Friday, October 08, 2004

supplementing derrida

When someone dies,
time unfolds differently,
proceeds like a secret
housed within the everydayness
of flows at a slower speed.

Derrida names (the concept of) singularity
by the word secret,
that every gebild and every gestalt
is the bearer of a trace
which is an expressionofitself

Derrida.
Gone at 74.
Ousia and parousia.
A gramme of daddy-deconstruction
disseminating impossibilities and undecidables
of his own differance,
his punning play
withinwithout the text of grammapragmatology,
the task of de-conception equal to its interlacing stitch,
the back-and-forth of a shuttle to a loom
weaving fabricated sous-rature,
archi writing means an interval that separates the present
from whatitisnot, that constitutes its present
by also dividing it from everything that is thought
inside a metaphysical language that names it
spacing as becoming-space of time
or becoming-time of space,
chimes its temporization.
His archi-trace a place,
describes an interval that fills up now
with an originary and irreducible synthesis
of marks that reproduce a transcendental language
which proves itself inadequate
as simultaneous spacing and temporization into words
that pray upon neologizing chains of nonsynonymoussubstitutions
according to each neccessary differ
a
nce.
But that's another story.

And here's the point of loss of life,
that in some small sense
physical death is like those little deaths
contained within the end of any assemblage
which blankets nearandfarness at first glance
to fit Hamlet's roque reprise that 'time is out of joint'
to describe what disrupts the flux of everydayness
from within

"...time outside itself, beside itself, unhinged; it is not gathered together in its place, in its present" (Derrida & F)


And having lived inside his question.
How he asks, if now can be rendered non-contemporary to itself,
if time exists without a relationship to his story,
as if history revels in disjointed time,
performing like a dislocated bone,
stops working in a sideways slide beyondoneself somehow.
Timeoutofjoint,
a mystical malaise
of knot-belonging.
Being in it, yet not of it
by the simultaneous largeandsmall
of exagerated allatonceness,
on a wireless stream of outsighs

"Our time is perhaps the time in which it is no longer so easy for us to say 'our time'." (Derrida & F)


the imagination
as a source
of meditation,
spiritual fountain,
paradox of constant renewalinhope.
Ergodic loop of life to death
and everything within a system distilled
into a questionofimagination
by what designates its varied languages
and other ambiguities

"...the place where the system does not close. It is, at the same time, the place where the system constitutes itself and where this constitution is threatened, by the heterogeneous and by a fiction no longer at the service of truth."
(Derrida & F)


Possibility of academic thinkers becoming untimely,
like artists do, like you, dies a little death at each resolve.

"...the interpretation of history as development, in which something that is contemporary to itself -self-contemporary- can succeed something that is past. Paradoxically, the idea of contemporaneity as a relationship reconciled with itself in the 'now' of a present is in fact a classical idea, and belongs to all that is not contemporary, from Plato to Hegel: it is precisely what is put into question by the 'contemporaries'. For Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Heidegger, there is no 'now us' - this dislocation, which may well be more vividly experienced by the philosophers we call 'contemporaries' than by the others, is what interests me." (Derrida & F)


If systems imply a certain historicity,
how can one exist within them
while still maintaining the premise that there is no 'now us'?
Can authenticity and systematization co-exist?
Remembering how Cambridge denounced Derrida's writings
as absurdist doctrines in 1992.
The only way to presume the possible co-existence
of these two paradoxical elements is to rediscover
what Derrida tries to implore within
his hopeofdeconstruction not as an anti-systematic process
but as a search for its impossibility,
dis locating force which limits totalization
as an act of shouting that a system does not work
until it breaks down to include the other
and paradoxically completes itself when it fails,
that when it falls, one desires it most.
In this sense,

"deconstruction...is an attempt to train the beam of analysis onto this disjointing link" (Derrida & F)


Having wrestled with alternative approaches
to writing academic re-search
and never wanting to assume
that there are only two ways to write
the either/or of overworked presumptions,
one prefers the and-and-and
as if the choice is not a binary one
but a continuum like death becoming an amalgam
of nothingness and rebirth,
like options yet-to-be-considered.

There are no final solutions
for Derrida-becoming-Levinas
by his post-structuralist notion of displacement
meaning never to arrive
and always co-terminus with an unending chain of substitutions
that write untimely thoughts
within the guise of academe that has no 'now us'
by pouring process into research ethics that re sound
with Kant's third,
with Appollinaire's zoned imagination
and with derrida-deleuzeguattari's hope
in justice-yet-to-be.


