Saturday, December 25, 2010

Merry Christmas

Nothing brings out performativity like the holidays.

In direct contrast to the apparent artificiality of such interactions, we see the genuine quality of such beautiful posts as Briullov's latest set. How can I negotiate the differentiation between Derrida's maxim that nothing becomes reality until it is verbalized, and the existential concept that no conversation is wholly "genuine" (i.e. without performativity)?

I remember once, Freaky F told our German History class about how he could never tell his ex-wife's family about how "sabbatical" means "A university pays me to take a semester off so I can do research." Briullov can fashion dialogues upon his thought processes...where do I begin?

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Pushkin. Flower. 1828. And it's still true.

I've found some dried out flower, its odor gone
Forgotten in a book
And - well, my whole being shakes
By some strange dream:

Where'd it bloom? When? What was the spring like then?
And had it grown awhile? Who collected it -
A stranger, or a familiar hand?
And why should it be laid here?

In memory of some sweet encounter
Or of a star-crossed desertion,
Or a lonely sojourn
Through the silence of the fields, the shades of the forest?

And could the man be alive, or his lover too?
Right now, what corner have they found together?
Or have they withered away
Just like this dried out flower?

Перевод мой.

Thursday, December 2, 2010