Monday, September 8, 2008

Storms of Ambiguity...

I'm obsessed with storms... they suck up my time...I follow them, grab at the hems of their garments hoping for electrified illumination, epiphanies... great storms are like LSD to my fragile mind. Even my dreams change when there are storms about.

But Hans Castorf has been kissed... a Russian kiss, by Clavdia Chauchat... and my student wants to defend his ridiculous circumlocutions, his Elegant Variations, by an appeal to ambiguity!

What was this kiss? And what was Chauchat, but a homoerotic evocation of a childhood encounter... and how did he come by her radiographic plate if they did not have "concourse" after their last parting? And and and...

Ambiguity demands exactitude. Precision. On all its levels. Follow them down. story by story...

Ike Ike Ike... yikes

I love and hate and fear them, these storms. I weep at the thought of the destruction they will bring and yet I cheer them on...and if I were there, their target, it would be worse... I would cheer them on all the more.

Whose side am I on?

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