The author is No, that’s pretentious and ante-Foucaultian. I (which is and is not Foucaultian, I suppose, the first pragmatically and the second theoretically) am sitting at a table in a converted villa in Bahrain, the night before a day of meetings, listening to a narrative of faith and (a series of radical) conversions told by S.P., the LDS son of an Indo-Iranian father and Idahoan mother, and grandson of a Hindu-Muslim Indian man and Persian mother. We’ve ranged tonight from mysticism, Islam, and the Law of Moses to victim testimony in the American judicial system, literary criticism, and the relative spiritual benefits of Down’s Syndrome to the meaning of the Indian head-bob, Filipino language-acquisition structures, and how to promote the development of lean muscle mass.
I have, of course, been both attentive and contrary, engaged and skeptical. And I have talked too much. But have also learned a thing or two, and enjoyed myself tremendously.
This is literature, this is text. Voices, perspectives, mannerisms, personalities and personae; stories, legends, myths and mysteries: these things evolve in memory, as well they should. It all goes into the Jungian repository, turns in the gyre, pops out the language hole. It is delightfully naive, grows clearer somehow, sharper in its understanding of itself, even if the facts recede a bit. It all becomes story, impression, lyric, image.
So the blog portion of this site is a living record of such things, a collection of odd little moments and intersections: whatever doesn’t make it into verse or fiction or essay will make it here as observation, idea, sketch: no cute stories about my kids, no pictures of babies (for their own sake) or animals, no updates or tweets or proclamations: just moments lived or witnessed, recalled and recorded, transmitted and read, aesthetic-wise.
Comments welcome. Chime on in.