"Third Sophistic postmodern posthuman transrhetoric(s)."
-Michelle Ballif.
"Writing the Third-Sophistic Cyborg: Periphrasis on an [In]Tense Rhetoric." Rhetoric Society Quarterly 28.4 (1998), 51-72.
// What does this mean?
// I have no idea
/ but
/ as far as congeries goes
/ it puts bell hooks's
/ white supremacist capitalist patriarchy
/ to shame.
///
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
a romantic evening with Thomas Rickert's Acts of Enjoyment
I was feeling pretty good, all in the mood and whatnot, and looking forward to my third date with Thomas, who I started calling Thommy on our first date. "Can I call you Thommy," I says to him. "I'd rather you didn't," Thommy says, but I figured he was joking so I started calling him Thommy anyway. The first date went pretty good, we seemed like we was hitting it off. The second date was a little rocky though. Thommy, he's got a mouth on him. Boy, he sure likes to talk. And all the time he's talking about some other bitch named Slavoj. Always with the Slavoj this, and the Jacques that. Now, technically, me and Thommy, we aren't an item. We're not what you'd call going steady. So I don't have room to be getting all jealous, so I just cringe and let all that talk about "Slavoj says" and "Jacques said" go right by me.
But so like I said, the second date didn't go so good, so I was hoping this third date would be better. I was having Thommy over for dinner, so I had on my best Merle Haggard record (nothing says lovin like Merle), had lit up a bunch of smell-good candles, and I was cooking up some penne alla napolitana, my specialty. I was hoping to get Thommy in the mood for love. I mean, I don't want to rush into anything, but a gal's got needs.
Thommy comes in and gets straight to talking. I offer him a glass of my best wine, a 2008 merlot, out of the big box, but Thommy starts in about how sulfites give him headaches. So I give him a beer, which he proceeds to nurse throughout the evening and left without finishing more than half the can. So we sit at the table while the pasta finishes and we talk.
So I says to Thommy, "Tell me about yourself, Thommy. Tell me about who you are," I says.
So then Thommy starts in all philosophical and stuff. "Language is not the only medium through which the subject achieves identity," says Thommy, "(through signifiers, or, more properly, what Lacan calls Master Signifiers—brother, sister, student, teacher, Christian, bourgeois, lover, and so forth, ad infinitum) but also the medium through which we represent ourselves to society."
"Oh yeah," I says. "You got a brother? Sister? You say you're a teacher, a Christian?"
"In other words," Thommy says, "we seek identity in many signifiers, and these signifiers form chains with other signifiers, but without any achievement or harmony or unitary stability."
"Signifiers," I says. "Right. Unitary stability, uh-huh. So what does your brother do?"
"Yet it is also the case," Thommy says, "that the ways we represent ourselves and the ways others represent us are seldom the same."
"Ok yeah," I says. "So tell me, what shows you like? You like any sports?"
"We see here again a demonstration that the subject is not simply a confluence of multiple and competing subject positions," Thommy says, "but is fundamentally fissured, with no possibility of achieving a harmonious wholeness" (92).
"Speaking of harmonious wholeness," I says, "I think dinner's about ready." So I dished us out each a heaping plate of the penne and we set to it.
"We see here already in germinal form," Thommy says, pushing pasta around with his fork, "the problem so often confronted in the practical classroom application of cultural studies pedagogies…"
"Cultural studies whatagogies?" I says.
"…adaptable students easily accommodate themselves to what the curriculum requires, but there is little evidence that much of what is taught sticks—except the very lesson in flexibility."
"I'll give you a lesson in flexibility," is what I'm thinking, but I don't say that. No way. Instead, I says, "Oh yeah. You're a teacher ain't you. Tell me about it. You like it?"
"From critiquing objectionable advertisements," says Thommy, "to analyzing sexist television programs, the mutable student-subject can easily accomplish the required tasks."
"I know all about that," says I. "I was always good at accomplishing the required tasks."
"The real problem," Thommy says, "is inevitably the 'fixed' subject. The stereotypical 'biased' student who refuses to adapt or actively resists changing positions or shifting boundaries becomes the primary problem requiring redress."
I looked down, but I wasn't wearing my red dress. I had on a slinky black number.
"In some senses," Thommy says, "this is precisely the reason for the resurgence of the problem concerning subjectivity."
"So what do you teach?" I says. "I'm guessing it ain't arithmetic."
"Perhaps a better way to proceed," says Thommy, "is to stop seeing this inability to pin down the truth of subjectivity and lay bare its contingent, socio-historical givenness within flows of power as a problem in the first place" (74).
"Uh-huh," I says, the whole time watching him pick the black olives and the fresh basil out and just eating the pasta and cheese. Guess he ain't a vegetarian. Thommy must be a picky guy, I thinks. I hope he likes me. But then he starts in on that damn Slavoj again, and this continues until desert. All I had was some chocolate ice cream, but Thommy said that would do. When I gave him a bowl and a spoon, he asked for a fork. He said he only ever eats chocolate ice cream with a metal fork or a plastic spoon. So yeah, I guess he is picky.
