Nietzsche, these are just words.

SONY DSCNietzsche, these are just words
The mirror shoots a startling reflection back through my eyes to my brain; I am exactly the opposite of what I see on this side, but I am there, that’s me. Nerve stimulus and then I produce an image, not unlike a camera, not upside down, but the opposite of an objective signifier; I am a metaphor, in words. This mirror metaphor is made up of words and language that do not actually describe me, but defer me against something else. There are urinals in the background between dated tile and seldom scrubbed walls, all green and white, and some sort of brown fake marble as stalls–the cheaper for those to write on. Toilet poets, oh, we love thee. Now I stand staring at pinked, speckled, shiny, wide-eyed flesh, the pale face of endless winter, whatever you want; me in 3D, doesn’t get much better. I am just an entity, an unter-subject living within the frame of Eurocentrism, in the time of Greenwich, 2014- whatever you think. The big reality is a fake, a metaphor of a metaphor based on words: metaphors on metaphors; sedimented on those same beliefs, those “truths”. Really, though, they are based on “lies”. It is just easier to understand that way. But who knows. One might ask: what is a Mosquito to a Man in relation to Nietzsche? We ask questions, but we don’t necessarily need the answers. What we need is the process of thought which comes with searching for the answer, because besides that process there is no really, truly, definitive, discrete, and concise answer, absolutely. Though really? Probably not, but that is a figure of speech. Nietzsche, these are just words.
An image flashes in my mind: Nov. 1994, I am moving documents in the women’s lounge of VM, trying to waste time, trying to stay busy, trying to do what I am paid for. The old photo is curled a bit, but remains impeccable in shape. I think of the girl on the bus with the plastic leather light-tan coat and how she looked French. Something, an idea, she nor I would ever know. I think of her long toes tied tightly in sandals, which symbolize- apparently extra-sexual ability. The sun is out, it is “seventy”, and I am in a dusty room moving paper that of which has not been printed on. It will be inked someday. I come back and move again. This time I am taking shredded paper to the recycling. It has been printed, viewed, absorbed, and then (because of privacy reasons) destroyed responsibly, apparently, by someone like yours truly. I look in the mirror and think about the photo. Nietzsche, these are just words.

Freddie Mercury was dead at the inception of these photos, The Notorious B.I.G. was “blowing up like the World Trade [Center]”- even before it happened, Pepsi was the shit- at least the cans looked better back in the day. I hear shitty radio, I am at the pool in a small town, in the sun getting burnt, under blue skies, with my mom, about to dive into chlorine saturated water, only to have my eyes reddened and hurt. Just before, I probably ate subway “kids” sandwiches and drank those soft plastic Kool-Aid things that were packed with sugar and packed in lunch bags while I was being packed on the school bus. I am somewhere between skinny and young to tortured and fat with acne. This was back when one could purchase Ray Ban’s at a gas station for “cheap” and get terrified during the day just by watching syndicated television. This photo reflects none of the day described, it was just at a similar time. Nietzsche, these are just words.
In the photo there are no cellphones, tablets, Music-pods, or computer screens. A pizza sits in front of the young men. I wonder what they stare at. We stare at computer screens; things which a legislation of people deem interesting enough to interest others, so they share. All of the faces seem happy and relatively trendy for the time. What time is it? Some wear striped shirts, very bright, with an unmodisch airs. There are no lights in the lounge so I move towards the window. The sun is bright hitting the distant redbrick buildings which face the one I am presently in. There is a painting on the wall from 1962, of some flowers, white, of some growth behind them, green. The room is dim, dull, and dirty (alliteration). No surprise, it seems it hasn’t been cleaned in a while. I walk out and wash my hands in the bathroom where I encounter the mirror. After, I walk to the computer and start to type. I am thinking, back to the bus, before I came, before Ms. French, back to class. I am raising my hand, no one calls on me. I shut a window, someone opens another in protest. I think of a Rolling Stone’s song. I speak of the moon, the waxing and waning, the idea of being a “poet”; as in, I write one thing I call myself a “poet” (not really), or I write a million things and other people call me a “poet” (sort of, but I earned it. Not really). There are ten million things to do, see, read, and produce. I avoid social media. Nietzsche, THESE ARE JUST WORDS!
The people in both of the photos are sitting. One photo is at a house. The other photo is at a community center. The former photo is at a very “homey” home. It may be dirty to some, but peaceful and unostentatious to others. It may be welcoming, friendly, and quaint. A strung together sign in the back, in green, reads: Merry Christmas, or Happy Birthday, ich habe das vergessen. The strung out words are hung across a mirror. There is no photographic image of the photographer in the mirror, it is empty. Unfortunately, there is no “selfie”, or “photo-bomb”. The image in the mirror is as startling as it is lacking. There is nothing to describe what the mirror projects; an upside down, inverse opposite image of nothing. Nothing to go on- and always* the people appear happy. There is no food on the first photos table. The latter photo has cans of Pepsi next to the pizza (two pies), I would prefer beer and pizza, but this Home Alone throwback will do, how apropos. The men are happy, they wear glasses framed for the time, and they smile wide. I wonder if science has made their teeth better, or if they will learn someday. There is no mirror in the second picture, just rows of books, all brown, very dark, and a bit depressing. Nietzsche, these are just words.

