yesterday, the calliope. Last week, the Ferris wheel.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
I (small i that is) passed by Stonehenge this week. This timely post by Tim echoed by the same words Pasted on the side of a truck" Tardis Painting. Whoosh. The M25 can be a bugger. Zing! at Fleet Services and whoosh, we're on the M3 heading bearing Cook's Plymouth and Drake's Dorset before offroading into the wet bogs of East Avalon. (You guessed it-Glastonbury). The old aisle of saints and crows presenting themselves in the heavens, in a quieter, more ethereal Somerset. So I welcome this post, as I often do by Tim, because as Stonehenge appears from the road as small bricks against such a magnificent skyline as Wiltshire offers (and even tho Spinal Tap did cover this context in which Stonehenge can seem "small") I nevertheless hope that I am not overmining by choosing to fixate on such massive, solid objects.
Trucks whoosh, and glazed eyes on the motorway, are one perspective. But also, fruits and trees in their becoming, horses that are gnawing at the bit of fields to Produce! produce! (although we call them vegetables and greens), and as all roads lead to Avalon, it's not surprising, with Speculative Realism under my arm, and OOO in my wake I should come face to face with the tardis of all tardae. The Tor itself...
Friday, February 18, 2011
Here's Laura Ernst; caught my ear because I've just come off from reading Ian Bogost on facebook, plus a few other notes about life in general and there's mentions of feminisms here and there. It seems a long, very long time ago, bordering on a million years ago that I couldn't even think the word object without thinking 'woman' and 'onjectification.' Ah if only.... OOO had been around while I was writing my dissertation on the History of Pornography it would have provided a briseur to get at the subject from beneath its "over-rendered" exterior locus of concern. I'd write the book today if I could, but I'm going to let it go and hope that someone will see what a wealth there is or would be for doing so. Feminist credential aside, thinking has become so much more democratic, and thinking about representation has become so subtle that it almost feels like I'd be writing about the dinosaurs. Not that I think "objectification" is over, it isn't and for many people now "objectification" remains a mode. I need not concern myself here with them; suffice to say that resorting to a "default ontology" as Tim Morton neatly puts it, is never a good thing. But as the story is "in bastions of male enclaves women are now....." it makes sense that there are more and more people juggling --however, more enlightening is the number of "props" now used in the juggling world. A veritable explosion of 'em: as many tricks as their are Apps; as many ball makers as software products. The flags shown here, I've seen in Venezeula and London, average persons twirling themselves up into balls of velvet, suspended without fear. What is it again: there are sensual objects and their notes. Are women more sensual than men? Well, traditionally we thought that didn't we? But now, with sensual redefined, and reclarified as notes, there's every reason to think women and men are equal persons in this regard. Women leave and make notes freely as men. A real democracy of objects in a Parliament of things....
For once a kind of simplicity is back on the table, or as Graham puts it in his disarming way, OOO is “a haunting new realism more compellingly naive than any that has come before” (Guerilla Metaphysics, 174).http://ecologywithoutnature.blogspot.com/2010/10/well-being-is-really-okay-object.html
Saturday, February 12, 2011
It was a good post. Sometrhing that had to be dealt with in first or third person, between objects. SOmething that required writing......Maybe this is what Harman meant with his "zero-person" perspective. The zero-person stance “refers to the essence or intrinsic nature of any entity apart from any access we might have to it” (ZP, 253). “Objects must be granted zero-person reality that can only be translated into descriptive terms of the first or third person kind”.
“Objects must be granted zero-person reality that can only be translated into descriptive terms of the first or third person kind”. “Zero-person” refers to “the reality of any entity apart from its interactions with out entities of any kind. This changes the nature of the problem. Instead of trying to bridge the gap between two kinds of descriptions, we now have a gap between description and reality” (ZP, p. 261). “Both mind and body occupy the zero-person stance, quite apart from any experience of them”. Zero-person is a synonym for ESSENCE. “Georg Cantor’s insights into transfinite numbers even suggests that we cannot have a total set of all properties of the house, which strengthens the hand of the zero-person stance all the more” (ZP, p.263). 
... this changes the nature of the problem, which once you get used to it is no problem at all...
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
- DAZ HASTINGS
- A Facebook Retrospective
- Santa Cruz, Santa Rey Hey Hey Hey
- Travels With William Irwin Thompson, A bookreaders...
- I really Should Say More About Juggling
- Moving One Up, no, two Three. I mean four Tabs, Ye...
- "Sensual Objects as comprised of their notes" ©Gra...
- Juggling a Quintilian Figures
- 8 Ball F Jugglers Gatto et al
- 66 x 46 what? Sitewhat Swap? MAthmatics, Codes and...
- oh, Voynich! the stuttering joys
- Saving Fairy Liquid
- The Lampost Philosopher
- Causation and Actuality
- I've Searched a Million Juggling Videos.Com
- Visions of Sunset Boulevard
- Ear! Whatsdart yer Saying Mate?
- Swift Logarthymics in a Field of Intensity
- Sequence Chinking: The Real Criteria
- Prigogine on Acid: Complex Stratifications in Need...
- What's Cotton Wool Got To Do With It?
- Across The Golden Gate Bridge (Prolapsed) Cables: ...
- Secondary Literature on the Art of Juggling
- THINKING Big Screen Maps . Com site @ The New Yor...
4.55 a/m. It remains to be seen what Derrida said about speech . It is not the true object, although it certainly feels like it as I stand here alone at midnight in the bus lane waiting for the A2473 to open. The stamp I'm on is curved, paved with inscriptions of a burning fire. The feet touch leather, gnarled from a Peasant's cows back. The tarmac is wet with silly overtones of acidic rainfall. But with nobody passing, what fun is that? The inner speech drifts, as every hitch hiker knows, all over the place. Consciousness spreads itself out, engulfing, absorbing, monitoring, sizing, shaping, feeling the contours of itself by thought. This, the hitcher knows as he waits for a car. This the nightwatched jugglers know who save the last ounce for the chance meeting. Ah, the bus. Brilliant. Here it comes, warfing along as it always does with Jimmy Riddle puddles for peddles and tyres grooved in shiite. Splash. That awkward monument it has to navigate before it turns right onto Kensington Yard Ave. That weak sweat that Jimmy has to assuage as the wheels grind against some invisible fate--the bus which wants to crash and experience itself at breakneck speed; tyres that are built to withstand a landing on any Houston tarmac, the space shuttle included. And me here with my patterned galopshes, wrought from the same environment as plastic,( Tm says Myllar) prevents that shitte from penetrating my interior. Oh yes. I withdraw, strategically sometimes but most often when even I don't notice. (Two I's always in any self-model) The amodal sense of perception of twilight, lycnched by the coming of dawn over London. Hangover or no hangover esse, I will get that ride.