A Tentative Outline for a Course on William S. Burroughs

For a moment in grad school—back in 1996—I considered writing my dissertation about William Burroughs. But Burroughs is so close to my heart that it seemed somehow wrong to subject him, and my love for him, to the obscenity of academic scrutiny. I was all too aware that academia denudes life of its more, uh, rambunctious affect and I was damned if I'd do that to Uncle Bill. (I did, however, sneak him into the opening of my dissertation*.) (Somewhere, Burroughs writes that he can't imagine writing without parentheses—the insinuation of other times, other voices, into this seemingly linear transcription.)

But now, some 23 years later, I am no longer an academic and imagine that perhaps there is a way to wrangle Burroughs in a befitting manner. It was in fact suggested to me by Thaddeus Russell that I perhaps teach a course for Renegade University on ol' Uncle Bill. And so I spent a little time sketching an outline for what such a course, what a series of lectures, and perhaps a book, might look like. 

1. Breaking Word Control

For Burroughs, language will never have been a medium to convey meaning, facts, and feelings. The word is a virus, a means of control, that places subjects, objects, and actions in their proper place, in their proper order—subjects separate from actions separate from objects, all in a neat little line.

And so he comes to writing from a vastly different place than all those "New Yorker," Iowa writing program types. Writing, for Burroughs, is always a confrontation and negotiation with control—and so is always a potential event of destruction and liberation. 

Most famously, Burroughs worked with his friend, the writer and artist Brion Gysin, on what they call the cut-up method. They used scissors to cut up their writing, newspapers, Shakespeare and then reassembled the pieces this way and that to see what would come. 

This served multiple functions. It introduces spontaneity into the contrived writing process, a methodological manner of incorporating chance. But it also breaks the linearity of language which mimics the linearity of what Burroughs calls the Orgasm-Death Gimmick in which life begins with heterosexual sex, revolves around heterosexual rituals, and ends in death—a process Burroughs rejects at every turn. None of these are, for Burroughs, inevitable. 

Writing, then, is a highly charged, inherently political act for Burroughs. With every word you inscribe and utter, you are negotiating an elaborate power structure. Hopefully, this has you re-framing Burroughs' careening prose, his seeming indifference to what we call grammar, his relentless juxtaposition of images, times, moods. Breaking the word virus is an essential act for those who seek a certain freedom.

2. The Affective Cosmos (with a word on his presumed paranoia)

Throughout his writing, Burroughs gives us a distinctive, strange, often grotesque world view. It's not that he sees people in a certain light which he then satirizes and critiques: it's that he sees and operates in a universe with its own internal logic and rules, its own modes of behavior. This is a kind of science fiction.

Burroughs' world is infinitely dense. Pick a line from any book and it's inevitably overflowing with qualifications, adjectives and adverbs oozing every which way. Nothing is neutral; everything is inflected.  

"The final convulsions of a universe based on quantitative factors, like money, junk, and time, would seem to be at hand. The time approaches when no amount of money will buy anything and time itself will run out."

This relentless proffering of qualities is, in and of itself, a form of resistance. The virus of Western man is, as is the way of a virus, virulently quantitative: more more more to infinity. And as Burroughs repeatedly points out, any system premised on quantity is essentially dissatisfied as there is always more to be had — more money, more food, more jails, more laws, more, more more.... Such is the Algebra of Need: it's always in search of X to feed its monkey. 

And so Burroughs counters this will to quantity with a world saturated with affect, with inflection, with states of being that cannot be reduced to integers but that insist on this or that way of going.

Bodies colliding, dehiscing, distending, bloating, farting, coming, bleeding, leaking, dying, birthing: this is the cosmic plenum in which Burroughs operates. This world is a frenzy of viscous bodies going with each other in every conceivable manner and hence often excruciatingly violent. Such is the way of things here. It's not as much a matter of ceaseless war as it is a crowded place of incessant collision.

And so Burroughs is often portrayed as proffering paranoia which, alas, is not quite accurate. The world is fundamentally, though not exclusively, a place of conflict: it behooves one to mind one's surroundings and be ready for whatever comes (hence, he always carried a gun; as he said, "Sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts").

3. The Ethics of the Johnson, Cats, and the Argument for Cute

In a universe of relentless conflict, collision, and collusion, how is one to operate? 

For all his flagrant, even proud, disregard for the mores of society, Burroughs was always impeccably dressed—and, usually, thoroughly polite. In fact, politeness is an essential component of his ethics. 

Being polite is a way to navigate the social teem with minimal energy expenditure. To run head first into the restrictions of a world is to exhaust oneself—and to what end? Ah, but being polite allows a dense social universe to operate without the nosy shenanigans of the moral. 

Politeness respects the space between us and the individuality of all participants—we bump into each other but rather than fight or interrogate further, you simply offer an "excuse me" and continue about your business. It's not about respect for the other person per se; politeness is premised on indifference to who the other person is. It's about respect for individuality—and is an effective mechanism for operating as an individual within a dense space.

And this is the Burroughs ethic, what he refers to the Johnson code: mind your own fucking business—but don't be a dick about it. If someone's drowning and you're in a position to help, help. “A Johnson honours his obligations. His word is good and he is a good man to do business with. A Johnson minds his own business. He is not a snoopy self-righteous trouble-making person. A Johnson will give help when needed." 

For Burroughs, as for Nietzsche before him, the moralists are the worst: they come on to you in the name of caring about your well-being, invading your world, telling you what to do, passing judgement on your way of life as if they know better (American politics, both liberal and conservative, suffer from this egregious ill). This moral mode is, for Burroughs as for Nietzsche, a social sickness that leads to all kinds of ugliness that we see in the form of the war on drugs, on prostitution, on nosy motherfuckers trying to legislate your pleasure out of existence. Morality, for Burroughs, works with language as a mode of control.

But amid the relentless collisions of life, there are moments of respite, things that want nothing from you, that are generous. For Burroughs, such is what he calls cuteness—in cats, mostly, but in lemurs and raccoons, too. “Like most qualities, cuteness is delineated by what it isn't. Most people aren't cute at all, or if so they quickly outgrow their cuteness ... Elegance, grace, delicacy, beauty, and a lack of self-consciousness: a creature who knows he is cute soon isn't."

Dogs, he claims, know right from wrong: they're moral. Cats, however, are not defined by their function or loyalty but by their presence, their quality: "The cat does not offer services. The cat offers itself. Of course he wants care and shelter. You don't buy love for nothing."

4. Possession and the Ahuman

Human beings are not, for Burroughs, sanctified beings amid the general flux. Human being, ego, identity: these are illusions, transient states, not without their pleasures but fundamentally sickly forces, expressions of what he calls the Ugly Spirit.

