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Clint Gardner Drink to me only with thine eye and I will pledge thee mine. Carouse. I'm listening to Segovia now. Just some short pieces, really, but one must admire the artistry. Clint Gardner I'm not what you think I am. I'm the king of Siam. Damn it this nap thing has got to stop. Stop, I say. I get home and immediately crash. I was fine for a while until I went outside and then visited neighbor Jeff to see how his ailing cat is doing (it is much better thank you very much). And just that little bit of sitting in the heat dragged me into a torpor. Thank Jebus for the cooler that John and Kendra so thoughtfully loaned me, otherwise I would have been found as nothing but pool of sweat and a dirty tee shirt and shorts. Clint term paper Well Cordelia pointed out to me today that the previous blog template was really freaking out on Linux Mozilla, so I decided to go radically simple on your asses and make an annoyingly simple site. Actually this format should be vaguely familiar to anyone who as taken college writing courses, or who has taught college writing courses, or who has even heard of them. In my striving for simplicity, I had created another template that was simple, but seemed far too crowded. It too used the dreaded courier or monospace font, but as I was coming up the stairs it suddenly struck me, why don't I really annoy the hell out of people by making it look like a badly formatted term paper? So here you go. Please feel free to complain--loudly if necessary. Clint Phaedrus Socrates: Writing you know, Phaedrus, has this strange quality about it, which makes it really like painting: the painter's products stand before use quite as though they were alive; but if you question them, they maintain solemn silence. So, too, with written words: you might think they spoke as though they made sense, but if you ask them anything about what they are saying, if you wish an explanation, they go on telling you the same thing, over and over forever. Once a thing is put in writing, it rolls about all over the place, falling into the hands of those who have no concern with it just as easily as under the notice of those who comprehend; it has no notion of whom to address or whom to avoid. And when it is ill-treated or abused as illegitimate, it always needs its father to help it, being quite unable to protect or held itself. Phaedrus: You're quite right about that too. (Plato, Phaedrus, lines 71-84) This famous passage defines the Platonic view on writing--it is a corrupt artifact that, in a sense, cannot speak like the living creature can. As Socrates says, the "child" needs its "father" to protect an defend it--in other words the text needs its writer to explain it. Now one could argue that a text is re-animated every time someone reads it--the reader becomes a part of the authorial process--bringing their own thoughts, ideas, words into the process of making the text. Unlike Socrates' dead text, the text becomes more like an orchestral score, where the reader as can't-be-anything-else but interpreter, plays out the text based upon his or her own past experience, and understanding as to what the worlds mean or signifying--thus there are variations in interpretations since the various readers repertoires differ. Of course the creator of the text can participate in the interpretation of the orchestral score, but only for a time, and, again, one might argue that the writer is just another reader. Some psycho-analytic critics argue, of course, that no matter the "control" exerted over a text, the author still is not ultimately in control of it. Clint all is flux. nothing is stationary Well I did manage to recover somewhat from my post-apocalyptic sleep. Pleasantly, John and Kendra decided to come over, as did neighbor Jeff. J & K had a cooler that they were not using, which they so generously offered to me for the front room. I was getting to the point of moving the cooler from the bedroom to the front since it has been hellish out here. The nights have been quite cool, which is good, but it made less work to put in the donated cooler. Don't make me go into the discussion of how as a kid the lack of A/C never seemed to matter all that much. It seems incredibly wimpy to whine about heat. In any case, it would be nice if I could just work all night and sleep away the hottest part of the day. Ah my environmental soul is being corrupted by A/C. Clint warmed-over cabbage This pattern has got to stop. I get home, eat dinner, and immediately crash into feverish, sweat-plagued sleep, and then I stay out to ungodly hours. Ah tonight I stay in. Perhaps that will make me go to sleep earlier than say 2, and then expect to get up and do it all over again. No wonder they have the siesta in Spain, but I still feel like crap right now. Fuck. Clint your first class stamp is another gift I've been toying more with the idea of the zine. Now I'm not sure what role a physical zine would serve in this micro-publishing world, but I like editing physical documents and having the physical artifact around. I can envision putting in stuff from folks I know, but of course, they would have to be willing, and since some are published, they'd really have to be willing to do it for free. Perhaps I'll set up an editorial board of like-minded people. Clint fabric softener for the soul Clint the exclusive remedy of the consumer |
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| Signifying nothing Copyright © 1997-2003 Clinton R. Gardner July 10, 2003 5:59 PM |
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