Big Planet


In rhapsody on June 3, 2009 at 4:21 pm

I remember it was through Federico Garcia Lorca’s theory and play of the duende—my first reading material in college—that I encountered a certain integration of sensibility that we find in John Donne, far from the malaise of dissociation of thought and feeling that T.S. Eliot attribute to John Milton and whelps. Studying here in the university where Horace’s utile et dulce was more pronounced as a lived structure than an articulation, I felt an amorous dialectic of pleasure and logos took place in my soul. It was in the Hegelian sublation of the binaries LIA/COM, accounting/literature and finance/art that made this enterprise of knowing sublate or aufgehoben into an erotics of learning, culminating into a final reading of De La Salle as texte du jouissance, to borrow Roland Barthes’ terminology on the pleasurable unreadability of the modern novel. I am filled with the bliss of interpretation that Susan Sontag sings in her metacriticism, with the gayness that Friedrich Nietzsche desired of science, with the Renaissance delight expressed by the fictional William of Baskerville, in the author-ity of Umberto Eco, whose postmodern obligation it was to make truth laugh. Graduating with a Bachelor’s degree of commerce and communication greets me with aporia, for this is a point of undecidability and impasse to which the literal, non-metonymic sense of philo sophia gives rise in a regime of utility and industrial expediency. But the seductions of indeterminacy are upon me! What cautions me from abducting, in the manner of Charles Sanders Peirce, a particular teleology of the self from Lyotard’s grand recit of corporate destiny is ars scientia. The bibliophilic conceit of Jorge Borges contaminates Michel Foucault’s aesthetics of existence in positing the university as a text, the world as a book, life as literature. And with the ecstasy of deferral and divagation in Jacques Derrida and Julia Kristeva, I play in this diegesis of meanings, as an other-among-others according to Paul Ricoeur, uncovering permutations and possible alignments of Ferdinand de Saussure’s axes of significations. This economy of the plurality of signs has the attribute of Jean Baudrillard’s implosion. With that, I caution myself that this attempt at a misprision of Ecriture must in the end be marked as mere autoeroticism, no more. A discourse characterized by the supplementarity of Rousseauist masturbation. A systematic Freudian repression of my body politic. There is danger in drowning Hannah Arendt’s vita activa in plenitude. But what at-oneness with Heidegger’s Being, what Aristotelian catharsis, what Whitmanian rapture and rhapsody sing my body electric in this peripeteia of life! Et in Arcadia glossolalia.

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