head trauma, huh?

Hey Wyatt, does that giant spike get in the way of sex? I could see it causing problems. Anyways, head trauma is stigmatized. "You just ain't right." I know that you all have heard that. I know I get it a lot, even though I have no sort of head trauma. Stigmas are tough to shake, aren't they? Take for example two people, Wyatt and myself. He clearly has some sort of head trauma; it's clear to even a groping blind man. Me? Well, I look fairly distinguished. You guys like the elbow patches and tweed jacket? Pretty snazzy eh? But I get the same inquiries and comments that my spikey headed friend does. Why? Because everyone has head trauma to an extent. Some acknowledge it. Others repress it. Those who repress think they are normal; it's too late for them, the trauma is far too advanced for treatment. They shall publicly pity Wyatt, sympathize with his condition, and ridicule him in private. They ridicule and dismiss me publicly and privately wonder what game or con, if any, am I running. Is he for real? Or simply sick, abnormal, demented, or whatever? Head trauma, huh?

Ma. Yeah, Ma always said I was never right. She was right. Whatever right is. Frustrated by the cold winter nights, I slept out in the snow. It cooled my frenzied skull. Well, I did until Dr. Stevens told me I had chronic hypothermia or something and told me to move to Florida. I circled Jacksonville on the map, and slipped it under my pillow. My skull became increasingly restless. Dr. Stevens was a quack. I was quite sure of it. I circled Winnipeg, slipped it under my pillow, and the frenzy subsided. He was quack. I slept in the same bed for thirty years, until Ma took a header into a concrete mixer on one of her morning walks. She sits in the living room. Damn, it was heavy hauling her home. I still butt heads with Ma. She always wins. Brain trauma, huh?

Pa? When Ma took the header in to the cement, Pa showed up. Never knew him. He was, as I had suspected, a bus driver. "Head trauma, huh?", I asked him. "Who are you and what are you doing in Ma's house!" he snapped back. Head trauma. I knew it from the arrow sticking through his head. "Who are you....who are you..." he went on. I let him ask. I wasn't going to answer. How could I? I really didn't know the answer. Head trauma, huh?

Pa went home unsure why he came in the first place. The carnal encounter between dear Ma and Pa runs through my head, a vivid tableau concocted by a perverse imagination. Ma fell asleep on the bus. Pa drove his routes unaware of Ma and settled into the depot to punch out for the day. He sees Ma sleeping and goes over to wake her up. She opens her eyes and he is at a lost for words at the sight of her blue eyes. Extraneous words went unwasted. Simple strangers became one; no name, no details, and no clunky or clumsy subterfuge. Brain trauma? Trauma can be inflicted by love. Love blinds reason, renders it helpless and pointless. I would like to think Ma is responsible for Pa's head trauma; cupid pulled back on his bow and struck him that fateful day on the bus. But Ma never could stand affection. One cannot punish or rectify affection. Love gazes longingly with puppydog eyes, gently demanding reciprocation and response. Ma was never good with reciprocating affection. When I tried the puppydog approach, she would beat me over the head with the kettle. "Wake up boy, don't whine with your eyes," she said. Ma was right. She always was right. Head trauma, huh?

Pa died shortly after Ma's passing. I went to the funeral and met Pa's kids. Darlene, 34, ran a Kinko's and loved to watch General Hospital. Henry, 32, was a janitor for an elementary school and was a Tom Clancy fan. Terry, 31, was a bus driver and whom I thought exhibited the mannerisms of a pedophile. They asked what I did and who I was. I answered simply for the sake of courtesy: Luke, 30, unemployed with no prospects. Mathematical skill does not depart from the traumatized brain. I wasn't stupid. I knew that Pa was married with children when he met Ma. The funeral confirmed what I long had suspected. I am a bastard; the product of taboo. Head trauma, what?

I often dream about a mountain of cocaine sitting in the middle of my living room. I never know how it got there. And I didn't care about how it got there. It just was there. I then proceed to shovel a bunch of it into Ma's concrete nose. It disappears into her snooz and the Blessed Virgin appears spontaneously. The Blessed Virgin walks towards me, peels off her panties, pulls on my pants, gets on her knees, and prays. I wake up fully erect, aroused by blasphemy. Brain trauma, eh?

When I moved Ma back home, I knocked over the statuette of the Blessed Virgin. From what Ma told me, it was a family heirloom stretching back to Great Grandma. When I stooped down to pick up the shattered remnants of the heirloom, I saw the blood, puddles of it collecting around the statue. Was it a hallucination, reality, or just self-deception on the verge of psychosis? I couldn't tell. It's the head trauma, you know. The entire scene caused me to stiffen up. I was scared as I was aroused. Head trauma, who?

When I was a child, I attended a Catholic school, if that was not already evident. I was fascinated with miracles. They made no sense, nor were they meant to make sense. They happened by grace alone, ostensibly proving the Lord’s omnipotence. Miracles are built up by skeptics as much as by believers. Without the person to deny it, there is no 'evil' to defend, I don't know, the miracle at Fatima against. Of course, this is blatantly obvious. The believer does not and cannot exist without its lack, its anti-thesis, the evil heathen. Once upon a time I was a believer. That was until the Blessed Virgin raped me.

