Girlfriend is better

When nervous, unsure, etc, etc, tone betrays the internal personal uncertainty as to whether the question being asked is the right one. As to whether the question is being asked to the right one. Self-doubt is an inhibitor, yet also a potent self-defense mechanism. And but when in doubt about self-doubt—which by construction is self-doubt about self-doubt even if it is not the doubt that is doubtful, losing the reflexivity—is there a good litmus test?

I meant to toy with TranslationParty on LanguageHat’s post. He quotes TechCrunch’s description, which indeed is precise:

The site is incredibly simple: you enter any English phrase you can think of, and it uses Google’s automated translator to convert it into Japanese. And then it translates it back into English. And back into Japanese. At each step along the way, the words you began with gradually take shape to form something entirely different and (hopefully) awesome. The retranslations continue until you reach what the site calls ‘equilibrium’, when the English and Japanese words translate back and forth into exactly the same thing. Fortunately, it usually takes at least a few steps for your words to reach equilibrium, and the resulting sentences are often hilarious.

full-of-self-doubt-polite-and-unimposing-tone. The question Do you want to be my girlfriend? (which I tried second) is in equilibrium. Now, the first time I tried it, I used the form I have used most in the past when in the obvious situation that leads to it. Insecurity abounds, as it oft does with me. Just maybe not about the answer but the question. Run through TranslationParty, a question becomes A question (and runs through other doubts):

would you like to be my girlfriend?

ﾞｪﾌ]ﾅｷｩH

Want me to her?

ﾍﾞﾉｵｽ｢ﾅｷｩH

What I want for her?

ﾍﾞﾆﾍｽｩH

I am with her?

ﾍﾞﾆ｢ﾁｵﾅｷｩH

What I find her?

lﾍﾞﾉｽｩﾂｯｩH

How do I find her?

ﾇ､ｷﾎﾞｩﾂｯﾌﾅｷｩH

What if I find her?

ﾇ､ｷﾎﾞｩﾂｯｩH

Damn! The equilibrium phrase sends me into sinuous and spiralling thoughts.

I have not tried anything else, but I am now wary of meeting the Roscharchs of my tones…

UPDATE: I tried another variant.

will you be my girlfriend?

ﾈｽｪﾌK[thﾌﾅｷｩH

How do I get my girlfriend?

ﾞﾍﾇ､ｷﾎ｢ﾌﾅｷｩH

What is she to do?

ﾞﾍｽs､ﾉﾍｽﾅｷｩH

What is she to do?

What if I find her?

Kurt versus Kurtz

En un excelente post (aquí), mi hermano dice que en el PRD:

no les caería mal la máxima de Neil Young vuelta famosa por Kurt Cobain “it’s better to burn out than to fade away”. (es mejor quemarse que desvancerse).

Me gustó tanto que me senti obligado a contestar, y lo hice con la impericia, brevedad, y confusión mental de las prisas:

Kurt Cobain, como siempre, tiene razón. Trístemente, creo que en el caso de la izquierda mexicana (como, en cierto sentido, de Cuba) regresamos a la cita más trillada del universo. Diría TS Eliot:

“This is the way the [left] ends
 This is the way the [left] ends
 This is the way the [left] ends
 Not with a bang but a whimper.”

Pero es que, al final, estos son Hombres Huecos, en el sentido de Eliot.

La alusión la puedes extender aún más al notar lo similar del comportamiento del PRD con la demagogía, el populismo, y la eventual tiranía de Kurtz, en Heart of Darkness. Al final, lo que podemos decir de la partidería mexicana (tristemente incluyendo a la izquierda) es “The Horror, The Horror”. Kurtz “burned out”, en la máxima grungista, pero antes de eso, los ideales izquiérdicos que recoge, “end in a whimper”.

Y más aún, con Guy Fawkes, representando al anarquismo y a la izquierda radical—en la referencia directa de Eliot.

TL

Dado que era medio inescrutable mi comentario, lo expandí:

Aquí se puede leer el poema The Hollow Men de TS Eliot. Creo que se le puede dar una lectura en la cual el PRD/la izquierda mexicana (y la partidería en general) son de estos Hombres Huecos. Me gusta en particular la escenografía mexicanizante del nopal (“This is cactus land”) y de la tuna (“Here we go round the prickly pear”), alrededor de la cual continúa la danza característica de nuestra política—el Cantinflismo.

Hasta arriba del poema, Eliot cita a Heart of Darkness de Joseph Conrad (“Mistah Kurtz—he dead.”) y hace referencia a la tradición inglesa que rememora a Guy Fawkes (“A penny for the Old Guy”).

En cuanto a la primera, hago yo un paralelo entre el viaje filosófico/político de Kurtz al final del río y el PRD/izquierda. Lo que empieza como la rebelión al imperialismo (PRIismo), pasa por la formación de la sociedad idónea (PRD/izquierda en teoría), y termina en una tiranía demagoga (PRD/izquierda [¡Begné!] hoy)—situación a la cual podemos usar el traslapado e indeterminado “The Horror” de HoD (Kurtz hablando del mundo, pero el mundo de Kurtz siéndolo). El PRD/izquierda entonces, como Kurtz, es uno de los Hombres Huecos (o bien está formado de ellos).

C/r/a la segunda, la efigie de Fawkes (como en la quema del Judas) que usan los niños es un Hombre Hueco/Hombre Relleno. Pero más allá de eso, Fawkes terminó hueco al no lograr el objetivo anárquico de explotar el Parlamento—como el PRD/izquierda al sucumbir al sistema.

En el poema, la multi-citada y trillada frase sobre el fin del mundo (“Not with a bang but with a whimper.”) hace justo referencia a Kurtz (que aunque acaba en un “bang”, el momento pico/ideal de su filosofía hace un “whimper” antes [como lo hacen aquellos sobre quienes rige]) y a Guy Fawkes (la falta de explosión implica que no hubo “bang”, y la derrota de Fawkes fue en un “whimper”).

Mi punto es que los ideales/la versión idónea del PRD/la izquierda mexicana están muriendo en un “whimper”, aún cuando el PRD/la izquierda en sí hacen un “bang”.

