tired December 21, 2008

I am a little worn out from these late nights constructing the forum. Yesterday I spent the day with Julia at Newtown, since we had missed the Monet exhibition. At the bookshop there I picked up Jean Genet’s Miracle of the Rose and Derrida’s Specters of Marx.

I am down because… I guess I’m just feeling the weight of things… too much things to do so little time. I want to cram it all before school starts. Before I sleep, usually, I would try and think of the strangest memory possible, a point of escape out of the darkness. On most occasions I will think of some mishap I had overcome be it from childhood or other periods. Last night was no different. I began to think of university, the first semester, then slowly as if my life was a clock, its hand being turned anti clockwise, I would take refuge in falling over, in saying the wrong thing like the time…

Blind the I December 10, 2008

Genealogy of the ‘I’  -  Philosophy (in metaphysics) the subject or object of self-consciousness; the ego.
ORIGIN Old English , of Germanic origin; related to Dutch ik and German ich, from an Indo-European root shared by Latin ego and Greek egō (New Oxford American Dictionary).

We always see the ‘I’ as the point in which the world begins. It is always ‘my’ world or ‘I’ see the world. The ‘I’ is also self-reflexive, it can see itself and is the very engine of self-consciousness, the very idea of possession and property. Thus the very nature of the ‘I’ is coupled by its projection, possession of objects, its ability to reflect on itself. By operating this way the ‘I’ is in constant opposition/conflict to itself and to the part-objects of the world – to the ‘Other.’

The ‘I’ causes problems. It chains us in a perpetual friction with the ‘Other,’ in the hierarchical binary – friend/enemy, subject/object etc. How do I free myself from the ‘I’? How do I ease its friction?

Perhaps one way to unhinged this binary lock is to re-position the ‘I.’ In D & G’s A Thousand Plateaus, I = I = not you,  is countered – repositioned with ‘… + y + z + a,’ which encompasses and synthesises the multiplicity of points of ‘Others’ and ‘Self,’ ‘without effacing their heterogeneity’ (p. xiii). In this sense, I am not the ‘closed vessel’ of the ‘I’ but rather its various leakages and points of contamination between other ’subjects,’ which in fact form a culmination of ‘Selves’ that the ‘I’ floats on. It seems the ‘I’ is simply not the ‘I’ or the ‘eye’ that stands gazing at the world, the ‘I’ is a an intersection between other points and more importantly a fluid movement of ‘Selves.’

sich mopsen December 8, 2008

Boredom, I try to dispel its effects, here, now. The notion of clusters, solar systems of activity, have been diffused, mere outlines are left. I was once there. Boredom, an in between state, the state between affairs, a corridor that observes various pin pricks of excitement. What are clusters? Clusters trap the ‘I’ in a little web of titillating signals. Boredom yearns for these signals. When one is bored one tries to relieve it – to escape. Web and escape…  the idea of the spider waiting silently for a vibration.

Is there a point of departure from boredom? When one is bored one pursues excitement or remedy to dull its pangs, to ease it to the next cluster of activity. Time is foregrounded. I notice time. It ticks on. How does boredom order me? It says ‘help me! I need anything, something, only not me, me – is blocked.’ ‘I’ has been plugged in a sewage canal of constipation. I don’t want to be ‘me!’ I desire something else, an Other, anything but me. Boredom wishes to shed away its core, its skin, its very constitution. It wants a new circuit, enter a new flow, to focus its desire. It wants new signals. It is a drug fiend hanging out, waiting for his next shot.

Boredom, the ‘dommm,’ emphasied, elongated, blind-eye of  desire unfocused, searching for a point of entry. It is desire with no diagram, no invitation. Boredom has no ticket to the plane of consistency.

Cracked Egg December 8, 2008

To crack the egg…

I am at the shell membrane, in a little pocket of fluid, swimming around, kicking. I want, or maybe I need to reach latebra – but thats an imagined space.  I’ve only been as far as the yellow yolk.  The ‘I,’ is diffused in the sticky fluid.  The yellow yolk seeps into the sac I’m swimming in. I am at work – internet cafe. A little hole/whole has been punched through my chest. This hole is expanding and contracting as I breathe. The fridge here is filled with Cokes and Mount Franklins and sounds as if its powered by a cicada engine. Its sound, the sounds, are all gone when a customer comes to pay.

Why the Egg then? Why not the telephone or something else? It was a spur of a moment thing, a spur of Deleuze maybe. Something to break up, chew away, or stripbare the flaky skin.

In the first diagram we see a modern egg as opposed to the second – primitive, with no ‘concentric, definitively aborified’ centre. (D & G, A Thousand Plateuas, p. 232)