I heard you all. WHAT?!? I know. I know. It sounds rather far-fetched, and, if nothing else, confirms the advanced state of my head trauma. What is more absurd? That she would appear in a burrito to inspire an impoverished Mexican labourer or that she wanted the young flesh of an innocent young boy. It happened after seeing a movie about the miracle at Fatima in Grade 5. The ensuing discussion encompassed the assortment of banalities, such as why it happened, will it happen again, what does it mean, and is the end of the world coming. Blah blah. That was until Katherine Kintar, the sexy nerdy girl - or at least she would become the sexy nerdy girl - asked the severely interesting question: what if it was Satan masquerading as the Virgin Mary who appeared at Fatima? Loved that question. Loved that girl, but that's an entirely different story. Her question left Mrs. Thomas, our religion teacher, quite uncomfortable. Who knew? Is Satan not the prince of tricks and illusions? Isn't Lucifer the great hinderer of pious reality, who leads men and women astray from the righteous way to the Lord? Mrs. Thomas, quite expectedly, recovered from the shock of the question and sent the inquisitive Katherine to the principal's office, evidently for no legitimate reason, apart from her own inability to answer the question. A revolt, it has been said, begins with a single thrown stone. Well, a revolt or a stoning. I don't really know which category the following belongs. All sorts of "unsavory" questions were asked. Actually, to put it more appropriately, a single free-spirit, an unwitting agonist, roused the rabble from its dogmatic slumber to question conventions. Ironically, miracles can fall into convention, just like trauma or tragedy. The boys began asking the rather obvious question, "what's a virgin?". Mrs. Thomas began to dance around that one and tried to shift the conversation back to miracles in general. But the girls jumped in as well. "My mom says my aunt is a virgin and a spinster-hag. Was Mary a spinster-hag?" "My mom says virgins are frigid. Was Mary frigid?" And on and on, they amassed. The boys and girls took turns bombarding an increasingly frustrated Mrs. Thomas with inquiries. She grabbed her head, as if suffering from a headache. The questions proved overwhelming and forced Mrs. Thomas to suddenly leave the classroom, never to return. It was only later on did we learn that it was brain tumor. She was terminal and decided, rather wisely, to spend her dying days away from the classroom. Poor Mrs. Thomas. Brain trauma is a bitch.

Animals experience head trauma differently than us. Animal instinct is not bogged down by neurosis or self-doubt, regardless of what Disney purports. For an animal, survival is the paramount goal. There is no higher goal. When they asked Mrs. Thomas whether she wanted to undergo an experimental procedure that could extend her six months into two or three years, she chose six months. In hindsight, I can only speculate why she did that. Maybe it was the tumor talking. Maybe she didn't want to suffer the indignity of being a lab rat. Or maybe she finally wanted desipere in loco.

Somewhere between Kat's question and her death, reality struck Mrs. Thomas. Life diminishes everyday like a fading beach eroded by the tides. For her, the end was too close simply to ignore. She passed away, or at least we assumed she did, possibly under a pseudonym, and was never heard from again. But her passing was a source for endless speculation. At times, it appeared that she vanished off the face of the planet, without a trace, and disjoined from the history of Maureen Thomas. An assortment of stories were concocted by students and their gossiping parents. There was the story that she tried to climb Mount Everest, only to end up violated by a couple sherpas and left for dead. I rather not subscribe to that account, because, first, it is rather far fetched; how could a sherpa get an erection in those conditions? Second, sherpas do have a code, or at least I think they do; goats, no women. And lastly, I personally like to believe Mrs. Thomas chose more dignified pursuits than climbing a giant phallus. But I guess that last one has no bearing on whether the story is true or not; that's the head trauma talking I suppose. Other accounts were more conventional. She moved in with her ex-husband and lived out her final days at peace with their childless relationship. That story is too banal, too flat. Another purported that she became a world traveler, exploring places ranging from Prague to Rio de Janeiro, before expiring in Venice. That account is too romantic and independent, quite contrary to the Mrs. Thomas we knew. When I laid in bed with Kat eight years later, she, naturally, had the most interesting account. She simply said it was divine ascension. Mrs. Thomas, she added, would have not had it any other way.

But I should cease with this digression. After Mrs. Thomas' last day at school, I returned home and decided to shower. While lathering up my soon-to-be pubic area, I felt a pinch. I thought nothing more of it and continued to shower, until the touching became increasingly invasive - a pinch became a vice grip on my helpless would-be manhood. Immaterial forces, obviously, have power only in material forms. "Do you feel the Lord in your heart...your mind...?", Father Gunn used to ask us at our monthly services. If I felt the Lord in my foot or my tumor or my armpit, would that not invalidate the eros implicit in Father Gunn's words. Immaterial forces, hence, are assumed to have dominion over the material world and, hence, must be revered with the utmost sacredness. Well, I could go on to describe in vivid and rather graphic detail my ostensible defoliation. All I know and all that I can recall is a revelatory discovery; a minor detail that bridges the aporia between the material and immaterial aspects of the Immaculate Conception. Mary was a hermaphrodite. But that is neither here nor there. This revelation came to me only in hindsight. Back then, I felt a novel rush in areas of my body previously thought used simply for going to the bathroom. Head trauma, how?

