Saturday, November 15, 2014
One might easily associate my coinage with the craft of textual layout; or maybe: writing itself as presentation—and presentation as design: presenting as a designed endeavor, a deliberateness of presenting, like a poet thinking of immanent belonging in the line that breaks aptly.
I recall David Krell’s Archeticture: Ecstasies of Space, Time, and the Human Body (1997—so long ago) in a Derridean mood, as if the endeavor was about glyphical design in conceptuality: a glyphical fate of the trace in all perception.
I bought his book way back then, but haven’t yet read it—along with hundreds of others I have, unread—a symptomology in library building?, a bibliophilia in need of discursive therapy.
Well, Krell’s sojourn with neo-Heideggerian uncanniness was quite deconstructive, while I’m prospecting flows that portend promise as signs perhaps of potentially great burgeoning. David was (and still is) looking into history. I’m more interested in what Heidegger called “being-historical thinking,” which is like scouting for talent that might compose another monumental team. Late in life, he wrote to the unborn, though without conceit, in terms of his times.
Though most of my books are stored, domestic space affords some shelves, for once-upon-a-time priorities that have collected dust as the library has grown beyond shelves to boxes and databases of highly thematized (keyworded, tagged, massively cross-referenced) projects.
But I happened to stop in front of a shelf today, because I pulled one book from the shelf (not Krell)—knowing exactly where it was (another symptom: fetishism of the arrangement)—a shelf which happened to be at eye level, causing me to wonder about the old sequencing at that shelf. And I thought about listing the sequence of that shelf as path for a discursive meditation.
It’s the fifth shelf in an old sequence of 13. To dwell with that would be like entering into anatomy of an arm without knowing her body—a dusty presence, a beautiful reach—really!: The shelves are all amazing—yet emblematic of Our turning of the millennium through discursive inquiry (so long ago).
I know him!—arranging the perfect sequence that becomes dusty in light of endless recent emergences of evolving mind.
Who really belongs to a leading edge?— “edge”?, as if the telos of a flock of birds is captured in a photo of their awing rise into dawn.
Who’s to say what’s most promising; or how emergent wisdom coalesces? Who knows where coalescence goes, other than showing one prospecting coalescence, expressing a conceit? What could be the nature of Where, even given lasting clairvoyance?
Of course, proffered clairvoyance is conceit (notwithstanding the profitable futures industry).
So, what’s the desire to know lasting direction—consolation in the face of aging?, as if someday dying in peace is gnosis about Methuselahan life that only texts “know” anyway, in being luckily appropriated by children of futures that can’t now be far foreseen.