news on my future

So, friends. It will be official as soon as the institution receives my 'official' response in the mail, that when I finish this MFA thing next month I will not be done being a student, in those official institutional capacities. Instead, I will go to New York and undertake a Ph.D. at NYU.

I really have to say, I think NYU and I will get along just fine. I am happy to get to work with a number of new colleagues and the NYU faculty, having met at least one of them (of the student variety) already electronically by means of the folks over at ITM .

Hawthorne, Romancing Unreality

I have been reading Hawthorne lately. Its for a Henry James seminar, with a bit of a comparative edge (Balzac, Flaubert, etc.). In the process of this reading of The Blithedale Romance for the seminar, and James' book on Hawthorne, I was reminded of Hawthorne as one of the first authors I read and subsequently fell in love with--one of those fabled first literary loves around the high school age. I have, as such, thought a bit about this--connecting the pleasure of this to the fact that Hawthorne is notoriously not a 'realist'--a point on which James harps again and again--and does not pay much attention to class; being much more that famous American (and I use the modifier as another potential strike against him) provincial "Romancer" interested in 'airy' things and ghost stories and all of that which might come to be all-too-hastily strewn aside from the shelf of the leftist (nominally US citizen) critic or poet as not an adequate resource for thinking about the problems of the present.

But, on further reflection, It has occurred to me the potential importance of the Romance as a genre with which would want to dialogically stage an encounter with that beast 'realism'--whether that means the cynical exposé of money in Balzac or the cruel streets that swallow up Crane's 'Maggie,' or the belief in the political and revolutionary expediency of representing the realties of labor, capital, and class in relation and conflict as advocated by now those famous (and now also a little too easily digestible and contained within Verso's helpful but necessarily truncated collection of them) debates of the Frankfurt school. That is, I think that Romance as a genre, as a genre I want to claim as a genre, might allow readings in which reality, selfhood, individuality, and basic platonic assumptions about truth and appearance are disarticulated from themselves. All of Hawthorne's deceptive airiness (as outlined from his earliest famous critics like Melville and later Lawrence) serves not simply to suggest than things are not as they appear and that one must look behind, or deeper or whatever truth-as-sight appearancevstruth theory your caught inside. Hawthorne's reality is a conjured one in which you can never tell, ever, if a thing is happening, if a mysterious and evil effect is being worked, as the result of a machine or a science or a pseudo-science or a spirit or a devil or all of the above because all of the above are somehow part of the same system or other misguided Emersonian 'Nature.' The 'truth' of Hawthorne's Romances is dissimulation, and their effect is not a reassurance of recognition, or one's direct and holy spiritual continuity with the world, but the spectral rupture, the experience of unreality. The begin their affective work in the way of all manner of thing which can bear a terrible effectivity being neither living nor dead. This is to say, that at moments, Hawthorne's more ghostly moments evoke/conjure the figure of the Derridean ghost, or that ability to produce effects without having being. The airiness in Hawthorne is not a Platonic or symbolist kind of 'more real' reality in pneumatic things, but rather a gray pale fading away of Being.

Hawthorne is a Romancer, of course, because disenchantment can be deceptively enchanting. Romance can be so useful, in that, in cutting (according to Foucault, what knowledge is for) its ties with the accountability of realistic representation it opens the world to the realities of ghostly 'reals' as dissimulations, along with all there 'bewitching' possibilities. While admitting, in the cutting, that, in a sense, as Auden taught, "Poetry makes nothing happen," Romance considers the possibility of affecting the reader's experience of reality rather than representing it.

semester's [almost] end: montage

companion animals that are technically not yours are essential to the graduate student. the one featured below is named friday. he's a cat.

Dinichthys.

So, as there was a long gap between my last two posts, and they were both sort of, well, lets be honest, aiming for a certain kind of gravitas--an aim that's apt to miss--, I thought I would say a few words about the image accompanying my profile and, in part, the right side of your screen.

