Amir Parsa: Prelude to the Manifestoes I
Long ago, long long ago, friends and colleagues, and a very very very long time ago it was: I made up my mind, resolved a critical issue, fashioned a response to one of my central preoccupations:
It was in the coffeeshops of Vienna: among the elderly folks bent over comatose reading their papers, the aroma of their coffee, the heaviness of old-world establishments implanted in their concepts and world views, almost blind to all that surrounded them, in a metaphorical fogginess, not to mention the literal, enveloping the place, I, a young directionless lout in a corner booth reading my Kafka and my Nietzsche, in the corner booth I was saying, feasting on a cheese sandwich, all I could afford, taking one bite out every few minutes, to make the sandwich last, as long as possible, and, in fact, paying less attention to the books under my eyes than the eyes of the people around me, and their gazes, their untold tales, their sadness and their daze (the story of my life!); it was in the cafes of Paris: so long removed from the mythological people and events that surrounded them: with the cliché but o so true brooding poet across, the students and their perfectly lined notebooks, the philosophers – yes, there is a place where philosophers are a breed, and hang out, and read, and: are not considered fools; it was in the diners: of where else, but of the city, New York version: next to the New York football Giants’ fans and the Jets’ fans and the Mets’ fans, with the good people of the nypd and the attorneys and the workers on their breaks, blaring above us, behind us, all around us, the unbearable blasts of the all-news channels and their tickers, making these same good people comment on ‘them terrorists’ and ‘those damn idiots’ and the rest; it was in the recollection of a day in Tehran, one, only, when I sat in a long-lost coffee shop, where, supposedly, other scribblers of decades-ago had also sat; before the ocean in Samana, on the Eastern coast of la Republica, Dominican version, seeing before me the great expanse of ocean, green-blue and the sky, cyan and purple, under the palm trees, by the hammock (and not in), it’s true, not a sound around, not a soul around: I had resolved, this I had done, in these corners of the world: I had resolved:
There would be no more manifestoes! Strangely indeed, for perhaps, all of those wanderings would have convinced me of the opposite: but no, I had resolved that there would be not one more manifesto: no more of its habitual rhetoric, its dreams of revolutions, its polemics, its errors. There would be no more manifestoes, I hammered, because all Litterature (notice the capital L), contains, in its body, a theory of writing. No more manifestoes, because the language of the manifesto undermines the forms for which call, the theses of the manifesto. No more manifestoes, because a philosophy of history, a philosophy of the gaze, a philosophy of scriptoral intervention, of the scripting writer, are implicit, in the overall unfurling, in the total system, of the text. The form included, the effects, the stylistic fashionings, the structural innovations. There would be no more manifestoes, to prevent the crumbling of the foundations, the most fundamental of the points, the pulse: for every aesthetic manifesto, every Arts Poetica, must, at all times, accomplish, live out, play out, its doctrines, through its own form and content: a vision, complete, a total construction of a world, a universe, that stands alone, the author and progenitor even, be damned, soon enough… There was, in this anti-manifesto resolution, a dash of martyrdom indeed: the texts, all texts, needed to stand alone, outside of the contexts (historical, social, political, and whatever other adjective we can dream up) and outside, of the personhood that had given birth to them… This was an honorable path, a worthwhile venture, a most glorious ambition: the effacing of a self, in the service of the gazes and the picking up of all ambiguities, subtleties, complexities, the madness (tragic and comic) of all those inhabiting these same blue-ish sphere… Yes indeed: the answer was written: O world, how I shall uncover your mysteries…
FORGIVE ME then, friends, for I have launched underfire with, O great Sigh of Sighs, a further, not reconsideration no, but an ever more convinced call: a call that shall reverberate all throughout this, and all other underfires if more installments are borne at later times: for, even though we are not in the business of manifestoes, it is with a very astute, driven conviction that we know this creation to be: an ars politica, an ars estetica, an unfurling that fashions a new type of genre, a new form perhaps, in the, if not literary, then intellectual/cultural written exchanges: for now, underfire itself, will live out its form, will become a theater indeed, a stage, with actors, mimes, (clowns?), prophets and preachers no doubt, and professors, for sure (can’t avoid it!):
Think of all that it has been and all it can aspire to: and before that even, a question I bet most here have wondered about, if only in the privacy of their own chambers (bodily even): what the hell is underfire anyway, and/or, after all? Who are its participants, who are its progenitors? We know the official linguo: we know what the description says it ‘is’. But really… What are ‘posts’ and interventions and discussants? What kinds of creatures are these?
Think also of the parameters of the form – and all the ways in which it undermines and deconstructs (pardon the loose use of such a loaded term!) narrative unfurlings, lo, the very foundations of communicative get-togethers. A salon, underfire? But folks have been at each other’s metaphorical throats! So, no no salon this venture.
Think of the modes of interventions: you could post however many texts or images, and an unseen deity will resolve to include and/or edit them and or not. You could be impolite and inconsiderate, or you could actually comply, and post analytical pieces that differ from live versions only in their communicative ways.
