alfonzo's back: bloggin' on the road

Music: Dunno, but it sounds like Art Blakey I'm currently in my hotel room at the Hotel Boston Buckminster, which is only two cleaner pillowcases and a non-visibly-stained-with-body-fluids-comforter better than the brothel/flophouse I stayed in at a convention in Milwaukee many years back. It's simply nasty. I would elaborate, but the more I think about how nasty it is the closer I get to throwing up my dinner of white bread and peanut butter. Let me just put it this way: I bought some gloves to wear because my hands get cold in anything lower than 50 degrees . . . and I've taken to wearing them in the room.

The flight was an admixture of reading Ernesto Laclau's difficult prose and then listening to Robert Wyatt on my i-pod or the guy across the row from me who talked way too loud to the colleague next to him (less than 8 inches away--it is an airplane, mind you, but he all wanted us to know he traded stock or some bullshit; at least get some decent cufflinks if you're going to talk that loud, fuckwad), and a very, very, undisciplined three year old who alternately screeched bloody murder for being disciplined, or squealed wildly in glee for not being disciplined. Fortunately, there was no turbulence and the calm demeanor of the two pilots sitting next to me for over three hours obviated the need to hit the flask.

[break; subway ride] I'm now at Trident Booksellers and Café, drinking the fanciest decaff coffee you've ever tasted, sitting at a "coffee bar." To the right and left of the bar are seating areas, and behind me, a very very crammed bookstore. The scent of cumin is in the air; a young man with a burly beard that ages him ten years is to my left devouring a book titled South America; visibly gay men (in the sense of wearing way too tight clothing) behind me browse display tables with books titled, How to Iron Your Own Damn Shirt and 14,000 Things to Be Happy About; there's an Art Blakey-ish, hard-bop cover of a Blondie tune on the sound system . . . no, wait, it's transitioned to Rufus Wainwright on love; and I'm feeling lots of love for a bigger city at the moment.

I can see the cook in the back; he speaks Spanish but looks like a Eminem.

Well, I'm not doing very much conferencing. I have checked email and probably should head back to the hotel to finish one of my presentations for Friday. Oh, and two more things: the cashier here said that he has some stories about the Hotel Buckminster, and grinned, and said he couldn't voice them at work but they involved prostitutes, who apparently frequent the Buckminster. Ok, so, this is just like Milwaukee, only a tad bit cleaner. Second, Alfonzo is back. Alfonzo is a recurring zit on my right cheek. I named him Alfonzo because I used to work for an Italian restaurant--my first job, actually--named Alfonzo's. If you're going to have a pizza face, I figured, you might as well name your recurring zits Alfonzo. Anyway, wouldn't you figure: Alfonzo comes back the DAY BEFORE a conference, a place where people stare at you.

Dammit. I hate traveling. I hate conferences. But I love cafes like this, and I love seeing my friends.

get thee behind me

Music: George Harrison: Songs for Patti (The Mastertape Version) In Fort Worth last Friday, Leonard Ray Owens, a 63 year old preacher and self-proclaimed prophet, was arrested for sexual assault after a woman filed charges that he raped her twice. According to the victim, Owens claimed that "she had a sex demon and a lesbian demon insider of her that needed to come out." The preacher forcefully raped her during a series of so-called exorcisms during which Owens shouted "lose her in the name of Jesus."

Of course, rape is often conducted in the name of Jesus, be it symbolic (e.g., the Middle East) or actual, and one needn't push devotion too far to reveal its underbelly of abject rage. For years when I lived in Minneapolis, I used to go see Bob Larson exorcize demons during his "Freedom Forums" and rallies. Larson, perhaps the largest and most visible devotee of the Deliverance movement, symbolically rapes women every weekend (and when he exorcizes demons from men—which is very rare—its like watching a bar fight). You can witness one of Larson's "exorcisms" on this website feed, no doubt inspired by the recent holiday on October 31. Note during the exorcism of the demon named "Hate," Larson makes the woman go to her "point of pain," which is the realization that her parents did not love her. Larson then becomes the absent father: both scolding and then loving, yelling at her, then embracing her with a calm voice.

Of course, this is how the violence of patriarchy works: discipline, then console. It's always about power, of course, but the great sleight of rhetoric is that Mr. Phallus always tries to "cover up" his transgressions, with Jesus or any other surrogate of righteousness: “When I made the decision to remove Saddam Hussein from power, Congress approved it with strong bipartisan support,” said Bush. “While it’s perfectly legitimate to criticize my decision or the conduct of the war, it is deeply irresponsible to rewrite the history of how that war began.” They had a demon; they always had a demon, so we fucked 'em, and they secretly wanted it anyway.

stupidity supreme

Music: Gene Love Jezebel: Immigrant; and Fugazi End Hits At this point, I'm not sure what else I can do to destroy my career, although I have a feeling this year's slate of NCA panel performances will help toward that end. I've been working for some days (months, actually), on my piece for Ruth Bowman's chaired panel, titled, " Mens Sana in Corpore Sana." The title of my piece is, "Supercolon (:) Kandoo!" For this presentation, I will play an audio piece while I hold up cardboard signs with messages on them.

Here are versions of the audio portions of my paper, which will be played on a boom box.

The FIRST audio clip is a blooper; I've had quite a hard time recording this thing because I start laughing and cannot get through the script.

Here's the FIFTH audio clip, which is edited (to take out my giggles), and to which I'll be flipping some cardboard messages (for example, in the part in which I say something about wiping the ass of a big name, I'll hold up a super-sized photograph of Michael Bowman, which will be subtitled, "NCA's Man-Thing").

I've had a blast today putting this stuff together; gosh knows it will bomb in Boston. Do I care? Well, after two bourbon on the rocks . . . not really. See most of y'all who read this thing real soon like!

ass rockets, or, getting ready for an academic conference

Music: The Flaming Lips: Transmissions from the Satellite Heart Well, hell: there's a conference next week and I've only got two of four promised papers completed. You'll note, too, that my bloggishness is proportional to my procrastination with "real" writing (that is, writing that counts toward tenure or loving). Anyhoot, left on my docket is a "performance" titled "Supercolon (:) Kandoo!" in which I an supposed to be an organologist diagnosing the "health" of the discipline from its product: (bull)shit. Also need to respond to a few pretty decent papers. Anyhoo, all this production reminded me of a video shappy sent, wherein a kid is supposed to shoot a bottle rocket out of his ass (requires wmp), but something goes horribly wrong (note: not work safe!). And on the same video-tip, Trish sent along a preview of a video of last years "repetition panel." For this years repetition panel (on in which we present the same papers that we presented last year and the year before, with the same inane gestures and water drinking), titled, "Healthy Discipline: Moving Back, Looking Forward, and Reaching Around: Repetition, Yet Again: Two Years Later," this video will be projected behind us (requires quicktime), sans the music (thought you have to love the shitty sound of "give it away!"). This is turning out to be a pretty shitty conference, but, as everyone knows, I think shit and fart jokes are funny (and look for TPQ next January for my manifesto on academic shit, "ShitText!").

the emanations of Ein Sof

Music: Sarah McLachlan: Mirrorball The kabbalah, a much discussed "religion" in the popular press these past few years, is a contemplative belief system better characterized as the way of the mystic than as a coherent "religion." Certainly it has a long history and it symbolism is inseparable from Jewish traditions, but as this "way" has evolved in the past two centuries it has generated a number of "off shoots," many of which claim to participate in "the" kabbalah. Among Jewish mystics, there is some disagreement about what constitutes "the" kabbalah: some die hards insist only the morally pure, married, post-forty year old male set could properly study its teachings (married? You may ask? Yes, married: heterosexual union is one of the many divine reflections of Ein Sof, the godhead). Others believe anyone can access the truth and learn to avoid dividing divinity and have opened pricey "centers" where, for a fee, you participate in becoming increasingly aware of the emanations and the negations thereof, the sefirot.

If you look in any "New Age" teaching, including that of Scientology, you will find signs of the kabbalah and Hermeticism: "As above, so below." It's all over the place in Masonic literature (and I'm always amused by the way in which the "old timers" reared on evangelical Christian beliefs completely ignore it). This is because, ultimately, the kabbalah is a technique of thought, not so much a series of rituals. I learned about the teaching via the Greek Qabalah, which is a very "white guy European" version of the Jewish practice, originating in secret societies like the Golden Dawn and the O.T.O. Based on what little I know, studying the kabbalah is akin to dialectical thought, and reminds me of Hegelian sublation. Regardless, my point is that once you get beyond the inevitable politics of inclusion and exclusion, the teaching of the kabbalah is the opposite of the teaching of property: regardless of understanding, you cannot claim to "know" the kabbalah. If you claim knowledge than, strictly speaking, you have subjected Ein Sof to dualism (e.g., that there are those who know and those who do not; the irony here is moving beyond this basic negation is one of the first rules of Ein-club).