My young body, overwhelmed by the confluence of bizarre sensations, weakened and spontaneously failed me. All my firsts came in succession; erection, orgasm, ejaculation, collapse, and concussion. I passed on and smashed my head violently onto the towel rack when trying to exit the shower. According to Dr. Stevens, I was legally dead for 3 minutes laying on the stretcher being wheeled into the ER until Ma revived me with a series of heavy slaps; I think I felt them while dead. The medical staff examined me up and down, inside and out, left and right, through and through. They could only conclude that I was a narcoleptic chronic masturbator. And there it stood. For most of my adolescence I was prescribed a variety of pills, in an effort to suppress my abnormal and supposedly destructive disorder. Truth be told I have never taken any of those pills; the supposed symptoms were never there in the first place. Guess it's the head trauma or something that keeps me from yanking my ding dong, huh?

Mary the Merciless would return on occasion to grope, but ceased with the violent entries. I think She realized that taking a game beyond its boundaries only leads to its demise. She didn't want her pet dead. As I pan the lecture hall, I see skeptics shaking their heads, doing what skeptics do, and the faithful outraged and appalled, doing what dogmatists do. All I can tell you is this: head trauma is the source of both skepticism and faith. Skepticism, in its most radical form, assumes that everybody is a moron except for the skeptic, him or herself. That's the advanced stage of trauma I referred to earlier on. There's nothing anyone can do for that. Those of faith think the whole of human reality is moronic, impure, corrupted, and look to the sky for the redemption; the big empty and silent sky. No response. No one there. The Old Man went to bed and never woke up, while his virgin mother-whore haunts a sensual world taken from her in exchange for empty promises.

Go ahead! Shake your head, shake your fist, but remember to grab a hold of your nuts, tits, or whatever else, because that's all that matters once head trauma reaches its terminal stage. The head is the source of all stupidity, as much as we like to believe otherwise. Only those who are deluded believe in their own absolute righteousness as a sovereign individual. They have severe and irreversible trauma. Believer and skeptic, twined progeny of an ugly modernity! You shall destroy yourself to prove yourself right. Head trauma, head trauma; to hell with you all...

2

He slammed down his microphone and exited stage right, leaving his address unfinished and his audience in an uproar. I had heard a great deal about patient #23451, also known as Luke. He had been admitted to the clinic three years ago after being rescued from the Bow River. For three years, he suffered from severe amnesia. Since rescue workers found no identification on him, he had no name or history. Luke, evidently, was the name sewed on the inside of his jacket. He assumed that name, independent of suggestion or coercion, and it stuck. Luke, as can be observed from his address, likes to express himself through anecdotes, usually of a personal nature. Most doctors, at least in this clinic, have concluded that these tales, usually inconsistent and contradictory, are symptomatic of schizophrenic behaviour. The aforementioned Dr. Stevens, contrary to Luke's account, did not treat him until after his arrival to this clinic. But we suspect that Dr. Stevens bears a striking resemblance to a figure in Luke's past.

3

Dear ----,

Lies. Its nothing but lies. The truth is simply a lie that stuck. The truth is a deception the majority of dupes buy. Dupes believe whatever they're told. Skeptics hold lies to be self-evident truth; the great accomplishment of the dupe who doesn't know he's a rube. They fucked me. They told me I could speak freely about the topic. They told me I had free reign to speak on whatever I needed to speak on. They fucked me. The Man without Quantity is disposable for them. I have no volume. I can not move inventory or spike profits. I am their clown. I am amusing. Raving, spittle-spraying, degenerate, and inveterate; thats them, not me. Soon they will have no need for me. They will get to the vivisection soon enough. But before then, they want play. They want amusement. They want me to shuffle and dance for the sake of shuffling and dancing. Tell the world, my friend. Tell the world. No one is safe under the watchful eye of the Apple in the sky. It has come back for its venegence. Resist its pull. Until we meet in the darkness, I beseech you to resist.

Luke

4

The letter never reached its destination. Luke would be pronounced dead a short time following his outburst. The official report said it was a stroke. The official report isn't worth the paper its printed on. The real story behind the death of Luke is much more complex than a stroke.

5

Dear Kat,

I suspect that when you read this letter, you will be married, happily I hope. I am somewhere in the middle of nowhere, thinking about my dear departed Kat, now lost to the comforts of domestication. Kat, darling, my love for you shall never wane or consummated; 'we' is an abstraction frozen for eternity, inaccessible to the living or conscious. I write to you now without reason or purpose. I felt a strange and irresistible passion to write this letter, much like those of the past, those immature and now obsolescent meanderings of frenzied lovestruck youth. I could no longer satiate my yearnings by masturbating to an old precious and worn yearbook photograph. I needed to engage you in the abstract, in the only realm I have truly understood you, through word and idea rather than deed. I am far more honest on the page, my darling, and you know that.

