The i! binary in the word-punctle matrix

I dreamt of space—infinite space, unfettered by words: this is the archetypal punctle; that which existed before the master-slave dialectic in whose grumpy grip the text now writhes—grumpy indeed. Let us look at the relationship of inverted reflexivity in the punctle and the letter (that odious elemental fragment of the word): “i” and “!”—indeed!—the concept “i” encompasses all that is essential in the word-essence: it is the “me” of the aforementioned me-we binary and it is central to the personal identity of the text. Opposite this monument to the ego is the exclamatory mark, incidentally a capsized “i”— the collective entity at odds with the personal entity: the collective text. In “i!” exists the totality of a text—a truly individualized work; one that encompasses the individual and the collective; the conscious and the unconscious.

It is for the infinite pleasure that moments of creative intuition afford me (when the obvious-obscure binary that haunts academic fervor bursts at the seams to unveil a golden nugget) that I embrace a total loss of touch with reality.

-i!

The Subconscious Punctle

Foregoing my expoundation on The Jungian Jungle: The Archetypal Punctle, I am obliged to make public my theoretical leanings—though I permit myself such a confession with the resolute, unwavering Esperanza that those readers from whom a diatribe against Jungian analysis may flurry forth (indubitably a product of that healthy academic libido native to the doctorial mind) shall be sweet-tempered in their refutation, for I am but a wounded bird that quakes in the wake of a certain raging synesthete’s laceration of self-consciousness; indeed, victory in the cerebral Tourney of the Ego (woeful the innumerable losses us citizens of Academia have endured through such violent jousting) was of a gilded nature and forth must I trot a Britomarian gait, ever-parrying phallic inquisition.

Yes, Post-Jungian woe is me!

Forget us not that "In the beginning there was pause" and following this pause emerged the word—indeed, the textual identity is fleshed forth via the “me-we"” binary: the punctles: the archetypal symbols ubiquitous—the subconscious of a content; and the word: the conscious dimension comprised of the rational impulse to differentiate a particular work from countless others.

Thus content-identity issues forth.

The Vicissitudes of Publication

Afore embarking on a sweeping exploration of The Jungian Jungle: The Archetypal Punctle, our Speaker’s troubled fancy falls prey to the whip of a biting whim:

“Most Beloved and Esteemed Reader,

The nobility of Academe implores that I hold my authorship accountable for inconsistencies in publication shedules; and yet I conjecture: does not the fickleness of a gentle muse, mutable and wispy in her tendency to withdraw at the slightest provocation, pardon the creative mind’s inconstancy? Genius does not acquiesce to Chronian demands! (If naught else thy cerebrum appropriates from my life’s devotion, this adage do consider).

Fervently,

Yours truly”

Following this proto-prologue (affront the luminance of a steady screen) she heralds forth the first droppings of a creative flush—fidgets on her stool as she pushes on letters that spring:

“In the beginning there was pause.
And the book was without form, and most promising; and space was on the face of the page. And the muse of the creator wrote upon the page of the space.
And the creator said, Let there be words: and there were words.
And the creator saw the word, and it was good; and the creator divided the word from the space…”

The punctles in the fray

Following a sad sojourn in slander’s bungalow, our errant scholar returns (at the behest of her intellect) to those ubiquitous punctles—the subjects of her ingenuity, the tormentors of her craft. Indeed, the artistry of academic pursuits; the chiseling of thought for the fashioning of publications, wearies her tender muse—and yet exhaustion does not emerge at the cost of coherence. Indeed, her moments of most profound lucidity are marked by a creeping sense that she is nothing more than an essential element in a faltering assemblage of academics. To falter: to cough dry dust at the doorstep of esoteric knowledge; to suddenly lose one’s bearings amidst a concrete labyrinth of motorcars, only to realize at the last moment of that sweet consciousness preceding full blown heat exhaustion that the punctle is the life.

And yet, all this musing—this flirting with philosophical philandering—condenses into a penetrating thought: the puissance of the punctle can be found in the Jungian jungle: in the archetypal punctle.

Bellum: Placitum Stilus: Partie Trois

To miss a point, yes: to gender it; to presuppose an assumed sexuality: Miss Space; Miss Parenthesis; Miss Exclamation! Indeed, I have missed the point, and why ever should I not? These punctles have not been castrated, no—they’ve been given the opportunity to unveil themselves fertility goddesses amidst a male dominated content—an alphabet fettered by the phallic; thralled by the masculine! Should I feign surprise when a quack of an academic, assuming expertise in the dethronement of the book, attempts to loosen this blog’s supremacy of influence via the pillaging of character? Surprise, I feign not! Misogyny, I admonish! Indeed, content is the sacrificial element of a text. Let us turn to Jesse Weston:

“To sum up the result of the analysis, I hold that we have solid grounds for the belief that the story postulates a close connection between the vitality of a certain king, and the prosperity of his kingdom; the forces of the ruler being weakened or destroyed, by wound, sickness, old age, or death, the land becomes waste, and the task of the hero is that of restoration.”

This certain king: phallic content; the prosperity of his kingdom: the synesthetic quality of the text! I borrow from this fool’s vocabulary to prove a point: castration points to the loss of textual virility, but most pressing, it unveils the need for restoration; the necessity of a “sacrificial lamb” to bring about the resurrection of a “synesthetic-event” within the text. The content, then, shall be sacrificed to the punctles; the male to the female! Hence, a new age of textual scholarship will surface: one marked by the fecundity of the fertile female.

And so this Speaker yelps in a fit of creative ecstasy: "To miss the point entirely is to de-male the text; to bring about a new age of artistic proliferation to replace the wasteland left in the wake of phallic Fascism!"

Bellum: Placitum Stilus: Partie Deux

“Missed the point entirely!” wails the heaving Speaker, at once overcome by arrhythmia amid a hallucinatory swirl of publications past, all a rising mirage; a phantasmagoria encircling like a haunting halo around the sad relics of a frenzied mind (so our non compos mentis Speaker fantasizes). And before her eyes, this conjured corona, rimmed with paper peppered in thought (symbol of a cloistered incline) cascades brusquely into a thudding puddle of dust—yes, a feverish fall; she faints: a not so final collapse.

. . . . .

Her eyelids flutter open in the dead of night, and following the blissfully fleeting moments of befuddled wonderment, the echoes of slander begin to meander forth—first as hollow shocks akin to the opaque dream-images of a life past, and then in shocking waves that pulse to amalgamate auditory hallucination; granting depth to the settling of an unsettled, encroaching sense:

“Missed the point entirely! Missed the point entirely!”

Thus following this histrionic swoon, our unnerved Speaker installs herself on a perch afore the shocking white of a luminescent screen to face her foe—assassin of character; bringer of woe . . . .