That said, Madonna's public embrace of the Kabbalah she learns from a high-priced boutiques has amused me for years. Her recent retreat into family and children is not merely that, "oh shit, I'm getting old" biology kicking in, but also a reflection of the values at the center of the more Jewish understanding of kabbalah. The classist assumptions behind the embrace of a mystical tradition thought to be older and more "profound" than mainstream religious practice include the idea that the life of the privileged and wealthy are somehow more soulless than the lives of the rest of us (and if you go by Hollywood's recent trend, elder black Americans are closer to god because, of course, they are poor and have lived a harder life). The appeal of Scientology is that it tells you that you are special (it's uber-individualism with some Aliens). The appeal of the kabbalah, at least in terms of the stylin' of the Ein Soph, is that it claims to be the great equalizer through contemplation (in this sense, its almost interchangeable with the flashy Buddhism of California's elite>

Yesterday Madonna criticized Paris Hilton because my favorite lazy-eye nudie has been spotted purchasing kabbalah string and apparently talking about its study. "People like Paris Hilton come into a centre and buy a book or a band and that's it for them. It doesn't mean they study it," said Madonna on a BBC radio program. "It's very hard to be a believer. I'm very serious about it." Now one realizes that the emphasis on "very" is code for depth of thought, or intelligence. Madonna basically said the kabbalah is not for stupid people, and Paris Hilton is stupid. Be that as it may, Madonna betrays more about her brand of mystical contemplation here than, of course, she is willing to realize: pot, kettle, black. Apparently it's not just our political leaders who engage in spiritual warfare. Fortunately, Madonna will not be responsible for killing over 2000 troops for calling Paris Hilton "stupid." There is no substantive "evil" in the kabbalah, since Ein Soph is one. There is only distance from the Divine.

Holding a hamburger half-nude or licking the lips of a same-sex hottie is closer to God than George W. Bush will ever be. If there is a God. And I'm pretty sure that if = there is, he's all about hamburgers and Hilton and not oil and government contracts and . . .

Addendum: Post Paroxysm, or, the Aberrations of Mourning, with Regards to Larry

Neil Diamond's new album, 12 Songs came out today, and the first single, "I'm On to You," is fucking brilliant with vibes. Rick Rubin is steering this particular ship; you'll recall he worked Johnny Cash back to genius-style songcraft, even as the man was dying. This album will win much praise (and it resonnates with my week; Madaonna's new disco throwback, not so much).

. . . the invisible worm

Music: Bob Dylan: Blood on the Tracks If you were ever a fan of Coil, then you know.

This morning it is in the 80s and warm, and it was hard to sleep-in because of the heat. The forecast is that we will be pushing the 90s. Outside one can hear the unusual hum of air-conditioning fans . . . in November. My neighbors Glenda and Marsha are in their robes, drinking coffee, reading the paper in their living rooms; I just read mine, and was amused by a story on Tom Delay's mug shot, and there is rioting in Paris, and Glade has discontinued their "wisp" fragrance machine that I like so much, and my neighbor Vicki just called and invited me over for chicken and dumplings tonight and to watch the debate with her and Marsha on The West Wing, because I'm a socialist and good company for watching television.

In the patio, the roses continue to splode, and more buds have arrived, and the weather has confused the plants, and the cold snap a few weeks back killed the beetles and bugs, and so the roses continue to come with a kind of quiet jubilance, as if there is no end to a secret life somewhere I cannot see (the "secret powers" conspire, Hume mused), sometimes as if to cheer, sometimes as if to mock.

One of the bushes only produces one flower at a time. It begins as a white rose with red edges, and as the flower continues to open, the petals get redder and redder [edit: check the previous post; the flower to the right is the same "white" rose I posted a picture of on Friday!]. And just when the flower seems saturated, it falls apart.

I was thinking last night, well, dreaming, and struck by how much cliché can achieve a grave depth that bruises my cynicism. I remember at a conference some years back, I was in the mountains out West, and I had a hard time breathing, and there were little yellow flowers outside the hotel window, and I was noticing the flowers and I was watching CBS Sunday Morning, and there was a story about Ray Charles on the television, and he was talking about allegory and metaphor (and I remember thinking it was really about substitution--metonymy, you know) and the authenticity of indirection, and I was tearing, and my roommate started laughing at the television program. "Oh how sappy," she laughed. "How can you watch this?" And I knew she didn't know I was moved at that moment (and would have been embarrassed if she knew), so I said she could change the station, and I was called to my duty to be the vigilant cynic and debunker of bromides and the natural, because there is a worm in everything, an invisible worm . . . .

islands in the stream and the second hand emotion

Music: Duran Duran: The Singles 81—85 Okie blogrovers, I have completed a draft of my talk for this afternoon. I'm posting it in here for your entertainment. If any of y'all see something easily co-authorable with these ideas and would like to pursue it further as a joint venture, please lemme know. I couldn't get to it until next semester, but I think there is a nice paper in here on love, rhetoric, and the Deleuzian critique of identity in Difference and Repetition, but the latter makes my brain hurt more than reading Lacan does.

Oh, two more preliminaries: the roses in my patio have 'sploded, so I'm using them to illustrate my love . . of flowers (send me some!). Also, I'm trying to use the expandable post feature to save space (and because I'm such a tease, you know). Lemme know if the "read more here" link is working or what not [edit: for some reason this feature will NOT work for Firefox users; anyone know why? Is it my template?]

Okie, here we go!

[play song clip] I've opened by playing a portion of Dolly Parton and Kenny Roger's duet "Islands in the Stream" for two reasons. First, the opening two lyrics must be some of the stupidest ever penned in the name of love: "Baby, when I met you there was peace unknown/I set out to get you with a fine tooth comb." Now, if you think about it, such romantic prose is like telling your partner you found her or him much like one does fleas on a dog, or the hidden evidence of a crime scene. In this instance love is an examination, a search for minutiae, an obsession with the intricate details of another. Let us call this obsessive love, or the love of interrogation. Although the fine tooth comb quest for love makes for good fun poking, it also helps to underscore the relationship of other-knowledge to love.

The second reason I've opened with "Islands in the Stream" is that it evokes the most powerful conception of love that resides in the popular imagination. That the title of the song is lifted from a Hemmingway novel about a lonely, hard drinking man in search of reconciliation with himself and his lover is not coincidental. Islands in the stream betoken the other side of love, which is not hate, but rather, loneliness and a fear of death. "Islands in the Stream" evokes the 17th Mediation by John Donne, who, upon hearing a bell tolling softly for another, recognized that what the bell really said was "Thou must die." In meditating on they way in which the death of others portends our own, Donne wrote: "No man is an island, entire to itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main." Now, to return to our pop stars, the sentiment is the same as that of Dolly and Kenny, who sing, " Islands in the stream/That is what we are/No one in-between/How can we be wrong." The islands are connected or mediated as one by the common substance of love.

I want to begin by suggesting, with apologies to Kenny and Dolly, that this sentiment is, in fact, WRONG, that the argument that we are One, that in solitude we are lacking, and that lovers can be united in knowledge of each other, is the essence of rhetoric as we have received it in the West. In other words, today I will argue that rhetoric is love, but I will suggest that it is nevertheless a false love. I want to suggest that, in the pop song repertory of U.S. culture, Tina Turner is right in the end: rhetoric is a second hand emotion, or rather, a supplement to a more fundamental, ontological division between two subject positions.

As a supplement--as opposed to, say, an affect--love is more often used to obscure or hide or even obliterate difference in the name of the same. This hankering for oneness in the same is what we rhetoricians have termed "identification." Identification or identitarian logic, this logic that abandons difference for SAMENESS, is the most powerful fantasy of human kind, and the center of our understanding of persuasion. In short: as Nietzsche has suggested, rhetoric traditionally conceived is a lie.

In order to make the argument that rhetoric is false love, I'll be taking us, first, to Jacques Lacan's psychoanalytic understanding of love, then swing back through work on love in rhetorical studies, and then, finally, I'll close with a few suggestions about true love.

WHAT IS LOVE? (make Roxbury boys joke)

In what is his last and perhaps most famous seminar of 1972 and 1973, Lacan introduced his theory of love. Now, this stuff is complicated and I won't pretend to understand it with any sense of mastery, but two important observations are key.