For all his belief in the individual as a civic entity, Burroughs does not believe in individuality per se. We are all agents of something, of forces that exceed us, that possess us. Possession is in fact a dominant concern of his—to wit, his persistent writing on his heroin addiction. While many glorify Burroughs' heroin use, he saw it as a sickness, his Algebra of Need, as he lived beholden to this other thing and its needs, its demands. For Burroughs, heroin is another mode of control—not as ugly as, say, Christianity but nonetheless debilitating.

We are always inhabited by a bevy of forces expressing their wills through us. Our agency is by no means absolute in any ontological or cosmological sense. On the contrary, we are agents of other forces.

"Our beloved ego, arising from the rotten weeds of lust and fear and anger, has no more continuity that a fever sweat.There is no ego; only a shifting process as unreal as the Cities of the Odor Eaters that dissolve in rain. A moment's introspection demonstrates that we are not the same as we were a year ago or a week ago."

The writer, for Burroughs, is not the center of the world weaving universes from the depths of his genius. Writers are transcribers of words and forces that abound, that exceed us, nudge us, coerce us. The life of the individual is not a life of self-determination but a life of alternately parrying, welcoming, and negotiating far vaster, more powerful forces—alien, cosmic, affective, viral, vegetal. 

The human, then, is not high on the hierarchy of forces operating in this world. We are all always already ahuman—reptilian, canine, feline, alien, insect. With pre-echoes of Deleuze and Guattari, Burroughs proffers a world of human becoming-other—becoming-cat, becoming-centipede, becoming-stone.

5. Immortality

In a world of forces and flux in which the human is but a transient figure, what is life and what, finally, is death? 

Burroughs was obsessed with immortality. Besides his essay of that name, all his writing towards the end of his life was about the subject. His greatest book, Western Lands, is a meditation and exploration on how to achieve immortality—and a scathing dismissal of Egyptian mummification as too bureaucratic and focused on the body. In "Immortality," the old rich suck the blood of the young in a desperate, alltoohuman attempt to cling to life.  

But, again, they are foiled. For life persists not in the human, not in the body, not even in persistence of this but in mutation. "Immortality is prolonged future, and the future of any artifact lies in the direction of increased flexibility capacity for change and ultimately mutation." 

Writing, alas, is the way to immortality. There you live on as force open to unthinkable and endless mutation, always already post-human, thoroughly cut up, and oozing with affect.

This is the opening of my dissertation, Read This Text, from 1997.

*At one juncture in My Education: A Book of Dreams, William Burroughs asks, perhaps of himself, "Am I an alien?" (Burroughs 7).  No doubt, there are many with a ready answer, their heads nodding an immediate and unadulterated affirmation.  But Burroughs, as if anticipating such a response, continues his inquiry as he turns the interrogative light from himself to the reader: "Alien from what exactly?" (7).  That is to say, "alien" is a relative term, to be determined by something which is not Burroughs.  From what perspective, in what language, do you read this? 
 Burroughs tells us that Ted Morgan's biography, Literary Outlaw, makes an initial error of perspective vis-à-vis Burroughs and his work: "Ted Morgan's biography starts with a basic misconception: Literary Outlaw.  To be an outlaw you must first have a base in the law to reject and get out of.  I never had such a base.  I never had a place I could call home..." (7).  Morgan, it seems, reads Burroughs improperly, from the wrong place, in the wrong manner, according to the laws, as it were, of the outlaw.

Now, to be fair to Ted Morgan, I think it is possible to read his title differently:  Literary (always already) Out(side of the)Law.  From such a perspective, Burroughs does not operate from within an established order: he does not subvert the novel nor does he transgress this or that code, whether it be of language, literature, or morality.  His writing, as he claims, is not reactive, derivative, or deviational.  Indeed, Burroughs tells us that while "Genet is concerned with betrayal [,] I have nothing and nobody to betray, moi..." (8).  That is, Burroughs' work stems from itself, as itself, a particularity, an haecceity: moi.

This is in fact the very premise of Burroughs' book: dreams are not recognizable as instances of pre-established laws--of Oedipus, of desire, of waking in general.  Dreams do not refer to anything beyond themselves: "The conventional dream, approved by the psychoanalyst, clearly, or by obvious association, refers to the dreamer's waking life, the people and places he knows, his desires, wishes, and obsessions" (2).  The psychoanalyst's dream is a dream of recognition, of confirmation; it renders the unfamiliar familiar--and hence banal: "Such dreams radiate special disinterest.  They are as boring and commonplace as the average dreamer" (ibid). 

 The difference, the novelty, of Burroughs' dreams does not function to disrupt waking life--dreams are not illogical, or unreasonable, as if logic and reason were fixed laws.  What emerges from Burroughs' dreams, and from his work, is a different logic, a different reason, a different order.  Indeed, throughout My Education, patterns, shapes, a logic emerge.  For instance, there are flying dreams, themselves divided among three types: a dreamy falling/flying in which Burroughs soars off from a high place knowing he is dreaming, knowing he won't fall; a volitional flying in which Burroughs flaps his arms and soars away; "in a third type I am jet-propelled at great speed across the sky" (2).  There are also "packing dreams [which] can also be called time dreams....Too little time and too much to pack" (9).  But neither flying dreams nor packing dreams gain their value, their meaning, from waking life.  Rather, like Burroughs' work and like texts in general, these dreams distribute life in a novel manner.  And for Burroughs not only are dreams not reducible to waking life, they are the very source of his education--not because they reveal archaic truths (this is not Platonism), but because they are new configurations, because they reveal new orders.  To invoke Deleuze and Guattari invoking Leibniz, Burroughs' dreams, like his work and like all great texts, are educational because they are "possible worlds" (Deleuze and Guattari, What is Philosophy? 17). 

There is, then, a certain propriety at work here: Burroughs is somewhere, doing something.  But he is not somewhere which we can recognize, doing something we can reduce to a familiar law.  What we are dealing with is a different propriety, or rather, a propriety of difference.   Burroughs does occupy a space--an odd space--but a space: "Perhaps," Burroughs tells us of "this position or lack of position," "my home is the dream city, more real than my so-called waking life precisely because it has no relation to waking life" (7).  There is an order here, or better, an ordering which is peculiar to Burroughs-- not everything is Burroughsian.  Which is to say, there is a properly Burroughs behavior and hence a mode of engagement which is proper to Burroughs--not any will do. Ted Morgan, we know, improperly reads Burroughs in terms of the "outlaw."

