Jul 28, 2013

Untitled Project #3

Chapter 1 - Futile discourse on what constitutes the end to a story

The nuances in an ending are many.

There is the problem of agency. Just who shall bring about the end to a story? And how should this agency contrast with the agency that propelled the middle of the story? Or the agency that began the story?

There is also the problem of inclination. What I mean by inclination might be better explained by using something akin to mathematical lingo. If the resident mood of the story was a function, in which direction is this function differentiated at the end. Does the ending spike the mood in one direction, or does it do so in the reverse? How big is the spike?

And if we are to stick to mathematics, we might as well pose the question: When does an ending begin? Is it the last sentence? The last para? The last third? When does a part that is not the story's end end, and the end begin? This line of inquiry - well, it's a quarry. For the ending of the pre-end is also an end, and so on and so on, till one reaches the beginning of the story.

Let's dump this approach. Let's just conclude - hastily if it requires a hasty conclusion - that there is a bona fide entity called a story ending, or the end to a story, and that it is distinguishable (with some efforts) from all that is not the end to a story, and that even stories that do not have a middle will have suchlike end, and that even stories that do not have both a beginning and an end will also have suchlike end, all of which consequently may mean that the ends of some stories maybe as big as the stories themselves.

I think we just reached where we began.

Anyhow, let it be known that the end of a story may very well precede its conception. Also: the end of a story maybe the only reason for its beginning.

Chapter 2 - Arguments


On a stony pathway by a stream my foot slipped a bit and fell in a tiny pool of water and she behind me clapped her hands in angry desperation, for she suspected that my socks would be wet now, my twin layered woolen socks, and this big anger of hers at that little failure of mine made me angry too and I said “Never, ever, be angry at me for something I cannot do,” and then we crossed the stream and I added “I felt very violent, I felt like hitting someone,” and that made her feel extremely sorry and I continued my bad mood for another half hour.


In a cosy room with double blankets on each of the two single beds I got a hard-on looking at her sitting on the other bed with her face wrapped in a cinnabar scarf and she reading an electronic Anna Karenina and I moved over to her bed and we lay in a spoon position, me behind her and she reading, and I moved my hands over her thigh and then her lower abdomen and then her crotch, but then she told me she did not want to make love in that filthy room with single-ply walls with constipation burdening her duodenum and what she really wanted to do was to read; and this refusal made me angry and I said “You are never ready for it, are you?”, and after some time we kissed and reconciled but we did not make love that night.


While walking a sinewy path through a rhododendron forest I told her of Slavoj Zizek and explained to her what the philosopher calls white man’s guilt and I went on to say (like Zizek) that all white philanthropy stems from this sense of guilt and she said it was not guilt but compassion that led to philanthropic acts and I felt she did not quite understand me and that made me angry because I thought I had said things quite clearly and I went on to say “Surely you’re not convinced that it is only and only compassion and no ounce of guilt borne out of the history of oppression that has led to Western humanitarian aid action in poorer countries,” and she finally agreed with me, though her agreement now did not matter much nor did it satisfy me much and I remained pissed though I realized it was not right to be pissed.


After some minutes she told me that she did not quite understand how such philosophy can ever help an individual because an individual always has to make do with the system he finds himself in and I replied that her stance eventually boiled down to whether an individual can change a system and I said “Zizek is also one man,” and it sounded silly to me as soon as I said it and this time she agreed with me silently and I did not feel angry at all.

Chapter 3 - The pen, about to fall

The pen rested very close to the edge of the desk, its ball-point tucked inside the tapering transparent exit. It waited for a punching thumb, feeling burdened with unwritten words that might as well be unformulated. It waited with some guilt too, for it had a history of rendering, randomly and without warning, some unsavory dribbles of icky ink each time it was put to use, dirty blue blotches which were liable to smearing on paper, and to producing stains on thumb and middle finger. The owner of the pen, I, I who is weary of words but also inseparable from them, am frustrated by this amorphous blueness which has spoiled the aesthetic of every virgin sheet of paper I've scribbled on. The blemishes divert my attention from the true meanings of my words to the general disappointment of looking at sullied unruled paper, an effect which I find very disconcerting. I have, as can be deduced from the proximity of the pen to the edge of the desk, abandoned the pen.

1 comment:

  1. Anonymous2:01 AM

    Man, you sound like some contemporary genius!! Keep up..

    ~ The unsung hero(forever)