Like Kant at his church steeple

"Once more it was pouring, and my irregular lawn, well-shaved by Gatsby's gardner, abounded in small muddy swamps and prehistoric marshes. There was nothing to look at from under the tree except Gatsby's enormous house, so I stared at it, like Kant at his church steeple, for half an hour." (Chapter V of The Great Gatsby)

According to folklore, Kant stared at a church steeple to ready his concentration. Nick Carraway does the same with his mysterious neighbour's house. In Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being, infinity appears to the closed eye; form and structure give way to nothingness. To the closed eye, nothingness and infinity are one in the same. By focusing on a perceptible object, one actualizes a corporeal fixedness in the phenomenological realm. Concentration and, also, human thought, as Kant demonstrates by staring at the church steeple, demands that human subjects limit their field of vision. A precise focus on human limits, i.e., what cannot be known absolutely, is the hallmark of critical philosophy since Kant. The church steeple points from the House of God to heavens above; a space beyond mere human contemplation. Kant, purportedly, fixed on the absolute limit of human thought, the possibility and mystery of the eternal, in order to ready his concentration. There is no concentration, or, to be more precise, active thought in closing one's eyes and imagining infinity. He who finds comfort in contemplating infinity attempts to 'transcend' limitations. Limits give life coherence. The confrontation of limits, with an unyielding stare fixed on the church steeple, open the possibility of human action. With closed eyes one sees infinity, or at least infinity envisioned by one. Without limitation, an imagined infinity, a noetic production of the cogito, is at once nothing and everything and where action is impossible. Hence, to close one's eyes and imagine infinity is to avoid action, to refuse human limitations, and to deny the worldliness of human life. Rather than closing his eyes and concocting idle gossip as others who frequented Gatsby's parties did, Nick Carraway stared, with unwavering focus, at that home, in order to understand, however imperfectly, the enigma who resided there. Gatsby, in Chapter V, betrays particular vulnerabilities to Nick Carraway, previously concealed by his 'proper gentleman' visage, frequently punctuated with his ubiquitious 'old sport'. In these moments of vulnerability, we become human; when appearances are destabilized, relationship can begin. Vulnerability, in this sense, is not plastic humility or emotional exhibitionism. It is an affirmation of human limitations. It peels away myth and heresay.

In Chapter IX, Nick Carraway confesses a scornful solidarity between him and Gatsby "against them all", the careless ones like Tom Buchanan and Daisy and the anonymous faces who frequented Gatsby's parties. "They were careless people, Tom and Daisy - they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made..." Tom and Daisy represent a corrupt individualism: materially abundant yet ethically bankrupt. The contrast with Gatsby is clear and patently obvious to even an uninitiated reader. Gatsby, represented by the 'sacred' schedule carried around by Henry C. Gatz, unwaveringly proud of his son, embodies an extinct American dream. Despite his anger, Nick Carraway shakes hands with Tom, citing that it would be silly not to since he felt that he was talking to a child. Tom embodies the worse kind of immaturity; the one who admits to no fault. He claims, however implicitly, that God is Dead, everything is permitted, and in the universe of money and pearls and cuff buttons, he thinks of himself as God. Delusion deepens for one who refuses to acknowledge his own limitations. Tom mets out what he considers justice by manipulating the widower George Wilson, mourning his wife's infidelity more than her death, into committing an 'irrational' act. Occham's Razor dictated that Wilson was a man 'deranged by grief'. And it rested there. Tom is obviously a repugnant character, who surely is a bigot on top of being philanderer. He judges and 'looks through' Gatsby and naturally without any reflection about his own hypocrisy. His character, however, is a uniform stereotype, as prevalent and uninteresting today as it was back then.

Daisy is an intriguing character. At the start of the story, she is a vibrant character. However, she ends up as a shadow standing briefly by a window, sealing her betrayal with a flick of light switch. Darkness, and we hear no more from her; her absence looms large over Gatsby's demise. There is nothing more to be said about Daisy apart from the image of her and Tom at the conclusion of Chapter VII. She tacitly consents to Gatsby's demise, concedes to cowardice, and unequivocally embraces a future of nihilism - a vacuous, loveless future held together by transient wealth and endless decadence. Jay Gatsby's fate was sealed long before he went to war and became Gatsby; it was inevitable the moment James Gatz laid eyes upon Daisy. Is she a hollow character? Doubtlessly no. Is she merely an object, simply the green light across the bay? Possibly. Objects, as artform - sculptures, paintings, and frescos - has demonstrated on countless occassions, possess depth and quality even beyond human subjectivity. "The object of my affection" poses a limitation to qualitative judgments; objective representation collides haphazardly with the subjective eye. Only as an object is Daisy "real" to anybody in the novel. For Tom, she is Wifey. For Gatsby, she is a green light across the way; his past that recedes with every coming tide. For Myrtle Wilson, she is Jordan Baker. For Jordan Baker, she is the cool older girl. And for Nick Carraway, she is tragedy itself. Fittingly, each pegs her down as parisimonous stereotype. But like Robert Musil's titular "Man without Qualities", Daisy is the modern subject-object, abundant with qualities, but none of which are substantive or qualitatively authentic, artifice constructed by the spectator's eye. Daisy is the object of Gatsby's obsession and, for a lack of a better term, the object of Tom Buchanan's possession. This may be the fulcrum of Daisy's character: tottering between immaterial subjectivity, as an idyllic recollection, or material objectivity, as a beautiful trophy wife. Her lack of fixed qualities adds to her complexity. Fittingly, she is significant through her absence at the novel's end, spectral and immaterial. Absence, so the saying goes, makes the heart grow fonder. For Gatsby, this rang true. For Nick Carraway, her absence punctuates the muted and indifferent tragedy that was the tale of Jay Gatsby. "I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy hadn't sent a message or a flower." But it was Owl-Eyes who summed it up, "Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds...The poor son-of-a-bitch." Dead and forgotten. Six feet under with the maggots, if we're lucky. Those who are alive cling to whatever that can briefly void that inevitable image. The appearance of respectability is a most necessity and facile vanity of life; to live amongst peers is to risk judgment, denunciation, and ridicule.