If only mirrors could capture our attention like social media, like the trivial and paltry lines of digital traffic minded media marketing entities labeling and lying attempting to turn humans into zombies hoping they click and see. Do we examine the lines on our faces with such patience and admiration? Do we see the change, the sedentary lack of movement bestowed upon our bodies for being interested in such paltry endeavors? Can we measure the inches of fatty flesh layered on our stomachs and at our waists, the amount of muscles we’ve lost, brain cells left to rot pondering shit over vast amounts of our lives? Is it positive in a negative way? If only we could spend as much time looking at ourselves as we do looking at the fabrications of others. Empirically and objectively look at ourselves, not unlike Nietzsche’s “glass-case self”: objectively view something that is subjective. It is said to be impossible, but I have been told nothing is impossible. Yet, then again, those were just words. Nietzsche, these are just words.

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The Significance of a Dandelion

SONY DSCA middle-aged woman cleans an ancient bathroom at the hall while those walk past sipping their first-rate coffees, examining their high-powered gadgets, straightening their skirts or skinny jeans, as scholars sit tending to their trendy bags. Papers rustle, ruffled by some, amongst soft sharp sounds; the “artist” speaks lofty words of vanity, as plastic trash-bin liners tighten their translucent grip within a space. Echoed, fragmented speech elegantly slices through along dark walls to perked ears in proximity. Moving forward the woman turns the doorknob, maroon pants stretching at her thighs positioned apropos. She opens the door and asks a question, always the same, “Is anyone there?” She asks and then waits, and then asks again. Is she speaking to me, I wonder inside of my head. I am outside, cross-wise on a wooden bench. I say, “Hello.” Located behind her, she turns to the start of my voice. I look up, wave, and then look down again. She walks inside the bathroom after a few moments and the door alone on hinges helps itself close. Light filters from under, a cool rectangular beam, as I count the brown and tan linoleum faux-marble squares which make the floor; feet apart, shoes tied, eyes sore from the pressures of a cold, waiting for something other than a daydream to happen. I reflect. She works this room then moves on. I wonder if she hopes those haunting her facilities will wait; to let the wet dry, her masterpiece to come to fruition, the mirrors pierce out bright in a shine, to show what we should appreciate; her mastermind.

We’ve trampled a million dandelions in summer only to acknowledge they hold staggering significance in spring.

I say “Hello” and “Goodbye”, but nothing more. I watch as she walks away, she draws a trash pail on wheels and a cleaning cart the same. She is appreciated- I just don’t know her name.

And then the door slams shut, just as the others do.

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Anthropology is a Joke

SONY DSCSometimes I just think about being at a beer garden, sun shining, with my friends across from me. Then I stop… And for a moment I think of nothing. Then I start thinking about being at a beer garden again, sun shining, with my friends. This thought never bores me.