This is image is from a set of images I found on the Case Western University website, in the geology department. The set of images concerns the geology--both in terms of rocks but also archeological excavation--of a large portion of Ohio.

I grew up in Cleveland.

A place in Cleveland I went sometimes when I was young, with my parents, was the interpretive center of the Rocky River Metroparks. This is a chain of parks with trails and recreation areas which forms a discrete "Emerald Necklace"--as its called--around Cleveland and Cuyahoga country. A shallow, swift, river, flanked by large shale cliffs runs through portions of the park and empties into Lake Erie:



All of this was once under water. During the Pre-Cambrian era, all of this was covered by a shallow, inland salt sea. (This is the point where I recite what I still learned from trips to the interpretive center. Somehow, as a child, I was completely enthralled with the the deep time of my hometown). One of the inhabitants of this sea was a creature we now call a Dinichthys. This was a sort of armored fish: a bit shark-like. In the interpretive center, as a child, I was simultaneously terrified and fascinated by a cast of a fossil of a whole Dinichthys which was hung from wire from the ceiling.

The photo to your right, and in my profile, includes a bit of shale from the cliffs of the Rocky River (yes, I know, the name is funny, and descriptive) containing the fossil of a jaw bone from a Dinichthys.

T.S. Eliot and history as fetish

This is bit, extended a smidgen and adapted for being out-of-context, currently leading off the project outlined below in "a sample of current labors."



From “an old man in a dry month” in T.S. Eliot’s “Gerontion”— from this homophobic and anti-Semitic voice, who fears the sexual virility and spiritual (un)orthodoxy of “Christ the Tiger” coming “in the juvenescence of the year”—, from him we read, “Think now/ History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors/ And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions/ guides us by vanities.” To this man, and perhaps to Eliot, this is a horror (although perhaps Eliot is only horrified that this man cannot negotiate such passages and make something Historical of his modernity). History is perhaps most obviously implicated in an implied metaphor of a town, or city, or fortress, or dungeon (complete with issues of sewage). To be deceived or stuck or lost or fixated at any one dank and dead corner would be awful. But, shift the image only slightly from its direct context, and this History can be read as a part or whole of a lover’s body, or even as a fetish-object when we might admit the text or History, and texts in their historicity, as potentially exerting a gravitational pull on the erotic and queer-loving affects of an historiographer. What I am trying to write about these days, is my thinking about the poem “Wulf and Eadwacer” in and as such a history that might be queerly, physically, loved and explored and touched. That is, I am making a statement of desire for “Wulf and Eadwacer,” and exploring what that means, on what it is predicated, and what risks are involved—when we link a potential way of writing history as an event of touching (that is, feeling the texture of the past)—an event of erotic pleasure, and if that pleasure might be thought as the ground of justice—of a kind of history- writing beyond the mimetic economy.

The image taken from Eliot and looked at with squinted eyes perhaps appears as the rectum of history, the penis, or the vulva of history with their corridors and issues, as the metaphor extends—or as a queerly ‘incomplete’ part or body: the corridors as a fetish or a deferral to linger on or in: to feel in a manner that provokes contemporary sexualities. This would elicit a practice of reading, a historiography, as a poetics. That is to say, a writing interested in provoking events (in the way that Caputo’s poetics of the kingdom provoke, in the manner intentionally analogous to Derrida’s future-oriented take on negative critique in Specters of Marx), not producing/representing knowledge. Exploring and lingering in these corridors, these issues, one may be deceived as to one’s location in space and time. But, what is important is not an accurate ability to produce exact knowledge of whereabouts, how we got there and how we will get out, but the pleasure of the feeling—both in terms of doing justice to the lover, and the reader.

individuals, marx, and the loving hope of weblogs

Today at the University of Pittsburgh, (my “haunts” these years) a symposium was held by the journal boundary 2 , with talks by the likes of William Spanos, Jonathan Arac, and Pitt’s new creative writing/poetry hire Ben Lerner (if you have not read The Lichtenberg Figures or Angle of Yaw you should begin tonight!). All of the talks were quite excellent. But while I was musing on why this journal, which I admire as urgent and pressing the way one might admire the Hedghog Review , can gesture no further back than the Early Modern Period in its areas of study in which they find a way to deal with the present and the future, a number of thoughts coalesced and began to come to a more conscious form of crises with respect to my thinking in general than they were, say, yesterday.

