fucking with debord

i didn't get enough sleep. now that i'm mid-thirties i think i need more sleep. i think i struggle to form coherent sentences and thoughts without it. i'm old. i'm eating another crappy salad from other-university. you would think you can't fail a cous cous salad, but you can. you put it on a bed of lettuce and throw every scrap of vegetable you can into the mix. but no lemon, no salt, no flavour.

speaking of marxism, i was reading debord in the bath last night. maybe that's why i didn't get enough sleep. i've just come from a tutorial where we discussed 'society of the spectacle'. lots of blank stares today. but some of them found it interesting. i wish i had a class of fiesty argumentative types. i try to get arguments happening, but to no avail.

i pitched the idea that facebook (relating to previous tutorial discussion) is all about spectacle. they agreed without discussing. i noted that there were likely to be some good arguments against this, but nobody wanted to pitch any. they're tired and i'm tired.

after today, only one week of teaching left. i'll probably teach at my uni next semester, where the salads are good. what will the students be like?

in discussing the spectacle, i touched upon criticisms of the priviledge of spectacle/sight, that seeing is knowing and knowledge is obtained through observation. debord was about 'doing', thrusting the self into the world, experiencing. and i think this is what i respond to in his work. i want more doing, less contemplating. though i guess there's no hard division between the two, that contemplation is a form of doing. but i guess the goal (my goal) is for more embodied experiences, and accumulating perspectives and understandings through more than just seeing (as safe, distant, mediated).

which takes me back to the last time i fucked. where the collaboration of all my senses enhanced me. i exceeded myself through my body, beyond my body. i was transported through doing and being. there is no active or passive in a space such as this. i was doing sex and being sex. i was spectator and spectacle, but not at the exclusion of other sensory perceptions. i was tasted and i tasted. i was heard and i heard. felt and felt. said and spoken. i was folded into another whose hands were folded into mine. and the traces of his touch linger on/in me.

these are the moments where i don't need books. where i don't need to aim for 'intelligence'. where i don't situate my self-worth in the last sentence i wrote.