http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XEuKiqnnOPM

>Hi Michael,
>
>It's an expression of optimism.... in the face of death we can still 
>have a laugh... and hey, if it amused anyone it was language what 
>did it... Remember the Woody Allen line in Annie Hall?... "All the 
>books on death are mine"....
>
>Bob
>
>
>
>From: Michael Szpakowski <[email protected]>
>To: NetBehaviour for networked distributed creativity 
><[email protected]>
>Sent: Sat, 12 December, 2009 15:24:22
>Subject: Re: [NetBehaviour] "I want to ask Jacques Derrida a question."
>
>Hi Bob
>I take it that's an expression of scepticism?
>I'd be sorry to hear that it was about Alan's beautiful writing ( 
>this piece in particular but his work in general), or Curt's helpful 
>comments and not about Derrida (in which case, to a great extent, I 
>share it).
>Bakhtin's another kettle of fish though, altogether clear, 
>strikingly original and bracing stuff and makes most of the 
>post-structuralists look like the tepid obscurantists they are.
>It's interesting though -there's a fine line to be walked between 
>open-mindedness and gullibility or, to put it another way, between 
>legitimate scepticism and philistinism. It's a line I've certainly 
>erred from in both directions in the past and expect to again.
>best
>michael
>PS quite amusing too, if you are calling Curt for presumed pretension.
>This is a man who, in perhaps hotter headed days, posted images of a 
>local agricultural fair to Rhizome. His work is some of the most 
>grounded in the everyday wonder of life I've come across.
>
>
>--- On Sat, 12/12/09, bob catchpole 
><<mailto:[email protected]>[email protected]> wrote:
>
>>  From: bob catchpole 
>><<mailto:[email protected]>[email protected]>
>>  Subject: Re: [NetBehaviour] "I want to ask Jacques Derrida a question."
>>  To: "NetBehaviour for networked distributed creativity" 
>><<mailto:[email protected]>[email protected]>
>>  Date: Saturday, December 12, 2009, 11:27 AM
>>  Or could it be that the
>>  echo of the language flows across the space of the absence
>>  to the ghost of the disembodied matter of it's own
>>  arse?
>>
>>  Bob
>>
>>  Curt
>>  Cloninger <<mailto:[email protected]>[email protected]> wrote Fri, 11 December,
>>  2009 23:19:45
>>
>>  Bakhtin might disagree -- matter flows into language and
>>  language
>>  flows into matter (whatever matter and language may be).
>>
>>  The echo of a touch:
>> 
>><http://lab404.com/misc/calling_over_time.mp3>http://lab404.com/misc/calling_over_time.mp3
>>  <http://www.lab404.com/ior/hand.gif>http://www.lab404.com/ior/hand.gif
>>
>>  Curt
>>
>>
>>  >And then, perhaps, it's evident that, given
>>  semantic substance, all
>>  >languages are networks across ethers, across absence -
>>  all languages are
>>  >ghosts calling ghosts.
>>  >
>>  >Thanks, Alan
>>  >
>>  >
>>  >On Fri, 11 Dec 2009, Curt Cloninger wrote:
>>  >
>>  >>  Thanks Alan,
>>  >>
>>  >>  I like the poetry that this is. It works as
>>  language across a network
>>  >>  of ether, ghost calling ghost. A disembodied
>>  myth of disembodied
>>  >>  discourse. In real life/space/time I doubt
>>  the event would have been
>>  >>  as poetic. In real life/space/time I would
>>  have rather asked Bakhtin
>>  >>  an embodied utterance. We would have tasted
>>  the banality of the
>>  >> 
>>   moment like the fallen angel Peter Falk burning his
>>  freshly incarnate
>>  >>  tongue on the material semiotically known as
>>  coffee, now affectively
>>  >>  known as "ah! this!" in Wenders
>>  "Wings of Desire."
