17 May 2016

15K, Pettiness, and ‘projection?'

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The blog’s genre is essentially a sermon from and to myself. I actually didn’t intend to ever really share this. And then I did. Oh well. So I guess the reader should and is a passive, very external observer to a work of semi-autobiographical fiction, as the reader generally should be. Whether or not that reader is outraged or feels the need to project themselves into any part of the blog is then a twisted form of suffusion qua censorship. There really is no invite sent out. No one is saying to read this, to click on it, to do whatever. Unless of course I specifically ask you. If you click on it, that’s your own choice as a (presumed) adult. Of course as an extant person, I do need some sort of affirmation, and at times, I have made this accessible, more than accessible really. The guise of the blog is a business. The crux of the blog is a public journal. That’s fine. It’s a common enough form.

As has been mentioned, what I care not for, at all, is when someone projects themselves onto the blog or uses the blog as some sort of attack. The blog as essay as sermon (as written by Vinson Cunningham) is “argumentative, insistent, not infrequently irritating.” Very natural characteristics not just of essay writing, but of general speech / text acts. Most things I do are in some form “argumentative, insistent, not infrequently irritating” because a faith in empathy is boring. You may not need or want new forms. Perhaps what is more enjoyable to read are hackneyed, formless discussions of buzzwords and the news. That’s fine. But there is no form for me without argumentative and perhaps irritating content. You can say I bitch regularly and incessantly about something, but if you can qualify something as incessant, you are reading it probably too much. Don’t have to. But if you do, the courtesy would be to not project yourself into it. You don’t need to take credit for things like this, or even pretend that you are a part of it.

It is of course difficult to address someone who projects themselves into this writing without actually slandering, well, not if it is true. But, for the sake of, not simplicity, but ‘universality,’ projection, as a buzzword ha (of this blog), will be discussed generally.

The general assumption made on this blog is that the text editor is undergoing some sort of identity crisis. True. Yet, to not undergo some sort of identity crisis is a comfort, another topic of interest, that doesn’t quite interest me. There is no distinct need to mock someone for asking himself about himself, or maybe worst, to pretend that the mere act of mocking isn’t self-reflection. For evidence, Stevens’s “Study of Two Pears.” also, who says i hate white people? i hate the ones who project themselves on me. as, probably, should you

Opusculum paedagogum.
The pears are not viols,
Nudes or bottles.
They resemble nothing else.

To begin, the work as is all this blog is an ‘opusculum paedagogum,’ a pedagogical work of ‘art.’ The act of writing instead of say protesting, or say posting pictures on facebook, peut-etre me qualifie comme conard. Or rather, it indicates distance. To wit, all of this is an exercise in writing, maybe not to usual standards or rules of writing, but nonetheless an exercise in setting words, in whatever form / joined whichever way, to thought.

As the speaker’s object of study is ‘pears’ mine is the chink state. And here, as pears are pears without song, or without emotive ability, so is the conventional, convenient chink—the apish one who parrots and fits a parochial view of all chinks. And offensive as this writing may be, the only thing maybe outrageous is that it is too liberal for people who pretend that they are liberal. The “a chink” described in CCB is some sort of maybe not “art” but we’ll say a text object with some sort of relaxed constraint on his self-determinism. The “a chink” of CCB is a chink in all but name. Many, in real life (to take a step away from the blog), qualify me as a white chink, a banana / abc / whatever word exists for this kind of chink. I like Wally s and jco, i can recite alex rodriguez’s career baseball stats, i think that kanyeezy is god. Essentially some white bo— person who just is and has nothing too distinctive about them. As a chink, doesn’t quite work. This chink is not “viols, / nudes or bottles / [he] resemble[s] nothing else” of his sort. This chink is not the house slave that an engineer or a whatever is. This chink is not the field slave that your Laundromat owner or the exploited scientist is. This “a chink” is some twisted kind of chink that is basically a white man in equal parts as he is chink. The projection here to disassociate him from conventional chinkdom is fitting. To not worship or respect a “chink” but to respect “chinkdom.”  

Take a step back, and the chink is a subject of a study by himself. The chink is divorced from the person. That a person can read without seeing the layers, perhaps this is elitist and snobbish, but needs to be said regardless, is a waste of money, time, and space. If a person can read or create or simply live without tuning in to the impossibility of perfectly reflecting a subject, a person, this person, cannot actually live. They live on a distinct conceptual level divorced from reality. So, they need to project this inability to understand the world onto every thing. As it is.

They are yellow forms
Composed of curves
Bulging toward the base.
They are touched red.

You could say that this applies to many things, pears being the first one coming to mind simply because it is part of the title. The perception is to take this stanza as a universal approximant of a pear or in the case of CCB, a universal approximant of a chink, and to another degree, a universal approximant of what is disparaged. So, how should seeing a pear or a chink based on simple descriptors or “yellow forms,” “curves,” and “red” proceed to rendering? It helps to have a focus. The accepted view of the speaker is that he aims to universalize a pear by reducing it to its bare, maybe, deeper qualifiers. I do the inverse of sorts—to qualify a chink based on the extremes (to the extent of two personas) of what a chink may be, one a white man bootlicking pansy chink—the average, accepted, welcomed chink—and the perturbing, brash, “bitching,” chink—the argumentative, insistent, infrequently irritating and altogether unwelcomed, unaccepted, and unaverage chink. The series of prefixed un- then marks a way for a chink to self-render through the perhaps universal base of “yellow form” beyond what is accepted.

