Saturday, August 26, 2006

a little song to myself


Maybe I'll post during the next week, maybe not—during the next couple of weeks; or maybe not. Anyway, I won't be away for long. I won't abandon you (though we may wish to move to a new place—I'll be clear).

You've probably not caught up with me anyway.

A couple of years ago, I started a blog as literary work—or, I should say: "literary" work, since my Derridean mode prevails, there overtly, but tacitly most days: Largely I displace myself in non-ironic kindrednesses, say: our reliabilities, entrusted presumptiveness of a lifeworld working. (I'm in good mental health—weird online, maybe, funny in person, well-anchored at heart.)

The literary "blog" was initially a rebellion against the ephemerality and idle chatter of the form, beginning there almost perfectly like some Absolute Beginning—which became a series of calculated spontaneities ("spontaneities" narrated) that portended some grand journey unfolding—which was valid emblematically (or metonymically), as the work-anticipated actually began many years ago, and I was now experimenting with confessional (tacitly as recapitulative reconstruction).

The conception soon outstripped my available time for continuing it regularly in the investigative register it became (quickly beyond calculated pretension). So, I stopped the project in order to rethink my sense of where I'm going with it (relative to the past it was anticipating in its genuine current of inspiration)—which happened hand in hand with needing to rethink that introduction to Habermasian studies (you know), so the two together commingled reflectively into a hybrid sense of each that hasn't yet gone online. Yet, I will continue each eventually, out of the mirrorplay I am (like the Heideggerian "thing": mind ajar), "blog" as authentic journal, brief essays as genuinely growing topics, though each had already always been that, in their preliminary ways.

Meanwhile (the past year or so), those interests have been supplementary to other work, and lately I'm feeling more willingness to write my own way online (which hasn't really begun yet), rather than just continuing the basic work-in-progress through private relations. I have no idea to what degree online work will be derivative of basic work or will itself be basic work ongoing (the real work, if you will). Either way, a reader wouldn't see the difference, as authorship has its own integrity, writing is writing.

The real work has to be led by the things themselves rather than by anticipating some specific audience ("things" including a rigorous sense of "ordinary language," born of that philosophical tradition—you know: "how to do things with words," the therapeutic rhetoric of a philosophical manor). Derivatively-public work has to trust that it finds an audience, rather than catering to a vain desire for attention. (I'm not seeking recognition now, just maximal time for the work. If you're interested, great; if you're not, I—with all due respect—couldn't care less.) The things themselves will create their ownmost audience—if not now, then whenever; if never, OK; learning never ends (And by the way, though I don't invite comment via the blog, email me, and I might change my mind. But I prefer private email interaction. So, if you're trying to figure my worth for your time by looking for comments by others, you're a fool.)

Anyway, blog notes here may be very irregular over coming years, but I'll be having a great time (as I do regularly) in The Silence, which'll always end relatively soon, unless I die (which I won't be able to report, of course). OK: If The Silence lasts more than a couple of months, I'm dead—which is to avow commitment to keeping this somewhat up to date, as correlate of staying alive.

Sunday, August 20, 2006

I'm meritocratic, not undemocratic.



I have to tell you, I see the blogosphere as largely the new genre of idle chatter. I have no interest in the narcissism of "IMO" spiels, and I really don't care to be widely read. (That bell curve in high school is humanity writ small, and I've always been in the tiny right percentile, which is not lonely, but which, thank goodness, gives me more cherished solitude, of which I never have enough). I also don't wish to spend my scarce free time writing things unrelated to my philosophical life (which tends toward a monographic conception). Elitist? Hey, I'll vote for meritocracy over populist sovereignty any day.