Bits and pieces of a class sat circle-wise watching each other’s eyes move. They darted off somewhere-another universe, not there (here), and then came back. The ringmaster moved toward the board, yet, still facing the center, he remained fixed; this center of a circle came void (of all, but meaning); where the center is not the center. The idea of Post-Structuralism is one of a critique of the Modern Episteme, fact, but a contradiction of course, also a fact. That was the foundation of the discussion. As one cannot have truth without lies, benign without malign, we could not have a concept (with a subject) without the other. -You know, and such. Scrawled in thin fragile black printed letters on the whiteboard ahead read a word: “POOP”, supposing this is how the day will be, or go, –or is described, we were now all in shit, but that’s not such a bad thing now, is it? Letters so fine a gentle swipe from a feathered wing could erase such a thing. The weather was horrible (then); described so. We moved past that. The tender letters stayed.

When asked why I always smile I only answer with a tacit smile. My plan was working, taking effect; I said, I want each of my teachers to remember my big bright smile during grading time; I’m there every day, smiling. I figure (because I pay for this), that the teacher makes the grade; you have to make them make it the grade you want. That’s college. I have them (my teeth, meinen Zähne), I figure, I might as well use them. Funny, that’s how I got here (at University of Minnesota): My tooth fell out. No joke.

The conversation always begins with a joke of some sort; some clever unimportant banal minutia, and then moves on to more basic, purebred issues not unlike religion or politics, but not, respectively. Maybe the “purest” things or the “whitest” things are not the “greatest” things; the world is dirty, and we live (on) with that (I purposefully used quotes on those specific words, for no reason). Und jetzt alle zusammen! : My lips hurt and I sat (all the smiling), a grey-shit sky hung outside, some snowflakes tore off, a bit of light, and the lingering of cold from those entering late made my peers shiver in their Timberland’s. I laughed at what was said.

Print off your questions and bring them into class on Monday. I love these words, particularly Monday. The email proved straightforward. All of the students had to print off their questions, and bring them into class, whether good or bad they were required at present-now-ish-post-haste. Sitting, watching the latecomers, whites of their eyes darting back and forth, not knowing for certain, just expecting the unexpected—something would happen, this is a certainty. Certainly they thought of it. This circle was becoming thick with thought. Waiting was a necessity. Contemplating, fully aware, attempting to stave off the near future. I sat there, paper and all, in my chair.

Humanitarian work is being away from those you love to save total strangers. I don’t know if I have that make up. I wake up every morning next to my love. I think of those missing theirs. I think of the professor being so far away from his. He starts out jovial, and joking, disparagement, it is endearing, something like, “She doesn’t wash the fucking dishes, or clean the house…” I mean, we know she isn’t even in America. She is in some far off country. Recently, a mother of a son told a government they were wrong and she was arrested. This woman knew a man, he went to her house to protest her arrest, and he was arrested. This all happened at “9pm”. The time is important because just at 7:45pm that same night that same man phoned a colleague. That colleague was our professor’s wife. The government has the phone, the records of the call, and that is the serious nature of humanitarian work. Anyone could see the anxiety caused by such a situation. Also, one can see the worth. I try at empathy, but I am weak. I try my best to relate, but I prefer to hold my love, as oppose to chat on the phone in some distant land momentarily. Now that I know what intelligent, honorable, people do, I can begin to appreciate things more and accept that life has alterations. One can be far-far away and still be very much in love. I send good thoughts all ways in these types of moments.

As I sat I turned red. This blushing thing happens almost always. I just have pink skin, but when I talk my blood rushes to my pale face—and boom, I am a tomato with flapping lips and not much to say, embarrassment. I finish my sentence as fast as possible, looking around for help, I remember what he told me about “white people”, ‘one can always tell when [they] blush.’ I finish and wait, we speak on how unimportant history is, really. The concept goes like this: If I don’t believe in History I don’t believe in Evolution etc. I guess I must not believe in the Future either. Professor says we should probably get in touch with Michael J. Fox to figure out the Future. That is rather a good idea.

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One Thing about Something (Post-Structural Prose)

SONY DSCOne cold morning while nursing a hangover one walked the school grounds in the humid air.  Exposed hands were stuck to a phone scratched and dented.  A phone was stuck to the side of a face blemished, pinked, dried.  Eyes fixed forward in a strange gaze.  One walked through the campus alone. One walked on sidewalk-ed ground, cement set years ago, wondering who’d been there before.  Making rounds, one never settled on a destination.  Never settle, not once.  One walked on, across streets, stopped at illuminated traffic lights, and through phosphorescent puddles.  Cars moved forward as components rattled, busses buzzed, through run-off thoughts ran off.  The sky was overcast grey; the wind was moderately strong, blowing only at the times wrong, each and every way. One made pace as one moved along.  One was one of many, uncharacterized, but belonged.