What we are dealing with is the propriety of insistence. Burroughs' writings, like his dreams, insist:  they are neither derivations nor deviations; they are not reducible, even negatively, to a preceding law.  They are their own life form, self-generating, self-maintaining; they forge their own laws as they present themselves and whisper, mutter, cry: this.   This "this" does entertain sense, propriety; it may be unrecognizable but that does not mean it is destined to remain outside, beyond, mute.  As Benveniste tells us, "Language is so organized that it permits each speaker to appropriate to himself an entire language by designating himself as I" (Benveniste 226, original emphasis).  With the invocation of the indexical--I, here, now, there--the user of language insists on his own language, a language proper to him.  And it is this new language, with its own laws, logic, permutations, nuances, that serves as our education.

Living in the Affective World, or How Empathy Functions

Say I'm at a dinner party. And I see this guy across the table talking to some other guy and this other guy is holding loudly forth about his latest app and, man, does my guy look forlorn. I know just how he feels.

But if we assume an atomized view of life, that we are all discrete actors on the stage of the world, then empathy becomes a tricky thing. After all, if I'm over here all wrapped up in my history, experiences, constitution, and feelings while you're over there with your history, experiences, constitution, and feelings, how in the world are we suppose to feel each other's feelings? We'd have to dismiss empathy as so much malarkey. Or else construct a convoluted apparatus that involves imagination and projection and, most likely, some breed of neurons in a remote region of the brain.

As a culture, we love the brain. It's where we imagine everything happens. So some funded folks in white coats hook sensors up to our skulls and make us look at disturbing images while a computer captures the movements of color on a screen. At which point, all of this enables a journalist to say things like, "That told the scientists where the empathic error was playing out, but it didn’t tell them how it was working: Did activity in the rSMG cause the egocentric bias, or was it trying to suppress it? In other words, if the rSMG stayed quiet, would our empathic skills be better or even worse?" (from some article in Time entitled, "How Empathy Works," with a sub-head/lead line that reads: "Feeling what someone else feels isn't easy, but the brain is wired for it."Oy!).

In a world that assumes the atomization of identity, the brain has to do all kinds of peculiar, magical things to grasp the world. After all, what else could explain the wonder of me feeling what you feel? What else could overcome this chasm?? Well, the brain! It's at once magical and, somehow, nothing but a series of quantifiable mechanisms. Poor brain! It has to do such strange, elaborate things to answer questions that it should never have had to answer.

The philosopher, Henri Bergson, calls these false questions. And they account for so much of how philosophy, science, and cultural discourse goes off the rails trying to make sense of this life. After all, if you ask a question that everyone tries to answer with money and mechanisms but the question is fallacy-filled from the get go, things get odd. It seems to me that before answering any question, it behooves us to question the question and then, perhaps, ask a different one.

So let's ask a different question and begin from another place all together — and perhaps we'll have different answers. What if rather than assuming that I am here and you are there and between us yawns an inevitable chasm, we assume that we are all at once constituent and constitutive of the same stuff — namely, the world. That rather than there being a gap between us, space is infinitely dense, infinitely rich, with itself. So between me and you is not nothing but, on the contrary, there's all kinds of stuff — gasses, ideas, affects, desires, what the French philosopher calls "the flesh."

In this view, we are not atoms who function as discrete entities on the stage of the world. In fact, we are not even fundamentally different from the world. On the contrary, we are aspects of the world just as rocks, gasses, words, ideas, and space dust are. The world, in this case, is not a stage we act upon; it is the milieu in which we act.  We don't act on the world or in the world but with the world. Or, better yet, as the world — or at least this piece of it, this perspective, this vantage, this trajectory.

We will never have been discrete atoms. To be in this world is always already to participate with other things in this world — we come out of someone else, we breathe air, eat food, walk on ground, participate in language. Identity is porous and fundamentally, ontologically, networked.  I will never have been a me per se. That which is me is, in fact, a series of mechanisms — a metabolism — that is always already taking up other things in order to constitute myself.

Let's begin, then, like this: I am a series of mechanisms taking in, taking up, other things and mechanisms. And, with this world view, let's once again ask the question of empathy: How am I to feel what you feel?

Well, let's say that empathy is not a one-to-one experience of your feelings. That just seems silly. It doesn't demand an equation of your feelings and mine, a one-to-one mapping. That may be what quantitative scientists demand. But not us: we have different answers because we have different questions born of a different world.

So I'm over here, you're over there, and I feel I know what you're feeling. How is that possible? Well, it doesn't seem so farfetched now. We are both participating in the same fabric of experience. So just as a ripple on this side of the blanket throws my cat from the bed — a cat who's way over there! — I can get what's happening to you. The gap between us is not a gap at all; it's continuous.

And yet my feelings are not your feelings. The demand for that equivalence stems from a flawed understanding of how we go in this world. We are not, alas, atomized. We are all constitutive and constituents of the same plenum of a world. So of course I feel things you're feeling! Not only is empathy no longer an epistemological dilemma; it's an ontological inevitability.

Due to the prevailing atomized view of the world — a world view that reduces people to integers — I'm 1; you're 1; she's 1 — so that we can readily run algebraic equations — we neglect to teach or even discuss the affective flows that permeate our lives. We are never taught how to lean into situations to suss out the affective resonance of this or that — a book, room, film, job. No, we teach that everything should be reducible to an integer that can be plugged into an equation.

And yet we all live in affective fields. We even have a vocabulary, albeit limited, to make sense of such things. I hate that bar! It feels so, well, creepy! Or: That house is just plain weird! I always get anxious there! Which is to say, we're not foreigners to the world of affect. We just lack the discourse, the concepts, the honed faculties to process and discuss such affect.

We live in a world saturated with affect. In fact, there is no such thing as an unaffective space. Everything — rocks, trees, tchotchkes, words, smiles — is affective. And, if we abandon the atomized view of the world and assume a plenum, a place in which the world is full of itself, then of course I feel with you — not as you but with you. How could it be otherwise?

I want to suggest that if we assume we operate in an affective plenum, then we will teach differently, think differently, ask different questions. If rather than solely ask what a book or film means, we teach students how to lean into the affect of a text, then empathy is a necessary byproduct of life. It is to feel with the world in which we are all continuous.

Fear & Loathing in Academia, or Why the University is Structurally Backwards Looking


Long before I ever walked academic halls, I had a certain image of the professorial life that, when I think about it, came predominantly from Animal House. It was a place of equal parts play and thought. 