So Thommy says to me as he's eating his chocolate ice cream with a fork, "In the age of media amplification…"
And I says, "Excuse me?"
"(the age of the boom box, we might say)…"
"Boom box?" I says. "Who said anything about some stinking boom box?"
"…the problem," Thommy says, "is not just that it is sometimes difficult to find the spaces to listen…"
"Really," I says, "who still uses a boom box? You think this is 1988 or something?"
"…it is oftentimes it is no longer in our interests to do so."
"What," I says, "you think you're John Cusack or something? You going to play me a Neil Diamond song now?"
"Or, as Zizek states," Thommy says. Always with the damned Slavoj. "'Love thy neighbor? No, thanks!'" (72).
Then he made me watch this video on his fancy internet phone.
By that time I could tell tonight was not my night. I was not getting lucky tonight, no sir. I was starting to think maybe me and Thommy ain't such a good match any way, but that's what you get with those internet dating sites I guess. But then Thommy starts in on desire.
"We cannot with any certainty determine," Thommy says, "what the desire of the Other is or answer the question of what the Other wants."
I figured if he'd just shut up for a few second and look at me, he'd figure out right quick what this Other desires.
"Freud never figured out what women wanted," Thommy says.
"No shit," I think but don't say. Freud never figured out what anyone wanted beyond boning their parents, that freak.
"And so it goes," says Thommy. "The desire of the Other plays a primary role in shaping who we are (as Lacan formulates it, desire is the desire of the Other), yet in the end we can never be sure about what that desire is."
He starts talking about my desires, and I get all hot again.
"We are interminably ensnared in this unanswerable question," Thommy says.
The idea of getting interminably ensnared with Thommy gets me all worked up and I have to use my napkin as a fan.
"Even with those whom we know the best," says Thommy, "or love the most, there is never any surety" (88).
Who said anything about love? Boy, maybe Thommy's one of those guys who jumps right into the love thing.
"We wonder: Is that what they really meant?" says Thommy. "Does the other really love/like/respect me? They can tell us so a hundred times, but still we wonder" (88-89).
Right then, I'm all hot and bothered I'm about to start telling Thommy a hundred times that I like him, but then he starts talking about Jacques this and Slavoj that. And instead I tell him it's been fun by I got an early morning. He goes out the door still rambling about Slavoj said, and Jacques says, and whatnot. Talking about some Berlin so-and-so, and someone named Acorn or something. I blew out all the candles, turned Merle off, put the box wine back in the fridge, and Tupperwared the leftover pasta. I thought, that's it. I'm done with Thommy.
But then the next day he sends me this sweet text, says he liked seeing me, wants to see me again next week. Wants to take me to a funhouse or some such. So I figure, well, shucks. Thommy likes me. I guess I'll give him another chance or three. Maybe we'll fall in love and make little baby Thommys. But he'd probably want to name them Slavoj.
But so like I said, the second date didn't go so good, so I was hoping this third date would be better. I was having Thommy over for dinner, so I had on my best Merle Haggard record (nothing says lovin like Merle), had lit up a bunch of smell-good candles, and I was cooking up some penne alla napolitana, my specialty. I was hoping to get Thommy in the mood for love. I mean, I don't want to rush into anything, but a gal's got needs.
Thommy comes in and gets straight to talking. I offer him a glass of my best wine, a 2008 merlot, out of the big box, but Thommy starts in about how sulfites give him headaches. So I give him a beer, which he proceeds to nurse throughout the evening and left without finishing more than half the can. So we sit at the table while the pasta finishes and we talk.
So I says to Thommy, "Tell me about yourself, Thommy. Tell me about who you are," I says.
So then Thommy starts in all philosophical and stuff. "Language is not the only medium through which the subject achieves identity," says Thommy, "(through signifiers, or, more properly, what Lacan calls Master Signifiers—brother, sister, student, teacher, Christian, bourgeois, lover, and so forth, ad infinitum) but also the medium through which we represent ourselves to society."
"Oh yeah," I says. "You got a brother? Sister? You say you're a teacher, a Christian?"
"In other words," Thommy says, "we seek identity in many signifiers, and these signifiers form chains with other signifiers, but without any achievement or harmony or unitary stability."
"Signifiers," I says. "Right. Unitary stability, uh-huh. So what does your brother do?"
"Yet it is also the case," Thommy says, "that the ways we represent ourselves and the ways others represent us are seldom the same."
"Ok yeah," I says. "So tell me, what shows you like? You like any sports?"
"We see here again a demonstration that the subject is not simply a confluence of multiple and competing subject positions," Thommy says, "but is fundamentally fissured, with no possibility of achieving a harmonious wholeness" (92).
