Orizuru (origami cranes)
Those who love stats or genuinely believe that numbers have occult significance, will be interested to learn that this happens to be the 1000th post on Torpedo the Ark. But whilst this may provide a convenient opportunity to reflect back and look forward, I'm neither nerdy nor superstitious enough to get unduly excited about this conventional milestone.
As for the suggestion that this might be not only a good time to stop writing the blog, but delete it entirely - leaving no trace behind, in order that I may begin a new cycle of work and a new phase in my creative life ... Well, I have to admit, the first (nihilistic) part of this millenarian fantasy rather appeals. But the second part - the hope of a new beginning - strikes me as laughable; the kind of thing subscribed to by those happy-clappy idiots who think the universe rewards optimism and enthusiasm, or that the future is full of promise.
And so, Torpedo the Ark will continue firing on all fronts and I will keep writing posts and stringing sentences together in the same way that Sadako Sasaki liked to fold and tie paper cranes - though not in the expectation of being granted a wish by the gods, obviously.
As for dreams of good luck and rude good health ... The first of these things, says Lawrence, is desired only by the vulgar and the desperate; whilst the latter - understood in its reactive sense as the absence of suffering - is less honourable than death, according to Deleuze.
In sum: torpedo the ark means cultivate pessimism, curb enthusiasm, affirm misfortune, and seek out that strangely fragile greater health which allows Dasein to face up to its own mortality with angst, but also with courage and with joy.
As for the suggestion that this might be not only a good time to stop writing the blog, but delete it entirely - leaving no trace behind, in order that I may begin a new cycle of work and a new phase in my creative life ... Well, I have to admit, the first (nihilistic) part of this millenarian fantasy rather appeals. But the second part - the hope of a new beginning - strikes me as laughable; the kind of thing subscribed to by those happy-clappy idiots who think the universe rewards optimism and enthusiasm, or that the future is full of promise.
And so, Torpedo the Ark will continue firing on all fronts and I will keep writing posts and stringing sentences together in the same way that Sadako Sasaki liked to fold and tie paper cranes - though not in the expectation of being granted a wish by the gods, obviously.
As for dreams of good luck and rude good health ... The first of these things, says Lawrence, is desired only by the vulgar and the desperate; whilst the latter - understood in its reactive sense as the absence of suffering - is less honourable than death, according to Deleuze.
In sum: torpedo the ark means cultivate pessimism, curb enthusiasm, affirm misfortune, and seek out that strangely fragile greater health which allows Dasein to face up to its own mortality with angst, but also with courage and with joy.
Happy/unhappy Millennial Birthday to TTA and angsty returns to launchers of psychocritical missiles below the cultural waterline everywhere! (As for those still setting sail with a sense of sacred protection in vessels of God's own making, watch your backs! The sea-levels are rising, and may one day consume you.)
ReplyDeleteSome of us may have 'stars directing our fate', but one should always bite the hand that feeds! For me, a more gloomily and gleefully vampiric, perverse, and parasitic (or Paris-itic) blog-body one would be hard-pressed to peel from the ethers. Dr Alexander's pot pourri of aesthetic musings, post-punk mischief-making and incendiary opinion, both philosophically disciplined and promiscuously idiosyncratic, continue to purge my romanticism, gladden my madnesses and animate my resistance. Under the 'Gastautoren' programme, I have felt happy and grateful to have been able to contribute a few bits and pieces of my own vintage.
What is it to want to blow an ark out of the water or the doors off a Covenant? For me, this implies realising the Rilko/Celanian dream (or nightmare) of eternal ontopoetic insecurity. There are no refuges. Our defences - be they egoic or ecological - are bound to be breached. The final sanctuary is schizophrenia, to which all true nomads tend. In a nutshell, or an indispensable French phrase, 'la poésie s’expose ...'
As I know Stephen has been labouring stoically/heroically under a number of ailments catalysed by his conscientious care for a demented relative, and in lieu of a torpedo/phallus-shaped cake with 1,000 candles, I offer up this link to the gorgeous 80s indie outfit Felt: 'The Final Resting of the Ark'. (Which we might perhaps picture 'resting' in the manner of the Monty Python parrot, riddled with smoking holes!)
'I know I told you
I know what I said
I painted such a picture
That golden fires burned in your head ...'
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8r3UGDm6v-I
Keep burning in mine!