Farewell
to
Jacques
Derrida
(1930-2004)



http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/3729844.stm


http://permanent.nouvelobs.com/culture/20041009.OBS8650.html



10 Comments:

Blogger in vino veritas [in wine, there is truth] said...

at the risk of 'things becoming weird', I'll tell you that after having read this I am literally in awe of your mind; I've considered these thoughts specifically and others generally, and am certain to have seen only a glimpse of the range and depth as you exercise yourself, playing with ideas that strike you for whatever reason, at whatever time, and I am - awed ... left to fill in the blanks of a life that has created and nurtured such reflection; I have long considered 'time out of joint' to describe a malaise I was experiencing, borrowing it from a description of Chopin's Op. 9, No. 1 (b-flat minor) ... a sublime feeling of discomfort in a time that ... didn't fit, for whatever reason, and adapted it to describe a time of life, a given moment ... and you, you play with words and images and ideas like an adult playing with a child, manipulating a world that you've created and nurtured and are aware is far more vast and nuanced than a child could ever perceive, and yet draw from the child's world ... crafting ideas of your own and spinning those in mind and play already ... and I'm at a loss but in awe, respectfully so, of a mind I can't quite determine the limits of, because it's not quite within the realm of the cartesian or creative, but rather plays in each as it sees fit, or when it wants to and needs to ... and I've stumbled across your musings and reflections as I might a tree root on a little used path of some distant trail - and am always surprised at what I find.

And always pleasantly so.

10:08 p.m.  
Blogger name of the rose said...

Well your comments are kind...
And here I was thinking that my last comment to you
had potentially wierded y o u out....

'Time out of joint' describes how I experienced the death of a family member, the loss of a relationship and also a prolonged period of inertia (like a dead zone) at one point in my life. All those things fit perfectly into four mere words and oh to be Shakespearean.

I am curious about what it take to shake a soul-chilling malaise, what realigns time back into the 'now us' of it? I always wonder what that moment is that shifts perception back into a positivity.

As Picasso used to say,

" It takes one a long time to become young. "

...ever striving to recapture that kind of open-ness, in some small sense, like yours to chopin, like how you phrase things...and yes, children are the best teachers, clean-slate reminders of an all-encompassing opennesstopossibilities.


Ultimately, I am humbled by this particular comment of yours...And will just add that I enjoy your thoughts.
The way you phrase things in generous consideration.

11:30 p.m.  
Blogger in vino veritas [in wine, there is truth] said...

in wine - truth; and we'll leave it at that ... and mention that Brel as well references what Picasso does, in 'les vieux amants', somehow fitting ...

[Finalement finalement
Il nous fallut bien du talent
Pour être vieux sans être adultes]

[soul-chilling malaise] - were that I to have an answer to that ...

1:33 a.m.  
Blogger name of the rose said...

For Brel,
merci.

It fits...

...the tender war of love between les vieux amants


[Finalement finalement
Il nous fallut bien du talent
Pour être vieux sans être adultes]

1:13 p.m.  
Blogger in vino veritas [in wine, there is truth] said...

wow ... now I'm feeling uncomfortable; I've followed closely and with great interest the post from today - stage left ... presidential debate ... theatre ... parkinsons ... agent orange ... and now it's gone ... and I was looking forward to how you decided you liked it in its final form, having followed some of its deviations ... and I liked it alot, if only because it was revealing in a way that hasn't been the case previously .. did you decide that you didn't like it?

this is a first; I haven't see a deletion before.

10:02 p.m.  
Blogger name of the rose said...

...it's just one of those days when I doubt myself, when words fail...

Hard to explain...that piece reads as you described, but also connects an issue to someone I lost on Oct 12 and I posted for this time of year, but also in response to what I perceived to be the lack of humanity on both sides of the bush-kerry debate concerning embryonic stem cell research.

Then I questioned my motives for posting it.
But since you made mention of it, its back up...
Do you ever second guess yourself or find it hard to see (what you write) objectively?

thanks for commenting on it...

