Wednesday, May 3, 2017

Intellectuals are in dire need of “isms” for some reason

Nouvelle Chanson takes its inspiration artistically from Dada and Surrealism. Lyrically, inspiration is also drawn from fairy tales, contemporary poetry, and magical realist literature. It is also theatrical, and draws on the adoption of various personas.  ~Wikipedia

There is a great need in the small human mind to catalogue things to categorise everything, to put each idea, each breath in a nice compartment a comfortable little cube.

Particularly visible in arts: painting, literature, music.
The underlying idea being probably to simplify the marketing the profiting of it all.

Also to simplify life in our very simple minds.

By becoming an expert in one of those little cube one can inflate its self-value from the frog to the ox in his own mind.

Therefore the stench of utter pedantic behaviour and stuffiness in the arts and I might add also in science and in all aspects of life.

People hate so much saying “I don’t know” or “this is new and doesn’t belong to anything else” or “this is unique”.  

They all wanted to put Van Gogh in a box where Van Gogh himself didn’t even know if he was coming or going and was just EVOLVING, growing.

His brother certainly was strong in compartmentalising as it was part of his business and selling art is more than often nothing short of selling hot air.

When those pedantic stuffy expert could not find a box for someone they arrogantly called it “art naïf” because it did not fit in their expertise standards.

One had to belong to a school, one had to belong to a religion, and one had to be labelled catalogues and stashed away in a little box somewhere.

In this day of large numbers and expanding universe it gets harder and harder to find new boxes to put things it as less and less things fit in the fucking box anymore.

You knew now that that f word was coming soon didn’t you?

That pedantic stuffy attitude seems to be particularly relevant among the French but is seen worldwide.

Speaking of stuffiness here allow me a little parentheses on one of my latest pet peeve:  Michael Portillo.
Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, his name is synonym with utter failure and yet he mouths around the globe as if nothing had happened, au contraire.
My Bradshaw 1913 says, my Bradshaw this, and my Bradshaw that every 15 seconds regularly holding the red book like a flag making sure it is in every single fucking frame even holding it awkwardly at shoulder height for a headshot.  I can imagine him holding his relic in his left hand and jerking off with the right hand easily since he seems to be so utterly pedantic, stuffy, and fetishist about the item.
Every time I see him I feel like Jules Winnfield / Samuel L. Jackson:


While Portillo mumbles shit with a gun in his mouth.
End of parenthesis

So back to my muttons here to use a common French expression.

We, humans, are strange to say the least.  Very limited yet totally unaware of our limitations au contraire practicing the Kruger Dunning effect exponentially.

We need to frame, catalogue, compartmentalise a constantly evolving changing world that we have to begin with very little understanding of.

It would seem a priori that Dewey was a cunt. :) 

Pliny and Aristotle tried to do so too and failed miserably IIRC.

Even the most modern attempt today will be risible tomorrow.

So why do we keep trying? Some sort of thumb in mouth comfort? Much related to our fear of death? Who knows?

Point is that to squeeze someone or something in a little cube is just smothering and futile. We are what we are and that’s it and that’s all. All of it in all its time and even all that is a nanodot on the radar of the universe. 

This cataloguing will be all gone too soon 
the kata and the logos altogether.

Eat and Drink and be Merry for Mañana blah blah blah

But I won't be here anymore. Me. I'll be gone for good. If at least I'd learned something. I feel as helpless as the day I was born.
I haven't found a meaning. It's…
I have to search.
I have to keep searching.
We've been everything.
Separatists, independantists, sovereignists, sovereignty-associationists.
At first we were existentialists. We read Sartre and Camus.
Then Fanon, we became anti-colonialists.
We read Marcuse and became Marxists.
After Solzhenitsyn we changed.
We were structuralists.
-Is there an "ism" we haven't worshipped.
-God no. Think of Guo Jing.
Who was he? -An archeologist
with a skirt slit to the crotch.
Even you remember. -In the 70s,
China opens up to the West.
She comes on a cultural exchange. The
university sends its trusty radical, me...
I enter the dining room of her hotel.
I spot her, and die.
Beauty that could melt Emperor Qin's
7000 terra cotta warriors
I order tea, we make small talk.
I can see us doing Pekinese lotus.
-The Szechuan dragon.
To make myself appear intresting
I dive in: "Your country has achieved so much.
We're so envious. Your Cultural Revolution is wonderful!"
Her lovely black eyes glaze over.
I'm mortified to realize
that she's thinking,
"He's either a CIA agent
or the worst cretin in the West."
So much for the lotus and dragon.
For two years she'd cleaned pigsties on a re-education farm.
Father murdered,
mother committed suicide.

And some dumb French-Canadian who's
seen the films of Jean-Luc Godard
and read Philippe Sollers
says that the Chinese
Cultural Revolution, is wonderful!
Cretinism doesn’t sink any lower.
Voluntary simplicity.

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