First: Love and Hate are two sides of the same coin of human desiring. In other words, the traditional assumption that love and hate are apposed is wrong, insofar as BOTH are born of desire for the other--a desire to be completed by absorbing or negating the other. A perfect illustration of this was Dr. Vangelisti's clip from The War of the Roses last week, when Barbara told Oliver that she felt happiness over the fantasy that he was dead. So Paul McCartney got it all wrong from the beginning. We should look, instead, to John Cougar Mellencamp who lamented "Sometimes Love don't' feel like it should so, baby, make it hurt so good," or to Nazareth who sings "Love Hurts." Indeed, a better understanding of the role of desire in loving means that "Love Hurts" is the better motto here. To put it most succinctly, love is fundamentally ambivalent.

The second observation of Lacan's view of love is this: Love is a supplement, not an affect. For Lacan love is a function or, as he says, a consequence of a radical disjunction between two people. Although we associate affect with this thing love, the thing as such is the epiphenomenon of an impossible relationship; it is a reminder that I am not you, and you are not me-that, in fact, there is no relationship between us, only endless symbolic reminders of its impossibility. So let me unpack this idea of love as a supplement to radical disjunction a bit more, however, because it's not as obvious as it may sound.

First, we have this concept of disjunction. What does Lacan mean by disjunction? Well, the annoying thing about Lacan, or rather, the signifier of Lacan the author, if you wanna remain properly poststructural, is that he usually means to signify many things (and then, of course, nothing) with a concept like disjunction. Musically, a disjunction is a shift in the notes of a melody. In logic, it designates the function of the term "or " that leads to truth statements. And then there is informal logic, where a disjunction implies one or another. I won't go too much into this except to say that disjunction consequently implies a choice between two things, a binary, and that for Lacan, the fundamental binary choice of our identities was made for us at birth: either you are man or woman. You had no choice in this choice, and once it's made, you cannot undo it. In other words, sexual difference is ultimately a forced choice in the symbolic between two categories of being. Let me underscore this is NOT biological, for it is entirely possible to change one's biological sex. But, even when one elects to do so, it's almost impossible to escape the symbolic tokens of the choice that was forced upon you. What we're talking about here is the symbolic.

Now, with the notion of disjunction as an "either this or that" logic in mind, we are ready to wrestle with Lacan's argument that Love is a supplement to radical disjunction.

In the twentieth seminar, in respect to the domains of love and knowledge, Lacan proclaimed, "there is no sexual relationship." Now this statement, that "there is no sexual relationship," seems patently absurd. "Sure there is a sexual relationship," you may be thinking, perhaps about last night (though I assure you in my case this is an undeniable and horribly lamentable truth). But what is key here is the many senses in which Lacan means "sex."

By "sexual relationship" Lacan is referring to the categories of male and female, a fundamental cultural disjunction: as my colleague Amber Rademacher put it last week, "this society machine only computes ones and zeros," meaning that in our culture difference is reducible to a single disjunction, that of sex.

Yet by "sexual relationship" Lacan is also suggesting that sexual intercourse is a biological act in which TWO ISLANDS in the STREAM remain islands. The cultural fantasy of sexual intercourse as a unification of souls is problematic for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it privileges penetration as THE condition of oneness.

So, when Lacan says that there is no sexual relationship, he means both that (1) the sexes-and by extension, people in general-are radically disjunct; and (2) sexual intercourse is not a practice whereby two become "one" in the act. Love and Sex, in other words, are frequently commingled because they both are fields of fantasy. As a matter of fact, Lacan is saying that sexual intercourse is frequently a means by which individuals attempt to overcome or hide or repress or forget their radical disjunction.

So when Robert Smith of the Cure sings, "Why can't I be you?" The answer is, WELL, IF YOU HAVE TO ASK . . . . Now, you would think this is obvious, but all you need to do is watch Divorce Court, or perhaps chronicle your own, personal series of attempts at that failed, hopelessly romantic, Vulcan mind-meld, and you'll feel the problem.

So, to bring this back to Tina Turner, love is "second hand" because the first hand is, as Burke put it, "division." In this respect, Lacan says: "what makes up for the sexual relationship is, quite precisely, love." This is to say, love is the token of a failure of reconciliation. Love is failure. Love is the impossibility of becoming One.

And here is where the answer to the "so what?" question, or perhaps the "no shit Sherlock" dismissal, comes. Insofar as love is a token or sign or epiphenomenon of the failure of unity, it's very clear we don't like to think about love this way. Rather, in the West we tend to think of love in one of two ways:

1. Love as unification: love is the process whereby two individuals become one. This is the notion of a soul-mate: "reunited because it feels so good." The promise of returning to the womb, finding your safety net or bean bag chair, using the other to "make you complete and whole." This is inclusive of love as interrogation, the notion that you are using a fine tooth comb to discover the mysteries of your partner, so that you can know them so deeply you can complete his sentences.

2. Love as mediation: love is the mediation of the two by some third. There is a third that can yoke the two. This would be a cause, or God, or the church, or the institution of a family, or some other entity that seemingly reconciles or bridges the disjunction, like a psychic. Indeed, this is the "thirdness" or presumed meditation of sexual intercourse-that somehow you can screw yourself back into unity or fuck yourself "up the chain of being." Another way to put this is that this is the psychic theory of sexual intercourse, that somehow an orgasm is a spiritual event. It is, in yet other words, the lie of Hegelian sublation.

The Lacanian critique of love, then, concerns the fantasies that the disjunction of "the two" can somehow be transcended and become "the one," or reconciled by some mediating third. False love is love as a cover or fantasy or shield, protecting us from the trauma of the truth that we are, in fact, islands unto ourselves.

So where does rhetoric come in?

PRETTY PERSUASION: ON RHETORIC AS LOVE (play R.E.M. song)

Ok, so, before I push this argument to the final stage, let me take a moment to summarize. So far I have suggested that for Lacan love is a supplement for a radical disjunction or difference at the center of every relationship, the most primary being that of sexual difference, and we mean this as a cultural distinction, not a biological one. Lacan has critiqued love by suggesting that "true love" is a token of failure, and false love is any promise of transcendence or unity.

Now I am prepared to argue that rhetoric, traditionally conceived, is the promise of false love and therefore a fundamental misrecognition of difference. In short, rhetoric is bad love.

Dr. Brummett has already mentioned the Platonic dialogues, which suggest that the true art of discourse is dialectic, the apprehension of divine truths by means of mediation (the magical third of the forms). From the ancients forward, rhetoric, defined as the art of persuasive oratory and later writing, has been taught as an art of unity and transcendence.

Time prevents any through account, but we could characterize the situation as this: some speaker (male) addresses an audience (female) and seduces or persuades them to identify with his or her position, vision, and/or desires. Now, whether appeals consist of outright lies, or identity-nuggets of pretty persuasion, is inconsequential. The point here is that almost all theories of persuasion orbit the promise of transcendence or mediation. As our own Rod Hart has written, persuasion is akin to lovers cooing on a park bench. In other words, our theories of persuasion in rhetorical studies have been theories of false love.

For example, let me reference a modern darling of rhetorical studies: Kenneth Burke. Uncle Burke defined rhetoric as: "the use of language as a symbolic means of inducing cooperation in beings that by nature respond to symbols." Cooperation can be read here as amoral love, neither good nor bad. Cooperation is, at some level, a recognition of a fundamental failure or division. Yet Burke's theories of persuasion seem to hinge on identification and the evocation of common substance, of saying, in effect, that all islands in the stream of strife are but united by an underwater continent. Persuasion is, in effect, the seduction of an impossible unity or mediation (and as an aside, we can therefore say that the best persuaders NEVER deliver; not delivering, in fact, is the undercurrent that persuades).

In this view, the Kenny and Dolly Duet "Islands in the Stream," then, is a ideal example of how rhetoric has been thought if in content and form: musically in brings you along, back to the tonic. The message that it promulgates is Oneness, unification in the medium of love. The song itself is a supplement, it is in and of itself the cover or repression of a failure; it is rhetoric.

Now, a number of scholars in our field have worked to combat the false love central to rhetorical instruction in the past two thousand years. Among the first was Wayne Brockriede, who argued in a widely read essay, "Arguers as Lovers," that too much persuasion was premised on what I have characterized as "false love." Brockreide said there were three kinds of arguers (or persuaders):

1. the unfortunately termed arguing rapist: this is the arguer that berates their audience until they give in.