Of course, most notable in this stanza is the act, anonymized, of “[composing].” Someone is “[composing]” and creating this chink or his role so he may perform it. The choice of “a chink” to deviate from the script then cleaves a space between reader, writer, and meaning for the, themselves perturbed, reader to force themselves into the chink in the process becoming a second writer of the chink. The chink no longer only has the writer’s simple orders of being “yellow” with “curves…touched red,” a fairly human and reasonable description of a chink that doesn’t quite make him other, but now the chink has a whole new set of expectations. The curves are not simply curves.

They are not flat surfaces
Having curved outlines.
They are round
Tapering toward the top.

In the way they are modelled
There are bits of blue.
A hard dry leaf hangs
From the stem.

The curves are not simply curves, they are now “curved outlines.” A chink, the pear in honesty has long been forgotten if the reader is to follow the guide to pondering perception. My commentary doubles the projecting reader’s perhaps inappropriate tendency to write themselves into the page. Yet, here to use the metaphor of the pear as a metaphor for the chink, he is tapering towards the top, towards a region where he never will be full, where he loses himself as the image of him tapers outwards in towards the reader.

The speaker now reminds the reader that the chink and pear “are modelled.” They do not present a perfect reflection of the chink as he is or the pear as it is. The image given on the page, in the medium presents a threshold for reliability and relatability.

“A hard dry leaf hangs / from the stem” recalls the final line of the Pound translated original “Liu Ch’e:” “A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.” The superimposed leaf acts as a sheath that divides the reader from truly universalizing the pears. A chink has no leaf on his head. Yet, “the threshold” is the “stem” of a pear, of chink. His / its creation is the root of his problem. The well of sorts is poisoned with the leaf. The “stem” does not drive straight into the pear, instead, there is a “hard dry leaf” that must shield the pear from nature. There is a cover that must hide the chink from the realities of his creator. A chink, as it must be reminded cannot be a chink without the reader, most of you existing. Your very existence is the reason for the creation of a chink. The very essence of this language is the reason for the creation of a chink. And this needs not be negative. The benign creations are perhaps the worst. The leaf is meant to protect, yet here it hides and anonymizes.

The yellow glistens.
It glistens with various yellows,
Citrons, oranges and greens
Flowering over the skin.

When only the initial phase is seen, “the yellow glistens” and “a chink” is left as a spokesperson for yellows. The echoing, but notably anonymizing “yellow glistens / it glistens” slips away the “yellow” as soon as its uttered. It slides from a singular yellow to a spokesperson. The initial unique “yellow” that “glistens” now becomes an “it” that “glistens with various yellows.” It, though referent of “yellow,” no longer means “yellow” as much as I want it to, as much as the artist wants you to think it is. The “yellow” immediately becomes a spokesperson for the various yellow flowers it can refer to, including a green one. A reader will not allow a “yellow” to remain a “yellow” if the “yellow” gains power.

The projecting reader will make “a chink” and outlet for their own inability to “[flower] over the skin.” The projecting reader will never allow “a chink” to simply remain “a chink.” The projecting reader will forget that “a chink,” that the Chinese—they’re just like us! “A chink” isn’t though. A chink shouldn’t have to speak for anyone else, but a chink. The “citrons, oranges and greens” are nothing related to the original “yellow.” They are but offshoots, feeble replicas of a chink. They’re weak fiats of a chink. The specific “a chink” speaks only for a chink. End of debate. To undermine “a chink” and to force him to speak for things he is not, —

The shadows of the pears
Are blobs on the green cloth.
The pears are not seen
As the observer wills.

The reentry of “pears” marks reflexive submission and capitulation of the speaker to preserve his “opusculum paedagogum.” The speaker gives up on his attempt to play a game. A reflexive cue to the reader, a perceived submission, is perhaps needed to make a point. When I address readers, I only do so, for the reader has diminished the text into a shadow. The meaning is undermined. The universality of a single voice. Doesn’t sound right.

“A chink” becomes a “blob” and “a chink” is “not seen / as the [reader] wills.”


When I started the blog, originally called Country Chink, Big City, I wanted to write about my own thoughts, speaking for no one but myself, on chinks through the guise of food. Not so, as it seems. Three months and 15K views later, my beloved Country Chink Broadsides is a twisted long-form, rapid-response draft of my attempts at heavily stylized writing. In the process, I’ve begun to think that I really have nothing better to do. Writing for CCB is now essentially heavily publicized masturbatory self-flagellation. Reacting to CCB is now essentially revelatory indictments of white guilt. Of course, none of this has really had any negative effect on my personal life. Of positive progress, CCB weeded out the white supremacists and I know. It’s also garnered positive reactions from people I’ve never thought would be interested. Yet, it hasn’t affirmed too much for me besides a knowledge that no real direction exists to my writing, resulting in obscure and dense writing, leading to general impenetrability, creating confusion that, maybe, undermines the perceived telos of my blog. The central lesson then I have learned from myself and reader responses and maybe the “thrill” (of sorts) of publishing (even self-publishing on the internet ha.) is that indifference is twisting into sensitivity and sensitivity is bleeding me out.  

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