Showing posts with label theodor adorno. Show all posts
Showing posts with label theodor adorno. Show all posts

Monday, August 22, 2011

Dance Me Through The Panic Till I'm Gathered Safely In



The collection is here!
 If you get a chance stop by The Fine Art of Design and visit Stacked Bookshop, located inside the shop if you wish for your copy. There is only five, yikes!

 The Un-Included Introduction, If You Will


There always is this yearning, almost dirty desire to be read and to be enjoyed. A sort of exploited desperation that exists within a writer when commissioned to create a collection. It seems almost necessary to title it i seem to have gone blind as well as cover it with headless naked women. Each poem dedicates itself to the idea that "the image of undistorted nature arises only in distortion, as its opposite." Nothing here can be claimed as fact, but nothing can be claimed as fiction.


I was told that this experience is something I will look back on and feel relief. And it really is a beautiful thing, in the way that beauty can be sick and intrusive. As for the recent pieces of poetry, a million thanks, dear Ireland. Finishing this collection brings me the release, the only path of escape. In the process during which I wrote the recent poems, I felt I did not create enough. But now I can remove myself and peer at what I did create, and although it is not much, I created something internally worthy for myself. For what has been created is exactly how I want to remember it.

Friday, February 11, 2011

To The 21st Century Elitist Teachers of Education





IQ
Theodor Adorno

"The modes of behaviour appropriate to the most advanced state of technical development are not confided to the sectors in which they are actually required. So thinking submits to the social checks on its performance not merely where they are professionally imposed, but adapts to them its whole complexion. Because thought has by now been perverted into the solving of assigned problems, even what is not assigned is processed like a problem. Thought, having lost autonomy, no longer trusts itself to comprehend reality, in freedom, for its own sake. This leaves, respectfully deluded, to the highest paid, thereby making itself measurable. It behaves, even in its own eyes, as if it had constantly to demonstrate its fitness. Even where there is no nut to crack, thinking becomes training for no matter what exercise. It sees its objects as mere hurdles, a permanent test of its own form. Considerations that wish to take responsibility for their subject-matter and therefore for themselves, arouse suspicion of being vain, windy, asocial self-gratification. Just as for neo-positivists knowledge is split into accumulated sense-experience and logical formalism, the mental activity of the type for whom unitary knowledge is made to measure, is polarized into the inventory of what he knows and the spot-check on his thinking-power: every thought becomes for him a quiz either of his knowledgeability or his aptitude. Somewhere the right answers must be already recorded. Instrumentalism, the latest version of pragmatism, has long been concerned not merely with the application of thought but the a priori condition of its form. When oppositional intellectuals endeavour, within the confines of these influences, to imagine a new content for society, they are paralysed by the form of their own consciousness, which is modelled in advance to suit the needs of this society. While thought has forgotten how to think itself, it has at the same time become its own watchdog. Thinking no longer means anything more than checking at each moment whether one can indeed think. Hence the impression of suffocation conveyed even by all apparently independent intellectual productions, theoretical no less than artistic. The socialization of mind keeps it boxed in, isolated in a glass case, as long as society is itself imprisoned. As thought earlier internalized the duties exacted from without, today it has assimilated to itself its integration into surrounded apparatus, and is thus condemned even before the economic and political verdicts on it come fully into force." 

A major focus today, concerning education, has been about the increase of tuition fees. What I fear is that this has created a blind-spot, that grows disturbingly large every time I step foot in certain classrooms and lecture halls. Yet bambi-eyed with horror, I wonder if anyone else sees this black-hole of an elephant that gallops from professor or tutorial assistants' mouths to the student, perhaps clogged, ears. To sit a full hour with a tutorial assistant, constantly questioning the books a class has read, especially books not on the course reading list, only forms an atmosphere of elitism. The student who cannot recall The Intellectuals and the Masses, is left out of discussion, and is condemned from ever speaking out when in fact the hour was suppose to be a focus of deep reading Sons and Lovers. The tutorial assistant continues, a list of "contemporaries". For pete's sake, ANYONE AND ANYTHING that has been written after a piece is a contemporary, and this enormous focus of literature in time-frames, barred from being juxtaposed with other time-frames is despicable. Can we not penetrate thought between modernism and plain old modern literature? Can thought no longer find a purpose to be "fully-circular"? 

