This is a totally tampered-with Macbook photo booth picture. It takes a lot of focus on the self to tinker with images of our own faces as we do. Self self self. I'd look better blue. Yeaaahhhh, blue.
The Macbook is the perfect postmodern toy. By even containing the word "book," it implies that we, as intelligent people, are entitled to own one. If it were called Macputer, or Mactoy, we would feel less studious entitlement surrounding our ownership of this fine slab of technology.
Fuck it. Have some sexually-charged art. Takashi Murakami. I had the joy of seeing this more than once in Los Angeles, but that's pretty fucking irrelevant.
Anyway, I'll get right into it. I'm a girl in many contexts, and a woman in others, living in what can still be defined as the Postmodern Era. I have had the often wonderful opportunity of being able to look at how I live through the many lenses academia has to offer, and I've got to admit...it is some fascinating shit. (Made even more fascinating due to the fact that I am self absorbed, as most of us are - don't lie. You are.)
This first post will be a mess. A fuck all. But I expect more organization later. With my frequent use of "fuck" and "shit," I am probably coming off as quite unpleasant; not to mention my open admission to being self-absorbed. Do I defend that now? Try telling you that self-absorption is in many ways default, healthy, and extremely extremely postmodern? What is healthy? What the fuck is postmodern? Does anyone really know? Lightbulb lightbulb lightbulb.
What I really want to talk about, initially, is who I am, and why it is that I often do not know who I am at my core, because this migraine-inducing-then-immediately-pacifying culture does not truly allow knowing exactly who and what you are without some kind of commercialized reference to serve as an anchor. I'm not even lamenting this...that I often don't know who I am. I relate everything back to information gathered elsewhere, and when majority of this information has been commercially fabricated, where does that leave me?
For example, the first time it snowed in Boise last year (pic taken outside of Joann's Crafts), I related the image of the snow immediately tooooo....
Frosted Mini Wheats, of course!!
Was I able to see the snow as just snow? Experience the snowiness for what it was? No. My mouth was literally watering thinking of perfectly-distributed sugar shit coating on miniature spools of wheat.
Snow? All of the sudden I didn't give a shit about the snow, and I wanted some Frosted Mini Wheats. Conditioning of commercialism has been a great success in my person! I should write to corporate execs and tell them that they are doing a fantastic job, succeeding in ways I couldn't have even imagined in disabling me from having thoughts that do not eventually shift back into General Mills' or Kelloggs territory!
Is this sarcasm? Not entirely. In some ways I am so amused by this type of self discovery that I can't even be upset about it. (Although, I have cried in a philosophy class before thinking about this kind of thing...but looking back on it, I may have been on my period.)
Here is Jackson Pollack deciding not to bullshit anyone.
Next post will focus on womanhood. Why we're all so mad and maddening. The war on the self, the war on the world, the war on sex. How we go into battle wearing MAC makeup and nylons, or alternately, we go into battle vegan and braless. Or all of the above.
