omphalohistoricism
I spent last Thursday at the AKBANK library in Taksim ( as well as the Cervantes institute where, while reading about a huge tome on Muslim Spain on the second floor all of the lights were suddenly turned off and I huge the door slam and realized I had just been shut in a Spanish library, pero al ultimo momento me acobarde' al recordar que no hubo bano) and reading "the gap between misrecognition and what may be grasped as truth is a function of the internal structure of representation", you know, brushing up on Kojève (a brush with death), I started thinking back to earlier in the week reading the chapter "Marxism is not a Historicism" in Althusser's Reading Capital and then thought how gleefully I would piss Althusser off if her knew how much I am nostalgically teleological about my own life. He writes "It must be said that the union of humanism and historicism represents the gravest temptation". What of the grave temptation to combine historicism and narcissism?
I have been writing a journal now for 7 years pretty religiously (so then maybe I should call this entry omphaleschatology) and when I look back at the meandering cycles of melodrama and self-proclaimed purpose, how each edifice of pubecent certainy crumbles under new experiences and responsibilty, how each new retroactive fiction is superceded by another (for example my latest kick is to think of how well understanding the cycle of ambivilence/homesickness/wanderlust from my time in Egypt(and Yemen as an example of what not to do) had helped me make it through my first six months here without chickening out and how it is none other than the cunning of reason) I can't help but make comparisons between my own puny little life and the greater swirling sublimation of human history. In fact, every time I read almost anything related to history (both historicistic or other) I can't help but only apply it to the development of my singular life. Sometimes I feel like the only lessons I've learned from all this philosophy shit I've read it how to be a more dialectical omphaloskepsist.
Dear Journal,
today I felt so lonely and negative today. But then, like I felt negative about this negativity and wanted to sublimate myself into a comprehensive state of self-pity.
I have been writing a journal now for 7 years pretty religiously (so then maybe I should call this entry omphaleschatology) and when I look back at the meandering cycles of melodrama and self-proclaimed purpose, how each edifice of pubecent certainy crumbles under new experiences and responsibilty, how each new retroactive fiction is superceded by another (for example my latest kick is to think of how well understanding the cycle of ambivilence/homesickness/wanderlust from my time in Egypt(and Yemen as an example of what not to do) had helped me make it through my first six months here without chickening out and how it is none other than the cunning of reason) I can't help but make comparisons between my own puny little life and the greater swirling sublimation of human history. In fact, every time I read almost anything related to history (both historicistic or other) I can't help but only apply it to the development of my singular life. Sometimes I feel like the only lessons I've learned from all this philosophy shit I've read it how to be a more dialectical omphaloskepsist.
Dear Journal,
today I felt so lonely and negative today. But then, like I felt negative about this negativity and wanted to sublimate myself into a comprehensive state of self-pity.
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