Monday, March 27, 2006

Communications From Elsewhere ""Sexuality is dead," says Lacan; however, according to de Selby[1] , it is not so much sexuality that is dead, but rather the genre, and thus the collapse, of sexuality. If material dematerialism holds, the works of Madonna are empowering. But Reicher[2] implies that we have to choose between the dialectic paradigm of narrative and subsemanticist cultural theory.

"Society is fundamentally meaningless," says Lacan. In Sex, Madonna reiterates material dematerialism; in Erotica, however, she analyses the dialectic paradigm of reality. Therefore, Baudrillard promotes the use of neopatriarchialist nihilism to modify and read culture.

The premise of the dialectic paradigm of narrative suggests that the law is dead, given that capitalist theory is valid. In a sense, if the dialectic paradigm of narrative holds, we have to choose between the dialectic paradigm of reality and the predialectic paradigm of consensus
."

A very cogent critique is offered by Decova and Antonopoulos; I strongly suggest all of you read it. Insofar as we are taking potshots at the incorrigible, incoherent and unintelligible granolafucks over on Livejournal, I am behooven to write a few words about the gleeful incomprehensibility that so perniciously plagues historiography. What follows below will be the events of my day, written about with the portentous aloofness of a thoroughly inarticulate historian, communicating that aloofness through intransigence concerning any fact, datum or axiom that might furnish a greater understanding of what has been written. For example, in E.J. Feuchtwanger's biography of William Gladstone, Feuchtwanger goes to great lengths to keep the reader unaware of exactly who the Earl Granville is (is he an Earl or is that his last name?) and what he does, to the point that he tiptoes like Randy Moss like staying in bound and endures semantic gymnastics more suited to a philanderer.

If today began with the inimitable optimism of a bright Sunday in Muddy York, incorporated in 1834 in the mid-Victorian Peelite tradition as an enclosed harbour on the Lake, it was unknown to me. This Sunday, the thirteenth of the year, was hardly an approximation nor a denouement for a student facing three essays in the week that would herald Opening Day at its summation, but rather was at its start the latest in a chain of post-dawn jaunts along the pavement. That today's dozen and one half kilometres, save one, came in the late-morning was inimical to the author, planning fully on the conclusion of a paper on sexual ethics, if not a hearty breakfast of pancakes.

Self-referential and exuding tautological heuristics, the mid-way point was reached in forty minutes a mere stone's throw from the Luminous Veil. The uphill return, the exit from Todmodern Mills coming along a narrow path not unlike those found on mountain roads in the north of Pakistan, themselves indirectly the subject of a feature in the Globe and Mail this week, was somewhat quicker in thirty-eight minutes. The streetcar ride to Starbucks, then, can be viewed as emblematic of what Verlyn Klinkenborg termed "not quite the new April" in the Sunday Times. The glory, self-deprecation and locomotive strain undertaken earlier was lost in a veritable savannah of vibrant leisure in Kensington Market in the moments prior.

With the remnants of the gastronomic misadventure undertaken on a grand avenue that is home to Toronto's second Chinatown, the first having been razed for Hannskarl Bandel's signature work north of the forty-ninth parallel, present and yet dormant in the inhospitable biome of the refrigerator, there was no need for takeout pizza as was often the case from the aforementioned locomotive strain. The second meal would, however, occur, following a trip to the sprawling bibliotheca located on a street named, likely without relevance, for the patron saint of England, at Pizza Nova. In the event, the vegetarian slice would cost far more than the mean inverse of the income of the humanistic inverse of an inhabitant of the North American Great Lakes, found, of course, in an inhabitant of the African Great Lakes. Nonetheless, at a lofty four dollars and seventy-six cents, the victory was at least Pyrrhic and likely moral as well.

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