2. the seducer: this is, for Brockreide, the liar who uses deception to persuade.

3. Finally, we have the "lover": this is the persuader who addresses the other as an equal, shares power, values the relationship over the outcome of the message, and so on.

Clearly Brockreide was onto something, insofar as the lover valued a recognition of disjunction over transcendence and becoming "one." But the false love still lurks insofar as equity or parity here betokens sameness: that is, the rhetor and audience share a common substance; argument, therefore, becomes the avenue of recognizing this common cause in the pursuit of unity. Argument here is used as false love, the mediating third, an instrument of connection.

What Brockreide did contribute to, however, is a less adversarial or "sexual relation" approach to rhetorical love in favor of a cooperative vision. This push toward cooperation can also be seen in the "Invitational" model of rhetoric offered by Sonja K. Foss and Cindy L. Griffin. Foss and Griffin argue-and rightly, I think-that persuasion seems too tightly wed to patriarchical notions of "change, competition, and domination." Or to put it differently, persuasion in the field has been much too Kenny: it sets out to analyze lovers with a fine tooth comb in order to take them over, dominate, and assimilate them into the Borg of Phallic-Man Love. Although they acknowledge that persuasion, or in my terms, instrumental rhetoric, with a stress on instrument-although they acknowledge that persuasion is necessary sometimes, they nevertheless retreat to the fantasy of unity: "Invitational rhetoric is an invitation to understanding as a means to create a relationship rooted in equity, immanent value, and self-determination." In other words, invitational rhetoric plays into the idea of a complete and self-transparent subject respecting other complete and self-transparent subjects.

So, what I am suggesting is that attempts to change how we think about rhetoric in favor of recognizing difference and alterity continue to fail. The attempts of rhetoricians, in other words, to inject postmodern or poststructural theory into rhetorical studies continues to meet resistance because as a field we are too enamored of our transcendent fantasies of love. So, to use the Barry's language of homology, the third thing that yokes love and rhetoric is transcendence and mediation. Or as John Durham Peters has argued in his history of the idea of communication, Speaking Into the Air: "The problem of communication is not language's slipperiness, it is the unfixable difference between self and the other." He continues that "At best, 'communication' is the name for those practices that compensate for the fact that e can never be each other." And to add my own spin on this, good communication is a recognition of failure.

So, you may be thinking: Ok Josh, you have just told me that rhetoric is bad love, that rhetoric is a cover or ruse or about repression difference. And now you've even suggested that COMMUNCATION is, in some sense, a kind of bad love too.

So what is to be done? Are we to abandon rhetoric? Are we to stop communicating? What is a good or true love, and how do we rethink rhetoric or communicate in keeping with true love?

The argument I have been making against Dolly and Kenny in favor of Tina does not lead to the conclusion that the transcendent fantasy of love, or false love, should be rejected or avoided. This is why my theoretical pursuits in rhetorical studies frequently differs from my pomo friends: the rhetoric of bad love saves lives, and often makes people feel better, and its ok to make people feel better sometimes. For example, I may be critical of the song "Islands in the Stream" as an exemplar of bad love, BUT, the song is catchy, it makes me smile, and it feels good to sing along. More seriously, appealing to a common humanity often can save the lives of others who are about to be killed. To abandon bad love and the feelings it inspires, in light of imminent death, seems stupid. In other words, although we should be mindful of its potential abuses, and although we should avoid the endless and obsessive quest of a love of interrogation, we should nevertheless take and claim love whenever and wherever we can get it.

[note: the below link should take you to the rest of the talk, but, you can only read the rest using Safari or Internet Explorer; for some crazy reason Firefox only presents gobbledegook. sorry!]

of sneaks, peeks, and rosy cheeks

Music: Burnt Friedman: Dub to the Music I've been working on my talk for tomorrow, currently titled: "Rhetoric: What's Love Got to Do with It? Part II, or, Islands in the Stream and the Second Hand Emotion." Here's a teaser.

I've opened by playing a portion of Dolly Parton and Kenny Roger's duet "Islands in the Stream" for two reasons. First, the opening two lyrics must be some of the stupidest ever penned in the name of love: "Baby, when I met you there was peace unknown/I set out to find you with a fine tooth comb." Now, if you think about it, such romantic prose is like telling your partner you found her or him much like one does fleas on a dog, or the hidden evidence of a crime scene. In this instance love is an examination, a search for minutiae, an obsession with the intricate details of another. Let us call this the obsessive love, or the love of interrogation.

The second reason I've opened with "Islands in the Stream" is that it evokes the most powerful conception of love that resides in the popular imagination. That the title of the song is lifted from Hemmingway novel about a lonely, hard drinking man in search of reconciliation with himself and his lover is not coincidental. Islands in the stream betoken the other side of love, which is not hate, but rather, loneliness. "Islands in the Stream" evokes the 17th Mediation by John Donne, who, upon hearing a bell tolling softly for another, recognized that it what the bell really said was "Thou must die." In meditating on they way in which the death of others portends our own, Donne wrote: "No man is an island, entire to itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main." Now, to return to our pop stars, the sentiment is the same as that of Dolly and Kenny, who sing, " Islands in the stream/That is what we are/No one in-between/How can we be wrong." The islands are connected or mediated as one by the common substance of love. Let's call this the love of the one or transcendent love.

I want to begin by suggesting that these sentiments, the argument that we are One or the argument that we can become as one if you let me interrogate you, as well as the underlying notion of both, that in solitude we are lacking--ultimately that lovers can be united in knowledge of each other, is the essence of rhetoric as we have received it in the West. In other words, today I will argue that rhetoric is love, but I will suggest that it is nevertheless a false love. I want to suggest that, in the pop song repertory of U.S. culture, Tina Turner is right in the end: rhetoric is a second hand emotion, or rather, a supplement to a more fundamental, ontological division between two subject positions.

As a supplement--as opposed to, say, an affect--love is more often used to obscure or hide or even obliterate difference in the name of the same. This hankering oneness in the same is what we rhetoricians have termed "identification." Identification or identitarian logic is the most powerful fantasy of human kind, and the center of our understanding of persuasion. In short: as Nietzsche has suggested, rhetoric traditionally conceived, is a lie. But I will not agree that this like is amoral, as we shall see.

In order to make the argument that rhetoric is false love, I'll be taking us, first, to Jacques Lacan and Alain Badiou's psychoanalytic understandings of love, then swing back through work on love in rhetorical studies, and then, finally, I'll close with a few suggestions about true and false love and the uses of each.

WHAT IS LOVE? (Roxbury boys joke)

In what is his last and perhaps most famous seminar of 1973 and 1974, Lacan introduced his theory of love. Now, this stuff is complicated and I won't pretend to understand it with any sense of mastery, but it two important observations are key.

First: Love and hate are two sides of the same coin of human desiring. In other words, the traditional assumption that love and hate are apposed is only partially true, insofar as BOTH are born of desire for the other--a desire to be completed by absorbing or negating the other. A perfect illustration of this was Dr. Vangelisti's clip from The War of the Roses last week, when Barbara told Oliver that she felt happiness over the fantasy that he was dead. "Love Hurts" is the better motto here, since the opposite of love is clearly not hate, but indifference.

Second: Love is a supplement, not an affect. For Lacan love is a function or, as he says, a consequence of a radical disjunction between two people. Although we associate affect with this function, the function as such is the epiphenomenon of an impossible relationship; it is a makeshift bridge, as it were. So let me focus just a bit on this idea of love as a supplement to radical disjunction.

To better get at this notion, that love is a supplement to radical disjunction, we have to wrestle with what seems to be a patently absurd statement of fact. In the twentieth seminar, in respect to the domains of love and knowledge, Lacan proclaimed, "there is no sexual relationship." Now this statement, that "there is no sexual relationship," seems patently absurd. "Sure there is a sexual relationship," you may be thinking about last night (YOU may be thinking that, but not me, alas, not me). But what is key here is the many senses in which Lacan means "sex."

First and foremost, by "sexual relationship" Lacan is referring to the categories of male and female, which in psychoanalysis is not so much a biological facticity as much as it is a fundamental cultural binary: as my colleague Amber Rademacher put it last week, "this society machine only computes ones and zeros," meaning that in our culture difference concerns two boxes. In the Lacanian universe, incidentally, the biological and the psychical are radically distinct--so while there are bodies that matter, to harp with Butler, . . . [time for class; to be continued]

faking it

Music: Dif Juz: Extractions Ken's question from Sunday's post regarding the strategery of liberal pluralism in the classroom and my not-so-secret conviction in psychoanalytic values and understandings of difference (as constituted in the symbolic; there is no pre-discursive gender, sex, race, and so on) has struck and nerve and caused me to rethink my lecture for today. Now I think I'm going to introduce "queer theory" to the class as a critique of my mass email to the class two days ago; I think, if they read the email, this may just work out in a way that makes me harmonious.