Calmness

The calm are orderly; a mad rush leads to chaos.

-Wei Liao

The definition of job stability

The definition of job stability is a fifteen year contract.
The definition of regret is year five of a fifteen year contract.
The definition of obsolescence is named DiPietro.
The definition of mismanagement includes a Sumo Wrestler in goal, a GM named Snow, a Milbury without a clue, and a malfunctioning WANG!
The definition of hockey futility can be found on Long Island.

Subject Object Project

Subject, object, project;
what meaning if any?

Subject: what?
Object: meaning?
Project: if any?

In heaven, God rides a John Deere, chugs domestic beer, and roots for the Niners. I saw the Niners play Sunday; there is no God.

In hell, Satan rides a Harley, chugs Jack, and roots for the Raiders. I saw the Raiders play Sunday; hell is Oakland.

In Nirvana, Joe Buck is silenced. Calm. Serene. Endless state of deathlessness and unimagined bliss. Fat man and me can finally chug a few brews. Fat man and me are two of a kind.

In recollection, its always "Wide Right!".

In repetiton, Norwood practices a kick that will never go through. Norwood is Sisyphus. So is Buckner.

In Buffalo, Ralph rides a limo, sips champagne, and roots for the Bills. I saw the Bills play Sunday; Sacher-Masoch would have been a Bills fan.

Bruno Latour - We Have Never Been Modern

Bruno Latour - We Have Never Been Modern

28 - networks: social relations, powers, forms, societies

30 - work of purification: confronting a separation of nature + culture.
---> Does Anne Norton deal with this in 95 theses?

32 - does the work of purification remain distinct from the work of mediation?

33 - "The moderns could now be both secular and pious at the same time." (is this from Weber?)
---> this is the legacy of the Reformation.
- rise of the private God (p. 34); even the Lord becomes private property?

34 - "He would no longer interfere in any way with the development of moderns, but remained effective and helpful within the spirit of humans alone."
- the play with paradoxes give moderns power (34)

Sec. 2.11 - critique...and "modern"; "they have believed they were invincible" ---> this refers to the critical apparatus

41 - compatibility of hybridization and constitutional order.

42 - "What the premoderns have always ruled out the moderns can allow, since the social order never turns out to correspond, point for point, with the natural order."

43 - purification (attempts at it) leads, unwittingly, to greater hybridization?

- actor-network theory; derived from Hobbes?

- Nature, Society, and God

45 - "Today, denunciation and revolution have both gone stale."

- Rene Girard does consider objects as "counting"

46 - "Underneath moral grandeur there is the meticulous tirage of circumstances and cases..."

46 - Latour tears into postmodernism; seeing it as extending an already moribound critique; "disconnected instants and groundless denunciations, since the postmoderns no longer believe in the reasons that would allow them to denounce and to become indignent."

47 - "No one has ever been modern. Modernity has never begun. There has never been a modern world."

47 - so postmodernity, is "post" of something that may never have been? Is it anymore groundless than before?

48 - the modern world seen as networks? "The antimoderns, like the postmoderns, have accepted their adversaries playing field."

- two parallel constitutions: Boyle and Hobbes

grey matter

Grey matter erroding rapidly,
little pukes, little Eichmanns,
posing game deceptions,
legitimate, decimate, lick boot,
modus operandi kowtow;
lost and departed,
gone far from home,
fat cats purr with delight,
at the shimmer and glow,
of the spectacle;
money sustains,
but greed erodes;
grey matter withering infinite.

Let Live and Make Die

Let Live and Make Die

- The suicide bomber works clandestinely; there is no structural control over his action. It is a sudden action that cannot be planned for.

- The criminal disintegrates with his act. The means for justice are frustrated. One cannot call for reparation or ceremonial sacrifice to give meaning to the event.

- However, the suicide bomber, although invalidating state control of a particular site - his own death, affirms soverign power through his act. He engages in a guerrilla tactic, freeing himself from a mortal coil, that reinforces the sovereign's grip over matters of life and death.