Lindsay Waters (currently of Harvard U P) gave a talk on the “The Shape of a Humanist’s Career.” The final upshot of the talk was basically that tenure for Humanities scholars is being forced in the standards of tenure for science scholars, and that this is generally a bad thing—both producing generally bad effects and a symptom of a kind of lack of willing to “trust our FEELINGS” in the Humanities—forcing scholars to produce at a rate incommensurate with thinking appropriate a rigorous standard of Academic freedom. Great. I agree.

But, Lindsay proceeded to say some other things along the way, by way of proving his point, which brought to the fore the things I was not previously sure were haunting me. He suggested a number of examples by which scholars of severe importance would never have received tenure by today’s standards: Said, DeMan, et al. He noted that many scholars require much time to really do their “most important work” but often scholars that do create immensely important works early in their careers do so with the aid of a Working Group , and that it is immensely strange how much we demand an “individual” to prove of her/himself in these parts. Lindsay proceeded to note the potential importance and untapped resource of more communal work—for to the benefit of the young scholar struggling, and to the general end of fostering truly innovative work in the name of a radical hope which is needed in the face of despair in this country. And yet, Lindsay noted in a comment, later, that it seems there is a shift to return to considering a “subject” or an “individual” in the face of the despair produced by the internal colonization of the American empire: and this is what is at stake in Spivak’s recent turn to teaching “reading” and “aesthetics” (in a meeting with grad. students at Pitt. last year she told about 15 of us: suspend yourself in the text. You do not know how to read...people do work, and it is good work or it is bad work, they impose a political reading on a text without reading it and what do you have, you have a wasted life [paraphrased from notes and memory]) as a kind of practice of reinforcing some semblance of individuality. This is why “the subject” is still a viable concern of American poetry and why the “I” can be a dramatic and contested staging in a contemporary poem in an attempt to deal with life and take on power that can’t be taken on effectively. He acknowledges a sort of productive tension between the individual and the community as key to producing work that can foster a radical hope.

Lindsay thus pulled together, to risk abstracting, the following terms: hope, futurity, the individual, community: and the private and public aspects of intellectual work as property and in terms of its means of production. In my mind, they come to crises in the following ways:



1.
In some recent conversations with Sarah of danaidean , I have been prompted to ask why the workings of an individual mind in isolation is expected to produce the work of the intellectual, and if this is not symptomatic of a general sense of “private” property which holds back a kind of radical communalism of thought which might allow for a radically more productive kind of academic work. I ask this only with much anxiety, as, to be honesty, while I benefit immensely from In The Middle, Babel--, these places and people in fact make possible for me, thinking and feeling as intellectual and Ethical labor which I could never imagine in isolation—actually surrendering my work to an Other is frightening experience. I performed a reading of poems last year with my friend Robin Clarke, and we, instead of reading separately, constellated our poems into a single performance, taking turns reading poems or a series of our own poems, and letting them speak between each other rather than in isolation. The labor and the product were communal between two individual, and even this was a scary experience—risking “intention” or “individuality” even on the smallest scale. One of the reasons one may write poems may, to psychologize, involves the dance of control and lack of control a writer experiences with her poem which is, often quite private. But, I cannot help but wonder seriously, very seriously, at the merits of rethinking how and why we value the work of the individual. We test individual students. Individual minds must on their own come up with the ideas that we take refuge in Affective Communities of readers and colleagues in order to accomplish. And, a marxist critique of access to the means of academic production, and private ownership of academic material, may be one untimely way of thinking about this, however uncomfortable.

