it became. a practice of swallowing my smiles.
little explosions, little bursts of color. i feel like something's rousing me from sleep; it's funny, years ago i asked someone to please stay awake and alive, and apparently he has kept his promise--but i've been dormant myself for quite some time. i often put myself to sleep. and i know it. ...
anyway, temporary lights going off, from. from today. i know it was brief but it was exhilirating, yet also affirming. i got there early thinking maybe i'd read, finish the calhoon piece due monday (i'm spending my weekend outside of pittsburgh, kind of)...and she got there early too, and. we wait for the class before us to finish and empty the room; she starts talking to me. she hands me back the critique the professor graded; it turns out he didn't rip me apart. and she reacts in the usual manner when i tell her what i am majoring in, as opposed to what i am not. and i get warm gestures in blocks of ink as well as in...respect enough to want to talk. about material.
but that's not the best part. my recitation instructor then...well i ask her how she evaluates the horner article, and she admits she hasn't had to read it in a long time. so then we move on to gender and language, and academic study, interpretive study, linguistics too...and i admit i'm still very hung up on the whole, the initial glamor of studying gender and language. sort of. even though i can feel it falling away inside me. and she asks me about foucault and ! i get to the point where--this is the part that made it hard to swallow my smiles--i disclose to her how devastating it was, to hear the professor in that early lecture say those things. those things foucault wrote. how upsetting it was. and she UNDERSTANDS (i know, i know, she's way smarter than me and she's a grad student and duh she understands, she understands way more than you can even realize mb but still ! the first thing your torso jumps at is, that she understands! that phrase comes out in an unpolished and true, naive way), and we talk about the discomfort in...in theory that jeapordizes our illusion, our comfort in the "inherent" notion of autonomy, of individual beings. and i wonder what frank would have said about this; i'm sure he had his opinions about it (when asked about the fountainhead and atlas shrugged, he said dismissively "ayn rand has issues")...and then she mentions foucault at the end of his career, end of his life too really, was working towards reconciling the power of choice in individual beings and this...social force, the construction, the amalgamofparts thing bryce mentioned last year.
and the wind felt good coursing all through messy hair, the walking home as usual through the underpass, this is jacket weather.
i should not get excited, not so easily and maybe it even seems randomly, i mean i know every college student goes through this, and it isn't as if foucault hasn't been done to death, or social construction pains and woes, or even beyond these specifics just the...thinking and the reacting, the occasions it is shared. this is one of those things, those stages everyone's already gone through but it doesn't change how you feel when you finally get to it, yourself. it's already been done but i wasn't there; give me a break, sort of thing. (laugh) like the first time you realize you yes you really like the pixies, or anybody. or at least have memorable times, even if later you find out every girl with as little disclosure as you has felt those things too, and maybe more.
because it really did break me. i tried to be private about it, but ... it's like why i never feel comfortable talking out in the open, especially not in groups with strangers, about marxism. i.
...
and the calhoon article features chaplin, hamlet, the flower girl from city lights, lacan, the game with ghosts, derrida, the idea of lack, the spectacle as made at least in part by spector...this weird illusion that the stage affects you the audience when you sort of are the context for the stage...it comes from you. that reminds me of the jung bit. the idea your reaction doesn't go outside to in, but inward out. flexing, bending, circus mirrors. and the coincidences, the artistic and emotional and intellectual coincidences, that fall on my life always make me feel as silly as...as someone who calls psychic hotline networks BUT it's. even if it's my perception that's out of whack, or out of sync with normalcy...it's still there, i'm still the one feeling it.
foucault stings at her, too.
i feel like going to see an outdoor show sometime before my family shows up. hm...
anyway, temporary lights going off, from. from today. i know it was brief but it was exhilirating, yet also affirming. i got there early thinking maybe i'd read, finish the calhoon piece due monday (i'm spending my weekend outside of pittsburgh, kind of)...and she got there early too, and. we wait for the class before us to finish and empty the room; she starts talking to me. she hands me back the critique the professor graded; it turns out he didn't rip me apart. and she reacts in the usual manner when i tell her what i am majoring in, as opposed to what i am not. and i get warm gestures in blocks of ink as well as in...respect enough to want to talk. about material.
but that's not the best part. my recitation instructor then...well i ask her how she evaluates the horner article, and she admits she hasn't had to read it in a long time. so then we move on to gender and language, and academic study, interpretive study, linguistics too...and i admit i'm still very hung up on the whole, the initial glamor of studying gender and language. sort of. even though i can feel it falling away inside me. and she asks me about foucault and ! i get to the point where--this is the part that made it hard to swallow my smiles--i disclose to her how devastating it was, to hear the professor in that early lecture say those things. those things foucault wrote. how upsetting it was. and she UNDERSTANDS (i know, i know, she's way smarter than me and she's a grad student and duh she understands, she understands way more than you can even realize mb but still ! the first thing your torso jumps at is, that she understands! that phrase comes out in an unpolished and true, naive way), and we talk about the discomfort in...in theory that jeapordizes our illusion, our comfort in the "inherent" notion of autonomy, of individual beings. and i wonder what frank would have said about this; i'm sure he had his opinions about it (when asked about the fountainhead and atlas shrugged, he said dismissively "ayn rand has issues")...and then she mentions foucault at the end of his career, end of his life too really, was working towards reconciling the power of choice in individual beings and this...social force, the construction, the amalgamofparts thing bryce mentioned last year.
and the wind felt good coursing all through messy hair, the walking home as usual through the underpass, this is jacket weather.
i should not get excited, not so easily and maybe it even seems randomly, i mean i know every college student goes through this, and it isn't as if foucault hasn't been done to death, or social construction pains and woes, or even beyond these specifics just the...thinking and the reacting, the occasions it is shared. this is one of those things, those stages everyone's already gone through but it doesn't change how you feel when you finally get to it, yourself. it's already been done but i wasn't there; give me a break, sort of thing. (laugh) like the first time you realize you yes you really like the pixies, or anybody. or at least have memorable times, even if later you find out every girl with as little disclosure as you has felt those things too, and maybe more.
because it really did break me. i tried to be private about it, but ... it's like why i never feel comfortable talking out in the open, especially not in groups with strangers, about marxism. i.
...
and the calhoon article features chaplin, hamlet, the flower girl from city lights, lacan, the game with ghosts, derrida, the idea of lack, the spectacle as made at least in part by spector...this weird illusion that the stage affects you the audience when you sort of are the context for the stage...it comes from you. that reminds me of the jung bit. the idea your reaction doesn't go outside to in, but inward out. flexing, bending, circus mirrors. and the coincidences, the artistic and emotional and intellectual coincidences, that fall on my life always make me feel as silly as...as someone who calls psychic hotline networks BUT it's. even if it's my perception that's out of whack, or out of sync with normalcy...it's still there, i'm still the one feeling it.
foucault stings at her, too.
i feel like going to see an outdoor show sometime before my family shows up. hm...