apotheosis

Some swans, a Hegel and a Marx later, we could not stop giggling during the six-hour seminar. Fatigue tickles.
Walking out of class at 930pm, we went past a ferris wheel that mysteriously appeared in front of the library. A few of us double-checked what school we're going to. To my relief, the wheel made Karen depressed too.

The first term is officially over. My eyebags will be proud.

My Ideogrammatic Party

So The Paleonymy of the Human is through, he wrote to congratulate and to remind me "to get an evening out to celebrate." I did by boiling some oatmeals. It was one of those rare, vertical hours before noon. Quietly, a celebration was in session...

By wondering what I've done to warrant this, this writing that becoming-friends make. The little, warbling one scurrying in with two cups of coffee, one black, one sugared, will always be small and warbling behind the desk. Infront of it, his words will never cease as an invaluable teaching. But to be written to as a friend, now that is the impossible event of reference itself.

Someday I will grow up and write back. Maybe I'll even go out. The secret's all in the fodder. Over thanksgiving back home, the two other friends, being so for so long, shall eat for me indigestible birds.

Whines, Splintered

Bloody swans. Hopefully by next weekend, I will be able to say "bloody alchemy."

Come Christmas, all I wish for are new wrists, shoulders and neck culminating in a sparkling spinal cord. This blog is beginning to read not much differently from my previous one. They're at the end of the night Patchwork Girls, seriously sore.

Post-Salton

No, I did not find my dead snow goose at Salton Sea, but it was no less beautiful. Pictures to follow once I figure out Marx's broken vessel and Derrida's thirty-two fouettés somehow. It's going to be a hell of a month ahead. Thank goodness I don't do Thanksgiving.

Bossy

First dawn over my Los Angeles desk. I'm back in my parent's HDB flat sipping whiskey at 9am watching people heading to the MRT for work. This constitutes the reward for reading a whole book of Medieval criticism:

Marx's repeated efforts to break down the objective limits of the existing Theoretical, in order to forge a way of thinking the question that his scientific discovery has posed philosophy, his failures and even his relapses are a part of the theoretical drama he lived, in absolute solitude, long ago, and we are only just beginning to suspect from the signs in our heavens that his question is our question, and will be for a long time, that it commands our future. Alone, Marx looked around him for allies and supporters: who can reproach him for allowing himself to lean on Hegel? As for us, we can thank Marx for the fact that we are not alone: our solitude only lies in our ignorance of what he said (Althusser, Reading Capital 193).

According to Althusser, Marx's "failures and even his relapses" are to think that we can ever leave the concept (190). To stick by the concept is to know that it has not and probably will not be, if it ever was, the hottest spot around. But one has to believe that it is only by sticking with it, that one can one day be able to boss people around. You've heard it right, Kelis.