“Yes, I thought you were a mystery girl…”

“We are going to where scientists are and we are going to wantonly kiss them!”

So said in anger. Someone take me there, please. The title is of course from Cheap Trick. My apologies.

Hmm, perhaps one of my problems is that I find angry sexy, and especially sexy angry very sexy. Is this why on a social level I am attracted to the bourgies who are relatively safe on the one hand but are unhinged enough to be waging a war against the crack enveloping their existence and the world in which they inherited? Maybe.

The flash of a furrowed brow expresses at an immediate personal level the grace of determination and a resonance of hope for a different future. The brow frames the solo dance of sharp eyes, which, at first, are soft like the surface of the ocean, but then are whipped up with increasing intensity into a fury as a gale helps the waters reach for the stars. Furious eyes and a furrowed brow. This is not a question of potentiality, but of repotentiality. On the one hand I find this terrifying, a disjoint in the unfolding through the offer of an enfolding or purposeful engagement. Yet, on the other hand, without it, is the slow death of dull eyes living up to the expectations in a world that expects this of them and profits from it. Actually maybe ‘anger’ is the wrong word here. Because I have come across people who are apparently in a constant state of angry; they have resigned themselves to the search for antagonism to fuel their erotics of ressentiment. This is certainly not attractive or sexy.

There is something else at play here. The furrow is more like a surface upon which is traced an accidental implication in the conspiracy of eccentricity. As well as the furrow of determination is the furrow of constenation, of a determined openess to an unknown future. Perhaps this is a projection or at least resonant of my own sense of self or failure, where intimacy is less about fucking and mortgages and more about appreciating the singular beauty of flaws. Again this is not about a person or a self but in the unfolding of the world and self. More than the robust capacity to incorporate contingency I am talking about a joyous disposition that seeks it out.

The quizzical furrow meets the furrow of determination in an infinite enveloping of delight like lovers holding hands for the first time. There is a movement as the novelty of the furrow captures and asymmetrically reflects the novelty of the world. I freeze, swept up in the cosmos as it revolves around this movement…

What is Science Fiction?

(via)

I am:
Isaac Asimov

One of the most prolific writers in history, on any imaginable subject. Cared little for art but created lasting and memorable tales.

Which science fiction writer are you?

Yeah, fuck you, Art! You owe me like $200! I’m sending 60-y.o. Rocky after you to break your thumbs!

I would’ve been happy to be that guy that came up with Intel-gent Design, you know the theory about how Intel is inside everything… no, wait, I mean how God is inside everything, or something… No, now I got it, how Intel designed my PC as the ecological ergonomic equivalent of a Soviet industrial potato picking machine… to be God.

Or something. (Isn’t that the classic condition of science fiction nerds: “you are not smart but you admire smarts, so imagine something that is the smartiest thing in teh eva”)

But, yeah, I am prolific (when not being gleefully distracted, woot!)

Accelerate! (just under 44,000!)

EDIT: 2am happy dances around the smiles in my pocket. 45,000 words!

…and what happens to Foucault’s work when you read the transition from archaeology to genealogy in terms of the ‘event’? You stop moving and the whole fucking universe accelerates around that little crack in the cosmos, that’s what.

(oh, and did a PB on the ergo yesterday, 6:26.5)

A Night in the Museum for the Pursuit of Happyness?

Two films, both about the relation between adulthood and identity more generally, responsibility, careers and the contingencies of life.

The Pursuit of Happyness is a sickening movie, possibly the most sickening thing I have ever seen. The dimension of the film about a fellow striving for a better life for himself and his son is absolutely inspirational; it captured my own hopes and carried them along. However this joyous affirmation of a dream was fundamentally flawed. The dream the fellow has is to become a stock broker. Why? Because he saw some guy get out of a Ferrari one day? WTF! Because everyone around him at this moment looked ‘happy’ to him? Why does he want to become a fucking cog in the very social machinery against which he has struggled so valiantly? I really can not understand the monumental contradiction of this. The parable that features in the film as a joke of the man drowning (refusing the assistance of two passing boats because he is waiting for God to save him, when he drowns and sees God he asks him why he didn’t save him, God tells him that He sent two boats…) is apt. We have no boats and the benevolence of God is inverted into the cruel desire of the market. Not unlike the Epicurean release from ‘death’, the main character stops drowning simply by starting to wave. He is waving and drowning at the same time for most of the film. To people in the ocean: “Hey, don’t drown, just wave!”

This is why A Night in the Museum is a much more successful film. I originally read it as an allegory for George W. Bush’s presidency, of a bumbling mildly-bellicose and slightly sad fool brought in as the nightwatchman and then it hits the fan as ‘history’ comes alive again (you know, cause of the whole “end of history” bullshit). Anyway, but the ending retrieved the film from this precarious position. The main character, Larry Daley, settles on taking ‘any job’ so he can provide some stability for his son. His ex-wife has apparently remarried… a bonds broker! (Wtf is the difference between a bonds broker and a stock broker?) Oh, the stupid conservative family unit needs to express stability onto every relation which it might have with the world. Therefore, Daley gets to be a nightwatchman at the museum. After all the climatic sub-plot resolution Daley gets to keep his job because of the intrigue that has been created in the museum by the city’s punters. He is basically an immaterial worker producing interest or buzz about the museum. The film ends with Daley standing over a whole room of partying museum exhibits. There is no hint at all in the film how Daley and his ex-wife could’ve ever got on. She appears to have had her head surgery installed up her ass, and any charisma he may have once had has been dulled by half a lifetime of apparent failures.

What I appreciate in this film is because it is almost the inverse of The Pursuit of Happyness while generating the same outcome. Both films explore adulthood for males through the figure of the father and what it means to take on the world. Daley basically resigns himself against the whole hyper-responsible-broker persona respresented by the other main male figure in his son’s life, this I can identify with.

Derrida in Love

A play. For post-’draft phd completion’. Looking forward to it. Thanks to James for the tip!!

PS 43,000 words, cranking! Currently writing about the ‘mobile singularities’ of ‘pro-street’ ‘head turners’ in the ‘architecture of the spectacle’ of late-1980s street machining. (I made the decision to finish. So I will finish. Now, to be worthy of the event of finishing…)

Manilow in the Carpark

“Lebos, Greeks, and no Aussies…”

I was interviewed for a story on the use of Barry Manilow music to discourage the use of local car parks in the Rockdale Council area, i.e. Brighton Le Sands, by groups of people in their cars. It was broadcast on SBS radio. Here is the MP3 and Real Audio. I don’t sound too bad; the journalist, Peggy Giakoumelos, edited our conversation well!

EDIT: 27/01/08 Updated link to SBS story!