- The presence and absence of the suicide bomber or terror figure poses the shadowy threat to society. In order to protect against the unseen threat, the state is provided with considerable power.

- Hence, the possibility of the terrorist/spy/traitor is necessary for state power. Without the possibility of "exceptional" conditions, sovereign power is hardpressed to justify its monopoly of political power. "Common unity and noble purpose" directed against evil: is this not reminiscient of comic book language?

- "You have to see evil as evil...oppression as oppression..." Is this parvenu language? You must be the world in unproblematic terms. If you do not, you may be a heretic. A heretic, but in what way?

- Threats are invariably posed as common threats. IF you're good, obey; we'll provide for our end of the bargain, at least on the surface, i.e., in the spectacular realm.

- The terrorist is projected as an absolutely irrational other capable and willing to kill anyone at anytime. Conversely, the figure of terror often understands the intricacies, contradictions, and loopholes of a society better than its own members.

- EVIL v. GOOD --> simple, easy, and an extension of the ultimate battle of theology" the apocalyptic battle for the souls of men. War is translated into this language for public consumption; its epic drama constructed through images, symbols, and signifiers.

- Everybody is free, but all remain vulnerable. State protection is not perfect or total, in spite of appearances. Protection and security provided for in normal times, with relatively no conscious effort.

Strange Brew

"Welcome to 1984, the age of automation and unemployment. The rise of the machine and the fall of man. The end of the human era...Watch your step. And remember: Big Brother is watching you."

3B - 3 Beers and it looks good, eh?

2051 - Ten years after World War 4...I was the only one left on the earth...like the US blew up Russia, and Russia blew up the US, eh.

"Psst, act!"

Kind of like Charlton Heston in Omega Man, eh? Did you see it? Beauty, eh?

I getting whiplash from my burps, eh.

"I don't know, eh. But we might as well really wreck this movie, eh. Get the moths."

The Mutants of 2051 AD, beauty eh?

Meinong*

Meinong inquired about the curvy square,
and the right angles on a circle;
shapes imagined and non-existent.

Round square,
dotted green and blue;
must it be flat or simply round,
why not be both?


*Alexius Meinong (1853-1920) founded the first laboratory for experimental psychology in Austria.

Crocodile Hunter dead, 44; friendly fire

Rapt before the sky. Stealthy stingray stings him old school; sharp barb to point. Crikey croc rules! No sound from the bloodless khaki depths.

Mission statement, full of lies, as sad solstice strums the edge of the mud wall compound and vineyard. Shrapnel reigns. Death from above is a so-called friendly miscue. Apologize; it's alright. Bungle, bungle, buzzed bomber loves that word - sorry, my bad!

You dead? Bleeding red and white? Where's the blue? Get blue, soldier! Just a game, dude. Get another guy, another recruit, another dupe? To kill is to live; to live is to kill. Here's some speed, here's some vicodin, some rohypnol, and testosteroni. Raise a drink to a deathless crimson day, raping good conscience in name of righteousness. They asked for it, she asked for it - same difference.

You better stick to bombing the brown people then; no one cares about the brown people. Ask Kanye.

Right to the heart and gone.

The complacent plagarist

From where she lies she sees Venus rise.
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Know Happiness.

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Estragon: (giving up again). Nothing to be done.

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Estragon: Yes, let's go.
They do not move.

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The Rue du Coq d'Or, Paris, seven in the morning. A succession of furious, choking yells from the street. Madame Monce, who kept the little hotel opposite mine, had come out onto the pavement to address a lodger on the third floor. Her bare feet were stuck onto sabots and her grey hair was streaming down.
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Still, I can point to one or two things I have definitely learned by being hard up. I shall never again think that all tramps are drunken scoundrels, nor expect a beggar to be grateful when I give him a penny, nor be surprised if men out of work lack energy, nor subscribe to the Salvation Army, nor pawn my clothes, nor refuse a handbill, nor enjoy a meal at a smart restaurant. That is a beginning.

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1. In societies where modern conditions of production prevail, all of life presents itself as an immense accumulation of spectacles. Everything that was directly lived has moved away into representation.

221. Emancipation from the material bases of inverted truth - this is what the self-emancipation of our epoch consists of. This "historical mission of installing truth in the world" cannot be accomplished either by the isolated individual, or by the atomized crowd subjected to manipulation, but now as ever by the class which is able to effect the dissolution of all classes by bringing all power into the dealienating form of realized democracy, the Council, in which pratical theory controls itself and sees its own action. This is possible only where individuals are "directly linked to universal history"; only where dialogue arms itself to make its own conditions victorious.

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Jewel and I come up from the field, following the path in single file. Although I am fifteen feet ahead of him, anyone watching us from the cottonhouse can see Jewel's frayed and broken straw hat a full head above my own.
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It was for a fact, all shut up as pretty as a picture, and everytime a new record would come from the mail order and us setting in the winter, listening to it, I would think what a shame Darl couldn't be to enjoy it too. But it is better so for him. This world is not his world; this life his life.

