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Somewhere in between fragments

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Jayne Dullahan

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I perceive that I belong to those who believe that what differentiates the human from, say, my cat, is that humans strive to overcome instinct. A vague definition of what I perceive as reason, the attempt to combat instinct, in favor of rational behavior, which overcomes the instinct when it calls itself into question. As soon as the question mark is thought, instinct has been impeded. But it never is completely--man is an animal first, and a tribal one at that. Behaviors exhibited at parties and airports demonstrate this quite clearly. When instinct and reason collapse into one another--this is the fascist moment. Order with reason behind it, order that allows for the space of individual thought is not fascist order. Order becomes fascist when individual thought is sacrificed for the state or authority. I am not speaking of National Socialism specifically, or Fascism, but the kind of thinking that proceeds toward them, that supports them as a fundament. When order is obeyed simply for the sake of obeying order, without any rational explanation behind it other than order for order's sake, the fascist moment has been entered. Instinct has within it the benefit of preserving first the individual--when my cat runs from the dog next door, he is acting on an instinct of self-preservation. When the organizing principle of reason capitalizes on the survival of the individual by compromising the survival of the individual by coaxing it into abandoning its individuality, the individual identity becomes one and the same with the authority, and the individual ceases to think for itself, thinking instead with the consciousness of the authority.

Maintaining the inbetween space, where the individual can consider politics, religion, education, the self, while it does not ultimately destroy the potential for fascist thinking, maintains awareness of choice, which does undermine Fascism.

Fascist art reaffirms the erasure of the individual; the individual appears as a metaphor for the state.

Come, let's to prison.

I am drawn to melancholia. Even the most uplifting thing contains for me a moment of pain, if it is beautiful to me. It is dialectical to an extent--the joy of life is its urgency in the face of death. Mortality is the greatest gift to me, for the meaning of life is derived from the imperative to live before becoming entirely a memory. Case in point--also keeping Kate in the discussion--Jig of Life. One of the few truly uplifting things to me. Despite its upliftingness it is thick with the melancholia of space and time. A gap that cannot be bridged--a mirror image is a reflection, after all, a line in a hand memory. A place and time you cannot be, and the longing to understand that moment--I can't, I didn't write the song, I wasn't there, it will forever remain a gap to me, and it creates images of a place like a memory that I never had--is a longing I listen to feel again and again, and revel in the longing. That longing, linked with the gap represented in the continuo, compounded by the pulse of the drums, is beautiful because I cannot capture or bridge it. The artistic condition, one I cannot record.

A related item, at least to me. I love and hate the Walkman, the Ipod. I can never get the music loud enough. I don't want to merely hear it, I want feel it. I want a Walkman experience that conveys the music through my whole body, not just to my ears.

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