Later, I'd read William Burroughs and my imagination blossomed  (I substituted "professor" for "writer"): As a young child I wanted to be a writer because writers were rich and famous. They lounged around Singapore and Rangoon smoking opium in a yellow pongee silk suit. They sniffed cocaine in Mayfair and they penetrated forbidden swamps with a faithful native boy and lived in the native quarter of Tangier smoking hashish and languidly caressing a pet gazelle. 

Yes o yes, I'd be a professor! The university would be my home, a place of books and ideas and casual but meaningful sex. It'd be relaxed and indulgent yet concerted when it mattered. In my delusional imagination, academia was an oasis in the desert of capitalism and its soul draining daily demands. 

Then, as a grad student, I was immediately thrown into the classroom, teaching composition to Berkeley undergrads. While many would grimace at such a prospect, I felt like I was home. Being in the classroom felt good and right. Sure, I wasn't paid much but I was paid—and in pre-dot com San Francisco, that mere $17,000 a year, give or take, was plenty. (Writing that now, it seems insane!)  

So yes and yes again! I'll teach, gladly and enthusiastically. And then I'll read some books that I love. And I'll write about them. This is perfect! It's everything I thought it would and should be.

Until, relatively quickly, it wasn't. Soon, the ugliness would rear its head with such bilious determination, I'm still staggering from it. At first, I thought it a local problem—this professor is anxious and insecure. I didn't see the institution at work, breeding anxiety, systematically quashing thought, creativity, and worst of all, pleasure. (In Nietzschean fashion, I ask: Who would ever found and propel an institution that didn't foster pleasure?)

Looking back, I should have known. As an undergrad, I'd read plenty of academic writing. And, as we all know, it's not exactly a genre that fosters pleasure or the delight of thinking. Which is why I'd shied away from it, sticking to so-called primary sources. When I wrote my undergraduate thesis on Foucault's historiographical methodology, I mostly just read Foucault. Later, when writing my dissertation, my bibliography has around 40 books—all by the authors I was writing about. I don't think I included one contemporary academic text in my entire dissertation. Life's too short, as my brilliant advisor would say. Or too long, my comrade in rhetorical arms would offer.

But I assumed that everyone agreed! That we were all on the same page! After all, who wants to read that arid, convoluted, pedantic scholarly prose? Sure, there might be a keen insight here and there. But deciphering and uncovering it comes at too great a cost to one's soul and body! So I just figured we were all of an ilk when it came to such things.

Oy, silly me! If I'd thought about it for a moment, I'd have realized that this academic writing was written by those in the academy. So if their prose is life draining, it's not a big jump to seeing that they are products and proponents of a life draining system. Plus, well, it turns out criticizing academic writing is not the way to endear oneself to academics. But I really thought we all agreed that this kind of academic writing is not only absurd, it's antithetical to our mission, namely, fostering and teaching the art of thinking! Holy moly, was I naive.

I'm trying to place the first incident that should have told me everything I needed to know. It could have been when I was teaching as a GSI (graduate student instructor) and my class was over enrolled so, to weed out the disinterested, I required they write a paper. One student did not. But, as I'd eloped the night before, I forgot to drop him from my class roster. And by the next day, the system wouldn't let me do it; the student had to drop himself. Which, it seems, angered him. And so he complained to the department. I was summoned to a well-known faculty member's office—she wrote and taught about pornography; her curriculum on the subject, I imagine, was quite different from what I'd teach on the subject—anyway, she summoned me and said: "Students are your clients. You can't kick him out."  Really?!? I would never, and will never, see students as clients. 

And then there was a very well known faculty member who chaired my dissertation exams. As I had a good, friendly relationship with her, I asked if she'd consider chairing my dissertation. Rather than saying yes or no or instructing me to ask otherwise, she launched into a tirade about how inappropriate I was by asking so casually and not referring to her as Professor or Doctor and—and!—asking about her son about which we'd spoke frequently in the past but, it seems, was verboten in this context.

And then, upon walking out of my successful oral exams, this same said well know professor of a certain radical theory of gender told me to have my dissertation prospectus to her in two weeks. Once again: Oy. Needless to say, I did not and she did not remain on my dissertation committee. Who subscribes to these idiotic formal rules of this inane institution? This so-called radical faculty member, that's who. And also perhaps needless to say: at that point, without quite knowing it yet, I kissed any academic career goodbye. Because nepotism premised on sycophantism is pro forma in this institution of pettiness.

Or when I was no longer a graduate student but adjunct faculty and I was summoned to this same said radical philosopher's office who told me that my cursing in my lectures had to stop as it "offended students' moral and religious beliefs." I'm not making this up. 

Or when that same well known faculty member informed her graduate students that their teaching should always take a back seat to their job search. 

Or when I was denied a contract for being a "demagogue"  — despite growing the major and driving money into the department. 

Or, when I was teaching at the San Francisco Art Institute, and became loathed by faculty I'd never met once because their students were all in my class — at which point I was asked to limit enrollment so professors whose classes no one wanted to take would have students in them. Again, I'm not making this up. 

Yes, some might consider me paranoid. And, no doubt, there is much to loathe about me. But teaching the shit out of my classes with enough both quantitative and qualitative metrics to prove my success should not have been one of those reasons.

The fact is: I taught the shit out of my classes because I loved teaching and took it seriously. I poured my heart and soul into every class. And I believed that would be enough to afford me professional success. Students loved me! The major grew! And that is precisely why they canned me — or didn't renew my contract, which is the same thing. I'm not saying I'm not an asshole. But I was a committed, good teacher — and that was the very reason they canned me! It was ressentiment. 

I don't mean to invoke these personal anecdotes as proof of the academy's idiocy. I proffer them as my first hand account of an institution dedicated to backwards thinking. There is no place in the American academy for original thought. The entire enterprise is premised on scholarship, on having some domain of expertise and, preferably, access to some document that gives you dominion over the smallest, least interesting realm imaginable.

Not only is there no incentive to think creatively, it's institutionally prohibited. To wit, I was in the Rhetoric Department. As I wasn't going to get a job in other rhetoric departments—they mostly focus on composition theory—I was told to write about something that could get me a job in an English department—20th century American beat literature or something like that. But my interests move across time, country, and genre—like all thinking does— so I wrote about philosophers and writers from different countries. But that meant there were literally no jobs for me. 

The academy, alas, is premised on having domains of expertise. It is distinctly not dedicated to thinking. Thinking cuts across time, place, and genre as it wants. The academy does not. Look at the departments; look at the courses they offer. They're all pedantic, tightly bound fields: 19th Century British Women Writers; 20th Century French Phenomenology (well, that's not actually offered); Conceptions of the Self in Ancient Greek Poetry. These might be interesting subjects but they are constrained by institutional demarcations that prohibit the meandering essential to thought.

