Saturday, May 19, 2007

Pinko's 201st Copy

Pinko was a robust, rosy skinned baby weighing in at 46.2 lbs on the morn of his hairy, slippery entrance into this world over two years ago. The date was April 30th, 2005.

"Oh Jeanne, what a strange path I took to meet you!" - Michel, Pickpocket

Here's links to my 3 final papers in pdf format (please ignore the cheesy names). Also, all of them are pretty well related, and all talk about Camera Lucida.

Robert Bresson (Silverman) final: "The Limits of Exchange in the Work of Robert Bresson"
(draws on Baudrillard's distinction between semiotic and symbolic exchange, suicide in Bresson's films, Barthes' definiton of the punctum in Camera Lucida, Deleuze's conception of the any-space-whatever in the cinema, and Bresson's use of "limit cases" - also, for some reason I thought that Jeanne's name in Pickpocket was "Marie" while I was writing this, so I apologize for that horrible blunder)

Photographic Theory (Doane) final: "Exposed or Framed? The Criminal Body in Focus - Sekula's Account of the Photographic Archive"
(Sekula, Barthes and Bentham to talk about the modern subject and his relation to photography)

Visuality (Silverman) final: "A Real Image: The Disorder of Modernity - Tracing the Photograph through Barthes and Benjamin"
(talking about indexicality and iconicity in the photograph, and how those ideas relate, on the one hand, to Barthes' conception of "absolute subjectivity" in relation to photography, and on the other hand, to Benjamin's thoughts on commodification and universalization)

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

In com pleto

Taken by childhood distraction, he dreamed warily through the afternoon, pausing now and then to consider the time. Bells carried from the distance, chiming six times in number, echoing through the street, across the square and into the window. Worry-gone he rose, a music in his step; as spring, into over-long winter.

We skipped the light fandango
We turned cartwheels 'cross the floor
I was feeling kinda seasick
but the crowd called out for more
The room was humming harder
as the ceiling flew away
When we called out for another dream
the waiter brought a tray
And so it was that later
as the miller told his tale
that her face, at first just ghostly
turned a whiter shade of pale

Trembling ice droplets
over-green leaves
violin force
of trusted bough
crusted over

But left to light,
evaporative

Friday, May 11, 2007

The Historical Simulation of Narrative Fiction

The Lord of the Rings on-line game

What is interesting about this new game is that it not only exists as a detailed field, or forum of interactive avatars (e.g. World of Warcraft, Second Life), but it also follows, over "real-time," the narrative of the Rings trilogy - in other words, the story told in J.R.R. Tolkein's books becomes the historical, social, grand narrative of the simulacrum.

I'd say that this is the dawn of a new age of - here, epic - storytelling. It's basically the interactive film that people have been expecting (and, for some reason - probably economic - hoping for) for so long. Yet can we even call this a story anymore, now that it takes place within the simulacrum? Is this no longer merely a story, but rather a simulated history? It is easy to see in the case of this specific game how the overarching story is fictional, as it has been wholly adapted from an earlier work of epic fiction, and thus we already know the storyline and ending (the pleasure of the game, as is alluded to in the article I've linked here, rests in the illusion that each individual player is somehow helping to push that grand narrative along). [In this vein, I'd love to play a well-done online game version of the Iliad.] But what happens when the intertextuality is removed from this structure? The universal character of all narrative fiction is that, no matter what tense it is written in, it has already happened - as it was written in the past. Yet this new interactive narrative "video game" (remember the etymology? - video, "I see" + ga+mann," joy/collective-person") - this new game writes its "fictional" narrative in the present, at the present, in "real-time."

And so now we must ask the question, Who will be the Storyteller of the Future?

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

A lyric essay

I'm no longer sure what to think about this essay. It's mostly copy-and-pasted from other things, it's all jumbled on my mind, and on the page. For reasons that will become obvious, a paper version is easier to read. I'm going to make some of those in a few days, so let me know if you want one; you're welcome to it.

http://www.mediafire.com/?cytw4ilzihd

http://www.mediafire.com/?cytw4ilzihd

Lemme know if that works.

Sunday, May 06, 2007

Absinth's Aristotle

Follow the progression here from desiring soul to thinking soul, and then to an account of the human function. I take from two of Aristotle's works, and from a few parts in those works.

De Anima,
II.3-4
Of the potentialities of the soul which have been mentioned, some existing things have them all, as we have said, others some of them, and certain of them only one. The potentialities which we mentioned are those for nutrition, sense-perception, desire, movement in respect of place, and thought.

