An assertion of knowledge, or position, comes at us like a body moving. An approach may be friendly, it may be threatening. It may seem to be one, yet be the other.
None of this here is intended to 'out-understand' anyone. This is engagement for the sympatico, and where challenge arises, its aim is to strengthen all parties, not defeat any.
Constant 'defeat', constant 'failure' is wrong perception. It's constant 'growth'.
Under the weather for a short time recently, one fine Seattle blogger, http://howieinseattle.blogspot.com/, is back to his truth-telling, laptop in hand -- or, in lap.
My religious candles have been burning for you, H! Keep holding their feet to the fire.
The kitchen clock stopped. On my way to a bakery across the valley was Ikea. People were filing in, but not in huge numbers. I entered, in order to see their clock collection. It was half-an-hour till opening. Couldn't look. They were serving free breakfasts. I left.
On the way back from the bakery, maybe 10 minutes to the opening hour, I pulled into the lot again, but had to park way, way back. I walked a long way into the entrance and queued up with scores of people. I practiced a zen alertness, never looking at my timepiece, never feeling impatience. Just looking at the size of the crowd, the size of the people, and listening to the bland chatter, the squall of a nearby toddler.
When the rope was loosed and entry was allowed, the bottleneck was uncomfortable and close, inviting every and all exchange of virus.
Ducking through a mock apartment display, I made it to the clocks. They were outsized or very plastic and cheap.
I followed the blue exit line, finding myself disgorged into the parking warehouse (#1), and got to the rear of parking warehouse (#2) where my car sat next to a young couple trying to wedge some load of disassembled home furnishing into their hatchback.
This guy's a pistol-totin', straight-shootin', ropin', ridin' buckaroo; the whole enchilada; the complete package -- clotted-knot of cultural capital 'on the hoof'!
Teaching 'Theory' as such, in higher education, as a 'meta-perspective', is very much a thing derived from frustrations of the political Left loaded with envy and an angry, unfinished -- indeed, rarely-tried -- agenda.
Before you rage my way, it's not the Left against whom I am aiming. This country has no real 'Left'. The bias in America, at least since FDR, is clearly conservative-Right, a reflexively-entrenched group whose most recent Trinity is Adam Smith-cum-Charleton Heston-cum-any preacher-down-the-road. This is what's claimed to be the face of 'Americanism'.
The Left here, is (pace California), like wine and cheese, French.
For intellectual America, there are no clean hands.
It's important to me that I my voice pitches in the same key as Sinatra (did), even though I don't know which key that is. As something of a musical illiterate, then, let me sing this for you. [ ].
Couldn't hear it, could you?
Well, what if I couldn't write?
Would that be entirely of no importance to you, or can you admit to yourself just how devilishly beguiling is the moment you reach this place (or anywhere else I may have written)?
The Reader. Put this off for a while, not least because of Charlie Rose's conversation with the New York Critic guys at the time of the Oscars. Knew it had something to do with the Holocaust, grew to know she was an H campguard (Nein! Keep your hands off the lambies! Don't touch! Make nice!). When I thought too much about that 'mix', I got to be a kind of 'sour' guy, grousing about how a postmodern treatment of the H would dwarf the brute reality of it by deconstructing 'facts'. You know: hopping over time, through viewpoints, introducing differing forms of vision, undermining preconceived allegiances in the interest of a sliding notion of (non-)truth (small 't'), yak, yak.
B didn't finish it. I felt ashamed to admit that any chick who attaches nylons to her garter belt has a place at my table -- even if she's a 300-pounder, 70 years old, and tells me to 'wipe it up' (perhaps especially then). I went back on my own the next day and did the last half-hour or so.
This morning, weeks later, it hit me that perhaps the story was meant to show the even a C-campguard during the H held a deep love inside her just like the Hertzschmerz we see warping the young guy and the older Rafe (spelling deliberate to simulate Anglicized pronunciation). And then the graveyard years later by the Kirche where she listened to the nuns sing Dominique, Dominique in 1958 -- graveyard visit to explain to the alienated daughter why he -- Rafe -- had been warped. By love. By nylons hooked into a garter belt. Just, zo!
By some subconscious set of acts, and with the help of Netflix, I've watched within a period of two months Judgment At Nuremberg, Nuremberg, The Pianist, and The Reader. By far The Pianist captures most convincingly the random brutality and the sheer chanciness of rare survival, the desperate nature of living in a war zone, the meaning of a whole people being singled out for annihilation. Even Polanski had to base his film on a 'true story', but I cut him slack -- that pianist likely still resides in his memory, as Polish Jew survivor of the ghetto and as man whose world finds explanation in art, not necessarily in fulfillment with those around him. That pianist is also his own prototype: he himself.
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Ads have appeared linked to this blog for sales of anti-Obama material. I have been unsuccessful in getting 'systems satisfaction' to bar such linkage.
Any clueless machine-association between any of my opinions and those of the political right wing are utterly coincidental and strenuously eschewed.
An assertion of knowledge, or position, comes at us like a body moving. An approach may be friendly, it may be threatening. It may seem to be one, yet be the other.
Part of nature, I part with nature
The Reader. Put this off for a while, not least because of Charlie Rose's conversation with the New York Critic guys at the time of the Oscars. Knew it had something to do with the Holocaust, grew to know she was an H campguard (Nein! Keep your hands off the lambies! Don't touch! Make nice!). When I thought too much about that 'mix', I got to be a kind of 'sour' guy, grousing about how a postmodern treatment of the H would dwarf the brute reality of it by deconstructing 'facts'. You know: hopping over time, through viewpoints, introducing differing forms of vision, undermining preconceived allegiances in the interest of a sliding notion of (non-)truth (small 't'), yak, yak.