Without a specified and predetermined subject matter of expertise, there is no way to enter the academy. The gates are kept by pedantic weasels protecting their domain of knowledge and systematically prohibiting anything resembling live thought. And if all the domains and departments already exist, where does the novel live? How are new ways of thinking supposed to enter and operate?

Mind you, this is not to say that there aren't great people in academia. I know many. But they are the exception. And, more to the point, they got in by playing the scholarly game. Power to them. I was naive enough to think being smart, loving writing, and being a great teacher would be enough. Not only weren't they not enough: they are precisely why the academy refused me with such ardor!

Rather than fostering thought, academia is thought's undertaker. The institution is premised on pre-existing fields of knowledge. Whence these fields? Why aren't they up for grabs? And it's premised on "mastering" some tiny, specialized domain that you're then expected to protect. Which means, like all experts, you're dedicated to received knowledge and existing modes of approach. The entire institution is, quite literally, backwards looking. And this is supposed to be where new thinking is born! It's absurd.  

But, even worse, it's so depressing. The fact is I have more time and freedom working for the so-called Man than I ever would have being a professor. I work for my clients, sure, but I maximize my time writing and thinking about anything I want—death, tequila, Deleuze, Burroughs, porn, pedagogy, dating. I miss teaching terribly. But at least I'm free to think and write as I want. 

I haven't taught in 10 years. But the small glimpse I get of life there today seems so miserable, so determined to eradicate pleasure—in life and thought—I'm relieved they got rid of me before this new assault. It's to the point where I am discouraging my 15 year old son from going to college as I tell him—much to his delight—that there are other ways to learn, think, and experience life. (Mind you, "work" isn't one of those other ways. So it's a quandary as to what life holds for him.)

Frankly, this all makes me sad. Because academia should be amazing, vital, challenging, delirious. It should be a place of delight in ideas and conversation and other people. A place of exploration—intellectual, sexual, existential. A place that actively fosters thinking and the new rather than systematically eliminating it, an oasis from the quotidian soul death of American work, a viable counterpoint to the techno-capitalist assault on existence. O, to smoke that spliff with Donald Sutherland and become a world in someone else's thumbnail! That sounds perfect just about now.

The Radical, Generous Genius of No Life Shaq's "Reaction" Videos


I recently stumbled on an incredible YouTube phenomenon: so-called reaction videos. As the name suggests, people record themselves reacting to something they're experiencing for the first time — a song, tv show, comedy routine. I absolutely love this. It's so seemingly simple, so clean. You witness people reading the world, engaging difference, and seeing what comes.

But it's not that simple, really.  After all, what is more profound, more important, than how we engage difference? If you would, consider for a moment how you come to difference. Most of the time, most people come armed with all sorts of criteria for judgement. I can't date someone who doesn't have a career! Action movies are stupid! I can't stand acoustic guitar in my music! I only like real drums, not drum machines! Who eats that?

As a culture, we actually privilege such an approach. We call it sticking to your guns, being principled, staying true to yourself. But that's just the aggrandizing of bigotry. How in the world are we ever supposed to discover the new or enjoy difference if we tether ourselves to predetermined positions, principles, narratives of self, and tastes? If the world is in fact in motion — if we are indeed inherently temporal creatures — then being a rock, sticking to your guns, and being principled are anti-life as they are all attempts to prevent life from happening.

Mind you, I am not exempt from this judgement of judgement. When I picture myself doing a reaction video, I imagine grimace after grimace, mugging for the camera with vague contempt as some sedated rapper mumbles to sleepy beats. Such, alas, is my grumpy disposition — which is itself symptomatic of a more pervasive malady, namely, a fear of difference, of change — which is really a fear of, and disdain for, life. This is what Nietzsche would call an ill-constituted soul, one that works against life. (One of my favorite moments in all of Nietzsche: “What is it that I especially find utterly unendurable? That I cannot cope with, that makes me choke and faint? Bad air! Bad air! The approach of some ill-constituted thing; that I have to smell the entrails of some ill-constituted soul!”)

Now look at the video above by the brilliant, charming, inspiring, and generous No Life Shaq. Look how open he is to whatever comes. He doesn't try to tie what he hears back to what he already knows. Nor does he try to name or know it — that horrible thing grad students, and most academics, do: Oh, that's just Deleuze's notion of the rhizome, uttered with dispassion and a hint of disdain. Nor does No Life Shaq dismiss the song for being boring or different or not meeting his expectations. From the get go, he goes with it, letting it take him where it will. You literally see him being moved by the music, his face and body and words and thoughts being nudged in different directions as the song plays on. He is a generous, if inflected, canvas for the song.

It's an incredible thing to witness, to see life emerging, taking shape in and with his way of going. I find it so beautiful it makes weep with joy. For this is precisely what No Life Shaq delivers: unabashed joy, a radical affirmation of life. He never resists or judges. On the contrary, he actively seeks to go with the music, with its affective and intellectual flow, looking for the song's shtick. In a different video, listening to Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb," he inquires out loud about what he calls the "concept" of the song. I think that's as good a word as any for what we're talking about here: he looks for the concept of each song, for its logic, its operation, its performance, its question. His process is as much an intellectual operation as it is affective as, for him, moods and ideas emerge and commingle. It is an acrobatics of taste and thought and it's downright exquisite. Who can watch this and not smile, laugh, jump up with him? That is joy.

Now, No Life Shaq is no musicologist — at least he doesn't present himself as such. He doesn't know how to pronounce the name of the band; as for the song, he doesn't know "what it is." In fact, in contrast to how we're usually taught to present ourselves, he goes out of his way to refuse any institutional authority, proudly claiming his ignorance. He doesn't parse the song's structure or chord changes, its time signature, or even its historical import. No, the video is just him listening to the song. What, then, is his ethos, his authority? Why does this video have over 380,000 views? Because his acumen lies not in his expertise but in his skill as reader, his poise and receptiveness.

In my book, I call this immanent reading. Rather than beginning with categories — Rock, Rap, Country — and trying figure out where the song lives, he begins with the song and sees where it takes him. Marshall McLuhan would call him an amateur, a critic with nothing to lose, no domain of knowledge to protect. Experts put new things in existing categories, murdering them, sucking the novelty out. The job of professionals is to defend knowledge that already exists. So there's no possibility for anything new to emerge. Amateurs, however, are not beholden to any domain. They don't heed existing categories; they follow the song wherever it goes. Amateurs have nothing other than themselves, their experience, their constitution, their desires, their will. It's reading as a high wire act: the only thing holding their interpretation together is themselves in that moment. 