Above the clouds moved sliding past, one could take note with just one glance.  Thinking of physical activity while processing, one made a pass at attempting to walk back.  Everyone said, “Hey! Have an amazing Spring Break.”  One thought, what is that?

…And why is one taking a break.  One won’t stop writing or reading.  One won’t stop sleeping or eating.  One will just stop coming to a class at a certain time, producing certain works (text, solutions), and speaking with certain people, of a certain kind of mind.

One will not be inhibited by the rigorous demands of school; one will not stay out late and drink whiskey with friends, one will not wake parched and dry (from the weather and the liquor) next to someone one made upset hours before eyes met.  One will not know waking at 6:00 am to leave at 7:30 am to exist at 8:00 am.  Ready set go, and don’t be late.

One will sit in sweaty sheets looking at covered feet, examining books one hasn’t yet read and wish away the headache in one’s head.  Those are just things one might do, but one won’t be reading what they tell one to,

…or be writing papers that bore, one won’t be spending time meeting deadlines or rushing out the door. One will literally (and metaphorically, which is the same thing now) do something a bit more, or less to affect.

Man thinks it is best to go to the gym, locked inside, and exercise for the high heart-rate it gives him.  That is only until man has mastered the weather…  Then he realizes outside is much better.

The man sitting next to one reeks of gasoline and sweet dreams.  He leaves like leaves from the trees.  One hardly knows what the day will bring.  Coffee aroma hangs in the air, keyboard clicks, and pirates visit the computer screen shit.  One can think of the past, present, and future, or problems, or all four, but it doesn’t matter.  Coming to conclusions is an afterthought; settling is setting up for contradiction and trivial time lost.  One must contradict oneself to grow mentally.  Realizing that, like food, ideas can rot and become spoiled-soiled in the past intent thought.  What has one learned today?  One learned how to tell others what to do.  One learned something not to be forgot.

One understands the “subject” (which, from here on out is the subject) and the “other”, as Eurocentrism controls everything one knows.  The subject and the other, as in Post-Structuralism, as in Derrida, as in deconstruction, so one must think:  What is Eurocentrism?  He says, one says, no names, what is Eurocentrism?  One asks what he will ask next…  What is Eurocentrism?  One does not have a romantic past, present, or future; one has simply a beginning, middle, and end.  Well, the subject is the European, and the subject is the most important part of the idea of Eurocentrism, that also makes everything and everyone else the “other”.  The other is the differance, the lesser.  Differance with an “a” defers something, moves something, puts something down in relation to the subject, but one knows this.  So Eurocentrism puts “others” down?  Yes, if one works it out one realizes that “Indians” did not call one another “Indians” they needed Europeans to do that.  One thinks they didn’t necessarily need Europeans, maybe they needed something else.  But then again, what happens is supposed to happen-apparently, so Eurocentrism happened, and we live with it, next to it, and in it: extimate; within and without, without thinking, lacking a doubt.  Think about that when you call an object a name, it may not be objective.  What does that mean?  One has no idea.  One is back on the sidewalk in the cold under grey skies on the phone staring forward deconstructing this morning and last night.  One does not know.

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@UMNCRIME doesn’t need to do anything

SONY DSC@UMNCRIME doesn’t need to do anything,

By Terry Scott Niebeling

The Minnesota Daily Editorial Board’s article @UMNCRIME needs to stop is misleading and presents problems for those interested in the truth.  Firstly, championing the idea that less information is more useful in solving crimes is a poor strategy for a newspaper, especially a newspaper operating at a university with an emphasis on research.  Monocultures kill most things now-a-days; if we get all of our information from two sources (U of MN, MPD) we are limited by those sources and their agenda–by their will.  Not only does limiting sources compromise an objective observation of events (crimes, and the aftermath), but it also slows the investigation process; it allows sleeping dogs lie.  Criminals can walk around without a care if they are being pursued by one or two groups.  But those same criminals become affected when they see their photos floating around on social media, as we saw.  One suspect being so moved he deleted his Facebook account.  I would say that is directly related to @UMNCRIME’s posts.  Furthermore, the Minnesota Daily’s article is grounded upon logical fallacies, and lacks a clear purpose.  Here, I will present the passage that struck me as misleading, and below explain its inconsistencies:

“While it’s true the student who reported seeing the “suspects” recognized them from social media, the men were already being investigated by police in connection with the burglaries. Besides that initial call, the photos and online manhunt didn’t factor into the arrest at all, and it’s likely the pair would have been arrested anyway.” –Daily Editorial Board, 03/06/14

Yes, “it’s true the people noticed the “suspects” from social media… the photos and online manhunt didn’t factor into the arrest at all” Wow, really?  Did I just read that?  When we line these sentences up (from the same paragraph), we see a non-sequitur logic, we see this paragraph, and its meaning, fall to pieces.  The board says it’s true the students identified the “suspects” from pictures, and then in the same breath, expresses that seeing those photos “didn’t factor into the arrest at all.”

Saying that social media played no part in the arrest is an opinion, not a fact.

I feel that social media definitely played a part in the arrests of the most recent burglaries around campus, because those tweets and photos pressured the police to take more action before someone else did.  The reason for this is because the police do not want victims of crimes to get involved.  They may say, “Leave it to us, it’s our job, we’ll do the best we can.”  Well, sometimes one person’s best isn’t enough, more heads involved to solve a problem is likely more beneficial to the outcome.  However, where does a person stand after they’ve been victimized?  I have been a victim of burglary (3 times: once my house, twice my car), I felt unsafe.  I think that by posting photos of suspects online gives the victim an opportunity to seek out their assailant personally.  One can find a person anywhere just by a simple name search (with the city, Boolean Operation) on Google, try it.  From that a person can obtain the suspect’s Facebook page, the suspect’s home address, and some pretty valuable basic information on their criminal past.

The best part about social media today is that it is all inclusive.  One does not think to search themselves, what they find may shock them.  Search anyone, anything.  Maybe search the perpetrators of a crime, and see what you find.  I think this article inhibits the rights of individuals- the right to know, to not be left in the dark by the University of Minnesota and the MPD.

I think what @UMNCRIME does is provide a forum for conversation amongst victims; they are the whistleblowers this campus needs to scare off criminals and to pressure police into becoming more involved with victims, and their unsolved cases.  They promote the idea of spreading awareness.

I think more of the general public should look at the resources around them and realize that they have available many of the same tools as law enforcement and government agencies when it comes to searching people.  There is a lot one can do from a computer.

What does not help stop crime on campus is vague descriptions and details of the crime sent via email from the college.  What does help is an outside entity providing relatively clear photos of actual suspects and conversation on the crime.  The agenda of the school’s and MPD differ from those of @UMNCRIME, but what does each group (respectively) want you to know?  Should we be withheld information on crimes happening to the student body?  I pay tuition, I have stake in knowing.

@UMNCRIME is an open ended resource for information; as one reads any information, they should take into account who wrote it, what words they used, and the editors and producers involved (I wonder what prompted this article in the first place).  It is a judgment call on the person reading not the entity providing the information.  @UMNCRIME should remain to stand up for victims of unsolved crimes, to set fear into criminals, and to show that we live in a democratic justice system where all have the resources to conduct and execute searches on people, suspects, and criminals.

I think as a student body we deserve to know what is going on with local crime investigations, we should be granted access to photos of “suspects” (apparent), and we absolutely must maintain the right to study these individuals lest they catch us unawares again.  I thought the University was a research heavy college, what are they telling us now?  Wouldn’t the researcher want the most resources to prove their thesis?  I would.  @UMNCRIME doesn’t need to do anything other than what they choose to do.  We live in a society of choices.  One has the choice to sit back and take what is given them (from the University of Minnesota, from the MN Daily, and from the MPD), or search out the truth on their own.  So, Minnesota Daily, where do you get your information, and who tells you what to do?