And speaking of harmony, I don't know much about the work of Ernesto Laclau (except that which I have apparently read and forgotten), and I'm participating in a seminar in a couple of weeks that, pretty much, orbits his work (I was roped into this by friends who stressed the necessity of my being there as a reader of Lacan). Anyhoo, I've been dabbling in Laclau for a week now, and damn, it's hard to read but I think I'm getting the sexiness of his work's appeal: there ain't no outside baby! I'm liking his take on hegemony quite a bit.

Anyhoo, we were to develop a position paper for the seminar. Mine is short--homologous to my knowledge of the stakes involved in his unique brand of articualtion theory. Nevertheless, here it is:

On the Ontology of Tropology

A Very Brief Position Paper for the Seminar on Laclau, Lacan, and Rhetoric at the Meeting of the National Communication Association in Boston

Joshua Gunn University of Texas at Austin

When Chris Lundberg started urging me to read Laclau's work on tropology, my initial and unspoken feeling was of one of dread (or laziness). "Oh god," I thought, "if I have to read Peter Ramus one more time I'm going to slit my wrists." Such a disciplined response is as predictable as it is ignorant, but I think it also helps to represent the central challenge rhetoricians have and will face introducing Lacanian (or Lacan influenced) theories of articulation to rhetorical studies. Aside from combating the longstanding unwillingness to abandon the self-transparent subject, insofar as the ground of introduction is something called "rhetoric," attempts to engage Laclau (or Lacan) on or in his own terms will require a theorization of tropes beyond the commonly assumed level of style.

I am admittedly new to Laclau's work, but so far it seems to me that a crucial Sassurean move is that moment in Hegemony and Socialist Strategy when the "naturalist paradigm" is abandoned: "Synonymy, metonymy, metaphor are not forms of thought that add a second sense to a primary, constitutive literality of social relations; instead, they are part of the primary terrain itself in which the social is constituted."[1] In subsequent work Laclau has consistently maintained the centrality of "tropoi" to the constitution of (social) reality,[2] more recently calling for theorizing a fundamental linguistic and rhetorical ontology.[3] Although I am very interested in learning about the more sweeping, political-theoretical projects of seminarians, my interest in the seminar primarily concerns the need for a better understanding what Laclau means by "rhetoric," and what an ontology of tropology entails.

[1] Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, Hegemony and Socialist Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics, 2nd ed. (New York: Verso, 2001), 110.

[2] See Ernesto Laclau, "Metaphor and Social Antagonisms," in Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1998), 249-257; and "The Politics of Rhetoric," in Material Evens: Paul De Man and the Afterlife of Theory, edited by Tom Cohen, Barbara Cohen, J. Hillis Miller, and Andrzej Warminski (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota Press, 2001), 229-253.

[3] Ernesto Laclau, "An Ethics of Militant Engagement," in Think Again: Alain Badiou and the Future of Philosophy, edited by Peter Hallward (New York: Continuum, 2004), 136-137.

How's that for being an ignoramous? I'm still foggy on what Laclau thinks rhetoric actaully is. So far it seems to be tropes. And it seems that he's calling for an ontologization of style that would, essentially, jettision any notion of ontological homology (that is, formal parallels between, say, an inside/outside or a real/imaginary). But I dunno for sure. I'll be reading the assigned readings on the plane to Boston.

Okie dokie. Must prepare for school.

On Tolerating (Queer) Theory

Music: The Cranes: Wings of Joy Midterm period has arrived and, therefore, so have the complaints about the course I'm teaching, "Rhetoric and Popular Music." In large classes you're always going to have some folks who are unhappy with what or how you teach. And, of course, because I'm like the George Costanza character, it bums me out that I cannot "make" everyone happy. Part of the trouble for me is adjusting to the UT students, who are much more studious and much more righteous than the LSU bunch; the former I like, the latter, not so much. The codes of formality are proving a challenge; Austin is very different from Baton Rouge. I suspect it'll take at least a year to figure this audience out.

Anyhow, recently there have been murmurings among the students (which get back to you one way or another) that reek of homophobia and sexism, which is not surprising insofar as that is our culture in general. Anyway, having gone to the principal's office last week for a second time about my relative inability to self-censor (which I do need to work on), it's time to start towing the line between politics and info-transmission a little better. On Tuesday we are discussing queer theory, and we get into some pretty frank sexual material (they're reading an essay by a lesbian punk rock grrrrrl titled, "If I Had a Dick"). To avoid a homophobic backlash (catalyzed by the impending midterm after the lecture, no doubt), I sent this email to the class. I hope it works to defuse heterosexist anger. We shall see:

Greetings Class,

Your resident instructor here with some background commentary on your reading for Tuesday, as they directly challenge cultural assumptions of "normalcy." So far I hope that the greatest challenge of the course has been the difficulty of the readings, which, as we make the "anthropological" shift, are getting easier (and returning to the eighth grade level). Now, the greatest challenge may not be the reading as much as the ideas we are engaging about "identity" vis-à-vis masculinity, femininity, and sexual orientation.

Tuesday we are discussing the field of "queer theory," which grew out of the heated discussions of feminism in the 1980s and 1990s regarding sexual desire and the relationship between social identity and biology. We'll spend some time on Tuesday discussing the term "queer" itself-which is confusing-but for the moment let us simplify a lot of the concern of queer theory to a series of questions: to what extent does biology and genetics form a materialist basis for gender and sexual identity? In other words, are we born gay, straight, or somewhere between those two poles? Where do the chemicals and biological predispositions end and culture begin? Why is sexual identity such an obsession in the United States (e.g., what's the big deal about the proposed Texas amendment to ban gay marriage)? Finally, why are we so interested as a culture in these questions?

The latter question may resonate somewhat. To put it like my own granny does, "who gives a d*&! what you do in the privacy of your own home?" Or to reduce it to a question I received some years ago from a student, "who cares?"

The answer to the last question is this: if you identify as traditionally masculine or feminine or "straight," for whatever the reason, you have a much easier time in our society that if you do not. Sometimes having someone broadcast their sexual identity in your face gets tiresome-I know, folks, it can get old or be just annoying. I lived in DC many years on the gay pride parade route, and, of course, on a Mardi Gras parade route in Louisiana, and I've had all kinds of things foist upon (and once into) these tired eyes! My point, though, is this: if you were deemed socially "abnormal," it hurts, and it can be empowering to say, unabashedly and unashamedly, "this is me!"

Indeed, not being "normal" in any respect first leads to torment (think back to your own experiences in middle school, hey?), and then ridicule, and to all kinds of rejection. The big problem is that being different can get you killed (e.g., Matthew Sheppard, Tina Brandon, hundreds of thousands of folks without white skin, Jews . . . Jesus, alas, we are not wont for examples in history). So the answer to the question "who cares?" is "those folks who are more likely to suffer "-as well as the people that love them. Although you might think you are pained reading this stuff, feminism and queer theory are really about ending human suffering.

That's really what it comes down to folks: people suffer and die because they are "different." If there is a tacit ethical teaching to this literature, it is the lesson of tolerance.

Feminism and queer theory concern thinking about ways to keep people from getting hurt because they are not what society deems "normal" in regard to their gender and their sexual desire. Millions of folks live realities that are fraught with pain and hardship, and only because they harbor a preference for someone of the same gender or sex (or of a different race, and so on). As we saw with Walser on heavy metal, popular music practices are a central way in which these issues are expressed and negotiated in our culture. For reasons we discussed with Attali and Adorno (the irreducible humanness of music, that "noise" factor), as a powerful form of human expression, music can be used to create a kind of force field for expressing, deconstructing, constructing, and establishing a gamut of identities. Music, in other words, can unsettle our gendered and sexual identities (e.g., glam rock; lesbo-punk) as much as it cam reestablish or reinforce them (e.g., Enya; Nas).