“This is the way the [left] ends”

TL

Ps La relación Eliot-Conrad-Fawkes ha sido muy discutida.

Epifanía culinaria y recetas

Una amiga quería hacerle una cena de aniversario a su esposo (GOD! I am such a…). Me pidió ideas de menú mientras subíamos y bajamos perdidos por una montaña y una favela… Terminamos sólo discutiendo el menú de esa noche (que postearé después). Un par de días después, aburrido como una ostra, mientras cenaba empecé a pensar en la conversación y le mandé el siguiente email (lightly edited y con correcciones y [comentarios]). Algunas ideas básicas (usar mermelada de higo, el glaze del postre [pero sin licor], la mezcla de pastas…) vienen de cosas que he visto, Jamie Oliver, y la Barefoot Contessa—pero las recetas son mías. Ahora me toca a mi tratarlas, pero parece que sí salen bien.

—–Original Message—–
From: Lajous, Tomas
Sent: Monday, July 20, 2009 10:10 PM
To: XXX
Subject: Epifanía culinaria

Primero:

Foie gras d’oie y un brie cremoso pero fuerte (déjalo afuera todo el día), con mermelada de higo casera. Un brioche, cortado grueso, y ever-so-slightly toasted.

Fuerte:

100g de fusilli y 100g de penne. Los haces al dente (usando rock salt pero NADA de aceite en el agua). Los dejas enfriar afuera (NO en el refri) un par de horas.

1/2 taza de apio choppeado
1 cucharada de eneldo (ahora sí fresco [en la cena antes mencionada cocinamos con eneldo seco a falta de fresco]) picado
1/4 taza de cebolla morada en octavos de aro grueso

Mezclas todo.

La salsa: poquito aceite de oliva delgado [ver abajo], poquito eneldo seco—porque ya hay de las dos—, rock salt, crushed (no ground) pepper (siempre negra, arriba y aquí), vinagre de vino blanco (o tinto si te sientes más wild) [mejor balsámico], y poquita mostaza antigua. La salsa debe de quedar muy líquida y muy fina. NO la enfríes, tiene que estar al tiempo. No la eches en la ensalada.

Aparte (justo antes de sentarte), asas 500-700g de camarones gigantes crudos (abiertos en mariposa) en un grill a fuego medio (aceite medio brushed en el grill), les echas rock salt y fresh ground pepper y los rocías de vez en vez con aceite más delgado (incluyendo una sobadita antes de echarlos, sobre todo del lado que no hay cáscara). Ojo, sólo los puedes voltear dos veces (empiezan con cáscara abajo, luego arriba y la última espolvoreada y rociada y luego abajo) pero checa que se hagan por dentro. Les quitas la cáscara de volada y los cortas en 4 ó 6 (dos o tres por lado).

Echas los camarones a la ensalada calientes. [Le echas el aceite caliente de los camarones a la salsa y la mezclas bien.] Echas las salsa, et voilà, mi Warm King Prawn and Pasta Salad.

Vino:

Yo usaría un rioja moderno (Cune o eso) sobre todo si escogiste usar el vinagre de tinto.

Postre:

Consíguete unos duraznos [mejor nectarinas] grandes, jugosos y muy dulces. Los cortas a la mitad y les quitas la semilla [y un poquito de tapa]. [Los sobas ligeramente con la mermelada.] Los metes al horno (pre-heated) sobre la reja (pon una charola en la reja de abajo para cachar el jugo). A media temperatura los dejas hasta que se marque la reja. Los volteas y lo mismo (se supone que se caliente el centro). Aparte, echa en un sartén una cucharada de mermelada de naranja súper ácida y una cucharada de agua a fuego alto hasta que se haga un líquido fino (justo antes de que estén los duraznos). Saca los duraznos, [limpia el exceso de mermelada,] vacía encima lo que quedo en la charola de abajo (o embarra si es melaza), báñalos con la salsa de naranja (que se va a endurecer un poquito [o mucho], chido), y échales azúcar glass (antes de que cristalize la salsa). Puedes echarles un poco de brandy tibio (con la naranja), o ahora que lo pienzo, Cointreau. Y si no está suficientemente dulce, miel fina encima del cristal pero abajo de la glass. Sirve tu Tomás and the Giant Peach caliente.

Si además le logras explicar a XXX como el menú, la temperatura de los platos, y la complejidad y similitud de los sabores, son una parábola del matrimonio, creo que ya ganaste.

A prolonged twinge (stolen) of self-doubt

Is perfect gramar compromised by bad spelling? Or does impeccable spelling lacks lustre with incorrect grammar?

 The question is whether volitional misspelling is noticeable as such (when intended to highlight grammatical acrobatics [and vice-versa]).

Tiger-tamer fantastique!

I feel like an adulterer, but I very much like the paragraph I used in a thread at wallace-l in discussing accuracy and fact in DFW.

But shouldn’t we always assume that DFW takes some license to construct paper tigers? I have always been happy to let some mis-representation lie in the genesis of such felines… as the artistry and acrobatics of DFW’s battling and eventual argumentative victory over such a beast is well worth it. I think it is a sort of Popperian (or, more accurately, a perversion of the Popperian) building-up of Goliaths for our David.

One can of lexicographical whoop-ass (intra-update)

I was hanging out at Languagehat (here) today and decided to throw caution to the wind. Posting a comment made for some nervousness, akin to that of having all 20 tomes of the OED (plus updates) hanging Damocles-iastically above.

The erudite LH has come up with one popular blog (e.g. 138 comments, so far, on the post in question) on an esoteric subject. And for some, including myself, it can be great fun. But user beware, it can get prickly and one can get run over like Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black. These linguists can be merciless. So, at my own peril, enter I did… (Keeping a bullet handy in my use of “by” instead of “for” in my introductory “Running the risk that I end up being lambasted by my amateurship…”.)

The discussion was on the usage of “either” in English, ad how in Brit it means “each of two” and in American “one of two”—both definitions are of course valid, but the question was on usage. And there I went, armed with I-don’t-know-what.

The full thread is below (and here), and I will update it as it comes along. But I felt the initial upper-cut (let alone my newfound RAE-stemmed para[e]noia) at: “You seem at least to have mastered the style of the Sphinx. I find it very difficult to make out what you’re saying, from sentence to sentence. Each sentence is shrink-wrapped so indestructibly and tightly around its meaning that I can’t prise it open – like the plastic wrapping around small electronic equipment nowadays, in Germany at any rate.”

