Tropics of Comps-Course

I am going for my exam package this morning. All week I anxiously awaited comps to happen. The dread I felt until this morning--the moment is upon me, after all--has nothing to do with whether or not I will pass. I will pass. Most of my colleagues will pass; though some are more worried about a grade than the thinking. The dread, I feel (or is it think,) hovers about the completion of the program. And not the program at the University of Denver, because, in many ways, I am just beginning. The program of classroom regimen is receding into the horizon. The dread is an order disordering--I am experiencing (an awful turn of a phrase) an I'm on my own now sensibility I have not felt since homesickness drove me to reckless disregard sixteen years ago. Fortunately, I am not that impulsive anymore. But I do feel like melting into the carpet. I can just let go enough to do that. But that's depression; and I am not depressed. And I do see language. I have been dreaming not Nietzsche but his multiplication table: I am not myself in my dreams but different folks with whole narratives I experience rather than know ahead of time, yet I can explain the meaning of the plot. I am quite sick of it, really. It is all very exhilerating.

So, I am writing an essay a day: Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. I miss Dagzine. I think I will share with you a bit each day. Not about the test itself, but the taking of the test.

Capitalist Discourse, if discourse is a turn of language:

1. own
2. now
3. won
4. one

And there in lies the myth of the self-making man self-made in himself by himself, the world outside him a reflection of the things in him.

From many to one is a problem not a solution. (Our President is the lack of this awareness. Listen to the shifts he makes from the first-person plural to the first-person singular.)