Unlike certain strains of psychoanalysis, existential phenomenology does not regard language only as a symbolic ‘substitute’ for being, but rather understands it also as a transcendent carnal gesture – that is, as an extension and elaboration of being that not only exteriorizes lived-body experience beyond its spatial and temporal boundaries but also is mimetic of its polymorphous structure. Which is to say, as our lived-body experience – through gesture and action – is being concretely ‘figured’ in the world, it is always also being imaginatively and discursively ‘figured out’. Thus, autobiographical experience is always discursive and discursive experience autobiographical. And thus a phenomenological autobiography of my lived ‘phantom limb’ as subjectively experienced and observed must also be a tropological phenomenology of the ‘phantom limb’ as objectively described – this latter to extend, unpack and ‘defamiliarize’ the limb’s normative (and habitual) figuration so as to revitalize its existential and intersubjective significance both as ‘a cultural trope and a material condition that indelibly affect[s] people’s lives’
Vivian Sobchack, Living a ‘Phantom Limb’: On the Phenomenology of Bodily Integrity
this is a line of thought i’m finding wonderful at the moment. in the words of butler: “There is no reference to a pure body which is not at the same time a further formation of that body.”
WTF texts Josey, and I text back OMG. We had to tell Maggie what LOL
meant– it’s not Lots Of Love, though that almost always fits. Major
emailed LMAO when I assumed his inbox gets dealt with by an underling,
some undergrad, assumed it was Major’s minor who invited me to read but
"can not pay much sum of monies." Sum of Monies? I emailed back.
Who wrote this? Your assistant’s a Nigerian prince? WTF.
For a while we just played with these, joking, like I tried on
Wicked when I moved to Boston, called Lisa Liser, pizza pizzer, said
Fucken, wicked, pissah, dood. But before you know it, it’s part
of how you talk, how I talk, fucken guy. Dude. When my ex
student saw me she said Sick a dozen times, amazed, delighted, meant
it’s super I’ve moved back, and, whoda thunk it, come in to her cafe.
She checked out Josey, my instant street cred. Josey bought new pants
for work with a cell phone pocket; the cell phone pocket pants
are Husky Boys’ Dickies, which I can’t get enough of, laugh every time
I think of them, or try to name them out loud. Josey wears
Husky Boys’ Dickies. My darling, my husky, my husky little boy.
Hey, Husky, we say, around the house, just waking up, just bumping
into each other en route from basement to garden to kitchen. Hey,
Husky, do you want coffee? Hey Husky, Hey Bunny, Hey Hon.
When I’m helping my students translate Sappho’s Fragments 1 and 31,
I get them to make a list of many-colored things, so they don’t feel stuck
with colorful throne. One girl can’t think of anything but Skittles. Terrific, I tell her,
you’re breaking product placement ground. Then I ask them to think of voices
they love, the voice of someone they love. It’s hard to describe a voice, but
I ask them each to try, put his or her beloved in the place of Sappho’s, make her
theirs, more real than just sweet-voiced and lovely-laughtered. You have
three minutes. Get something down, I tell them, some adjective or comparison,
even if you just write the same word over and over again. 5:47 p.m. on a Wednesday,
me saying Do your best and You could just say husky husky husky husky husky.
Once you answered that “Matsumoto didn’t enjoy working on Ping Pong, and it was his editor who insisted he start working on a sports manga after the initial failure of Tekkonkinkreet.“ Where did you read that? It got me really sad and confused because, not so long ago, I did an essay about Ping pong and I read an interview where Matsumoto was kind of exciting about his new project, he even said that his work was a high school version of a historical novel called Burning sword by Ryōtarō Shiba.
Hi there! That’s some bad wording on my part; rather than not ‘enjoying’ it, he comes across as more disengaged with the work. Here are some quotes.
"Okay, when I was 27… Let’s see. Tekkon Kinkreet was a total flop, so I took my editor’s advice for my next work and went with a sports manga — Ping Pong." (Source)
"When I wrote Ping Pong, my editors had asked me to do something sports-related, so it doesn’t have a lot of my personal thoughts in there – meaning that it doesn’t make me self-conscious when I re-read it now. It’s just about sport – winning or losing – without all the philosophising." (Source)
Yuasa also mentions while he was a huge fan of the original manga when it came out, he didn’t realize how popular it was until the anime was announced and the reactions from devoted fans came rolling in. Finally, he mentions that when he met Taiyo Matsumoto, the creator of the original Ping Pong manga, he asked questions about why this or that happened – only to be rebuffed by Matsumoto answering, “hm, never really thought about it!” (Source)
You’re completely right, though. Matsumoto spent a year researching and learning about table tennis in preparation for the manga; he certainly was excited about the prospect of it. Although I could swear I read somewhere that Matsumoto got very burnt out with it after the third volume (it was the last of his manga to be serialised weekly), but found inspiration to continue after meeting Moebius. I can’t for the life of me find it, though. Maybe I’m going crazy, although it was his editor who insisted he work on a sports manga. Anyway, I’m really sorry for communicating that wrongly; I’ll edit the post.
(this contains reference to depression / self harm / suicide)
it was my birthday yesterday. these kind of events inevitably drag my feelings about time into sharp light. i try not to dwell on them too much. therapists preach the usefulness of “mindfulness”, and i dont doubt that it works great for a lot of people. maybe i’m too cynical. focusing on the present always felt like a melancholy endeavour for me. i go straight to jason shinder’s "that’s it; that’s how it is". or (from a poem that rolls around my head at least once a week), as marie howe puts it: "this is what the living do".
depression and loss make it difficult to have an ordinary relationship with temporality. this is most obvious in the case of ptsd, past moments refusing to take their place in history, and instead crashing in on the scene of the present, slamming open the door to the “now”. self harm too has a complex link with time; past violences or traumas becoming inscribed on the body of the present, potentially leaving physical marks that stretch far into the future.
jordan crane’s depiction of a woman, dealing with the grief of her child dying after birth, envisioning all the ways she could potentially kill herself, was something that hit way too close to home when i first read it.
my tutor keeps saying through frowns that i need to make more of an effort with my timekeeping. thats the word she keeps coming back to: “timekeeping”. its a term which emphasises a very capitalist way of doing the everyday. being late to class because you spent too long crying in the shower: bad timekeeping.
i know ive used this metaphor before, but i end up coming back to it all the time. just as a marathon runner, feeling like his legs are about to give out, keeps thinking "right foot, left foot, right foot, just a little longer", one ends up living like “pick up the toothbrush, use the toothpaste, open your mouth, we’re nearly there”.