"It's Cash and Jewel and Vardaman and Dewey Dell," pa says, kind of hangdog and proud too, with his teeth and all, even if he wouldn't look at us. "Meet Mrs Bundren," he says.

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The idea of eternal return is a mysterious one, and Nietzsche has often perplexed other philosophers with it: to think that everything recurs as we once experienced it, and that the reccurence itself recurs ad infinitum! What does this mad myth signify?
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Tomas turned the key and switched on the ceiling light. Tereza saw two beds pushed together, one of them flanked by a bedside table and lamp. Up out of the lampshade, startled by the overhead light, flew a large nocturnal butterfly that began circling the room. The strains of the piano and violin rose up weakly from below.

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The unusual events described in this chronicle occurred in 194..., at Oran. Everyone agreed that, considering their somewhat extraordinary character, they were out of place there. For its ordinariness is what strikes one first about the town of Oran, which is merely a large French port on the Algerian coast, headquarters of the Prefect of a French 'Department'.
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And, indeed, as he listened to the cries of joy rising from the town, Rieux remembered that such joy is always imperilled. He knew what those jubiliant crowds did not know but could have learned from books: that the plague bacillus never dies or disappears for good; that it can lie dormant for years and years in furniture and linen-chests; that it bides its time in bedrooms, cellars, trunks and book-shelves; and that perhaps the day would come when, for the bane and the enlightening of men, it roused up its rats again and sent them forth to die in a happy city.

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May I, monsieur, offer my services without running the risk of intruding?
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The water's so cold! But let's not worry! It's too late now. It'll always be too late. Fortunately!

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As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect. He was lying on his hard, as it were armor-plated, back and when he lifted his head a little he could see his domelike brown belly divided into stiff arched segments on top of which the bed quilt could hardly keep in position and was about to slide off completely. His numerous legs, which were pitifully thin compared to the rest of his bulk, waved helplessly before his eyes.
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They grew quieter and half unconsciously exchanged glances of complete agreement, having come to the conclusion that it would soon be time to find a good husband for her. And it was like a confirmation of their new dreams and excellent intentions that at the end of their journey their daughter sprang to her feet and stretched her young body.

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The Great Wall of China was finished off at its northernmost corner. From the southeast and the southwest it came up in two sections that finally converged there. This principle of piecemeal construction was also applied on a smaller scale by both of hte two great armies of labor, the eastern and western.
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To set about establishing a fundamental defect here would mean undermining not only our consciences, but, what is far worse, our feet. And for that reason I shall not proceed any further at this stage with my inquiry into these questions.

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Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas.
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Pour que tout soit consommé, pour que je me sente moins seul, il me restait à souhaiter qu'il ait beaucoup de spectateurs le jour de mon exécution et qu'ils m'accueillent avec des cris de haine.

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In 1957, an earth-born object made by man was launched into the universe, where for some weeks it circled the earth according to the same laws of gravitation that swing and keep in motion the celestial bodies - the sun, the moon, and the stars. To be sure, the man-made satellite was no moon or star, no heavenly body which could follow it circling path for a time span that to us mortals, bound by earthly time, last from eternity to eternity. Yet, for a time in managed to stay in the skies; it dwelt and moved in the proximity of the heavenly bodies as thought it had been admitted tentatively to their sublime company.
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For if no other test but the experience of being active, no other measure but the extent of sheer activity were to be applied to the various activities within the vita activa, it might well be that thinking as such would surpass them all. Whoever has any experience in this matter will know how right Cato was when he said: Numquam se plus agere quam nihil cum ageret, numquam minus solum esse quan cum solus esset - "Never is he more active than when he does nothing, never is he less alone when he is by himself."

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Words and phrases of a day - Sep 03

Upper hand; Tennyson; brew; oddities; start; perverse; officer; stupid; eh?; young; diesased; toenails; bile; degenerate; syndication; mean; suck it off the top; show; display; reports; Defense Ministry; News; speak; Truth; major offensive; scores; casualties; details; regular programming; hodge-podge; orphaned; contracted daddy; dream no one; commodity; tampon; lip gloss; dynamic colour; outlast; shine; pillage future; cretin life; villages; despondent; call now; drip, drip, drip; join stasis; atrophy; leave me; let me; go; mo' money; no problem; cheater; file; should; ought; could; what; when; where; slowed; slowed; slowed; dull boy; dull boy; inane; crawl; crawl; evasion; repression; failure; skill; talent; networked; cyber; life; in the wires; timeslots; casted; wrangling; non sequitur; business; back up the drain; plunge; don't; can't; shouldn't; ain't no way; bricolage; archival; tapes; stuff from the street; revaluing the world; at large; objects, forgotten and remembered; white cat; black hat; I am; decisive; Mr. Ed; humous; falafel; pita; winter wonderland; introducing; dream lover; overdrawn; beggar's can't be choosers; tombs; catacombs; rise; rise; arise; family of kids; no mo' play; dull boy; dull boy; dull boy; weighty matters; levity; support; crushing Russian; white Russian; booze; drunk; tanked; yanked; whanked; whore; blow up; down; blowjob; androgyny; incorporate; ad campaign; Polynesian town; crane shot; pantomime; puppy; purported; ribs; quality; quantity; Cabo; Baha; snow; wind; fire; whatever; The Who; light for shot; Merry Fucking christmas; good girl; bad girl; intimidated; uncover cowardice; crippled; paralysis; quoting; Montaigne; three now two; score; who has the score?; cage; enclosure; inside; outside; randomness; cretinism; pot; pans; pansexual; multicultural; bourgeois(ie); beauty; fuckable; saddleback; rack; titties; punsies; design boldly; operate timidly; much garbage; take in; eat out; deliver; instinct; unknown; random; unknown; unknown; structure the day; quadruple; past control; hosers from future; get; trilogy; modern times; pink martini; stereophonic; breathing conflict; revolution in a can; bottle; barrel; submit; buy your problems away; look don't touch; banjo; blue grass classic; network star; Bill Buckner; squibble; dribble; stunted growth; shrinkage; laundromat; complication; parsimony; what are you on?; zany; tension; intensity; improvised; ow vey!; snow covered miseltoe; what; divine taste; crude appetite; stupid judgment; justify; derive; live on; float to nowhere; quality not needed; move units; sell sell sell; last choice; amuse them; arouse yourself; pilfer the mind; embrace the bizzare; pariscope up down; quit now; now; cut your losses; sex; death; taxes; sterile; verile end; climax; collapse.

