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The Next Chapter

The motor inside the madness of continental postmodern theory is rationality. It is a gleaming motor. Even its rusty patches are somehow luminous.
‘We have ways to make us talk,’ the (in)famous continental-postmodern-male theorist says, trying to look dignified in the face of TOTAL DEFEAT-THE COLLAPSE OF ALL METAPHYSICAL SYSTEMS OF REFERENCE.
‘The (in)famous continental-postmodern-male theorist is an evolutionary dead end,’ the social Darwinist announces, observed by a crowd of totally insignificant others. Is he smiling? No, he is definitely not smiling.
‘Garble,’ says the snake, trying to swallow its own tale.

The next chapter involves you in what remains of my words after dissolving them in a variety of alcoholic beverages. The next chapter attempts to contain itself. The next chapter will refuse reference. The next chapter denies everything. The next chapter likes poetry. This is what it denies.

The (in)famous continental-postmodern-male theorist carries the burden of history. Preferably in a black weekend bag.
‘Identity,’ the (in)famous continental-postmodern-male terrorist says, waving his passport at customs, ‘is but a convenient social fiction.’
‘Rred trriangle,’ says the tattered parrot to the stupefied researcher sitting beside him looking at a red triangle.
‘Grreen cirrcel,’ says the tattered parrot to the stupefied parrot sitting beside him looking at a researcher holding a red triangle.
‘Fucking parrots,’ says the researcher looking up at the rectangular white ceiling.
‘White. As if the situation isn’t already bad enough as it is, the (in)famous male-continental-postmodern theorist has to be white,’ says the social Darwinist. (Actually research has shown the average (in)famous white-male-continental-postmodern theorist to be a grayish beige in color under normal lighting conditions.)
‘I am desperate,’ the (ibid.) theorist says into the microphone, trying to look desperate.
‘I don’t like doing television,’ the television says, showing the image of the (ibid.) theorist.

The next chapter looks out the window. The next chapter drinks black coffee in the morning. The next chapter has no sense of responsibility. The next chapter tries to say something essential, simple, human. Then it gives up. The next chapter goes out to buy glue.

What do we read in the face of the (ibid.) theorist. Do we read intelligence? Do we read signs of the times? Fragility?
What do we read in the texts of the (ibid.) theorist. Do we read the texts of the (ibid.) theorist at all? Does it matter? If so, why? And where?

The next chapter has already spoken. The next chapter incorporates silence®. Structure is inevitable. Nevertheless the next chapter will attempt to destroy it. To this end it has invented the chaos engine. The chaos engine replaces any straightforward linear structure with a near-infinite amount of possible ones. It also makes strawberry jam.

The (ibid.) theorist is not merely confused.
‘No, NO (!),’ the (ibid.) theorist says reaching for the microphone – the telephone – his pen – groceries – a lighter – the divine mystery of its absence – a cloudy face – the human predicament.
‘The Polaroid mind runs out of film – what happens?’
‘Can we escape the frame of the snapshot?’
‘Is history elliptical? Curvilinear? Does it have sharp edges? Can it be used to cut meat?’
‘Apple-pie?’

The next chapter does not know it is next. The next chapter is late as always.

The (ibid.) theorist has run down a dead end street. He gives us elaborate descriptions of the wall. The wall itself consist of elaborate descriptions, intricate analyses. He likes the word ‘unheimisch’.
‘How can we say anything except from inside our hopelessly prejudiced frames of reference,’ says the (ibid.) theorist in another blatantly general statement.
‘Goddamn shoes,’ says the chimpanzee in sign language.
‘I can’t draw,’ says the (ibid.) theorist, involved in a futile attempt to draw a diagram on the blackboard.

The next chapter likes inventing superfluous subtitles. The next chapter will solve all our problems. The next chapter appreciates the irony of the human condition, food, shoes, life insurance. Everybody is waiting for the next chapter. The next chapter is coming. The next chapter will arrive in 9 seconds. 9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1

THE NEXT CHAPTER (1)

1. The main text rests on a foundation of footnotes. This text has exactly one.

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Comments

  • smitisan
    smitisanabout 6 years ago

    Oh, what a nubile mind is here o’erthrown! My own, my one and only, my fist, my lash, my everything. that is. First thing, let’s kill all the deconstructionists. Now you’ve got me doing it. . . Thank you again.

  • I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to infect you. Anyway, it’s not my fault; it’s Kerouac who infected me with infectiousness. (The specicifc agent of infection being Kerouac’s “Desolation Angels”) It ’s a fun infection though, and not too serious if controlled with the appropriate medication.

    – Pepijn Sauer

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