dunia duara
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me, in undergrad: wow this one quote by marx is really excellent and profound
me, in grad school: i’ve read about 5 articles by now where the writer couldn’t resist paraphrasing that exact same quote by marx
staaaahhhhp it u guise
u guise stahp you’re making me dislike the quote wtf come oooon guuuuiiseIn my Deisgn Criticism MA, we devised a drinking game around commonly referenced text called “Canon Bingo”. It was a thing of beauty. Foucault mentions meant somebody gets slapped.
Heee! Oh, that sounds like fun.
I came across a coy reference to “repetition with a difference” just now in one article — was that one of the bingo squares, maybe?
Because I feel the sudden urge to gulp down some wine before I go on lol
It was Foucault for me when I was doing my Master’s. It seemed like everyone liked to name-drop him, along with one of the same four quotes to make it sound like They Knew What the Fuck They Were Talking About.
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(via circusbones)
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“There are certain cities and certain areas of certain cities where the official language is dreams. Venice is one. And Paris. North Beach in San Francisco. Wenceslaus Square in Prague. And New Orleans, the city that dreams stories. Writers come and eavesdrop and take some of those stories with them, but these are just a few drops from a Mississippi River of stories. The Mississippi brings all its stories here from the rest of the country and can barely contain itself from bursting when New Orleans adds its own stories. (The greatest story of them all is, in fact, the tragic love of the old man Mississippi for the considerably younger and swifter Atchafalaya River, a love that the Army Corps of Engineers has been doing its darndest to prevent with locks and keys and cement…all in vain, according to most river watchers. In time, old man river will join his love.)
“Ghosts and pirates are as thick as the morning fog on certain days in New Orleans. You open your notebook at some outdoor café in the Vieux Carré and find yourself holding instead intense congress with the shadows between the huge leaves of the palm or the fig above you. On certain afternoons light filters its arabesques through the grillwork of the balconies, and you dream without touching your coffee. The dead pass casually by: Buddy Bolden, the creator of jazz; young Louis Armstrong; Marie Laveau, voodoo queen on whose grave at St. Louis Cemetery there are fresh offerings every night; Kean Lafitte, the pirate, whose treasure is still buried in the fireplace of the Old Blacksmith Shop on Bourbon Street; beautiful and sad Creole mistresses of French and Spanish aristocrats; old carnival krewes and mobs of others, slaves, sailors, adventurers, writers.
“Near where I live, there is the Lafayette Cemetery on Prytania Street. Anne Rice’s Vampire Lestat lives in one of the tombs. A few decades after Scott Fitzgerald, a young poet, Everette Maddox, moved to New Orleans and rented Fitzgerald’s apartment. It’s still available, cheap, like everything else in New Orleans. There is no memorial plaque. If New Orleans went into the memorial plaque business for all the writers who ever lived here, they would have to brass plate the whole town. There is a plaque on Pirate’s Alley on the house Faulkner lived in, but there isn’t any on Audubon’s house.
“When writers come here they walk about smelling everything because New Orleans is, above all, a town where the heady scent of jasmine or sweet olive mingles with the cloying stink of sugar refineries and the musky mud smell of the Mississippi. It’s an intoxicating brew of rotting and generating, a feeling of death and life simultaneously occurring and inextricably linked. It’s a feeling only the rich music seeping all night out of the cracks of homes and rickety clubs can give you, a feeling that the mysteries of night could go on forever, and that there is little different between life and death except for poetry and song. Rarely do writers come here to meet other writers. The life about them suffices. Now and then I hear of other writers moving quietly in. You meet them occasionally, but you’re just about as likely to run into Walt Whitman, drinking café au lait and eating beignets at the Café du Monde.
“The other day, passing the ornate façade of the old United Fruit Company building (the company made famous by the great poet Pablo Neruda’s curse on it), I had the fleeting thought that everyone, dead or alive, returns to New Orleans. If people can’t come back in their lifetime they come back when they are dead. And everyone who ever lived here, the costumed Spanish and French dandies, the Victorian ladies of Kate Chopin’s age, the whores and ruffians, and the poets, are all still here. In a city like New Orleans, it’s possible to move about the streets with ease and there is plenty of room for everyone.
“New Orleans is a small city, but it seems spacious because it is always full of people…like a crowded barroom at night. At dawn, a deserted barroom seems small beyond belief: How did all those people fit? The answer is that space and time are subjective, no matter what the merciless clock of late twentieth-century America tells us. And there is more subjective time and space here in New Orleans than almost anywhere in the United States. Which is not to say that the sad ironies of dehumanized commerce and violence do not touch us here: They do, as Walker Percy’s Moviegoer and John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces amply prove. But the city puts up a fight, a funny, sad fight composed sometimes of sly stupidities and Third World inefficiency. The city can drive a sober-minded person insane, but it feeds the dreamer. It feeds the dreamer stories, music, and food. Really great food.”— Andrei Codrescu, “Se Habla Dreams” as printed in New Orleans, Mon Amour (via mappingthemoon) -
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the courtyard at Lafitte’s Blacksmith’s Shop, New Orleans
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I can’t wait for Christmas! I should have the extra money this year to afford a flight home. Oh, all the things I plan to do while home! Most of all, spend time with my family and friends! And make sure I barely fill my suitcase on the way so that I have room to bring tons of stuff back!
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I miss this today, I miss you today. But I will celebrate this in 2.5 weeks when I am home with my family.
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Jimmy John’s Italian sub, and tuna salad sub.
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Messy Katie.
Classic.
I want the Earth Day bagel!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