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How I Understand Post-Structuralism; Texts and Works and Barthes

SONY DSCTerry Scott Niebeling

Modern Literary Theory and Criticism

Spring 2014

How I Understand Post-Structuralism; Texts and Works and Barthes

Something must have died in the ventilation system a few weeks ago.  The office smells as if it is missing some fresh air.  I think of the smell: a mouse or something, but certainly it is dead.  The smell reeks of death, of decomposition, of something that is gone but still here.  Went bloated, exploded, and now it is just dried flesh and fur.  I think of all those sick ones around me.  How they cough and wheeze, sniffle and sneeze, they try to infect me.  Oh NO!

After catching the cold and becoming sick for a bit, I think I’ll die too.  I think we all will die someday.  I just hope I don’t die from the common cold; One, because the common cold sounds like a whore, Two, because the common whore sounds like a cold.  Then this common death whore cold and the decomposing rodent leave my head.  I forget about the moment as a middle-aged French woman, Doctor proper, with posture, walks up, and with a smile hiding a secret she asks me about some material.  I can help her with her request.  This, that, and the other; with the smell still in my nose, eyes met, horizontal, even, I chat on.  I make sure no one notices what I had noticed before.   That “event” is over.

I am speaking of this, or rather others are speaking of this through me because, if we break it down textually, that is to say (as Barthes says), well, actually do the reading and such, as we all say, we really say it all, that’s what the reading is saying.  The words “common” and “cold” mean so many things.  Common in Shakespearean plays means “whore”, or “peasant” (I guess, well truly), as called Gertrude by Hamlet, “common” [Mother].  We can look for answers before that as well, considering Shakespearean plays are (as we now know) made up of strands (branches) of other texts, forming an intersection of concepts, to produce one (1) apparent concept, which we all agree on, right?  No, not so fast.  Well, let’s go with it anyway: That all of Shakespeare’s works are from a single mastermind genius, that person being Shakespeare, The Bard himself.  Okay, now I take that back…  Shakespeare writes the plays, gives us the language, but the language speaks for him, he is not the language, he is a host for the language.

Language is like a virus, it does what it wants.  HIV (the virus) has meaning, but it does what it wants.  It means if you get it you are fucked.  It also means people have been affected by such a virus; it makes ME think of Freddie Mercury, Heroin, a Nascar Driver from the 80’s (Tim Richmond), and probably the Gay Community.  If we are infected, we die.  HIV is labeled as a killer, but it means so much more in the eyes of different people.  HIV read as a work leaves nothing to explore (it’s been defined, discretely), and it means you are dead, or seriously ill- about to die (you could even die from the common cold!).  HIV read as a text gives us every reason to understand it better, to make a statement about it to others, and to pose a cure.  Better understanding means better preventative tactics i.e. not getting HIV, not getting fucked, and or turning into above said mouse.  I think of Freddie Mercury, and how sad it is that he expired from such a thing.  I think, wow, I don’t wish for that to happen to me.  The same rules apply to language; get some bad language in you, some mixed up concepts, and you die-fact.  Language (as I have been told) carries sediment, that sediment is the itinerary of the language.  You follow?  I do.  I learned all of this in a Modern Literary Theory and Criticism class, from one person with many very thought-provoking ideas.

So the next time someone comes up to you and says they’ve read a text, and they know what it is about, ask them if they do.  And if that person gives you an interpretation rather than a reading, smile, wait a few moments, look away, and then slap them right in their fucking face as hard as you can, literally (which now also means metaphorically, ironically).

That’s not to say that’s it on the topic.  It is only to say that is only a portion of what one needs to know to actually read a text.  When I say “text”, I mean other than “work”, which is the other, and I mean one is better than the other, or rather we are trying to learn from that, in that we are learning from that.  They are the same just designated differently, or poorly designated.  I would venture to guess we use language wrong in a lot of ways.  That being said, one object with one concept does not mean one object with one concept.  Each object carries over concepts and meaning from its past (history).  We cannot build an absolutely new object because we are constructing it of parts of the old object.  We use the same words as Shakespeare did, so how can we possibly come up with completely new concepts without using the old ones, or rather old tools of the old concepts.  We live in a world where language has an origin, but that origin happened so long ago that specific words hold no meaning- none what so ever, but still hold all meaning with too much power and too little understanding.  This misunderstanding being set in place by those in power who seldom understand the words they use.  Language is out of control, and it is spewing from our mouths.  We are made up of things we do not understand.