Finally, as we tread into this territory I need to underscore a few things about the ultimate purpose for assigning this material. Although it may appear at times your goodly instructor is endorsing or promoting this or that approach, requiring readings and lecturing on queer theory is not to be taken as an ENDORSEMENT or propaganda for joining the some sort of Gay Borg or ominous Lesbo Deathstar (nor does lecturing on materialism entreat you become a socialist). Exposing you to this material, or any discussion of non-straight sexual identity, is not designed to "convert" you; it's not, in other words, sermonic. Rather, it's functionally informative AND designed to challenge settled, "normal" beliefs about what is and isn't appropriate in our society (indeed, what is or is not appropriate to discuss in the classroom!). You can think about it this way: the classroom should be the opposite of the church, synagogue, or mosque. In class, we challenge our settled ideas about normalcy and look beyond deity or the physical sciences for alternative explanations for social practices. In the house of God, we reaffirm and reestablish our settled ideas and beliefs. And in some ways, you cannot have the latter without the former.

Although this course is taught from a cultural studies approach, meaning that my personal politics is out on the table since any pretense to objectivity disguises the power relations in the classroom, readings like those for tomorrow are NOT assigned to "convert" you. Our aim is to expose you to the variety of work done on popular music, and to expose you to realities that you may never encounter once you leave the Academy. Indeed, the reason we call our institution a "university" is because, ideally, you will be exposed to the "universe," even to those ideas or philosophies that challenge your settled beliefs and values. The moral to this missive is this: keep an open mind, try to understand what's being said, and, as much as humanly possible, make the classroom inside and outside of our university walls a "safe space" for everyone: male, female, gay, straight, lesbian, transgendered, transsexual, bisexual, and all things in between.

Finally, I recognize this message is crafted for a "straight" audience, so let me give a shout-out to those among you who are forced to switch codes in the classroom (which, as you well know, is also almost always oriented to the "hetero" world): if you do not identify as "normal," welcome. I hope the readings and lectures on identity-sex, gender, and sexual orientation-ARE sermonic and reaffirming for you, and that classroom is a safe space in which you see your reality reflected.

Yours from Cameron Road,

D(Jx3)

dead-a-liciousness

Music: Be Bop Deluxe: Modern Music My boy Mirko flew into town for a weekend visit, and I'm pleased to report his debut set as DJ Mirko was a hit at last night's costume party, Dead-a-licious 2005. The original party theme was "Baby Dead-a-licious," but Party HostMost Jaimie worried that this might be too much Louisiana-style trauma for the Austinites, so we shortened the theme to "Dead-a-licious," although this didn't keep the theme at bay: Jaime was Medea, an ancient sorceress who killed everyone under the sun—including infants, who, apparently, were dismembered and made into punch. Photos of last evenings shenanigans are located here!

We're heading out for a tour of daytime Austin fun (South Congress, Waterloo, drive into the foothills), and tonight, hitting Hoover's for dinner and then Lovejoy's and Club Elysium to look at all those hot emo kids in black clothes. Then it's back to the grindstone since the big conference is coming up, and I'm still lacking any prep! AHHHHHHHHHHH!

shameless

Music: Marianne Faithfull: Blazing Away I'm home from Hotlanta and back to the grind. A report of nightclubbing forthcoming, but until there, here's a little bit of self-promotion (alternately read, a little bit of university front page exploitation). Click on the banner:

the revelator

Music: Depeche Mode: Playing the Angel The secret and its telling has been a central trope in Western music. From the song of the Greek engastrimyths queefing the will of the gods, to Mozart's scandalous disclosure of the magical Masonic word in The Magic Flute, song seems synonymous with revelation, and this is no mere coincidence: secrecy is always about form, the relation between the revelator and the enlightened. What is actually told is, in the history of secrets, relatively unimportant. Secrets concern the relationship between those who know them and those who do not; secrecy is a logic of scarcity and privilege.

Because repetition and time signatures are part of the consciousness of musical receptivity, because music is nothing but variations of form, the unfolding of a song is akin to the telling of secrets. We should not be surprised, then, that lyrically a bunch of pop music is of the “I got a secret” variety; and even more still (if it’s especially narcissistic/confessional), “I ain’t got no secret, this is all a show,” the revelation that there’s a little man behind the curtain (except the plea is to pay attention: “you could have it all; my empire of dirt”). Hark! Look for the harboring and disclosing of secrets in popular music and suddenly, you’ll see it everywhere.

I was and am listening to Depeche Mode’s new album, Playing the Angel, and was struck by the second track, “John the Revelator.” It’s another from Martin Gore in the spirit of gospel, obsessed as he is with the African American idioms these days (blues, gospel, and even some soul; check out his solo, you’ll hear). Incidentally, the album as a whole harkens back to the trend three albums go, before they ditched the beats in favor of a more stripped down, “rock” sound. Put simply, it’s a marvelous record if you are an "old," black-clothes wearin', clove smokin' Mode Head (and the first single, “Precious,” is destined for dance floor immortality, and perhaps even a symphonic cover for the elevator, eventually). Nevertheless, "John the Revelator" struck me because it’s an old gospel tune--or at least I thought it was, upon first listen. I remember the Blues Brothers covered it, as has numerous R&B , soul, and rock artists (I dimly recall Dave Matthews has a version, and so on). Unlike the gospel send-up, however, Depeche Mode is not very happy about St. John of Patmos’ secrets:

John the Revelator Put him in an elevator Take him up to the highest high Take him up to the top where the mountains stop Let him tell his book of lies

John the Revelator He's a smooth operator It's time we cut him down to size Take him by the hand And put him on the stand Let us hear his alibis

By claiming God as his only rock He's stealing a God from the Israelite Stealing a God from a Muslim, too There is only one God through and through Seven lies, multiplied by seven, multiplied by seven again Seven angels with seven trumpets Send them home on the morning train Well who's that shouting? John the Revelator! All he ever gives us is pain Well who's that shouting? John the Revelator! He should bow his head in shame

By and by By and by By and by By and by

Seven lies, multiplied by seven, multiplied by seven again Seven angels with seven trumpets Send them home on the morning train Well who's that shouting? John the Revelator! All he ever gives us is pain Well who's that shouting? John the Revelator! He should bow his head in shame

Well said, Martin, well said. When you claim to have a secret, and then disclose it in difficult language, folks will start claiming to understand your secret, to better comprehend your secret, to better protect your secret--even though we know the secret is always, in the end, empty. The song reminds me of Franklin Graham's remarks a couple of weeks ago: He said ""There's been satanic worship" [I suppose he is referring to voodoo, hoodoo, and vodoun religious practices, which means he hasn't a clue what he's talking about, of course] and that "there's been sexual perversion" [referring to the homeostatic response caused by Christian style sexual repression, I guess]. "God is going to use that storm to bring revival. God has a plan. God has a purpose." And apparently, like John the Revelator, Graham has a better understanding of that purpose and if you don't agree with it, you can go to hell.

I cotton much more, though, to the idiom of admission and confession (that, there's nothing "more than this," it's all a shell game, and in the end, we all die [repeat]). Well, I better take to the confessional song than the lyrical revelation of secrets--though not so much the idiom of confession in scholarship, which will drive you goddamn crazy ("I'm sorry I'm a white guy," you know how it goes). Which brings me to Gillian Welch, who is on my top ten of "most want to see live" list, and the top five of another list of mine (which I won't reveal, cause it's a secret). In the summer of 2001 she and her collaborator David Rawlings released the lazy and hauntingly beautiful acoustic set, Time (The Revelator). Instead of John of Potmos, the Revelator is Father Time, which unfolds in the title track:

Darling remember from when you come to me that I’m the pretender, I’m not what I’m supposed to be but who could know, lf I’m a traitor? times the revelator, revelator.

They caught the katy, and left me a mule to ride. The fortune lady came along she walked beside, but every word seemed to date her. Times the revelator, the revelator.

Up in the morning up and on the ride. I drive in to corning and all the spindles whine and ever day is getting straighter. Times the revelator the revelator

Leaving the valley and fucking out of sight I’ll go back to cali where I can sleep out every night and watch the waves and move the fader. Queen of fakes and Imitators Times the revelator.

The opening lyric is devastating but met with a force of identification that never even tempts cliché: of course, we all know we pretend (who doesn’t, except, perhaps, the Seven Dwarves, reduced to the repetative reenactment of their names?). Time measures in deed; words are immutable but forgotten easily, often willfully, and . . . who can ever know? I mean, what Welch teaches us is that we change over time ("who could know/if I'm a traitor?") and cannot know with any certainly what we will do tomorrow. Maybe, perhaps, my obsessing on the lyrics temps the cliché, but gosh, if you, gentle reader, haven't heard this song, it truly is a must.

