The Principle of Individuation

After a semi-brief hiatus, the Other has returned (once again under the coaxing of a man who learns his tricks from the Chinese government). I even got out my french book laptop-rest for this one, which, the fireheaded celt should know, means serious business.

After a night of disrupting the sleep of Narcissus (in a wholly kosher, albeit unotherly, way), I imagine that said self-navel-gazer is having an interesting day filled with non-functioning. This is something to always remember about our young flower-without-his-flower (tee hee. I will refrain from here introducing a story about a boy who does not know how to draw drapes or bring down the blinds). To continue - it must be known that if our little borscht does not fall asleep at 11:37 pm, a time when the Other has 100 pages of reading and 6 critical journals to write (and the celt has 200 pages and 10 journals to write), he is altogether useless. You might argue, friends, that we're long past the days of critical journals. You know what I say? Welcome to the new critical [e]journal.

Among the many conversations that kept us awake well into the witching hours (perhaps these odd sleeping patterns result from the Other having hazel eyes?), the Other learned that her company in the season of Christ's birth will be minus one. At the request of Narcissus I will refrain from naming said country which insists that if he is to visit he will be granted a single-entry only, and he had goddamned better well use it wisely. Though, I find that I agree with said country more than I had initially thought. I mean, the Other totally forsees Narcissus smuggling in shots of albuterol and slipping prednizone into the drinks of handsome young men.

Conversation then drifted to the topic of the soul. Reluctantly (and shockingly!) Narcissus actually acknowledged the existence of the souls of the Other, emily, grace, george, and matt^2. Sorry Bryson, but we all know that your lack of soul is the reason you have a wardrobe replete with vertical stripes instead of priestly vestments. Anyway, how classically self-absorbed of Narcissus, recognizing only the people closest to him (or within his circle, shall we say?) as actually being people. So I ask, nay, I challenge with the following: what of Czarina Ramsay?

This is steadily lengthening, but I suppose I making up for missed time (and words). I, too, would like to contribute a bit of creativity to these posts, so I here offer a short vision:

Narcissus and Maura visit the Kindergarten classroom of the Other, where sharing is fostered in a distinctly Levinasian fashion and poetry abounds. Children are crying because they don't have a soul and God is dead, and also because they're only pulling 3.96 GPAs on colors tests. The walls are marked with cerulean smudges and bits of red curl, and snacktime consists of nutella, dried mangoes, beer, and vegetables.

-Other

Foucaultian Flowers

Hello, all. This blog is born of two full days of nagging by our beloved Borscht Bayuga...that is, constant nagging, except when he was at the gym treadmill, staring himself down in the floor to ceiling mirrors. He's occupied at present, so to start us off, the Other would like to look at your face, wish you well, and wish you absolute freedom from those nasty little grammatical errors to which some of us might be prone. She hopes you wish the same in return.

So. Wikipedia tells me that the Narcissus flower is named after Narcissus. (How helpful - I couldn't have figured that one out on my own. Consider this a shout-out to the great oz behind wikipedia). To continue - crouched uncomfortably by the river's edge, this god of beauty could fall in love only with himself. He eventually died of despair (some say it was simple thirst), forever unable to grasp the 'stranger' in the water. Now, if that isn't a rough end... though, I think the worst way to go might have been depicted in some mediaeval (yeah, I spelled it with an a) primary source we once read: having nails nailed into all sides of a coffin, being nailed inside, and rolled down a hill. So maybe narcissus is on to something here?

The other would like to extend a heartfelt thanks to narcissus for his momentary lapse in writing about himself, and for redirecting the course of her life once more. She'd like to do the same in return (though, to be clear, she's not doing it just because he did it. She would have done it anyway. Vinas said so).

(1) get rid of all of your silly plans

If you don't, you know what'll happen. Just ask Dr. Wirth - God's going to start laughing, and it's not going to sound like any lion's roar. Nope. I mean, I know you fancy yourself a god and all, but you should probably start listening to the BIG god, because you don't even have gej around anymore to bless you with mass after-effects. Plus, I heard that after god is done with all of his laughing about your plans that the olympic-hosting government keeps calling off, he sticks billy bibbit on your ass. And he's the worst billy I know.

See you at 2:00 am (pacific time) for an abortion debate.

-the 2 of the 1-2 punch