So much so that in yet another confessional, I replied that he’d “just given brilliant wordsmith ammunition to every significant other that, in looking for signifiance if my insignificant prose that was meant to convey my heart-felt but locked-in significatum, decided I was too obscure… and dumped me.”

Being the sucker that I am for punishment (which the above quote embodies), here goes the thread…

Shit that makes you think

(Or, On the causality of Dave Eggers et al.)

Did the bird just happen to shit on my hand, or was it because my hand was holding The Believer #63 that a bird shat on it?

I truly do wonder.

I have the very same twist to my face

Father plagiarizes mother plagiarizes

Sister plagiarizes brother plagiarizes

Uncle plagiarizes auntie plagiarizes

Everyone at the party plagiarizes

En defensa esperanzada

Este post es una versión de mi respuesta a LRR de ficción diversión (su post aquí) c/r/a la anulación (mis boletas aquí).

En cuanto al porqué (no me meto al de la responsabilidad del anulista, dónde tal vez estoy en mayor desacuerdo; tampoco me meto a las distinciones deportivas porque creo en la definición básica de la democracia mexicana que en el derecho a “votar y ser votado” establece que todos los deportes son iguales [aunque nada es como los momentos Federer del 5 de julio])…

Creo que hay confusión c/r/a el punto de Andrés de la información. Más que la info partidos > elector (de los partidos, vía los mecanismos sancionados, al elector), la info más relevante en una elección es elector > partidos y elector > otros-electores. Al yo votar por el PT, la información que envío es ambivalente. No se puede distinguir si estoy comprometido con la causa del PT o me parece el proverbial “menos peor”. Al votar por el PT no mando información. Al anular, estoy mandando un mensaje muy claro: “no estoy de acuerdo con ninguno”.

Es clave el discurso de code name V en V for Vendetta (el libro, no la bland-as-fuck version de los bland-as-fuck Wachowski):

The Management is terrible! We’ve had a string of embezzelers, frauds, liars and lunatics making a string of catastrophic decisions. This is plain fact. But who elected them? It was you! You who elected these people! You who gave them the power to make your decisions for you! While I’ll admit that anyone can make a mistake once, to go on making the same lethal errors century after century seems to me nothing short of deliberate. You have encouraged these malicious incompetents, who have made your working life a shambles. You have accepted without question their senseless orders. You have allowed them to fill your workspace with dangerous and unproven machines. You could have stopped them. All you had to say was “No”.

Al anular, estamos finalmente diciendo “no”. Al votar por el “menos peor” o no votar, estamos tácitamente aceptando la responsabilidad de sus actos, como recalca mi amigo Moore en la cita de arriba. El sistema de partidos, en particular post-reforma 2007, nos ha quitado la oportunidad de decir que “no” de otra forma. Y el no decir “no” es cooperar. El no anular es complicidad.

El riesgo que corro usando a code name V es claro: ser tachado de anarquista. Cosa que evidentemente (al menos para ti, que me conoces) no soy. Ni siquiera pretendo ser un anarquista filosófico que cree que el Estado está, por construcción, falto de autoridad moral. Sí creo, sin embargo, que los partidos actuales están completamente desprovistos de cualquier autoridad (y/o capacidad) moral. Te sugiero una variante, el arquismo (igual del griego archê, aunque sé que la construcción no existe) que sí cree en la necesidad de un “soberano”, pero no el actual (los partidos); de un líder de Estado, pero no los actuales (donde incluyo al IFE). La siguiente derivada, entonces, es el arquismo filosófico (contrapunto al anarquismo filosófico), que cree en la inexistencia de autoridad moral en el sistema actual pero que (a clara diferencia de code name V) no apoya una revolución para acabar con él.

¿Qué instrumento tengo entonces para promover el cambio sistémico? El voto. Ahora, como el sistema electoral sufre de una captura regulatoria fundamental, mi tache por una de las opciones que encuentro en la boleta no avanza la causa arquista. La reacción tradicional a decir esto es que entonces tengo que participar en un partido, movimiento, asociación, ONG, o whatever… No. Me uno aquí a los panarquistas al decir que me opongo a la obligatoriedad de la participación. Quiero participar, pero quiero hacerlo con mi voto.

Al votar nulo, reconozco que por una supletoriedad perversa del sistema (OK, ya sé que estuvimos y estaremos lejos de lograr una mayoría relativa de nulos y que entonces esto es un poco exagerado), gobernará el PRI o el PAN o el PRD o algún otro, cuando todos son de entrada “continuistas” del sistema que han capturado. Y que gobernará alguien que no es el “menos peor”, sino tal vez el “peor”. Al votar nulo, acepto que no estoy participando en foros públicos (recuerda, soy medio panarquista en esto) ni a través de los mecanismos expeditos (que no me dan acceso, ni quiero). Al votar nulo no estoy denunciando. Estoy eligiendo. Estoy eligiendo, a través de la info que envío, un cambio sistémico.

No estoy apelando al sentido de la responsabilidad de los partidos. Estoy usando el mecanismo de transmisión de información al que tengo acceso y que es el más efectivo: el voto. Y estoy transmitiendo información importante: quiero un cambio sistémico. A lo que apelo es al anhelo de poder de los mismo partidos. A su glotonería, avidez, codicia, y gula. Mi voto está aquí. Me importa y lo quiero usar. Mi voto (personalizando el 6% nulo) le puede dar la Presidencia en el 2012 a alguno de los partidos. Un partido puede dedicarse los próximos tres años a averiguar qué quiero, a pensar en como cambiar el sistema actual. Entonces llega al 2012 con una propuesta con la cual puedo estar de acuerdo. Y gana mi voto que define la elección. Los otros partidos piensan lo mismo. Y entonces todos tratan de buscar atraerme como votante. Escogerán algunas cosas que me gusten y les parezcan palatable (ya sabes que el español se me complica). Es un ejercicio en teoría de juegos. Es un voto de esperanza en que podemos cambiar el sistema. Y en que podemos hacerlo con el voto.