>>  >>
>>  >>  Loving Hand Turns Burning Sand to Water,
>>  >>  Curt
>>  >>
>>  >>
>>  >>
>>  >>>  "I want to ask Jacques Derrida a
>>  question."
>>  >>>
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  I want to ask Jacques Derrida a
>>  question.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  It is question about death, not in
>>  particular his death.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  But a question concerned with the aporia
>>  of death, not necessarily his
>>  >>>  own.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  Such a question, which would have been
>>  possible several years ago, is no
>  > >>>  longer possible.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  We are thrown back on the
>>   words of Jacques Derrida.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  We are immured there.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  It would have been simple: Jacques, here
>>  is what I want to know.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  Do you have a minute of your time.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  The body of Jacques Derrida still
>>  exists.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  His body, phoric, carries the aporia.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  The aporia is not his own, nor can he
>>  speak and return an unraveling.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  Today, words are never set in stone, and
>>  questions go unanswered.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  Today, questions disappear, and their
>>  occasion disappears.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  The occasion of a question: a gap, as in
>>  a detective story.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  As if the question were sutured by an
>>  answered, when in fact it is sutured
>>  >>>  by any
>>   reply at all.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  An answer responds to a question; a
>>  reply responds to the occasion of a
>>  >>>  question.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  I remember Jacques Derrida, and would
>>  have tapped him on the shoulder,
>>  >>>  saying, excuse me, but ...
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  There is an image I have of this
>>  tapping: the softness of his jacket, the
>>  >>>  slight giving away of the flesh beneath,
>>  and he turns towards me.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  When I move my hands, everything is
>>  empty.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  Jacques Derrida is a remnant of matter.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  ... "If death" ... "names
>>  the very irreplaceability of absolute
>>  >>>  singularity (no one can die in my place
>>  or in the place of the other),
>>  >>>  then all the _examples_ in the world can
>>  precisely illustrate
>>   this
>>  >>>  singularity. Everyone's death, the
>>  death of all those who can say 'my
>>  >>>  death,' is irreplaceable." ...
>>  (Derrida, Aporias)
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  When I move my hands: when my hands are
>>  moved for me, are only moved for
>>  >>>  me: mise en scene, a scenario or
>>  occurrence, chora.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  I do not collapse time, Jacques, in
>>  order to speak to you: I speak to
>>  >>>  you.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  I do not collapse space, in order to
>>  speak: I touch you lightly on your
>>  >>>  shoulder, I wait until you turn around,
>>  your glance moves in my direction,
>>  >>>  momentarily you are caught up in my
>>  gaze, you hesitate whether or not to
>>  >>>  return your own, your reply to my
>>  question, you return such, as if such is
>>  >>>  returned, an exchange of gifts or
>>   misrecognition.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  Of the good, there is the edge of a
>>  knife, and the fall which surrounds
>>  >>>  it; of the spoken, there is a
>>  comprehension, empathetic alignment, then
>>  >>>  nothing.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  Of the spoken, the knife edge separates
>>  the question I give to Jacques as
>>  >>>  a gift, an awakening, and the reply
>>  which shatters after a particular
>>  >>>  time, calculable, unattainable.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  Of the question: all questions are a
>>  permanence: It is impossible to
>>  >  >> answer a question.
>>  >>>
>>  >>>  Jacques turns; I look at his shoes.
>>  Thinking of Van Gogh, of Heidegger,
>>  >>>  of Jacques Derrida, I take several
>>  photographs. They are remnants, indices
>>  >>>  with lost referents; they are abject. I
>>  am silent; I say nothing to
>>   him,
>>  >>>  to Van Gogh, to Heidegger. Repeatedly I
>>  raise the camera; eye-level, I aim
>>  >>>  downward, towards an incalculable earth.
>>  The images, lost, are digital;
>>  >>>  they never were. Between one pixel and
>>  another, a hole, precisely the
>>  >>>  width of death.
>>  >>>
>>  >>> 
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