Watch No Life Shaq reckon. For that is what we're seeing: a reckoning, an emergent commingling of two bodies, his and "Freebird's": Out of the gate, bro, outta the gate, the beat, the instrumentals, whatever y'all wanna call it, is already talking to me....It's speaking words to us. Y'all don't hear that? C'mon man! He doesn't give us a map of the song— "Lynyrd Skynyrd was formed in such and such a place and time and so on" — he performs a tour. And like any good tour guide, he doesn't give us a checklist of "great" things we can tell our friends we saw. He doesn't share his his knowledge. He performs his experience. His critique if of "Freebird" is itself an event. As all critiques should be! Which is to say, rather than plugging things into known categories, critique is a vital event that infuses the received with new life. Why else critique?? Why else read someone else's critique if not to be infused with the novel, the different, the vital?? Do we read the world to accumulate knowledge?  Or to experience life, extend our ability to be affected, and affirm existence in all its wondrous, odd flux?

At the risk of sounding even more like an academic wonk than I already have, No Life Shaq's approach makes me think of what the French philosopher, Henri Bergson, calls intuition as distinct from intellect or intelligence. For Bergson, intuition is the most rigorous methodology of knowing the world. The intellect, he argues, comes from the outside to map all the points of a thing. Intuition, however, is mobile, moving with a thing, entering its different way of going in the world — a batter feeling for the way of a pitch as the ball hurtles towards him. Intuition, Bergson writes, is a method of feeling one's way intellectually into the inner heart of a thing, in order to locate what is unique and inexpressible in it.

The genius of No Life Shaq lies not in his discovery of masterpieces but in his mode of listening: the genius is precisely in the reaction, not in the revelation of content. So when I made the choice to read viewers' comments, I was dismayed — they're all about this young man discovering greatness. "You had me in tears.😂 It's like I said, I love watching you young cats hear this stuff for the first time. It brings joy to my heart." "And that my friend, is the best guitar solo in history." "This made my day. Glad you understand this now. You have good taste! Maybe one of the best songs ever written and recorded in history."

Oy! First of all, there's something so offensively condescending in these comments, as if this young black man is discovering the inherent genius of the rock and roll canon. Which is a symptom of an even more insidious disease: a focus on the what, ignoring the how. What matters to the commenters is that he's listening to this particular song — and, by liking it, No Life Shaq is catching up to what they already know, namely, that "Freebird" is a great song. In their eyes, and to their seeming delight, nothing new has been added to the world. The rules have been affirmed.

But the brilliance of No Life Shaq is his methodology, his openness and active participation in difference without recourse to expertise, knowledge, or institutional prowess. His brilliance exists with a fundamental indifference to the provenance of the content. It lies, rather, in his relationship to the new, in how he listens — not what he listens to. If he were just discovering things we all already knew were great, his videos would be cute, perhaps, but finally banal. No, his genius doesn't exist in his confirmation of the known: it exists in his affirmation of life itself.

What these YouTube comments reveal is the precise opposite approach to life: confirmation of the pre-known. They give his videos the ol' thumbs up because they think he confirms their world. But what he's actually doing is radical, undermining the very possibility of their posture in the world. These commenters are zombies, dead on arrival, preaching the virtue of what cannot be questioned. No Life Shaq, however, is creative evolution before our eyes, proffering the most radical methodology that undoes any possibility of a canon — going with the emergent difference of the world. They should fear him.

Zombism, alas, is the reigning technology of sense. I see this it at work in my son's high school English classes: they read books for their content, for their what. They never consider how the book says what it says or how critique operates. His teachers never consider the role of form and structure; never consider narrative, novel, sentences, the alphabet as technologies. They assume language — along with story and the novel — are given, neutral conveyors of information not to be questioned. Americans are never taught how to "read" critically,  never taught to seek the logic of meaning production, to be alive to the world as it emerges without recourse to citation and pre-existing knowledge. Just look at American political discourse: people continue to argue over this vs. that presidential candidate without ever questioning the presidency itself, what a republic is, what voting is — and whether we might do it all differently. And so the absurdity of our world perpetuates itself.

Life happens in-between — in-between you and me; you and ideas; in-between this, that, and that. It happens in the how more than the what — how we stand towards the world, the manner in which we hold our ideas, approach one another, the manner in which we think and make sense of this life. But all we're ever taught is to seek the known, seek confirmation of the greatness of some song or book. We stake our positions, stay true to ourselves, and stick to our guns so when life happens, when difference wields it heads and we're thrown off kilter, we pull our weapons and fire away, killing the budding life before us. This zombie technology of making sense is inherently violent. I want to suggest that if we were to teach critique as a reckoning of an emergent event, the mad violence of the world might dissipate a bit.

No Life Shaq, then, as a radical, undoing the technologies of violence by proffering criticism as generosity. His methodology is not just a winging it. It is a way of going with the world that is nimble yet poised. Note that he doesn't abandon himself as he listens, disappearing into the haze of Southern anthemic rock. He goes into the song poised, ready for what comes while simultaneously being absolutely himself. In this mode, there is no strict boundary between listener and song. There is only a going with: the song going with him, him going with the song. What emerges is something new, what Deleuze and Guattari call a bloc of becoming: a No Life Shaq-Freebird becoming. Those same French philosophers refer to this as a nuptial, a kind of mating in which neither party dominates (even if the give and take is not always equal). And that is surely what we see in this video, see in No Life Shaq's beaming smile: a nuptial, and it's beautiful.

In this seemingly simplistic video lurks a radical approach to life, an exquisite methodology of critique premised on a supreme generosity that affirms life, engaging things anew to discover what new worlds flourish there. This is what No Life Shaq teaches us: a technology of  sense making, a posture of standing towards difference, of doing criticism, that is open, affirmative, generous, joyous. This is what we should be teaching in our classrooms and homes: engage the world vitally and generously, maximizing its beauty.

After watching No Life Shaq's videos, I question the name of the category, reaction videos. For while he is no doubt reacting, he is surely creating. And this, in the end, is the most radical, generous, divine gesture possible: the creation of life.

Pithy Takes on Some Philosophers

At the urging of someone I trust, I am beginning to publish on Medium which, alas, is much more reader-friendly: See here >


I love the word pith. I also love the experience of pith—brief and dense. I almost wrote quick but pith is often slow, even if short. No doubt, for each of these entries, one could write something else entirely. I don't ever want to be definitive; I want to be exploratory, inviting, proliferating.

These are my takes today, meant to be descriptive rather than poetic, performative, or provocatively interpretive. I do this as an exercise: quickly, how pithy can I be? What do I choose to mention? Perhaps this is more about me than these philosophers but I'm sharing nonetheless.