Porque la otra opción, la cínica que queda implícita en el desdén en contra de la anulación es que es un dilema de prisionero [recursivo]. Uno en el cual los partidos son un ente que decide no cooperar con los electores [un ente conformado por los partidos en si, que deciden cooperar entre ellos]. Y que sigue sin cambiar sin importar si fueron electos con millones de votos o nada más con los de ellos mismos. Si realmente ese es el caso, anularé mi voto de nuevo en el 2012. Y en el 2015. Y en el… Hasta que no. Hasta que me dé cuenta de que con el cinismo me han quitado la anulación como forma de decir “no”. Ese es el momento en el cual mi arquismo pasa de filosófico a revolucionario. Ese es el momento en que me uno a la Comandanta Esther…

<<Ps …y me acabo de acordar, y entonces, acelerado, y sin puntos, pero con algunos respiros, señalo que, por más que sea cursi y mala, hay una película de Kevin Costner, Swing vote, que peca de todos lo errores inlcluyendo el mal-uso de los derechos básicos, y el mis-uso del nulo, y el conf-uso de la fuente de anulación, pero cuya premisa fundamental encapsula el valor informacional básico del voto nulo, y se convierte en una parábola del uso del voto nulo como herramienta para resolver el dilema del prisionero entre el elector y los elegibles enraizado en el sistema de partidos…>>

Tres votos esperanzados y uno desilusionado…

Mis votos de hoy:

Y el voto de mi primo (@leblog):

Style Wars redux – II

Toning down the sarcasm and meta-sarcasm from Part I (here)…

Reading through Wall and Piece, Banksy comes out as significantly more “evol” than SF. And here “evol” is used both phonetically and synechdoche-istically. His work has changed and evolved to the point where he contradicts himself, more accurately, his previous self (by going to canvas). Contradiction is fine, a là Whitman. But contradiction in this particular case is also part of the punk-ish ethos behind street writing.

At the risk of being called and absolute relativist, principles are, in my view, a living, breathing, evolving, thing (there are some absolutes, but not all principles should be absolute). And principles come across in Banksy and SF’s work. SF comes across as a bit of an absolutist (which also gives him a self-righteous aura), and this then drives an unintended contradiction: SF wants us to obey his principles (and politics). Banksy seems more of a relativist, both in his work and in the interviews. And this flexibility has allowed for the evolution and sophistication (as a conjugated verb, rather than a noun) of his art.

Where this takes us is to SF being a sf about his stuff. Simplistically, he has one fixed idea which he seeks to impress upon us with his work. He is then, a designer (used here to mean a craftsman, not an artist). He is a marketeer… Banksy is more an enfant terrible. Banksy is the current enfant terrible of the establishment. And he perpetrates his art. Which allows him to keep the concept of writing going despite being much beyond “just” writing.

The Warlord of Punk, Mr Joe Strummer, was malcontent with The Clash’s career by the time they played at Shea Stadium. It did not feel right for him to be a star at a NY stadium singing about Victor Jara in Santiago’s. It did not feel right for him to be a celebrity. For Banksy this is a problem. One could argue (and some do) that all his work is somehow effaced by his success. I, here, take the relativist approach again. On the one hand, he has somewhat dealt with the travails of celebrity via the travails of anonymity. On the other, the fact that Angenlina Jolie bought and at such a price and unleashed the Bansky bubble is art itself. It’s Banksy’s irony itself (Damien Hirst-style) it is the incarnation of SF’s manifesto wrapped in sarcasm. It does not deface him, as it does SF. And it makes Banksy’s manifesto of individuality and humanity, though shrouded in anonymity, clash against the cookie-cutter counter-culture of SF.

(I long to go to the UK to see Banksy versus the Bristol Museum, but in all likelihood I will miss it. Still, I would have much rather seen that show than SF’s at the ICA.)

What does MJ tells us about us?

He was a cultural fucking icon. Few like him, no doubt.

What I’m trying to think about is what defined him as such. His death is a huge deal. Would it have been such a big deal in 1992? Would he have been remembered as much or as relevantly [sic, sic, sic] had he died then? I mean, in 1992 he had already released all his albums “that mattered”, i.e. up to Dangerous. But in 1992, there were still no lawsuits, scandals, babies, marriages, etc… His contributions to music, dance, etc, pretty-much all happened pre-92 (maybe with the exception of some of his via-Britney and via-Justin and via-Madonna and etc coreos). But would have he been as remembered, as relevant without the scandal? Probably not. And what that tells us about us is kinda scary…

I am NOT reading that book (but boy! is it fun not to)

I use the insulting “that” as opposed to just a regular “that” (and a more normal “this”). “That” book is Shop Class as Soulcraft: An Inquiry Into the Value of Work by Matthew B Crawford. I am a bit put off, already, by the choice of title (and cover photo) and slight insinuation that this has anything to do with the brilliant text of Pirsig. Now what drove me off completely was also hugely entertaining:

1. I was stood up for lunch today, and as I grubbed away I read this week’s New Yorker. In “Out of the Office” (here), Kelefah Sanneh reviewed the book in what can only be termed and absolute critical bloodbath, despite its beauty and elegance.
2. Now the coincidence was that last night my brother came over and we watched the more slapstick-ally-minded obliteration of Mr Crawford by Stephen Colbert (here). We laughed and laughed and thought he was an idiot.

From what I can tell, I would not have given this author such amazing shelf-space (I mean, THE New Yorker AND Mr Colbert) or much thought. But it really has been fun to see him (deservedly) treated like a gazelle on Animal Planet…

Style Wars redux – I

I was recently in the Boston area (yes, it’s sort-of-Mecca-like for DFW fans). While there, MarGin convinced me to wake up early and visit Shepard Fairey’s (SF, incidentally the same initials Paul Erdös used for God, whom he called the “Supreme Fascist”) exhibit at the ICA before meeting up for lunch. MarGin said it was a can’t-miss-life-changing-spiritually-healing-aesthetically-climatic experience. Well, they really just said it was great, but this is what I wanted to glean from their body language (so that I could later be all the more supportive or argumentative). I showed up at lunch to say “I didn’t like it.” That was the opener (and used for shock value as I did “like it”, but…). After a short discussion, I promised to go through Supply & Demand: The Art of Shepard Fairey and come back with more thoughtful words. I have now done so.