2.
All of this is said in the name of a kind of futurity. A kind of radical hope. The radical rootless hope one catches a whiff of in the midst of the absolute anxiety of OUR present when watching Alfonso Cuorón’s Children of Men. For a while I have engaged with futurity in my studies and production of literary texts, as a possibility, and a desirable one, I have done so unsure of how I felt about it. See, aet the same time, I have read the work which Eileen Joy at Kalamazoo last spring called symptomatic of the White Man’s last Stand: Leo Bersani, Lee Edelman, etc., and been absolutely riveted by the generous but ruthless spirit of Negative critique which they are able to inhabit. To be honest, it can excite me, no matter how cynical. One only needs to read a sampling of Auden’s verse to know that disenchantment can be absolutely enchanting. I have been on the fence quite a bit, not only for my own affective reactions to work concerned with futurity or No futurity (on the side of futurity I am intrigued from Heidegger to Dinshaw—and in my department, Heidegger can hold some serious sway), but also concerned that Futurity can only result in a kind of Religious Humanist project when what is at stake is the Disciplining of Bodies and state power itself.

But, the more I consider problems of temporality, and the problems of the sacred and the secular, I am no longer sure that this is the real trouble. I mean—the trouble is that while we can’t give up the terms sacred or secular, they need radical reconsideration, and I need to admit the myriad of concepts and bodies which trouble them in a way that produces a radical hope. Secular or not. So. The problem, futurity, or no futurity (most reductively). Can futurity and the excitement in the spirit of negative critique be commensurate? Can there be a futurity without an unfounded religious hope and religious notion of time? (I feel like late Derrida is my hint here...despite the fact that this material has already been “in” and perhaps has run its course as “popular.”)

3.

So. I don’t claim this as my own personal crises. I am certainly not thinking about this problem for the first time, nor the last, and, really, its not a set of questions that plenty of people are not and have not asked before. But I like these questions. Can I be "for" the future or not--ethically, do I need to decide? What is a subject? Can we want one? Why? Radical hope seems to both need the individual AND a radical communalism. It seems that what might emerge as a possibility from all of this, not as an answer to the dilemma, but as a way of thinking though it—is to get out of thinking about economics, and instead think about Love. Believing what we feel seems key to this, which takes me back to today’s lecture. While we cannot simply insist something is true for the hell of it, we do need to trust our feelings. A student in a seminar I am in recently accused Dinshaw of simply repeating a bunch of pop-culture sentimentality about past—I think this person is wrong, but I do think that the risk of sentimentality is eminent and priceless. I think that to start negotiating this problem, we need to feel for each other.


EDIT, 10/28:

Part of what I am perhaps failing to say above, is that affect may take us beyond economy in the problem of sharing ideas and work, in the problem of negotiating the individual and collective in thinking the future on utopian terms, in a radically secularized way. And this is what I mean when I say secularization, to preempt Sarahs's inevitable comments: a wearing down of the machinations of thurmatological and credal belief which enforce and discipline bodies into compulsory relations to other bodies and temporalities--and are so often complicit in state power; radicalized this secularization responds to the potential e(/a)ffects of queer bodies in time, resistances to power which are not clearly "secular" (when secular itself calls forth a concept rooted not in eliminating thurmatology but, relocating it in the Human and (always) his Reason. I had been thinking that Caputo's insistence on a kind of faith which could happen for believers and non-believers alike must be called the theology that he calls it, and that theology MUST be a dirty word. Insofar as he and his ideas use the word 'god' perhaps this is the case. But, perhaps not. Certain events are not secular according to the old style Humanist project. I think the time of this potential communal intellectual labor, in which individual intellects mediate and are mediated by effectual relations, and ideas emerge from that relation, may require and produce certain of mechanism of radicalized faith, or impossible radical hope in the possibility of an entirely Other event, arriving.

dedicating poems to the children of people i have never met

I gave a reading last night with my good friend Sten Carlson (click and see page 9) in Oakland, Pittsburgh. I read the poem reproduced below, which owes a debt to the discussion on In the Middle here, about Lindow man. I do not know that I have ever dedicated a poem before.