Table of Contents 1.1

1. Corporeality, Discipline, Arche-Writing and the Body as a Language
2. The Semeiosis of a Fat Cell, The Intransigent Memories of a Fat Cell, The Fat Cell as Actor
3. Bloor Street: Wind, Concrete, and the Confluence of Emotional and Infrastructural 'Scapes'
4. First-Love-Entombed-Love: Desire's Dead End
5. Poetry as Monument, Monument as Poetry
6. The Basement Apartment and Verne's Safety of Enclosure
7. Encounters and Dialectics of Immediacy

[Possible avenues, working titles, too shleepy to continue]

Prolegomena 1.2

"Identity is a minimum and, hence, a type of difference, and a very rare type, in the same way as rest is a type of movement and the circle is a type of ellipse"

(Gabriel Tarde)

"Eliminate all that is waste, death, and superfluity, complaint and grievance, unsatisfied desire, or pleading, everything that roots each of us in ourselves, in our molarity" 

(Giles Deleuze)

Prolegomena 1.1

For years now I have imagined my first book would be a theoretical treatise, an experiment in modalities of thought by applying different frameworks to 'events' in my life. Given my recent liking for the affinity of hypertext and rhizomatic structures, and my undying love for Deleuze & Guttari, a blog seems an, if not wise, acceptable route to begin what will eventually be my magnum opus. It is an autobiography whose pivot is not the pretense of the self placed in the omniopticon, but rather, in a room of shattered mirrors. An offering of a plurality of fragmented glimpses, short circuited by the appearance of your own face seeing mine.

These events are like incandescent glow worms, lighting up a dying willow on a river that stood still. Points, rhizomes, an assemblage. The ontological status of these events is a question that will lurk in the shadows of this blog, perhaps undoing all narrative threads as I weave them ... leaving me in all of the same yarn I started with, only rearranged by time and process.

Either way, it seems there are several defining life events that dance these elegant dances around my memory, taking theories as partners, finding a mutual rhythm, one making most sense in light of the other. It is unfashionable to abstract these days. The people have spoken, theory is only as good as its ground. Retrospective grounding to lend a theory coherence is ultimate evil, textbook sorcery. I am enthralled by it; I could live in a world of ideas if my body was not so beautifully brutally material.

I am a typical face among my generation of narcissists, I just enjoy indulging my narcissism in a manner different from most. Discovering the alleviating tendency social theory has for events in my own life, has been my greatest pleasure. Sense is made, perspective is found, insight gained. Indeed, a very specific subjectivity has been enabled for me through my engagement with theory, and it has enabled me the agency to make interventions in my own life I would not have otherwise have had the cognitive or courageous capacity to do so. It is hard to theorize others when theorizing yourself is such a succulent fruit.

Ultimately, the object of this analysis is me, but me hoping you will find yourself in these lines, find a character to identify with and be kept company by, to loathe and to love, who is both you and I. So it at once, then, has everything and nothing to do with me.