SF’s Manifesto (here) is excellent. It manages to update and give form to the idea of writing on the NYC MTA from the 1970s. So that’s the first compliment-critique. He did come up with something new and cool and smart, but he was in a way appropriating a cultural expression that truly emanated from the street (as opposed to the classroom). That was truly a movement in the basest social sense of the term, as it had no heads, no leaders (I am stealing from my brother’s article from this morning, here). In a way, I prefer the honest subversion of Skeme’s “I want to bomb, to destory all lines.” (from Style Wars). In the end, the objectives of the OBEY campaign, as noted in the manifesto, ring familiar as regards those of the MTA writers. OK, this is probably being a bit obsequious to my own critical agenda, as SF has always been graffiti-like-ish… (One could also call him unapologetically tame for his “Giant is designed to provoke thought about the mechanics of the system we live in…not to destroy it,” but I will restrain myself.)

Back to the main point. I really like the OBEY campaign. I really like the basics of SF’s aestethic. I really like many of his sources (communist propaganda design, The Sex Pistols, Vivienne Westwood-ish stuff, etc). I guess I have to say I really like (a lot) of his art. BUT, and this is indeed the BIG BUT… it’s all the same. If Supply & Demand was one exhibit by SF, if OBEY was one project by SF, there would be little to say except “kudos!”. However, the exhibit is pretty much the sum-total of his career; he has tons of pieces and they are all the same (more so than with Jan Hendrix, as per the post here). The funny thing is that the best argument, or best summary of my argument, comes via SF himself in his interview of Banksy in Swindle (here). Banksy says “I’m always trying to move on. You’re not supposed to get dumber as you get older. You’re not supposed to just do the same old thing. You’re supposed to find a new way through and carry on.” I’m tempted to suggest that it was either a Banksy prank to say this to SF’s face or a sincere Banksy giving advice…

There’s been little evolution in SF, and his art is such a constant recombination of his own art that over the past 20 years, the first real, material, significant deviation (OK, there was the jump from Giant to the communistic) was the Obama poster. (I love the poster for what it was and for what it represents and for its aesthetic.) Obama brings change, and we can only hope that the Obama poster also brings change (to SF’s oeuvre).

Meta-post on K Guilfoile’s not-so-secret secret

Over at Infinite Summer, Kevin Guilfoile inaugurates his Wednesdays (here) by noting that “fiction’s little secret” is that the author is counting on the reader to interpret and via interpretation sort of “creates” the book she is reading. Kevin states he is not a radical relativist but still… Now the point he is making highlights that he is not mourning the death of the author of Barthes. And his anecdote would surely make the post-structuralists happy. However, there is a very explicitly implied suggestion that “[DFW] is counting on [the reader to]” do exactly this. That DFW is calling for the death of the author (seriously, no pun intended). But DFW was relatively clear (or characteristically unclear) on his view on “authorial vital signs”—which seems to be in the “anti-death” camp. In “Greatly Exaggerated” (in the Harvard Book Review or in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again), when talking about the whole debate, he closes up by saying that “For those of us civilians who know in our gut that writing is an act of communication between one human being and another, the whole question seems sort of arcane.” So it would seem that what DFW is counting on us for is to be at the other end of what he is trying to communicate to us (and only that).

(I’m on the pro-choice side of the Barthesian debate, but DFW seems to have been in the pro-life one as opposed to Kevin’s pro-death. Except, characteristically, DFW might have managed to dwell in all camps.)

Infinite Jest as the source of all (of my) fiction

Over at Infinite Summer, the guides are telling us about where they got to Infinite Jest [IJ] (here, here). This post is about where IJ got me to.

In the mid-to-late nineties (and early ’00s) pretty much all I read was about maths or physics or pop-science (anything from Ian Stewart and Richard P Feynman to Roger Penrose and Murray Gell-Man to Douglas R Hofstadter to bios of mathematicians, physicists, etc—I mean, the really nerdy stuff). This started to move into history of science and maths and then philosophy of science and maths, and the darker stuff, including Russell, Wittgenstein, Kuhn, Popper, etc…

But, in the summer of 1998 (which was to me for many reasons my summer of _____ of any reminiscence-driving-movie-or-TV-show), fittingly, in the Boston area (quick-fire foreshadowing) I first saw IJ (having heard nothing of it as I knew nothing of fiction). At the Coop, the blue-skyed cover taunted me… After I found myself, by sheer coincidence,  reading Hunter S Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and watching the movie on the same day (which was opening day), I began to wander into the philosophy of culture and, then, the fiction sections at the library and at bookstores. Jen Banbury’s Like a Hole in the Head proved a nice light start to my foray into the until-then unbeknownst. Then came Joel Rose and through the summer I walked into or, rather, ran at full speed into Douglas Coupland, Charles Bukowski, Elmore Leonard, Kurt Vonnegut, et al. I mean, my world really opened up via this hodge-podge of newer literature (which means I’ve read little of the classics, and have not caught up). That same summer I came upon Alain de Botton, who taught me how to read fiction (in How Proust can Change Your Life) and I read Catch-22 and became engrossed with the possibilities of the written language, and read more and began writing. (It was also then that I read Michael Lewis’s Liar’s Poker and decided that I would become an investment banker or the like…) And on every visit to the library or the bookstore, there sat IJ. And it taunted me. And it taunted me into all this fiction. And taunt it did.

About a year later, I was fully into the philosophy of science and dense maths and physics and had semi-abandoned fiction (as I no longer ran into the watchful tomes of DFW). I remember walking through Seattle and suddenly seeing those ominous clouds coming at me from every discount used book table in town. So I bought my first copy and kept it on the shelf (which was the top of my fridge), but thought about fiction again. Rainy season and then winter in the Upper Left Corner (and, on a minuscule budget) meant I had time (and little choice but) to stay in and read. And pick up a little fiction again… Coupland was a perfect companion given the setting, but then William Gibson came up (on top of more by the aforementioned and other stuff). Despite the continued obsession with maths and physics and computing and all that, I managed to get to Nick Hornby… And I started IJ for the first time. My brother saw it over Thanksgiving (yes, while recoiling from the WTO clashes) and said something like “what the hell is this?” I lost the copy… (and never got to another one as I was concentrated on getting myself out of Seattle).