Plants have the nutritive faculty only; other creatures have both this and the faculty of sense-perception. And if that of sense-perception, then that of desire also; for desire comprises wanting, passion, and wishing: all animals have at least one of the senses, touch, and for that which has sense-perception there is both pleasure and pain and both the pleasant and the painful: and where there are these, there is also wanting: for this is a desire for that which is pleasant.

Furthermore, they have a sense concerned with food; for touch is such a sense; for all living things are nourished by dry and moist and hot and cold things, and touch is the sense for these and only incidentally of the other objects of perception; for sound and color and smell contribute nothing to nourishment, while flavor is one of the objects of touch. Hunger and thirst are forms of wanting, hunger is wanting the dry and hot, thirst wanting the moist and cold; and flavor is, as it were, a kind of seasoning of these. We must make clear about these matters later, but for now let us say this much, that those living things which have touch also have desire....

(II.4) Anyone who is going to engage in inquiry about these [the soul-capacities] must grasp what each of them is and then proceed to investigate what follows and the rest. But if we must say what each of them is, e.g. what is the faculty of thought or of perception or of nutrition, we must again first say what thinking and perceiving are; for activities and actions are in respect of definition prior to their potentialities. And if this is so, and if again, prior to them, we should have considered their correlative objects, then we should for the same reason determine first about them, e.g. about nourishment and the objects of perception and thought.

Hence, we must first speak about nourishment and reproduction; for the nutritive soul belongs also to the other living things and is the first and most commonly possessed potentiality of the soul, in virtue of which they all have life. Its functions are reproduction and the use of food; for it is the most natural function in living things, such as are perfect and not mutilated or produced by generation, to produce another thing like themselves-- an animal to produce an animal, a plant a plant-- in order that they may partake of the everlasting and divine in so far as they can; for all desire that, and for the sake of that they do whatever they do in accordance with nature. (But that for the sake of which is twofold-- the purpose for which and the beneficiary for whom.) Since, then, they cannot share in the everlasting and divine by continuous existence, because no perishable thing can persist numerically one and the same, they share in them in so far as each can, some more and some less; and what persists is not the thing itself but something like itself, not one in number but one in species.

De Anima, III.4-5
Given that the intellect is something simple and unaffected, and that it has nothing in common with anything else, as Anaxagoras says, someone might raise these questions: how will it think, if thinking is being affected in some way (for it is in so far as two things have something in common that the one is thought to act and the other to be affected)? And can it itself also be thought? For either everything else will have intellect, if it can itself be thought without this being through anything else and if what can be thought is identical in form, or it will have something mixed in it which makes it capable of being thought as the other things are.

Now, being affected in virtue of something common has been discussed before-- to the effect that the intellect is in a way potentially the objects of thought, although it is actually nothing before it thinks; potentially in the same way as there is writing on a tablet on which nothing actually written exists; that is what happens in the case of the intellect. And it is itself an object of thought, just as its objects are. For, in the case of those things which have no matter, that which thinks and that which is thought are the same; for contemplative knowledge and that which is known in that way are the same. The reason why it does not always think we must consider. In those things which have matter each of the objects of thought is present potentially. Hence, they will not have intellect in them (for intellect is a potentiality for being such things without their matter), while it will have what can be though in it.

(III.5) Since in the whole of nature there is something which is matter to each kind of thing (and this is what is potentially all those things), while on the other hand there is something else which is their cause and is productive by producing them all-- these being related as an art to its material-- so there must also be these differences in the soul. And there is an intellect which is of this kind by becoming all things, and there is another which is so by producing all things, as a kind of disposition, like light, does; for in a way light too makes colors which are potential into actual colors. And this intellect is distinct, unaffected, and unmixed, being in essence activity.

For that which acts is always superior to that which is affected, and the first principle to the matter. Actual knowledge is identical with its object; but potential knowledge is prior in time in the individual but not prior even in time in general; and it is not the case that it sometimes thinks and at other times not. In separation it is just what it is, and this alone is immortal and eternal. (But we do not remember because this is unaffected, whereas the passive intellect is perishable, and without this thinks nothing.)

Nicomachean Ethics, I.7

Let us again return to the good we are seeking, and ask what it can be. It seems different in different actions and arts; it is different in medicine, in strategy, and in the other arts likewise. What then is the good of each? Surely that for whose sake everything else is done. In medicine this is health, in strategy victory, in architecture a house, in any other sphere something else, and in every action and choice the end; for it is for the sake of this that all men do whatever else they do. Therefore, if there is an end for all that we do, this will be the good achievable by action, and if there are more than one, these will be the goods achievable by action.