"John the Revelator" speaks of rage; the secret is a lie. "The Revelator" speaks of honestly and humility; to make a promise about what comes is to commit to a lie, or to not changing (one's self, one's mind, one's belief; this is the robotics of evangelical faith). I guess I take to the sentiment of honesty much more than the righteousness of anger. Telling the secret that you don't have a secret at all is back, again, to the theme of love (recognition of the "disjunction," as it were)--"time will tell," as she says, and there's faith in that, this "being-toward-death."

Well, Playing the Angel and Time (The Revelator) are both excellent albums because of the smart way they deal with secrecy--and the music is good too. Still, I would prefer Gillian Welch to sing me to sleep tonight. I'll trade in my investment in angry for the solace of a little singing sadness. Besides, one cannot sleep when angry. And I'm tired of being angry.

--hailing from Atlanta

sploded

Music: Big Electric Cat: Dreams of a Mad King Yesterday the bud I contemplated on Thursday evening bloomed. I also was able to get some writing done over the weekend, which is somewhat of a relief, although the four projects that I must complete before the arrival of my professional organization's meeting, the National Communication Association in Boston, is still daunting. Even so, I am reminded of a song from Kate Bush's fantastic Hounds of Love, "Cloudbusting" (not the Utah Saint's remix, although it's certainly catchy): Love is faith in uncertainty (a yo-yo is now something that comes back, a command to be heard, and a toy).

Last night I visited the Ancient Free and Accepted Masonic Lodge Number 12, the third oldest lodge in Texas (it was charted before Texas was a state in the union). There were a number of masons my age, which surprised me. Friendly folks, good meal. I have a few more lodges to visit before I make my decision to affiliate locally-or to take a hiatus from masonry altogether. I just don't know yet.

I leave for Atlanta on Thursday, and should be back Monday barring major airline catastrophe. I'm off to see my ex-partner get married to the love of her life . . . it is awkward, but we've remained good friends and I'm also thrilled for her. I was going to DJ the reception, but it would have been too complicated (and even more awkward; I suggested if I was going to DJ, I should just officiate as well . . . that wasn't as funny to them as it was to me). Anyhoo, while I'm there, I'll be hooking-up with MasterPiercer Jen for a night or two. I wish I was there longer so I could hook up with other peeps, but, it's only a weekend.

I've come to a realization: I'm a "Hag Fag." I'm proud of it, too.

on the unlawful, or: faith, hope, and charity

Music: Syd Barrett: Octopus On December 15, 1791 the first amendment to the Constitution of the United States was ratified. It reads: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances." When I was in seventh grade, it was detailed that the first colonists came to this continent escaping government sanctioned and/or enforced religious beliefs. Because no one in the states could agree on the best way to worship deity, it was decided that the government would not legally "respect" or favor any one religious system, nor would it intervene in the religious practice of a people (as long as no one was getting hurt . . . Christian Scientists, for example, routinely test federal and state district attorneys).

On Friday, after dinner on 6th street at the Iron Cactus, me and Rog and Andrew retired to Lovejoy's for a drink. Lovejoy's is probably my favorite bar off 6th street, but they don't enforce the smoking ban and are real jerks when you want to bring in energy drinks. Anyhoo, so, the theme of Lovejoy's is loosely centered on Shriner regalia (a number of Shriner fezes are nailed to the wall behind the bar), and I muttered something about having mixed feelings about that. This led to a conversation about Freemasonry (what it is and what it teaches). I spoke at length about the Scottish Rite, whose central teaching (in my opinion) is religious tolerance. The rite established it's 33rd degree around the same time that deism was a popular belief system. Masonry, of course, is strongly reflected in the beliefs of our so-called founding fathers-who constantly stressed the necessity of the separation of church and state.

As I explained to Rog and Andrew, the Masonic secrecy of the Blue Lodges was important to Enlightenment thought: if one was studying the starry night sky, he (yes, only men) could share his speculations and researches in a lodge temple without fear of religious persecution. Later, in the United States, after Albert Pike re-wrote the degrees of the Scottish Rite, religious tolerance was centered as a central tenant, most especially in the ritual for the 18th degree, the Knight of the Rose Croix "Masonry has her mission to perform. . . . she invites all men of all religions to enlist under her banners to war against evil, ignorance, and wrong. You are now her Knight! To her service your sword is consecrated . . . ." (from Morals and Dogma, 311). Indeed, aside from the divinity of Jesus, I think the commitment to religious tolerance and the vigilant separation of church and state is what distinguishes the Scottish and York Rites.

I do take my Masonic obligation seriously. At times I find what some masons do inexcusable, but, those who founded the fraternity were committed (however ironically) to democracy.

I find it astonishing, then, if not downright frightening, that Harriet Miers may be confirmed to the Supreme Court as a justice. Last week during another press conference to buoy conservative mood, the President of our country and so-called leader of the free world said:

People ask me why I picked Harriet Miers. They want to know Harriet Miers' background. They want to know as much as they possible can before they form opinions. And part of Harriet Miers' life is her religion.

That religion is even mentioned at all is gravely disturbing, and Bush's remarks unabashedly forward a "litmus" of faith. It's disturbing for a number of reasons. First, the presidential speechcraft is no longer double-voiced, but singular; Bush is speaking directly to the religious right now. There really is no more need to detail the careful ways in which the shout-outs to those who believe in spiritual warfare were made. Second, it's been broadcast widely that Miers is no garden variety Christian, but an "evangelical" Christian in a "very conservative" church. Evangelicalism is, of course, the name for a rather nebulous brand of Christianity. Even so, most evangelicals stress the necessity of being "saved" (conversion is central), of the absolute and literal authority of scripture, and the guidance of the holy spirit in the governance of the polis. Evangelicals do not appreciate the strict separation of church and state, but believe in a coming theocracy (one that is preceded by a wave of natural disasters, as foretold by St. John of Patmos, of course). What is scary is not the potential overturning of Roe vs. Wade, which is not very likely IMHO, but the establishment of a new kind of justice who swears allegiance to the rule of law with a wink to the true believers that she knows very well whose law is to come first. It's all about promises, of course, but more in terms of a kiss-up and a covenant and less so a social contract.

pause (de)pressed

Music: Twilight Singers: play blackberry bell So I've cracked a gifted bottle and poured a spot: Elijah Craig 18 year old Kentucky bourbon. Handwritten on the bottle is "barreled on 12/1/81." I poured it over ice, and it got that chalky look . . . a sign this is some choice spirits! It smells delightful; I'm afraid to sip just yet. I'm going to try to nurse it for an hour. Something this fantastic should be savored, and heck, today is a good day to savor something. My sincere thanks to you, dear friend.

Thursdays: the prelude to Friday. Which means Monday is coming, just around the corner.

I'm sitting at my kitchen table at the laptop. In front of me a large window opens to my small patio. Along the sides of the patio are various growing things, but my favorite are two rose bushes, planted by the previous owner but quickly claimed as my own. In the bush furthest from me a single stem towers above the lower green leaves surrounding it; it thrusts out the gift of a large, naked and pregnant bud. We are well into October, and I'm surprised to see another bud this late in the blooming season. It's certainly a clichéd , suburban condo sort of scene, but I have to agree nature's gesture here is one of "hope."

In my darkest days, and there have been some, I've never lost sight of a sort of anticipatory feeling that something is going to come, that something is coming, a kind of willful "waiting," and I suppose I should call it hope. On days like today, which was not bad, or eventful, or good, a little sad, but--just a day, you know? I wonder sometimes what it would take for me to stop seeing pregnant buds. Even when I get downright depressed (which is not so much sadness as creeping numbness), I dunno, there's always something about to happen. Sometimes I want to sleep my way to it, but, still, there's an it to occur, or get to, or slap me around.

I guess right now the big it is tenure. Writing is still such a struggle; I've never had this trouble before, getting something on the page. But I know the handful of y'all in academe who read this can identify with "the block." Well, dammit, I gots it. So I sit, at the kitchen table, and blog instead . . . .

jesus, or, what aimee mann said about bachelor no. 2

Music: Sigur Ros: Takk I cannot sleep, but perhaps I'll fall soon. Here follows some random eye-speckles from the day, some meaning-nuggets, which will provide the raw material out of which dreams are made:

1. Waiting for the elevator at the office, I noticed a call for submissions to the University of Texas literary magazine, Analecta. That reads very Joycean to me, but I could be less charitable and say whomever chose the name was not very literary at all. So, the creators of said journal are either fun to drink with or irrepressible, stuck-up assholes.