Another year went by, and as I was searching for Jack Cohen and Ian Stewart’s The Collapse of Chaos I walked into Infinite Jest and decided to go back to fiction (getting a hold of my current Picador copy then). I loved it, and decided to lug IJ around to taunt me into reading fiction. It paved the way for Brett Easton Ellis and Michael Chabon and Paul Auster and and and……

My brother recently posted in his blog that he “recuerd[a] hace años ver a mi hermano cargar con el pesado Infinte Jest,” and then goes on to say that he gave me Everything and More for Christmas, thinking it was a “mathematician’s thing”. That Christmas I received a copy from him and another one from my mother. Both of them thinking of it as a text befitting my nerdiness and math-obsessed persona—not knowing that by then I was off maths and devoted to reading mostly fiction and some philosophy. They dedicated the tomes by saying that I “always [seek] more” and that it was up to me to “define [the] more”. Well, they (my brother, my mother, and the tomes) allowed me to seek and define the more as more IJ and more DFW. And I’ve been at it since…

(And I keep reading mostly fiction [and pop-/current-event-essays] and only veer—mostly to business books, admittedly—when I have placed my IJ somewhere where I can’t see the spine for some time.)

El blog de mi hermano

Mi hermano, en su blog (aquí) hace referencia a éste, y lo pone entre sus ligas. Ahora, yo hago lo propio (“Links” a la derecha). Andrés hace notar que “no se vale decir que es evidente que somos muy diferentes, porque aunque parece que lo somos, sólo lo somos porque no [mi énfasis] somos tan diferentes.” Ahora, yo extiendo diciendo que tampoco se vale decir  que somos iguales y usar como argumento la reflexividad intrínseca de las propiedades de los pares (aunque una interpretación literal diría que eso sugiere él, pero sólo si se toma en una gramática hors-contexte). Es decir, no se vale decir que lo que tenemos en común es el ser “muy diferentes” el uno del otro porque por definición, a es a b como b es a a, cuando “es a” representa la propiedad de similitud o diferencia. Dos puntos siempre son equidistantes…

The Davids versus THE Goliath

My brother disputes my reading of Wittgenstein (W) in the comments to the previous post (here). And he’s probably right as I know little or nothing of philosophy… Still…

Three-hundred-fifty cities in the world
Just 30 teeth inside of our heads
These are the limits to my experience
It’s scary, but it’s alright
‘Cause everything is finite

So it would seem that, in “Finite = Alright” off of Feelings, David Byrne (DB, or David #2) follows Wittgenstein the earlier (W-1). But by the end of the song, “Things have an end, but feeling is infinite.” And that’s where am going to try and take 6.43, even if it is via tricky semiotic gymastics. (And I will not miss the opportunity to highlight that The Broom of the System does not end when it ends.) Is DFW (David #1) playing a mischievious 6.43 juggling act?)

“1 The world is all that is the case.” Right, I need start from there. But W-1 selbst suggests that the uniqueness of the world is in question. Further, the question is if the world (or worlds) is everything that is the case or everything that could plausibly be the case? I take the latter approach. What can plausibly be the case? What are the absolute constants? Well, the spin, color charge, etc… of a quark, or so the theory goes. So, everything that is plausibly the case is every plausible combination of constants for every quark (which am using for a placeholder for any sub-atomic particle and/or fundamental building block of the physical world).

Now, by construction, not everything can be the case (i.e. not every quark can have every characteristic) at the same time. So how can all plausible combos be? How can they “be” concurrently? Enter David Deutsch (David #3), who in The Fabric of Reality suggests that even simple interference experiments on photons show that we are not in the universe (as classically defined to be the whole), but in one universe. A universe is construed to really be just one of a multitude of universes, part of the multi-verse. Each time a “decision” is made, a universe splits into two branches. The macro example is that right now I exist in many universes within the multi-verse. In at least on of those, I am writing this post. Within it, I can “decide” to publish the post or not. When I make the choice, that universe will split into one where I publish it and one where I do not. Now, there are a multitude of universes where I reach that cross-roads, so the split is of multiple universes. This is the process via which parallel universes are created—each of which contains a Tomás (or doesn’t) that took a path through a chain of plausible choices. (One thing that has always amazed me, is that this esoteric physical thesis towards a Grand Unified Theory is used as the basis of The One, starring Jet Li… In some universes he is a bad guy and in some a good guy, and one bad Jet Li one day starts traveling through universes—which is theoretically possible, and actually allows some form of time travel, as long as it is onto a different branch—and killing his twins.)

(The micro example is that every time, say, a photon hits another particle, it does so in only in a portion of universes of the multi-verse. In the other portion, it is a shadow photon that does it. Basically, before the photon/shadow photon hit something there are x [which I know is infinite and uncountable] universes in the multi-verse. Now when they hit, there is a branching out into x+y universes, where x represents universe where the photon hit and y those where it is the shadow photon that does it. Or, another is that when a charm quark decays into an up or down quark, the multi-verse unfolds again. I am lame at physics, but am trying to say that decisions that split the multi-verse are “quantum decisions”.)

If this Tomás is constrained to what he is writing, then it does follow that the limits of language (or at least of the particular language he is employing) are the limits of the world. But in some universes, he is not constrained. In some universes there is a meta-Tomás that is writing about the Tomás writing. That provides a jump from one of W-1’s world to another. David Markson (David #4) actually manages to convince us that the Kate in Wittgenstein’s Mistress is the only one that is, and that her world is all that is the case. That is, until we realize that there is a meta-Kate. What appeared to constrain Kate in her own writing, i.e. her language, was not her language but the facts expressable by her constrained language which knows not of meta-Kate. Kate’s novel is constrained to the facts of meta-Kate’s writing. So Kate is and is not just a character in a novel, an the same goes for meta-Kate.

