On Flight

Half of me has already boarded the plane to Singapore. The other half is here in LA trying to be productive on:

1) Lefebvre: 'Centering Utopia, Counter-Space and Revolution.' Or something like that when I can see from the bottom of my 2-buck chuck.

2) The three kinds of death -- or stillbirths in Derrida.

3) Meanwhile, Forbes writes from London about the December issue of Angelaki for Politics of Friendship. That means my Echo paper finally calls for re-sounding.

4) Looking forward to turning 27 next week, camping on a possibly snowing Mt. San Jancino in 2 weeks.

It is only fully apparent that I'm truly looking forward to joining my other half.

Uh-Oh

Like all good pies, we don't think about the cracks when we bite.

4:20am/7:16pm

There is only dying after every of his email. An invaluable essay, almost the impossible "manual" itself, or simply a recording of the past four years lasting a good forty. As always, it needs to be read and re-read till dawn. Henceforth still always with a last breath on that desk back home in Ghim Moh.

"The event would 'be' or happen in some sense (always yet to be determined) before whatever one could say about it: and as such it's always anyway to come unless one lives one's event, as Deleuze has it, and that's difficult because one cannot therefore economise on the experience of the present as the experience of the impossibility of the present, can one? This is no doubt why deconstruction can be regarded as another, better, name for mourning--especially the 'working through' of it as opposed to the 'melancholy.' Working through as all who fail know takes time and especially when time is what one doesn't have then the moment for working through seems all the more stranded on too distant a horizon. But it's not, of course, for the moment of a working through is always now.

[...]
The 'perhaps' of the event (that was) seems more than ever too cautious in light of the monstrous one (there's no perhaps here) to come. Is the Nietzsche (+Heidegger+Freud)-Levi-Strauss hybrid really so unthinkable? I believe so actually, but this is after all the event that Baudrillard was living in order to deny the event: the 'no difference' between the first two orders of simulation, between fidelity and productivity). So I have to believe in it. And if I do that is because (once again the shadow of philosophy falls) one can only believe the unbelievable etc."

The Doggy Poncho that Got Away

Overcast, windy and undemanding, Ensenada, Baja California was a kind of Mexico perfect for this time. Off the top of the sombrero, it reminded me of little villages elsewhere where it'd be nice aging in, going out every morning in my smelly braids and saying hi to the folks from whom I'd buy fresh eggs. They may not all come with good men buying guitars and souvenir hats, but there would be enough to make my churros.

Mine, Mine! My Strangled Throax Larynx!

The history of metaphysics is the absolute will-to-hear-oneself-speak. This history is closed when this absolute infinity appears to itself as its own death. A voice without différance, a voice without writing is at once absolutely alive and absolutely dead (Derrida, La Voix et Le Phénomène 115, translations mine).

When I come back from Ensenada, my face will be IN the book and not behind it. I speak: It will be ABSOLUTE WAR.

Bosoms, not Blossoms

Update: view the silent film mentioned below HERE, NOW!

To usher in spring break means to drink our dinner (pre- and post) at Hotel Figueroa before ordering pizza to Cha Cha Lounge. Academic freedom, if there is any, bears the tragic anecdote of how-not-to-lose-part-of-one's-brain-to-archival-cause. Midst pre-teen rendezvous and mid-twenties consensus, we were a happy survivor group last night.

Adjourning to Colin and Nicole's abode for their wedding film. If you know these people, you know they've had more up their sleeves when holding their wedding in LA's old silent movie theatre. And since showing powerpoint projections of hallmark-style childhood photos and romantic serenades was out of the question, my favourite couple made their very own silent film hybridizing Nosferatu and Metropolis. As Orflock the vampire finally walked off with his bride Maria the robot after fighting off Manny the Mechanic and Jonanthan the vampire hunter, we wanted them to hold their wedding again so that we could too, perhaps, get a part, late as we are to their scripted brilliance. The film beats any progeneration, for sure.

The night drew to a finale with Colin strumming the guitar to Jon Bon Jovi, Indigo Girls, Bee Gees, Cyndi Lauper and his self-penned song, 'Uncle Touchy' about an anoynymously amourous professor. The same guy who sets off fumes in classes also makes 'Girls just wanna have fun' the most melancholy song ever. My long day and blisters from my new red BCBG pumps (I'll wear them forever even with blood) meant that I skipped on joining Sam and Lauren at Akbar, which on hindsight was rather regrettable. Oh well, have fun at San Fran love, there ain't no spring till you get back.

Return of the Heat

The day after I stash away the carcasses of three presentations, I'm also taking down my singlets and shorts. Summer is coming too fast before Spring. I still have two new sweaters that I haven't worn, but nevermind, I give up. Onward to sticking with toasty uniforms then: sticky, literally.

The AEGS conference went well: we stacked ourselves with pastry, delirium (he's on to something) and re-found comp-lit-pride. I don't know if I have the energy to think about the fastfowarded April ahead; coursework is taking it all out of me. Was so braindead that I forgot my card PIN at Trader Joe's last night, and even that wonderful place little excited me. Except when I thought I saw someone with stripped shirt and wild hair who resembled JWP and nearly jumped onto him.

Meanwhile, I'm just waiting for my pms to be over and the sparkling new shoes to arrive. And maybe even Mexico, maybe.