Education is collapsing, not only because of a simple ca-ching, but because of a group of those who seem to be drawn to teach it. Titles of authority mean nothing, excuse me Lecturer, Professor, Doctor. The ability to memorize the titles of books you constantly repeat within a section, shows nothing more than your head being stuck up your ass. Let the students speak, let them shuffle the time-frames, compare ANYTHING TO ANYTHING. Now this does not mean, every professor to tutorial assistant behaves this way, and I do compassionately honor those who see a student excited with knowledge fumble his or her way to form an understanding through intelligence, inspiring those to keep at it, playing devil's advocate. But when a student feels incompetent as you shut them down with a statement to stamp your authority in the classroom, you destroy education, and this destructive behaviour should be thrown out of classrooms, not the student. Be careful what you teach, be careful how you teach, if we are going to fight for higher education, I will only fight if the education is purely taught for the masses to create intellect. 

And in honor of the "publish yourself" mentality of this blog,

This past week of shot down thoughts:

"There is a thin line between utopia and eugenics" 


"Sons and Lovers should and can be read along side the modern text of A Woman Who Walked into Doors, both illustrate an issue of silence within the home."

Okay so the utopia and eugenics thought may have been a little tug worthy of the soul strings, but thankfully a friend, who happens to be a T.A at UCSC, responded appropriately...

"Insofar as utopia remains a good place, a no place, and a blueprint, then it's homologous to eugenics, which also declares that there is an order that could come to be the case, and that the entire messy reality of how things are need to be brought into line with that order, means and consequences be damned."







This is how thought should be treated, not with a command to be silent. 

It is silence who penetrates and creates miserable humans, communicate to your students while they still exist in the classroom.





Check out Evan Calder William's blog. CLICK HERE


Perhaps education has already left the classroom...

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Past Beats Inside Me Like A Second Heart


Avalanche, 
do you take me 
in your fall?
obsessed
to destroy
replace
misplace
replace
misplace
my 
aura
of 
doom

Saturday, October 30, 2010

The Diagnosis


Ah, my breed of men
roaring, seething
 for Obsession and Constraint
compelled by the act to dominate
and do you dare reject that
pressure produces counter-pressure,*
you never gave a shit
for the former or the latter
bellowing, tension feels good
only when it surges.

Ah, my breed of men
suits and ties
the professional kind
the mind of a machine
paralyzed and brainless
kick off your shoes to sigh
careful, cause reflecting
is Subjective's misfortune
and you are in the place
to be objectified. 

Ah, my breed of men
swing, swing, swing
strike Speculation
to murder Common Sense  
and when you pull out the organs
the defect will be undressed
devour thought
devour strength
be the machine
my breed of men
and all will suffer
the masochistic disease. 



* excerpts from Adorno's Diagnosis



Thursday, October 28, 2010

Céad Míle Fáilte





Till Death Do We Never Part

your quest for ultimate reality 
has lost shape 
yet your version of truth
oozes from your lips 
and then dribbles
death is the
absolute price
of absolute value
and it is unfortunate
that your pockets have run dry,

oh you Men of Saints
forever will you debase death
and death forever will debase you.

Your stand in ready
please exit the living
but with your piteous attempt
to veil your soul
you will never escape
domestication.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Blah. Blaah

Fuck You Blah. Blaah. 






















" Nowadays most people kick with the pricks." 
Theodor Adorno Second Harvest

Sometime during eternity
some guys show up
and one of them
who shows up real late
is a kind of carpenter
from some square-type place
like Galilee
and he starts wailing
and claiming he is hip
to who made heaven
and earth
and that the cat
who really laid it on us
is his Dad
And moreover
he adds
It's all writ down
on some scroll-type parchments
which some henchmen
leave lying around the Dead Sea somewheres
a long time ago
and which you wont find
for a coupla thousand years or so
or at least for
nineteen hundred and fortyseven
of them
to be exact
and even then
nobody really believes them
or me
for that matter

You're hot
they tell him
and they cool him
They stretch him on the Tree to cool
And everybody after that
is always making models
of this Tree
with Him hung up
and always crooning His name
and calling Him to come down
and sit in
on their combo
as if he is the king cat
who's got to blow
or they can't quite make it

Only he don't come down
from His tree

Him just hang there
on His Tree
looking real Petered out
and real cool
and also according to the roundup
of late world news
from the usual unreliable sources
real dead


Ferlinghetti