Which brings me back to David #1 (DFW) in The Broom of the System (TBotS)… DFW forces Lenore (within the novel) to ask herself whether she is just a character in a story. Whether the limit to her life is what can be said about it (with language). And Rick Vigorous implicitly asserts, in the end, that he is just defined by his ‘word’. But the point is that the limit to BotS is not language, it ends by not ending and language, or words, are not all there is as it is the lack of language, or words, that resolves Rick Vigorous’s implied view that he is constrained by them. And Lenore breaks out of her storied-life too. It is Lenore Senior then, that provides the quantum jump for Lenore to go from one world (where she is constrained by language and is just a character in a story) to another (where she exists, in Ohio, etc…). The search for Lenore Sr is the search for that which allows Lenore, or us, to jump into another world.

The search for Lenore Sr is the “good or bad exercise of the will” in 6.43. The point that I am trying to make is that within THE Tractatus, W-1 was already hinting at W-2 (Wittgenstein the later), if implicitly. The jump is the change in context, the change in the context that will define language (rather than language defining itself). And that change in context is the quantum decision that splits the multi-verse. Each quantum decision makes the world “wax and wane as a whole”. For David #2, it is “feeling” that is infinite despite our experience being finite. It is context that turns experience into feelings, into Water. For David #3, the limit to the world is the limit to quantum decisions. For David #4, language is the limit only in solipsism. For David #1, there is no limit to context.

Thus, 6.43 can serve to modify 1 into saying that “The world[s] [are] all that is [plausibly] the case.” Because it is the exercise of the will (any plausible quantum decision) that allows the world to wax and wane as a whole (to split the multi-verse). It is context that allows the scope of language, and thus the world, to change. It allows the unhappy man to turn his world into that of the happy one (because feeling is infinite, in spite of experience).

Teen sports movies, chick-flicks, etc… and the capillarity of Water

Some consider my penchant for teen sports movies (see previous post: Sunday Confessional, here) and chick-flicks and the like, a prolapse in judgement—and criticize it. But if we go to 6.43 (of THE Tractatus) and note that…

If the good or bad exercise of the will does alter the world, it can only alter the limits of the world, not the facts—not what can be expressed by means of language.

In short, the effect must be that it becomes and altogether different world. It must, so to speak, wax and wane as a whole.

The world of the happy man is a different world from that of the unhappy man.

…then therein lies my consolation. If Raise Your Voice or Twilight (which am about to watch, again) can serve to alter the limits of my world… If it enhances my construct of Water… Then it is good judgement call. Because if we paraphrasingly posit that ‘Water is all that is the case,’ then I want to make sure that my construct is allowed to “wax and wane” again and again to make sure my world “is a different world from that of the unhappy man.” my Water “is a different [Water] from that of the unhappy man.”

Sunday confessional

(This is the prelude to a wider Water-topic that is upcoming.)

I am watching Stick It!, again. I am falling in love with Missy Peregrym (Hailey), again. And just the fact that the soundtrack includes a chunk of “One Big Holiday” by My Morning Jacket makes me like the movie more. I like the subversive undertone, and the rebel-rebel attitude. Much more interesting than play-it-safe, lay-up, be-nice, geek-goes-jock, Ice Princess (albeit I liked it too). Part of why that one works is because Michelle Trachtenberg has to be a good-girl. Her trying to play the bad-girl is probably what annoys me so much of her in Gossip Girl)… The her-his conflict in The Cutting Edge: Going for the Gold, adds a bit of romantic tension, but that one remains relatively bland (if enjoyable). In any case, the point is that when Hailey shed a tear on the balance beam, so did I.

The Mexico that isn’t

(This was written in early March 2009. Follow the ‘more’ ink to read the full note, which is on the long side…)

Not long ago, I came across a review of Mexican High: A Novel by Liza Monroy, soon to be published in paperback by Doubleday. I started getting more and more interested as I figured out it was based on the High School I attended. As people asked me about whether I knew her (to which “no” was my initial answer), I eventually figured out who the author was.

I went to High School at the American School Foundation (ASF) in Mexico City from 1993 to 1997 (characterized as ISM, the International School of Mexico, in the book). Both new students, I first met Liza Gennatiempo (that was her name then, so I guess she might have changed it or gotten married—beyond her marriage-for-green-card-and-LGBT-rights-statement) at new student orientation in what was probably late August 1993. I last saw her—to the best of my recollection—at graduation or prom, whichever was after, around June of 1997. Thus, we shared a pretty similar High School experience, from which she came up with the book. So much so that in the story, one character is “Jaime, whose father ran GasMex [in reference to PEMEX], the country’s petroleum giant;” and later in an interview in WNYC, Mrs Monroy again highlights that she went to school with the “sons and daughters of [...] the person that ran PEMEX [...] these fresas”. My father was CEO of PEMEX from December 1994 to December 1999. This “me” both times serves to help define the fresas, in the book and in the interview. The author characterizes these, for example, as “Eurotrash with Mexican passports”—when pulling her punches. Reading the rest of the novel and hearing the WNYC interview, I take offense. I do.

But, back to the book…

Consider the writer (13 September 2008)

As promised, here is something on DFW’s passing. I sent this email (I note that I sent it from a Blackberry, just in case it seemed lacking in self-consistence) on the morning of 13 September 2008 from Oaxaca. The picture from where all the clouds in the blog are taken from is from that day in Yagul… It was the knee-jerk, gut reaction, so…………..

From: Tomas.Lajous
To: undisclosed-recipients
Subject: Consider the writer
Date: Sat, 13 Sep 2008 10:57:55 -0500

I received a couple e-mails with news of the death of David Foster Wallace (thanks). I’m amazed that people wake up sooo early on Saturday morning and read the paper… Hold that thought. I”m amazed that people stay up so late on Friday night AND read the paper (guys – get a date!)… I am very sad. I never thought the death of someone I’ve never met (though I did fantasize about becoming his pen-pal) would have such an effect. Would I have cried on end when Lennon was shot? Maybe. But this one, for some reason, resonates. (It is already curious that my friends sent me the e-mails.)

So I sit here, listening to the most befitting record for DFW’s death: Digital Ash in a Digital Urn. Absolutely hi fi. Jimmy Tamborello has come up with the musical equivalent to footnotes—added to Conor Oberst’s magnificent songs. Assonance. Dissonance. Tempo changes. Self-referential production (the faders DO move when Oberst croons “and the faders move”). And the death-obsessed lyrics (“we hurry to our death”, as did DFW). All about the mid-west. I guess Omaha is not that different from central Illinois.

