writer's block
post-super-meeting ramble:
what is my thesis? what it is about? what is my argument? what am i doing? what should i present when i talk about milk and art at a 'mother' conference next month? ARRRRGH!
she is asking question, making very helpful suggestions, new ways of attack and organisation and inquiry, new methods and means and then she is asking me what i think and all i can think is...
i don't want to directly dissect the discourses being played out, i don't want to write a chronological encycolopedia of the topic/subject/object at hand, i don't want contemplate what an image might mean in a certain context and set of socio-political-econonomic circumstances, i don't want to categorise and logic my passions out of existence, i don't want to argue as much as i want to discuss and play with and dance with and seduce and be seduced by... its not the cold hard 'logic' and 'facts' of the Matter that make me wet, (it never has, and what are the facts anyway)... its the affect, the visceral response, its the twitch and nausea and phantam letdown pains and the tears and the involuntary clenching and the smell and so much stuff that can't be put on a page in tables and figures and ordering of desire and substance and all organisation is pretty much arbitrary anyway and there are so many other connections that never get played out because time and notions of reality and history always take precedence and i just want to write the whole thing in fictocrit because it is the only way that even seems to come even close to capturing any of the essence andthe taste and the spirit and the memory of my subject and maybe i could just do the whole thing in interpretive dance?
inspired to write again at least...
what is my thesis? what it is about? what is my argument? what am i doing? what should i present when i talk about milk and art at a 'mother' conference next month? ARRRRGH!
she is asking question, making very helpful suggestions, new ways of attack and organisation and inquiry, new methods and means and then she is asking me what i think and all i can think is...
i don't want to directly dissect the discourses being played out, i don't want to write a chronological encycolopedia of the topic/subject/object at hand, i don't want contemplate what an image might mean in a certain context and set of socio-political-econonomic circumstances, i don't want to categorise and logic my passions out of existence, i don't want to argue as much as i want to discuss and play with and dance with and seduce and be seduced by... its not the cold hard 'logic' and 'facts' of the Matter that make me wet, (it never has, and what are the facts anyway)... its the affect, the visceral response, its the twitch and nausea and phantam letdown pains and the tears and the involuntary clenching and the smell and so much stuff that can't be put on a page in tables and figures and ordering of desire and substance and all organisation is pretty much arbitrary anyway and there are so many other connections that never get played out because time and notions of reality and history always take precedence and i just want to write the whole thing in fictocrit because it is the only way that even seems to come even close to capturing any of the essence andthe taste and the spirit and the memory of my subject and maybe i could just do the whole thing in interpretive dance?
inspired to write again at least...
posted by Zoo at 1:06 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home