"Speaking of harmonious wholeness," I says, "I think dinner's about ready." So I dished us out each a heaping plate of the penne and we set to it.
"We see here already in germinal form," Thommy says, pushing pasta around with his fork, "the problem so often confronted in the practical classroom application of cultural studies pedagogies…"
"Cultural studies whatagogies?" I says.
"…adaptable students easily accommodate themselves to what the curriculum requires, but there is little evidence that much of what is taught sticks—except the very lesson in flexibility."
"I'll give you a lesson in flexibility," is what I'm thinking, but I don't say that. No way. Instead, I says, "Oh yeah. You're a teacher ain't you. Tell me about it. You like it?"
"From critiquing objectionable advertisements," says Thommy, "to analyzing sexist television programs, the mutable student-subject can easily accomplish the required tasks."
"I know all about that," says I. "I was always good at accomplishing the required tasks."
"The real problem," Thommy says, "is inevitably the 'fixed' subject. The stereotypical 'biased' student who refuses to adapt or actively resists changing positions or shifting boundaries becomes the primary problem requiring redress."
I looked down, but I wasn't wearing my red dress. I had on a slinky black number.
"In some senses," Thommy says, "this is precisely the reason for the resurgence of the problem concerning subjectivity."
"So what do you teach?" I says. "I'm guessing it ain't arithmetic."
"Perhaps a better way to proceed," says Thommy, "is to stop seeing this inability to pin down the truth of subjectivity and lay bare its contingent, socio-historical givenness within flows of power as a problem in the first place" (74).
"Uh-huh," I says, the whole time watching him pick the black olives and the fresh basil out and just eating the pasta and cheese. Guess he ain't a vegetarian. Thommy must be a picky guy, I thinks. I hope he likes me. But then he starts in on that damn Slavoj again, and this continues until desert. All I had was some chocolate ice cream, but Thommy said that would do. When I gave him a bowl and a spoon, he asked for a fork. He said he only ever eats chocolate ice cream with a metal fork or a plastic spoon. So yeah, I guess he is picky.
So Thommy says to me as he's eating his chocolate ice cream with a fork, "In the age of media amplification…"
And I says, "Excuse me?"
"(the age of the boom box, we might say)…"
"Boom box?" I says. "Who said anything about some stinking boom box?"
"…the problem," Thommy says, "is not just that it is sometimes difficult to find the spaces to listen…"
"Really," I says, "who still uses a boom box? You think this is 1988 or something?"
"…it is oftentimes it is no longer in our interests to do so."
"What," I says, "you think you're John Cusack or something? You going to play me a Neil Diamond song now?"
"Or, as Zizek states," Thommy says. Always with the damned Slavoj. "'Love thy neighbor? No, thanks!'" (72).
Then he made me watch this video on his fancy internet phone.
By that time I could tell tonight was not my night. I was not getting lucky tonight, no sir. I was starting to think maybe me and Thommy ain't such a good match any way, but that's what you get with those internet dating sites I guess. But then Thommy starts in on desire.
"We cannot with any certainty determine," Thommy says, "what the desire of the Other is or answer the question of what the Other wants."
I figured if he'd just shut up for a few second and look at me, he'd figure out right quick what this Other desires.
"Freud never figured out what women wanted," Thommy says.
"No shit," I think but don't say. Freud never figured out what anyone wanted beyond boning their parents, that freak.
"And so it goes," says Thommy. "The desire of the Other plays a primary role in shaping who we are (as Lacan formulates it, desire is the desire of the Other), yet in the end we can never be sure about what that desire is."
He starts talking about my desires, and I get all hot again.
"We are interminably ensnared in this unanswerable question," Thommy says.
The idea of getting interminably ensnared with Thommy gets me all worked up and I have to use my napkin as a fan.
"Even with those whom we know the best," says Thommy, "or love the most, there is never any surety" (88).
Who said anything about love? Boy, maybe Thommy's one of those guys who jumps right into the love thing.
"We wonder: Is that what they really meant?" says Thommy. "Does the other really love/like/respect me? They can tell us so a hundred times, but still we wonder" (88-89).
Right then, I'm all hot and bothered I'm about to start telling Thommy a hundred times that I like him, but then he starts talking about Jacques this and Slavoj that. And instead I tell him it's been fun by I got an early morning. He goes out the door still rambling about Slavoj said, and Jacques says, and whatnot. Talking about some Berlin so-and-so, and someone named Acorn or something. I blew out all the candles, turned Merle off, put the box wine back in the fridge, and Tupperwared the leftover pasta. I thought, that's it. I'm done with Thommy.
But then the next day he sends me this sweet text, says he liked seeing me, wants to see me again next week. Wants to take me to a funhouse or some such. So I figure, well, shucks. Thommy likes me. I guess I'll give him another chance or three. Maybe we'll fall in love and make little baby Thommys. But he'd probably want to name them Slavoj.
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