So the argument has by a different course reached the same point; but we must try to state this even more clearly. Since there are evidently more than one end, and we choose some of these (e.g. wealth, flutes, and in general instruments) for the sake of something else, clearly not all ends are complete ends; but the chief good is evidently something complete. Therefore, if there is only one complete end, this will be what we are seeking, and if there are more than one, the most complete of these will be what we are seeking. Now we call that which is in itself worthy of pursuit more complete than that which is worthy of pursuit for the sake of something else, and that which is never desirable for the sake of something else more complete than the things that are desirable both in themselves and for the sake of that other thing, and therefore we call complete without qualification that which is always desirable in itself and never for the sake of something else.

Now such a thing happiness, above all else, is held to be; for this we choose always for itself and never for the sake of something else, but honor, pleasure, reason, and every excellence we choose indeed for themselves (for if nothing resulted from them we should still choose each of them), but we choose them also for the sake of happiness, judging that through them we shall be happy. Happiness, on the other hand, no one chooses for the sake of these, nor, in general, for anything other than itself.

From the point of view of self-sufficiency the same result seems to follow; for the complete good is thought to be self-sufficient. Now by self-sufficient we do not mean that which is sufficient for a man by himself, for one who lives a solitary life, but also for parents, children, wife, and in general for his friends and fellow citizens, since man is sociable by nature. But some limit must be set to this; for if we extend our requirement to ancestors and descendants and friends' friends we are in for an infinite series. Let us examine this question, however, on another occasion; the self-sufficient we now define as that which when isolated makes life desirable and lacking in nothing; and such we think happiness to be; and further we think it most desirable of all things, without being counted as one good thing among others-- if it were so counted it would clearly be made more desirable by the addition of even the least of goods; for that which is added becomes an excess of goods, and of goods the greater is always more desirable. Happiness, then, is something complete and self-sufficient, and is the end of action.

Presumably, however, to say that happiness is the chief good seems a platitude, and a clearer account of what it is is still desired. This might perhaps be given, if we could first ascertain the function of man. For just as for a flute-player, a sculptor, or any artist, and, in general, for all things that have a function or activity, the good and the 'well' is thought to reside in the function, so would it seem to be for man, if he has a function. Have the carpenter, then, and the tanner certain functions or activities, and has man none? Is he naturally functionless? Or as eye, hand, foot, and in general each of the parts evidently has a function, may one lay it down that man similarly has a function apart from all these? What then can this be? Life seems to be common even to plants, but we are seeking what is peculiar to man. Let us exclude, therefore, the life of nutrition and growth. Next there would be a life of perception, but it also seems to be common even to the horse, the ox, and every animal.

There remains, then, an active life of the element that has a rational principle (of this, one part has such a principle in the sense of being obedient to one, the other in the sense of possessing one and exercising thought); and as this too can be taken in two ways, we must state that life in the sense of activity is what we mean; for this seems to be the more proper sense of the term. Now if the function of man is an activity of soul in accordance with, or not without, rational principle, and if we say a so-and-so and a good so-and-so have a function which is the same in kind, e.g. a lyre-player and a good lyre-player, so without qualification in all cases, eminence in respect of excellence being added to the function (for the function of the lyre-player is to play the lyre, and that of a good lyre-player is to do so well): if this is the case, and we state the function of man to be a certain kind of life, and this to be an activity or actions of the soul implying a rational principle, and the function of a good man to be the good and noble performance of these, and if any action is well performed when it is performed in accordance with the appropriate excellence: if this is the case, human good turns out to be activity of soul in conformity with excellence, and if there are more than one excellence, in conformity with the best and most complete.

But we must add 'in a complete life'. For one swallow does not make a summer, nor does one day; and so too one day, or a short time, does not make a man blessed and happy.

Let this serve as an outline of the good; for we must presumably first sketch it roughly, and then later fill in the details....

