I seldom feel myself anymore; was that it?
It seems intermittent I share my own flesh, like Kazak.
Rare but reproducible.
S. Nat.? Hyperbolic no?
I feel most myself when I’ve got something kickin’ round the head, but I ain’t been in school so long I feel I’ve lost my powers/prowess. But sometimes the engine stars.
For example, my last paper (jeezy petes that was in the fall..) my last paper was a critical narrative of my choosing, and as this was at the graduate level, everyone else was neck deep in at least one other lit study course.
I didn’t have a direction. I could have done Myth, since I was taking it at the time too, but it was a freshman level course and would have had me exerting extra effort for no gain. So I thought, what do I want to burn out on?
I didn’t do Joyce for the reason that I was nowhere near prepared to wade back into the labyrinth of critical research that has been done on that fool in the past century; not having it.
So who better than old buddy Vonnegut?
What a whopper of a semester it had been: tryst, trip, and gone…
So I turned my attention there, and set the full focus of research to whatever the fuck postmodernism was supposed to mean, and only now while walking out to get the mail does my semester of theory slowly wrap itself around something.
So here are notes to future me:
Mirror stage as formative, P.VIII
“But the important point is that this form situates the agency of the ego, before its social determination, in a fictional direction, which will always remain irreducible for the individual alone, or rather, which will only rejoin the coming-into-being (le devenir) of the subject asymptomatically,….”
-from there I’ve gone lost.
wasn’t this the paragraph situating the “ego” the “psyche,” “the acting ‘human’ within the skin,” the mind behind the words – the man behind the words trying to self insert himself into literature?
-search for video source of this thought;
“We have only to understand the mirror stage as an identification,”
-hold. the stage/event at which an infant catches first glimpse of itself and understands the image staring back to be him/her/itself. The significance of this moment (so it goes) is that the infant sees itself in the reflection, but sees a false reality of itself; the infant sees an infant, who it takes to be itself, but that is smiling, cooing, dawdling happily along–not the walking hobbling barely held together bag of nerves struggling to get itself from Point A to Point B. What the baby sees (what I think we were meant to see as a simulacra of ourselves: the false re- and overwritten version of reality; the map of the land itself.
A child creates for itself in this moment a falseness of itself to cling to.
What is literature, but trying to insert the falseness of ourselves into history;
what is good literature, but those that really, truly, awfully did.