Friedrich Nietzsche: The great philosopher of joy! A radical affirmation of this life. There is nothing outside of life to ground us—no god, no morality, no truth, nothing that is not in flux. And yet, when freed from the prison of morality, there is nevertheless ethics: Be healthy! (Which, in turn, demands all kinds of things such as discipline.) So stop being so righteous. And stop seeking a way out—religion, truth, morality, ego are all nihilistic. The so-called great questions of philosophy—what is truth? what is good?—are nihilistic. The questions are: What do you eat? Where do you live? How do you recreate? The formula for greatness, he says, is amor fati: don't just accept your life, love it—everything about it.

Socrates: Everything in this mortal world gives way before the sublimity of the divine. Anyone who thinks she knows the truth is full of it—it being delusion and/or hubris. So Socrates asks them questions until they admit they know nothing—or they get so annoyed, they walk away. (The real Socratic method is not a way to know but a way not to know!) Which is why he's always ironic: as a mortal, he must speak its language but when he does, he erases what he just said, pointing to the divine. They killed him for being a nudge.

Postmodernism: A whole bunch of writers who try to make sense of life when sense is not guaranteed as nothing is fixed and sure, nothing is outside this world. The question that all postmodernism asks is: If everything is, in fact, flux—if there is no center—how do we make claims, know things, have form? Of course, "postmodern" is a category that wants to be outside its insistence on on difference, grouping wildly disparate thinkers together. Postmodern, as a category, undoes itself.

Jacques Derrida: Which brings me to Derrida: every claim to know the world, to say this is this, enacts its own undoing because everything bleeds. Everything is what Derrida calls intertextual. Think of it this way: to define a word in a dictionary demands you look up other words that demand you look up other words ad infinitum. You never land at a final meaning that is not dependent on other words. Derrida calls this movement, this operation, différance—the deferral of meaning through the internal difference of meaning. To read for différance, for the way a text undoes itself, is what he calls deconstruction.

Henri Bergson: The whole problem with the history of philosophy and thought, including science and math, is that it begins with the assumption that time is added to space. This leads us into creating what Bergson calls false problems. But time is not added to the world; it is constitutive of matter. As he likes to say, the world endures—by which he means it's temporal. And hence always changing and ever novel. Motion is not a series of points added up; it is its own action, to be understood on its own terms. While this creative evolution resists a general theory of knowing, there is a method to understand things, to inhabit their difference, their duration: he calls it intuition. Intuition, not intellect, is how we enter into the world of other things. 

Søren Kierkegaard: In almost all of his writing, Kierkegaard used pseudonyms, creating a situation for each book—a perspective. Because, above all, we are individuals! And we all stand before a world that is both finite and infinite. As individuals, we can consume the finite world immediately, wantonly, as an aesthetic. Or we can have our experience of the finite mediated by social ethics. Or we can give up the finite as best we can and surrender to infinity as we recuse ourselves from this social world—taking refuge in a monastery, perhaps. But the highest goal we can achieve is to walk in the infinite and the finite at the same time: with each step, what Kierkegaard calls the Knight of Faith, walks into the infinite and back to the finite, over and over. This Knight of Faith lives in the finite social world—job, kids, friends—while having an immediate, delirious, and insane relationship to the infinite. (To wit, Kierkegaard's example is Abraham: he marches his kid up the mountain to kill him and, afterwards, lives in the social as a father and husband.)

Michel Foucault: Power is not only prohibition—you can't do this or that. Power is also, and primarily, productive: we are created, and create ourselves, within limits that constrain what we can think, say, and do. Foucault calls this discourse. A discourse is the field of what can be said and thought, of what is true and what is not; it's the arrangement and distribution of words, thoughts, and bodies. He looks at the history of certain discourses that most believe to be ahistorical—sexuality, madness, punishment—and discovers how these discourses operate across time, how they work to define, limit, and distribute our words, thoughts, and bodies: how they create us and, in so doing, control us.

Hans-Georg Gadamer: We are all of the same stuff—history. So while we might be different to each other—speak different languages, have different beliefs—we are all necessarily connected by the mere fact that we are all of history. And so rather than communication necessarily failing, as Derrida might have it, communication is necessarily successful, even if going astray from things like intent or the seamless relay of information. This hermeneutics, the school Gadamer is associated with, is rather sweet, if I may say so.

Gilles Deleuze: The great thinker of difference: each text, for Deleuze, is a new terrain with its own logic and modes of operating. When he reads Spinoza, Leibniz, Foucault, Bergson—or grass, animals, Moby Dick—he discovers different worlds at work. And yet these worlds are not solipsistic; they intertwine, overlap, pick up pieces of each other, carrying them in new directions. Deleuze gives us a vision of the world as decentered yet immanently ordered—with an order that is never fixed or secretive or underlying but that is always emerging.

Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari: This is a two-headed beast proliferating concepts to infinity. The world teeters on the edge of chaos but, usually, remains formed even as these forms give way, merge, dissipate in a relentless operation of what they call territorializaton, deterritorialization, and reterritorialization. Things don't function like trees with roots and branches; they are rhizomes—roots everywhere! Whereas Derrida shies away from conceptst o avoid the pitfalls of metaphysics—sticking something in place—Deleuze and Guattari go the other way: they proliferate concepts to infinity.

Maurice Merleau-Ponty: We are all of this world, stuff going with stuff. To know the world is not to stand apart from it (as a certain scientific method proffers) but to be immersed in it, of it, with it. Perception is not a matter of subject and object but happens in-between: as we see the world, the world sees us. To touch the world is to be touched by the world. Identity and knowing are what he calls chiasmatic as self-other, perceiver-perceived, and subject-object are always already intertwined, swapping places at infinite speed.

Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" & the Performative Nature of Language & Participating in the Divine in the Very Act of Reading It

"Howl" is a poem I taught for eons as it is such a great way to teach the performative — how language not only says things but does things. I borrow this word, performative, from the philosopher, John Austin who gave an incredible set of lectures that became a book, How to Do Things with Words. I cannot recommend Austin's book more ardently. 

In fact, I'm not sure how anyone makes sense of language — or teaches anything that's written or spoken — without Austin's book. One of the problems I faced when teaching, and continue to face when trying to interact with other human beings in the world, is that most people don't have the figure of the performative in their vocabulary. We are explicitly taught to examine texts for what they say — for their content. We talk about themes and ideas and characters. But we're never taught to examine how texts say what they say and the various things they do in the very act of being uttered — they way they choreograph our bodies, emotions, and social relations.