11:53 p.m.  
Blogger in vino veritas [in wine, there is truth] said...

yes, I have questioned my motives for posting, for the most part recently, conscious that perhaps what I was writing was influenced by factors independent of myself, with motives exterior to my primary focus; it has been the source of some consternation lately, as I grapple with the idea that others are necessarily reading what I write, affecting what and how I write; I deleted then republished 'looking forward', because I wasn't comfortable with it - then kept it, because it was true, and was something that I wouldn't have reconsidered only a few months ago, before I began actively engaging comments, were it to be written as a pure journal entry, as I'd intended this to be.

against my better judgment, just recently, I looked into your ideas and am familiar with the source of your writing on this ... and read attentively your words on embryonic stem cell research, though I am for the most part unfamiliar with it, but know that it is something that is particularly close to you, and that affected you and yours not long ago; I too am all-too-familiar with loss, though it's always personal and indescribable.

one of my concerns is that because I comment on what you write, your writing and ideas are somehow affected, which bothers me a bit ... and is the reason that I normally tend(ed) to sort of stay in the shadows, keeping a distance which allows one to work and think without becoming too influenced by those observing ...

but, I'm glad that you re-posted this. it's a good piece.

12:39 a.m.  
Blogger name of the rose said...

Your comments are always thoughtful and informative. While I write for the process of laying words across the screen...the play of it, its rhythm, there is no denying the public/private dichotomy of this medium.

It's interesting to me that you sometimes return parts of my original text after it has evolved into another form, which affords a chance to take a sideways glance. Being able to compare states in a progression is not so easy within the medium of writing and much easier within (visual) printmaking processes. Revisiting earlier versions of these texts, as you send them back to me, reminds me that I always end up with a greater affinity for those initial strokes that seem more honest, closer to the feelingbehindanidea one is trying to capture...In this way, your comments d o affect me in a positive regard, since they give me pause to see my words from the insideout, from the kaleidescope of progression-after-the-fact. Its a rare opportunity that also speaks (well) of your character, that you take the time to do that with someone else's writing.

Looking Forward at first glance, had a completely different ending to it and it was interesting to see how you changed it, as if the process of writing it resolved something for you, something about you within the confluence of that writing space as time-rearranged within this timeandplace, this assemblage of you thenandnow. When I read your words, I always wonder if the people you write about are reading you and whether you want them to see your thoughts or not.

[...keeping a distance which allows one to work and think without becoming too influenced by those observing...]

[but, I'm glad that you re-posted this. it's a good piece.]...btw you did influence that decision...

As for loss, it is timeoutofjoint and therefore, as you suggest [indescribable]. And even so, it still compells us/me to strive for its expression.

11:42 a.m.  
Blogger in vino veritas [in wine, there is truth] said...

I was recently confronted with someone referenced in my ideas having stumbled on them ['stumbled' is not quite the word, as it was an active process], as they're not really intended to be read by anyone but me and the occasional person who may stop in - and though I thought that I'd be more affected by it, I wasn't really; I was almost casually indifferent - and I mentioned it. With the exception of the things addressed to specific people, or those 'open' ideas that are placed in another public forum with the very slight possibilty of being seen - though highly improbable - none will ever read these ideas; it's not so much the purpose - and to read them - the entirety - would be surprising and upsetting to most I suspect, the last thing that I would want.

I thought of addressing my thoughts on this most recent - the only, in fact - person to have read through them, and still may. It's a response that would be typical of anyone else who'd find it, I think - and perhaps even less extreme. As she promised not to return, and seemed even embarrassed by it, I thought that it would be strange to address it - like the [double capture] you alluded to previously, or a calling card and a reminder of what would be a broken promise, were she to come across it.

[it is on these grey days of soul, when times are out of joint] ... is the way that a thought began in what almost seems like an eternity ago ... if I'm not mistaken, there is a description of eternity in joyce's 'a portrait of the artist ...' of a bird carrying a single grain of sand each year or every thousand years, to the same place, after which there is created something of a small mountain ... and that is only a fraction of eternity.

seems like ages ago. perspective.

6:40 p.m.  
Blogger name of the rose said...

Beautiful thoughts of yours becoming Joyce's bird with grains of sand growing mountains of fractions of eternities...reminds me of something I recently read about butterflies, how they migrate thousands of
miles, that it takes four generations to reach their destination, each one dying before they arrive, never seeing the journey in its entirety, always living the infinitive, always in the act of arriving but never 'being arrived'. Collective memory carrying them along? As we travel through various understandings, maybe personal insights ripple outward laterally across other lives, touching patterns we can't quite see up close.

I understand the need to write to rearrange understandings and why you would chose to post them to a public/private space.,,writing to the void.

And yes to understanding [it is on these grey days of soul, when times are out of joint]...

7:37 p.m.  

Post a Comment

<< Home