Dodos, Death, and Deconstruction

The meanings of things are changing.  Every time I visit the weather channel’s website I’m guiding to links labelled, “read more,”  which invariably lead to videos, the viewing of which involves no reading, the structure, which precludes closed caption, works against the process.

In a tedious class today, the professor pushed through, with great friction, her idea of deconstruction.  She labored, for several minutes, on an awkward metaphor of men in lockers rooms needing a woman to exist there to prove their masculinity, as all definitions are wrought through opposition and thus with no women, absence rather than presence, becomes the favored half of the binary opposition.  It didn’t come off.  Less galled by the course, my girlfriend set an image of creatures with tails and no tails, where one would know his state by his difference in posterior limb, demonstrating In thirty seconds what the prof couldn’t in seven painful minutes.  Such is the nature of that class.

This professor is one that touts Freud as utile, who dismissed representational art by saying it can be achieved by anyone who cares to practice for a few months, who lauded Kandinsky and Duchamp, as if escape from tradition demands a complete break with it, and as if that severance were enough to demonstrate its merit.

Spills on a canvas are nothing but dregs; Duchamp, like his Fountain, is a thing for shit.

I have not been in high spirits of late.  Frustration at minor issues escalates with lack of sleep and impending deadlines.  I’ve to write my introduction to the lit journal before we can print it.  I’ve a contest piece to finish before friday afternoon.  There are papers and outlines circling me like hawks, not vultures, and spring break is a week and a half away.  I’m not sure the last is a deadline, but it does mark the first chance I’ll get for somewhat unworried sleep.  All I want to do is write.  I feel encumbered by responsibilities, withheld by duties that stand in the way of rather than spur me on to write.

I’ve not had much fiction published and it’s wearing at me.  I don’t count myself a non-fiction writer.  I’m not a poet.  I’ve had more success with both of those than I have had with what I consider my milieu.  The success I had six months ago is making this normality into a dearth and I’m not handling it well.

I still have ideas, I just haven’t the energy to see them through.

More to come, better to come.  I’ll be able to elaborate better once I’ve slept.

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