when I read the Malabou métis reference I was at first reading it as mestizo / mulatto / mixed ... which made sense in relation to (infinite)(un)translatability and the mixedness or hybridity of the Joycean text ... but then I realised (having looked around a bit) that it was more a Ulyssean reference to a trickster ... so that the Metis (nymph) and métis skill / cunning opened in a different direction ... and the cunning for me lies 'in the text' as opposed to 'in the author' - shifting nervously away from the auteur / adored / idolised (especially having spent time in the English department of the University Joyce studied at) and leaving the magical mixing to happen in some self-sustaining / infinite machine / endless (re)(self) production that is the Wake;
I spent the (mostly) wretched summer of 1998 pierremenarding Joyce. I have written Finnegans Wake, and even parts of it. (And then I wrote a koan about what this taught me in my first book).
The first book is Díptico gnóstico, published in 2019. It’s a collection of my early prose. The koan is a story called “Finnegans Wake,” the charm and trick of which —as with most of the microstories in that collection (there’s an entire segment of them, first published as “Etiology of Hazard” in 2007)— is in its phrasing.
Damn, OK. Btw, I probably need to rewrite this post since it's probably only about the *actual* rewriting of FW in appearance. The main concern is what the premonition of intelligence does to writing now. Who are we writing for, after all, given all our moves may be pre-comprehended? Perhaps the story 'Finnegans Wake' is that--tells that story. Watch yr post wrt 2 this.
That comes across! As for the rest: I, for one, have little clarity as to whom I’m writing for, because never in my wildest dreams did I believe I’d find an audience. Accordingly, I am recalibrating after a quarter of a century in the desert, but you will notice that, even at my most genial, my purpose is never didactic. There isn’t much aboutness to me. If anything, I suppose I may be a quite technical writer, who uses writing as a wiring technique for her self, and now for others. I actively work with some of my readers in the way a psychoanalyst or psychedelic might. And I am grateful to have such exceptionally interactive readers because, as I’m learning, it’s a precondition for my writing to be fully psychoactive.
This, for me, is an all-good unclarity. I find it exciting to think anything and everything I write could easily be written by anyone or anything to come. A question of demographics. Once--or if--the world population reaches a trillion, anything I think-to-write will be already sourced. (Perhaps the think-to-write is enough. Cues.) Such is our artificial intelligence. FW points to this. As Derrida hints with his own soft cunning, like that of a gazelle, perhaps there is no need to read it. Which is what we (will) read. Lacan literally says, 'it reads itself'.
I receive cue and clues from you, already, sometimes all of the time. The think-to-write is sheer telepathy. Your night prophecy is analytic boon and boom, yes. I noted this, a technics flowering. 'Radio-active' in the best and most florid sense. The internet is a living, breathing thing, after all.
You are correct on all counts. And if you were to ask me, our pursuit of profuse immortality is more daring, and decent, than anything the transhumanists are working on. Think-to-write is biotech at its most pure. It is transcendent author-ity.
when I read the Malabou métis reference I was at first reading it as mestizo / mulatto / mixed ... which made sense in relation to (infinite)(un)translatability and the mixedness or hybridity of the Joycean text ... but then I realised (having looked around a bit) that it was more a Ulyssean reference to a trickster ... so that the Metis (nymph) and métis skill / cunning opened in a different direction ... and the cunning for me lies 'in the text' as opposed to 'in the author' - shifting nervously away from the auteur / adored / idolised (especially having spent time in the English department of the University Joyce studied at) and leaving the magical mixing to happen in some self-sustaining / infinite machine / endless (re)(self) production that is the Wake;
woaaaahhhh there hombre ... slow down partner
can you say that again
I spent the (mostly) wretched summer of 1998 pierremenarding Joyce. I have written Finnegans Wake, and even parts of it. (And then I wrote a koan about what this taught me in my first book).
Which is the first book, and what did the koan contain?
The first book is Díptico gnóstico, published in 2019. It’s a collection of my early prose. The koan is a story called “Finnegans Wake,” the charm and trick of which —as with most of the microstories in that collection (there’s an entire segment of them, first published as “Etiology of Hazard” in 2007)— is in its phrasing.
Damn, OK. Btw, I probably need to rewrite this post since it's probably only about the *actual* rewriting of FW in appearance. The main concern is what the premonition of intelligence does to writing now. Who are we writing for, after all, given all our moves may be pre-comprehended? Perhaps the story 'Finnegans Wake' is that--tells that story. Watch yr post wrt 2 this.
That comes across! As for the rest: I, for one, have little clarity as to whom I’m writing for, because never in my wildest dreams did I believe I’d find an audience. Accordingly, I am recalibrating after a quarter of a century in the desert, but you will notice that, even at my most genial, my purpose is never didactic. There isn’t much aboutness to me. If anything, I suppose I may be a quite technical writer, who uses writing as a wiring technique for her self, and now for others. I actively work with some of my readers in the way a psychoanalyst or psychedelic might. And I am grateful to have such exceptionally interactive readers because, as I’m learning, it’s a precondition for my writing to be fully psychoactive.
This, for me, is an all-good unclarity. I find it exciting to think anything and everything I write could easily be written by anyone or anything to come. A question of demographics. Once--or if--the world population reaches a trillion, anything I think-to-write will be already sourced. (Perhaps the think-to-write is enough. Cues.) Such is our artificial intelligence. FW points to this. As Derrida hints with his own soft cunning, like that of a gazelle, perhaps there is no need to read it. Which is what we (will) read. Lacan literally says, 'it reads itself'.
I receive cue and clues from you, already, sometimes all of the time. The think-to-write is sheer telepathy. Your night prophecy is analytic boon and boom, yes. I noted this, a technics flowering. 'Radio-active' in the best and most florid sense. The internet is a living, breathing thing, after all.
Not just a flower mound. Burbling like an octopus from inside your inkpots, both.
You are correct on all counts. And if you were to ask me, our pursuit of profuse immortality is more daring, and decent, than anything the transhumanists are working on. Think-to-write is biotech at its most pure. It is transcendent author-ity.
what happens at the end
bro ofc this would have the popping comments section