So this is me talking about the performative via Ginsberg's incredible poem. And how, in the act of reading it, we don't just learn of all the depraved exploits of the Beats: we  participate in Beat-dom, we become Beat, which is to participate in the divine through and with the flesh. Oh yes. Oh yes, indeed.

Towards a Politics of the Ecstatic (a verbal essay)

Some thoughts on a government and political discourse that doesn't seek to legislate the good or the profit motive but seeks to create the conditions of the ecstatic. This is different than the pleasure the present capitalist-corporate-state legislates and facilitates. I am interested not in pleasure per se but in enjoyment — in the slow, internal permeation of the self. So rather than a system that focuses on the conditions of profit to buy pleasure, I am interested in a system that focuses on creating time that facilitates enjoyment — and, alas, the ecstatic.

This is a true essay, a try, a reaching with reference to Nietzsche's energetics of saying Yes and No along with some Marcuse and some thoughts and experiences I've had lo these past 50 years. Indulge me, if you would. Or not.

Writing is Beautifully Weird

Writing evacuates the real, introducing a play of identity. The myth of the authentic voice stymies creativity. Forget expressing yourself. Become other and write away.

Habit blinds us. The things we do of course — in the literal sense — are the things we don't notice. Sure, we may appreciate them. But we don't reckon them. For once we do, things get disorienting. To wit, if you think too much about sleep, sleep becomes truly strange — and then it becomes difficult to sleep.

This is what's happening right now with my writing. I have reckoned my own practice of writing now and again. In fact, I started this blog over 10 years ago as a way to experiment with tone, style, form, content. And I wrote a novel as a way to eject me from the precious pedantry of academese. But, through all that, I haven't really reckoned writing per se. The act remained the act, even if my style and practice changed.

But the fact is writing is odd. There's the awe-inspiring magic of it all: I inscribe these marks and thereby conjure mood and meaning, humor and belief, desire. This fact alone is enough to humble me, to make me tremble before I inscribe every word lest I summon some ill-begotten beast.

Which happens anyway, inevitably, as words refuse domestication. Every word, to a greater or lesser degree, bucks and sprawls. Words don't want to do what they're told; they're always headed somewhere else. Such is their way; words are always multiple.

I just spent several minutes moving between a semi-colon, colon, and period to separate the two clauses of the previous sentence. Each choice makes a slightly different argument about the relationship between the two clauses, the two claims. And each inaugurates a different rhythm and tone. Why one and not another?

And every inscription is itself a reading. And, as we all know so well, that's something the writer cannot control. My humor is a reader's offense. To write is to make a mess, always. This is enough to stop a writer in her tracks. (Why do I use "her"? You tell me.)

And then there is the staggering complexity of communicating in absentia. How do I convey the nuance of my thought — all the irony, doubt, humor, passion— in these common words available to any and all sans inflection? How do I inject all this into the written word that is so stubborn and dry? (To the teachers out there, this is where rhythm and word choice come into play.)

What ethos do I assume? I, for one, am often perturbed by the casual wisdom of the day, the way bloggers and Facebook posters assume a royal we and proffer their knowing takes on life, love, politics, and tidying up. I'm sure that despite my best efforts, I am no different. Just look at the opening sentence of this essay: who is that us? I wrestled that pronoun for too long before settling on it so I could simply keep writing.

To write is always to play dress up. This is true in speaking, too. We choose our clothes, our hair style, our whole shtick so as to play this or that person in the world. So it goes with writing. Only, because I am not present, I have so much more freedom to choose whatever character I want. I usually cop some vague sense of a fancy boy ripe with outdated turns of phrase. Why? Because I can. And it's fun. There is no way my words will ever be me. A writer may find her voice but that voice is not that of the writer. No, that voice is another, one that works for that writer. Writing will never have been a practice of perfect self-expression as there is no perfect, no self, and writing is essentially detached from the writer. There are so many possible voices a writer can assume, adopt, deploy. As the great performer, Fauxnique, might say: it's all drag. Writing is necessarily a put on. To write is to drape, to become, to take on, to steal, to borrow, to cop, to infuse, to inflect, to inhabit.

Who am I when I write? Who is this I that is not there? This I that means all kinds of things despite its best intentions? We leak our symptoms; we are our symptoms. We communicate ourselves despite ourselves, in spite of ourselves. From the Freudian slip to the mechanics of ideological false consciousness (in which we articulate beliefs that we think are our own but are the workings of power) what we say and what we mean will never cohere at the site of our intention. And, when we write, it's out there for all to see, a hoisting of our hidden selves — and we're not there to defend it. (Which is why Socrates calls writing a bastard.)

Writing is enmeshed in cultural expectations. I like to curse; a good fuck adds texture, passion, tone. But there are many readers who read said fuck and recoil. They don't hear my casual humor, my injection of the profane into heady matters, or my ethos as cool thinker (or so I like to imagine). They hear fuck and can't continue. I receive queries all the time asking me why I curse. I'm not sure why it's something I have to defend while a lack of profanity is never questioned. Never trust those who don't curse.

Writing is not just a matter of conveyance. It is an event, something I do with my body and thoughts, an event of cultural manipulation. It is at once personally sensuous and culturally resonant.

I really love the sensation of sitting down to right. It's a ritual of reckoning. We often think of writing as an expressive act — which of course it is. But it's not just outward facing. It demands a certain openness to the world. To write is to have the world flow through you, to have images, thoughts, affects, beliefs, places enter you before being secreted as words. The writer will never have been the master of much. No, to write is closer to surfing (I say never having surfed. Who cares? Can I not invoke surfing just because I haven't surfed? Who am I? What matters who's speaking?). To write is to lean into the waves of the world, poised, and then to move with those waves, to cut across them or nestle into their crest (I'm guessing surfers don't talk of nestling but I hope they do). To sit down to write is to situate oneself just so to let the world enter then inflect before shitting it out.

Writing is in fact much like shitting, the end product of a metabolism and production at once me and not-me. Many young writers have trouble actually sitting down to write and then distributing their prose much as a toddler resists sitting on the toilet only to have this once-piece of her flushed into oblivion. It's terrifying. Whooosh! Writing, like shitting, undoes the visual limits of ourselves. Which makes the flush terrifying. To publish is to flush.

I haven't touched on structure at all — on connecting words and ideas to each other. For now, I just want to introduce a sense of alienation about the very act of inscribing words on the page. I want writing to become alien so I, so we, can (re)discover it. (Parentheses are a great way to make words speak their multiplicity.) This, to me, is the first step in any writing pedagogy.

A Tentative Outline for a Course on William S. Burroughs

For a moment in grad school—back in 1996—I considered writing my dissertation about William Burroughs. But Burroughs is so close to my h...