Thursday, May 03, 2007

softcore

this is some pretty exciting reading. but as tempting though it may be, and as obvious as it may be, do not seek to breach the veil of anonymity which enables artistic discourse.
I.
She reveals herself only for that moment, before she begins her struggle with the bedclothes to reenter reality. Her modesty is of the true innocent, who has lived her life in the World of surfaces, and she is used to fabric, not flesh, against her body. But that is in the unthinkable future. Now she is the Ideal Body, an attainable Ideal Form that Plato in all his sexlessness could never imagine. The physicality overwhelms me, that flesh could be so smooth.
II.
Her body stretches out beneath me, filling all senses. Her body is brown and my hands are pale. A deep glowing brown that is hers alone, pacifying. Hers is the true tan to which the white world aspires, the skin that is the origin and home of all skin, that we crave to return to. That white women dream of while cocooned in ultraviolet blue radiation. The touchable form of unbleached humanity.
III.
Her body stretches out beneath me, filling a material plane that I float above, immersed in physicality.
IV.
She is alive.
V.
She counts her birthmarks, and gives me a sightseeing tour of her body. She thinks they are what make her body hers. Each one is in the perfect spot, where no human artist would dream of locating them. There is one dark spot in the shape of a tree hollow on her right palm. There is one on the inside curve of her right breast. One above and to the right of her navel. The rest are secret, mine alone.
VI.
Her hair flows like the black waterfall where the thick waters of the Lethe leap off the side of the world to plunge into darkness.
VII.
It flows over her ears, who sit as small kings ruling over a chessboard kingdom. They are tiny, perfectly round disks set in a round clearing. They are guarded on all sides by hair. On the foreground, revealed when she pulls back her hair, her sideburns, begun at the origin of all hair, wispy.
VIII.
I am entirely fixated on her face; that is all that matters. It defies language and has no place upon this page. Here lies the punctum; the personal beauty after which art flies in pursuit, but never reaches.
IX.
Her collarbones erupt from her neck like flying buttresses to support the roundness of her shoulders. All men know that the unifying principle of beauty is the shoulder, especially when revealed from above. This curve foils that of her breasts, creates a nonlinear universe.
X.
Her breasts reveal an atavistic innocence that haunts her personality, and that is why she is never satisfied with them. That innocence, which partly drew me to her, which I have brought to maturity, but not robbed her of. She can never know that it exists: innocence is only named after its departure.
XI.
It as if all the dusk of her skin spreads out from the concentrated deep brown of her nipples.
XII.
Her hipbones write songs against my body, they jut out of her flat stomach like mountains rising out of the valley. They gesture inwards.
XIII.
Hers is the modesty of the world, her vagina shows itself only for the vital moment, like the aperture of a camera, all-seeing. Because it is endless, and perhaps I will be lost among its folds and never find my way out.
XIV.
The surface is a cluster of black wire. It has the strength, the integrity of sandpaper. But it inhales, pulling my writing fingers inward. This layer demands to be left behind. Each fiber curves inward on itself, like the micro-elements of the hard half of Velcro, it grips, it holds. It marks the territory beneath it, it is the exoskeleton of depth.
XV.
The layers lick upwards, spreading silk into my fingers. They are saturated, bathing in themselves. I dream of incorporating myself into them, to become another fold in the wet maze. I feel the central fin that leads upwards and ends in an understated button, which cleaves the middle depth into a duality, canyons through which I glide. This part of her body teaches me subtlety and grace, removes me from the ferocious obligation of penetration.
XVI.
But it was always there, her depths. There is a sudden drop off beneath her, which she never understood. Sometimes I think I understand this cavity better than her, that I teach her about it’s potential. Sometimes I think that I can only bow to its power over me, that its truth is beyond both of us.
XVII.
Deep inside her is revealed an internal self completely absent from the male race. I have long sought to wander, to thrust myself over the earth and spread over its surface, to explore, to adventure. But the journey she takes me on is inward, through her eyes, through her concavity. She is earth itself, formed itself with layers upon layers of cooled fire, fusion, the furnace remains inside, unknowable to its parasitic inhabitants. Her guidance is selfless, she allows me into ontological realms forbidden to men alone.
XVIII.
Here, I exist as a beast, to penetrate, gently. She exists as the ground, to push back, gently. I can dream all I want of renouncing the soft violence inherent in my phallus, but I cannot. Hers is the level of peace, of pure existence, mine is the burden that patriarchal society has born for History. It is Manifest Destiny and the Triangle Trade, and I am powerless against History.
XIX.
It is absence, her deepest depths. And absence controls my consciousness, desire unfulfilled entirely poison, and I cannot be with her ever again at these moments. From here comes the Darkness, the great Lack that lies at the inevitable core of love, of my love.
XX.
But more often comes satiation; I fill her depths and complacency gives way to play, childlike truth, and eventually sleep. She brings my beast to closure, brings me to her own level, peace. Innocent being. And for this I depend on her, this is the addiction beyond rehabilitation, this is rehabilitation itself.