And this story is a pile of shit for you all to read:

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What is Derrida’s critique of the word “event”, and such?

SONY DSCBright light radiates outside within distant white snow-piles glowing in my eyes.  Cold is the new norm.  What ever happened to warm?  I think of this as it is sunny out.  Where and why are we born?  Did our parent’s parent’s parent’s choose this place because it was the perfect clime, or did they just stop trying?  They must have given up after some time.  I don’t know.  The snow-piles around campus are prominent, asymmetric, and bemoaned.

I carry a cup of coffee with a single shot of espresso; black (Espresso Expose’).  Walking in such wind, in the sunlight, nearing the Student Center, I begin to realize the temperature on my face.  My exposed flesh is being clawed and scraped.  Some gnarled existence, transparent, invisible, is touching my very bones.  I carry some sort of overpriced bean salad in my gloveless hand.  I wear my Chuck Taylor’s today, it is cold, it is February, and I look like a 5 year-old.

Not before the expensive bean salad ($8.00), before the walk to work (20 minutes), not before the coffee ($3.49), before all this (above), I was walking down a flight of stairs.  I thought, what a way to die- I fall down these stairs in full view of all, breaking limb after limb; not dissimilar to Samuel L. Jackson’s character in Unbreakable.  My head smashes on the edge of the stairs, my feet slip initially, and head-over-heels as they say.  What would bruise, what would scab; two things that do not happen.  This dream allows for it not.  Coffee spills on me, I scream-once, and then silence.  This adds insult to injury, very serious injury.  My body lies at the bottom of the stairs, in front of the Student Center, motionless, still smoking from the fancy coffee beverage-what a waste.  At least my bag (Duluth Pack) will look nice in the frigid-day sun.  My Windows phone (Nokia Lumia 710) will vibrate unnoticed.  At least I won’t be able to use my credit card (Visa, Flex Perks) anymore, thankfully-for my family’s sake, life happened like this.  Sometimes life happens like this.  The other idea was a horrible gym accident…

I was dead.  But that was all imaginary.  I walked in, without falling, buy an expensive meal after waiting for some time in a slow line.  Complete bullshit: two registers and one person working.  The other, the manager I assume, is swooning with some bro in the corner.  She has bejeweled pants and is unkempt.  Come help me please, I give that look.  I became impatient.  My earbuds (iPod) still too loud, my headache getting worse, and I think of class earlier.  I was never so happy to get a “C”.  The reason I was so happy to get a “C” will only make sense if I explain the story of getting a “D”, and how it made me very unhappy.  This was all not unlike the expensive salad and the unmoving line.

College is easy, the student makes college hard.  I made college hard, and as Aaron says-sort of:  If it isn’t hard, you aren’t learnin’.   Bro…   And Derrida completely fucked me.  The center is somewhere where I am getting fucked by post-structuralism and discreteness, ambivalent ideas, and conclusive answers on subjective topics (and I use both of those words purposefully, the sentence becomes oxymoronic).  Language has baggage and there is no originality.  We all use the Origin Text.  These are someone else’s words and works; it has all been done before.

I sit in class moderately confused, moderately ecstatic.  I am handed back my paper.  It reads:  “disorganized: C”.  …

YES!  I got a passing grade!  All the excitement, all the jazz, all the show, only moments before our professor basically told us if we couldn’t answer his questions about plot and narrative properly that he would walk out of the class, walk to a Wal-Mart, or “wherever”, purchase a gun, and blow his brains out.  This is true-fact.  I saw it this morning with my D-student eyes.  Thankfully, we answered the question half-right, so he said he would just blow off his leg; only one.  He then described how he would come into class on Wednesday.  He would be late because of said gunshot wound.  I held my paper.  The sun’s reflection momentarily held my attention.  He didn’t ask me to answer the question.  I could not stop laughing on the inside.  On the outside I was lost.  I told him “Man had to follow the rules of God to become more like God.”  He told me I was wrong, and that nothing in the Locke reading had anything to do with God.  He was half right.  The snow-piles were so high across the way, out the window.

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