The blogs I read

Ghostinthewire asks in his entry on ideology and sinthomatic critique:

Can there be a thinking or a performance of criticism that does not repeat itself? Can we analyze and critically engage the social codes around us without participating in them?

Now I mention this not because I'm going to comment on his ideas. I actually don't know enough to make even a vaguely intelligent comment.

But I love reading posts with words like 'sinthomatic' and 'Lacanian' and 'metastasis'. I love these words to bits. They're like word-length poetry; there're so many ideas and concepts and histories (and many many books) squeezed into these few letters that they're quite overwhelming. They're tonnes of thinkers and books and other words cobbled together to form a word. They're such wonderfully delicious words! So many many many things in one! *delirious*

Yeah, and well, you get to learn something from posts like these too. I love all these intelligent people out there. They open doors that I never knew existed to worlds that I never knew existed. I get all excited and stuff. *strikes bimbo pose*

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
- Hamlet

Hmmm. Sinthomatic critique eh...

Oh, and one of my favourite poems (have I posted this before?):

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

- e.e.cummings

And... (indulge me) one of my favourite quotes:

His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through
the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all
the living and the dead.
- James Joyce