My brother is probably reading The Broom of the System. I gave it to him recently. Yesterday, packing for the weekend I grabbed a copy—we could talk about it over dinner in a few weeks (like we talked about the infamous McCain essay last week). But I put the book back on the shelf (leaving DFW and Belle & Sebastian’s lo fi behind) and brought business books and The Corrections, instead…

Where I’m at does not have a good DFW repository. And I have no computer. So I can’t wiki DFW as I wish I could. But I can try and remember. (On Friday I was looking through Vik Muniz’s memory paintings—oh, the beauty of the distortion. A question that I had is whether Burt Bacharach and Elvis Costello figured that they were singing to a beauty that wasn’t there.)

Out with the truth. I’ve never read Infinite Jest. Well, I’ve read it many times. So, truth: I’ve never finished Infinite Jest. Like Sisyphus (or whatever he’s called, the guy with the big stone). I now for sure will, even if out of sheer will. But it’s one of my favorite books. A futuristic tennis academy has got to be grounds for great literature anyway you look at it. Or for brilliant footnotes (so that haven’t gotten through more than 300-400 pages means more like 500 when including these). Never fully read, it still rings so true. DFW clearly had an impact: I once wrote a love letter with footnotes. McCain became a-palatable-republican from a-republican, in my head. I’m a happy mook when it comes to understanding porn. I saw why my brother can’t own a TV (Sartori, eat your heart out). The blissful isolation and blank thought allowed me to become a bit of a runner. I now see much more clearly what a girlfriend meant when talking about David Lynch’s beauty. And no, am never going on a cruise.

In death I say that DFW was probably the best American writer of our generation (definitely NOT Dave Eggers). I am happy to have said it aplenty in life. Critics say he never committed to anything (the “I am both pro-choice and pro-life” essay….). He hid behind his incredibly ambitious and extraordinarily intelligent writing to never actually say anything. I disagree. He implied everything. He had a view on everything. And he either transmitted it or made one really think about it (and it is very clear that he hates much of what the middle-America he defines lives for). It did it for me.

I am going to do three things:
1. Go to the mid-west and think about middle-America.
2. Read Infinite Jest and re-read the rest of DFW.
3. Consider the writer, which we almost never do.

But am still sad.

Tomás

What we do at 30

I’ve been looking at some Polaroids by Jan Hendrix (his website is here, though the Polaroids are unfortunately not there) from the late 70s and early 80s. He has some beautiful shots from Mixcoac (my favorite) and Paricutín. What amazes me the most is that these pictures informed and formed, I think, the aesthetic of his entire ouevre.

The Mixcoac shot from 1980 is half black, half ochre. The black blur is the top of a mountain of sorts; the sky is ochre, with black blurs of birds…or at least that’s what it looks like to me. His recent gold and black works, or the stuff he does on “organic”-like paper (I know all paper is organic…) seems to me like an interpretation of that series of pictures. The Paricutín Polaroid from 1982 I am looking at is an upwards shot of naked tree branches (against a gray-bluish-hued evening sky). Another beautiful picture…and it brings me to his architectural stuff (the ceiling at the Bella Época is like slamming this image of barren nature onto us—and it is absolutely fantastic).

Now, Hendrix was born in 1949, so those pictures were taken in his early 30s. And hence the question. Does what we do at 30 form and inform our entire (blank)? Where (blank) = Life, work, oeuvre…. (I could, of course, digress into saying that DFW was, at 30, writing IJ; and that he was running from its forming of his entire work when he died. But I will spare it.)

Is what I think and write in this blog my attempt at forming and informing my entire……………..?

Ambition is kicking in (reading list)…

Am getting waaaaaaay ambitious…

My reading list is like ten miles long, and if I manage to get through it before year-end it will be quite a success. What makes it even harder is my addiction to American TV, to which I now have access (Frasier re-runs, old Law & Order, Mythbusters, VH1 [specially the 'history of drugs' and stuff], and my obsession will chick-flicks [as I write, I am watching the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2, again]…. I am doomed).

Anyway, the idea is to keep the mix of the lowbrow (countless hours of TV, on which more later) and the highbrow. My brother teased—after I went to watch Night at the Museum 2—that I have incomprehensible movie tastes; that I can own and watch and re-watch Hillary Duff or Kate Hudson or old Anne Hatheway movies, interrupted by reading THE Tractatus, again, or Pynchon, or the physics of David Deutsch…

I will stick to fiction, mostly, except when about water. In piles around my apartment (IJ is a pile of its own) one can find:

Gaddis’s A Frolic of his Own, an annotated Hamlet (am also watching the Branagh film, preparing for IS), Palahniuk’s Pygmy and Snuff, all of de Botton, the (rest of the) Twilight saga, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, the other essays in Franzen’s How to be Alone, Naomi Klein’s No Logo, Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, the graphic Watchmen and V for Vendetta, and all my water books (Learn to Sail, The Complete Sailor, Sailing for Dummies, J/Boats: Sailing to Success, The Annapolis Book of Sailmanship, US Sailing’s Basic Keelboat and Sailboat Racing, and the rules of sailboat racing)…

I am thinking of adding Gravity’s Rainbow but with the Gravity’s Rainbow Companion. All I need is to go through P90X simultaneously… Shoot for the moon, I guess they say.

ι = 981 (the IJ constant)

This is a new version of the other part of my first comment at IS.

IS notes (here) that all IJ editions have the same number of pages (981). I had my doubts about the 981 constant as I have a UK Picador trade paperback edition. But lo-and-behold, it is 981 pages! I guess one of the beauties of IJ is that. The IJ constant? We could use a little ι (iota) to signify 981, THE “IJ constant”. It also works because ι is a definite descriptor in formal logic. We could formalize “there is exactly one number of pages for IJ and it is 981″ like “ψ(ι[ppIJ](φ[ppIJ]=981))” (though admittedly it gets confusing if we replace 981 with ι) or something… We never know, maybe DFW wanted the consistency (and we pay a little hommage to his being a logician).