Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Telling the tale

The tale is yet to be told. The beginning is the end (which is particularly apt in this project), due to a consequence of software, but you have to start from the chronological end (which is the beginning) for all these blog posts to make sense. If every blog post could be seen in one go, that would be the tale that is yet to be told. Click here to go to the end/beginning.

The tale is how the different inventories in our concept for electracy—that have been articulated thus far by the set of instructions below—are held together. Right now, this blog is the canvas for the concept. The voice of the blog is me through my proper name. The goal in the second part of this course is to achieve thought as Event (as defined by Deleuze and Guattari and explained in my blog posts below). My proper name and I are in the process of thinking this thought as Event in this blog. This blog represents me taking over the commercial form and telling a vital anecdote that will relate to an event of thought using modernist (artistic) techniques. The event of thought that I will propose in part two will put the event in my subject position, so that my position of identity is seen as a consequence of an assemblage, like a flower contemplating its own soil and sunlight (class notes) or the elusive secret love in John Clare’s poem below:

Song

I hid my love when young till I
Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly;
I hid my love to my despite
Till I could not bear to look at light:
I dare not gaze upon her face
But left her memory in each place;
Where'er I saw a wild flower lie
I kissed and bade my love good-bye.

I met her in the greenest dells,
Where dewdrops pearl the wood bluebells;
The lost breeze kissed her bright blue eye,
The bee kissed and went singing by,
A sunbeam found a passage there,
A gold chain round her neck so fair;
She lay there all the summer long.

I hid my love in field and town
Till e'en the breeze would knock me down;
The bees seemed singing ballads o'er,
The fly's bass turned a lion's roar;
And even silence found a tongue,
To haunt me all the summer long;
The riddle nature could not prove
Was nothing else but secret love.

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