2. I was asked to write a blurb for my graduate seminar in the spring. Jeez: I'm still reading scores of books deciding what the hell I'm going to assign after it was suggested to me I teach some kind of survey thing on psychoanalysis. Although I've written a few articles on psycho-this-or-that, I'm far from an expert, and the literature is immense. Where does one begin? I secretly (or not so secretly now) want to teach myself-and have the students teach me--more Lacan, but I know I cannot just do Lacan. So, I decided to throw in the kitchen sink, and then this would give me the widest margin to play in when I prep over the holidays. Here goes:

RHETORIC AND PSYCHOANALYSIS

This course consists of two parts. Part one is a survey of the various schools of psychoanalysis, beginning with Freud, traveling through the British School, Jung, Kleinian object-relations theory and American ego-psychology, and finally, ending in the challenging work of Lacan and his critics (e.g., Irigaray, Kristeva). The second part of the course explores the ways in which scholars have wed or related psychoanalysis and/to the object of rhetoric, from narratology and mythic criticism, to Lacanian tropology and the cultural criticism of Zizek, to the "ontologization of trope" in the political theory of Ernesto Laclau. The course is intended as starting point for further exploration. Although it will succeed in helping participants to read what is said in the previous sentences, this course should not be taken in the illusory pursuit of mastery.

Hope that last line doesn't get cut; I like chipping away at my own aura of expertise. What do I know? I know whom to read. I don't know how to read them, necessarily. That's not my job, anyway.

3. I'm experiencing something akin to "Louisiana Party Withdrawal." I recognize that it is much better for my health not to be partying and eating all those boudoin balls, but, there's something about drunken catharsis that is still good for the soul. I've conspired with some grads to throw a honest to goodness costume party. Of course, nothing could ever compete with the Spanish Town parties (and I hear my peeps are going to continue the tradition), although I've brought a little of that spirit with me and will try to make it happen. I'm not very clear on the social dynamics here; my hunch is that this will be seen as a "graduate student" party instead of as an "everybody party," since the power-distance between teacher/student is so thick here (and it's not something one can change; I'll eventually assimilate, I know, I know). Nevertheless, I'm giving it the good ol' college try by DJ-ing the event. Want to come? Email me and tell me who the hell you are and why I should care and not be worried about stalking (it is Halloween, after all) and I'll send you the directions.

There's a very very big fourth, but only one other person needs to know. I will say, though, that ya can't be an academic all the time. Sometimes you need to let your inner-17-year old out, you know, the one who made mixed tapes for girls and talked to God.

rhetoric = bad love

Music: Japan: Gentlemen Take Polariods The string of command performances continues as I ease explode into the UT scene, but not entirely by choice, of course. Two short weeks after the guest talk in Rod Hart's class, I hosted a small party for the "Rhetoric and Language Area" folks in my department (photos of Friday night are here). Now, in a couple of weeks I share the stage with Barry Brummett on a title I proposed, "Rhetoric: What's Love Got to Do With It?" for the department colloquy. I had assumed that we would cheekily reenact speeches from Plato's Phaedrus dialogue, but was warned that this may not go so well for a room full of new students that are not in the rhetoric area. Instead, we ought to share tidbits of recent work and develop some relatively straightforward arguments to provoke discussion.

For many months I've been simmering an idea on the back burner: rhetorical studies has been, to borrow a phrase from Ian McCullough and the Bunnymen, "breaking the back of love." I like the phrase (and the song, with those staccato "wreeenkk wreeenkkk" riffs in the chorus, just like whiplash) because it captures the ambivalence of loving; love and anger, or love and hate, are homologous expressions of the same desiring fueling the fantasy machine. Unfortunately, outside of Wayne Brockreide's "Arguers as Lovers" essay and the work done on "invitational rhetoric" by Foss and Griffin, there really little work on the "front side of love;" most of the work tends to focus on rhetoric as hate.

So I'm working with the idea of using Lacan's theories of love and sexuation ("there is no sexual relationship") to characterize rhetoric, traditionally conceived, as essentially a deception (this would mean Brockreide's take is extended, while that of Foss and Griffin, premised falsely on a misrecognition of the fundamental disjunction). For Lacan, that there is no sexual relationship means that the "two" individuals who are in a relationship more traditionally conceived (friendship, romantic, teacher-student, analyst-analysand, etc.) are radically disjunct. This is Robert Smith's recognition in the song "Why Can't I Be You?" in the classic Cure song: if you have to ask the question, then there is at some level a tacit recognition that unification or transcendent love-that which is marketed by the Walt Disney Corporation-is an illusion. Alain Badiou describes the illusion of transcendent unification as "The One." The more authentic reckoning with love-that is, true love-is to think of it not as a thinking but an outworking of the experience and recognition of radical disjunction, what Lacan terms "them-two" in the last and most famous seminar in 1972-73.

Anyhoo, the idea here is that rhetoric as it has been understood and practiced is always an illusion of "The One." Conversely, we might also say that it is a reconciliation of "the Two" by some mediating thirdness. So, we have: rhetoric as (bad) LOVE and rhetoric as mediation, two answers to disjunction that folks find very persuasive.

babe publicus

Music: St. Britney: Oops I Did It Again . . . According to the OED, publicity is defined as

The quality of being public; the condition or fact of being open to public observation or knowledge. b. spec. Public notice; the action or fact of making someone or something publicly known; the business of promotion or advertising; an action or object intended to attract public notice; material issued to publicize.

It is curious, then, that upon announcing that they are pregnant, media hacks were on the television and radio this morning arguing that “Tomkat” (or the coupling of Cruise and Holmes) are “really a legitimate couple,” casting into question the suggestion that their whirlwind romance was a “publicity stunt" (one must keep in mind that, owing to a fairly high miscarriage rate among first time mothers, unlike this very public declaration of pregnancy, most couples prefer to wait until they are fairly far along before letting their friends and family know they are expecting).

WHO WRITES THIS STUFF? Seriously! That the whole world knew instantly Tomkat were with child should immediately lead us to wonder what parts of their lives are not scripted. I cannot think of a more pure form of publicity than folding fantasy into flowering flesh. As if making a baby was some feat of transcendent love; I know better, cause I watch Divorce Court. Television personalities were contrasting this earth shattering news of the coming Tomkat Rotunda with the break-up of Nick and Jessica as well as the Paris-ae. “Makes you wonder about true love,” some idiot commented.

Speaking of true love: I predict Katie will miscarry, and then, a very public mourning and new awareness campaign by the Today Show. November will become National Miscarraige Day, and hot pink ribbons bracelets will signify contributing to the ending of sudden illnesses that befall Hollywood cut-outs . . . .

speak and spell

Music: Calexico/Iron and Wine: In the Reins When I was a kid, I fondly recall a toy made by Texas Instruments called Speak and Spell. I didn't have one (indeed, my family was too poor for such luxuries, until I was like ten, when I had the awesomest Christmas morning and got my first video game machine, the Vextrex), but my friends and neighbors did. I can recall our typing various "dirty words" into the machine and trying to get it to say offensive things about the bus driver. The problem was that Texas Instruments had programmed the thing not to say a majority of the four-letter words we had in our meager nine-year old vocabularies (it would say "ass" and variations thereof, though).

Lately I've been noticing what can only be referred to as stupid linguistic variations on common words. For example, I live in the Old Towne condominium complex, but there is absolutely no reason to have the extra, Old English "E" on "towne." What other purpose does that damned "e" serve other than pretension? Then there is the Safeway water I've been buying: it's called Refreshe. What effin' dictionary does "refreshe" appear in? That's not old English-it's just plain dumb. But the goddamn advertisement that set off my rant-o-meter was L'Oreal's (insert accent over the previous "e") new hair color product, "Coleur Experte." Give me a fucking break! I know French is the language of lovers, but on what planet is it the language of hair color? "Make them wonder how you got that color," the copy goes, but I'm wondering how they came up with that ridiculous trademarked name. I mean, is there some brainstorm meeting in a PR firm where someone goes: I got it! Let's spell color in a way no one will remember!

Sometimes I fantasize that we could will the Speak and Spell into the Kantian categorical imperative: we should only use and say those words that can be pronounced by the Texas Instruments computer circa 1979. Sure, this would eliminate the beautifully flexible "fuck," as well as the collected works of Judith Butler, Jacques Derrida, and Dr. Seuss, but the imperative would also save us from the "idea men/women" who come up with stupid product names like "Haire Magique."

Until then, I am changing my name to "Joshe." That's pronounced "JAWSH-EH." That extra "EH" on the end is to be inhaled, as if I've just given you the most wonderful and intense orgasme in the worlde.