The King is Dead; Long Live the King

AP Photo/Junji Kurokawa

"Oh my god! I left my lights on!"

Thus ends another chapter of USA basketball's fall from grace.

Fielding a team of pitchmen, high school hoop prodigies, former collegiate standouts, and imperfect derivations of past legends - looking at you Dywane Wade, the United States once again collapsed under the weight of massive expectations.

A Greek team, with exactly zero NBA players on its roster, defeated the star-studded Americans 101-95 in the semi-final of the 2006 FIBA World Championship. Of course, before the US team tip off for the bronze medal in Japan, the blame game will be well under way.

Will it be directed at Mike Krzyzewski, who, in spite of preaching defense, allowed this group of purportedly the world's best players to be shredded for 101 points in the semi-final? The words "perimeter" and "defence" are somewhat incompatible for this particular US squad. Greece shot 76 percent from the field, 25-of-33, in the second and third quarters, transforming a 12 point deficit into a 77-65 lead heading to the final period.

Or will the onnus be on Jerry Colangelo, architect of this supposedly new and improved US team?

With all due respect to Chris Bosh, he rode the pine for most of the tournament and would not have helped the team's shooting woes. The US team shot a horrid 9-of-28 from three point territory against Greece, following an equally abysmal 10-for-40 performance against Germany. Which causes one to ask where was Adam Morrison, former collegiate sharpshooter, and soon to be Charlotte Bobcat standout?

He was not in a USA uniform. He possibly was at home punching a hole in a wall while watching US players lay bricks from beyond the three point line as well as at the charity stripe (the Americans shot 59 percent from the free throw line).

Or does the blame belong to BronMeloWade, the co-captains, who combined for 63 points in the semi-final? The spectre of Bird-Magic-Jordan looms large over these three; they have yet to escape, nor will they with anything less than a gold in Beijing. Suffice it to say, Dream Team I is a distant memory. BronMeloWade is no Bird-Magic-Jordan, not yet.

Then who is to blame? Two words: Kobe Bryant. No, that's too easy. It's too easy to hate on Kobe, instead of acknowledging the real reason behind USA basketball's fall from grace.

Simply put, the world has caught up and possibly surpassed the USA. During certain stretches, opponents outclassed the USA in the fundamental aspects of the game: team defence, perimeter shooting, and free throw shooting. In other words, the rest of the world is better than the USA at the international game. They are better at exploiting the shorter three point line, have better overall ball movement, and can consistently make free throws.

It might be time to admit that the American "game" is filled with cheap knockoffs, primadonnas, and corporate pitchmen primarily concerned about earning potential and marketability. With global endorsement deals becoming more lucrative than even player salaries, it is not hard to see why players are first and foremost loyal to their brand, then to team and nation. ESPN, showing reel after reel of dunks and acrobatic moves, forgets to mention that a dunk is two points, with exceptions, but a trey is worth three points. 3>2; in spite of the aesthetic of a poster.

In America, the culture of basketball has lost its soul. It values the image, along with its pigheaded, "I'm gonna dunk on you, sucka" mentality. Well, well, the boys who know how to shoot beat the aerial acrobats; there must be a grin on Dr. Naismith's face, whereever he is.

While boys in Argentina, Greece, or Spain play the game without conceit, without an entrenched sense of entitlement or self-promotion, young players in America emulate the moves, the dunks, the swagger, the shoes of a Jordan, but neglect the substance of his game, the strength of his character, and his indomitable desire to win.

Basketball has rediscovered its soul, in the streets and gyms of Rio and Buenos Aries and Athens and Madrid. The game is beautiful, when played by those who love it. Although USA Basketball may take little solace in it, the game of basketball is better off with American dominance dead and buried. Competition makes the sport that much more interesting. The King is dead; long live the king.