But you cannot escape the form, you cannot flee this theater of engagement: underfire is that type of creature, not yet a manifesto – or perhaps, the only true kind of manifesto: an ars, if not poetica, then estetic orelse, not: an Ars ---- Teatrica? Ars ---- Tecnologica? a new type of interaction – among people and among those with the outside world; a new type of unfurling of textualities; a new type of narrative construct, a new type of creator/ player; with a new type of physical presence in the world: all the parameters lead to this newness: the number and type of participants, the possible mode of participation, the identities (revealed and not: after all, how can we be sure who is listening in, who is writing down; any spies among us, any agents, cracking up and putting into their notebooks the names of this and that ‘poster’ of texts – not far-fetched, at all in fact…), the duration and length of the interventions; the tone, the style, the structure, even of the intervention, and of course, the product: the final traces -- not to mention the Author. Who the hell is the author after all: is Mr Crandall an editor, a creator, a composer, an architect, a Deity: invisible and all-powerful, omniscient, unrepresentable: who decides the final sequences of the book: are we all Crandall’s marionettes, our texts the silly offerings at the altar that the mythological figure then disburses and rearranges as He sees fit, in the final Books of underfire! Book I, Book II, Book III, still unnamed, each… O Deity, forgive my sinning here, but, am I allowed such digressions, am I allowed such provocations?
Surely, we must be conscious of this form: that allows all participants to play with the parameters, to USE the parameters. And have we used the parameters in the past? Or have we just carried on, online, as if all were sitting on some stage in a ‘symposium’! I urge and challenge all: to use the parameters at your disposal: there is no separation between affect and symbol and representation. Style, tone, number of texts and images, the very manner in which you throw them out there: the ‘research’ need not be sacrificed of course, the ‘points’ and the ‘ideas’, sacred to many of you I’m sure, need not be compromised. Not even your personhood, need be terrorized! But the language, and the form of communication, there, yes, it all needs to be: problematized. I know, I know what underfire purports to be: ongoing art and research project for the analysis of war and political violence, I know…And that is all good: and a hey hey and a cheerio… But at each turn, the tone and intensity, the rhythms and the directions and digressions, the expected type and mode of intervention, can be challenged. Even here, even in this forum. The exploration of the organization, representation and materialization (lots of words in ‘tion!) cannot be accurately portrayed or discussed without performative, theatrical, and, dare I say, I will I promise I will, poetic, Peoetic, interventions, on the parts of the interlocutors, if the ‘posters’ can be labled thus. It is not the affective dimensions of the armed conflict I speak of, but the tonalities and the personalities of the contributors themselves.
All shall be aware that this version of underfire is marked! Yes, marked I say, I shudder, I tremble and shout: all participants must be warned not to trust the stringing along of words transmitted through some grand network (literal) as anything other than a performative mandate: beware all, of the uses of language and style and tone and form: for this underfire is in no mood to conveniently ignore (not even dismiss, for often, the very consciousness of it is not there), ignore, I say, the easily verifiable notion that alphabetical languages offer nothing other than one grid, some grille, on the world: one version of reality, constructing and inventing, rather than portraying and communicating: all fiction then, you clever man you, you ask? That is not what I said: not fiction vs non-fiction, that horrible dichotomy: but always present: style, grammar, form, structure, impossible to escape: and as I heat up, as the adrenaline takes over, I must now warn all underfire participants: that the forum is in no mood, correct me if I’m wrong omniscient Deity, no mood at all, for the easy polemic, or the frivolous ideological tract, the defending of a position, ‘left’ or ‘right’, blue or red: no colors or directions, no: I submit that all of underfire is perhaps a grand performance, a Spectacle, a spectacle it is, if only we imagine it to be: A grand Spectacle indeed…
How, are the texts to be read, in such an arena: are they grand soliloquies, passionate polemics, academic theses, strung along for the convenience, or to score a point, in the endless march towards intellectual victory… What is perhaps more important though, how are the texts to be WRITTEN? Yes, yes, friends, I am not ashamed to make us all aware, all superconscious of the form and the structure: to wrest away the ease with which we might ‘post’: how will the texts be written, sent, re-arranged, reconfigured, played out. Perhaps even, an underfire puppet must ask him or her or transgendered self: not just how do I read the texts, and how do I write the texts, but, the grand one, the only query that matters perhaps, in the domain of such wonderings: who the hell am I, on, in, through, underfire, In (capital I ), underfire: who do I become, with, underfire…
Forget not then, as you post away, explain away and clash and chat, and politely or un-, disagree, forget not that you are engaged in a form all its own, using the new technologies to fashion a new type of endeavor, nameless, by definition, still nameless, still defining its own self:
underfire as parable: of a time, of the actors on this world stage? A funky, freaky, funny even (hopefully) parable…
underfire as a narrative: narrative eulogy, ode, or just a plain old story: with the texts cut and their creators rendered anonymous through the Network: all pawns, or else willing martyrs, to the cause – but then: which?
underfire as Sanctuary: after all, if the uniformed soldiers of this and that nation-state can gather, if the ‘cells’ belonging to this and that ideological school can be triggered, if countless communities spawned in the same space can talk of countless fun and freaky and funky topics, then perhaps all underfire folk are gathered: a ‘cell’, with our own secrets, and our own mecanisms for triggering: a sanctuary yes, but should we perhaps have a call to action: action to… think: do: revel: laugh – or what?
underfire as epic: when all the books come together, an epic ode, to a time seriously lost to the madness of the few, where some dig and dig and come up with words and more, somehow fighting, somehow carrying on: an epic, that like all its brethren, can only wonder and marvel, again in silence…
A theatre, no doubt: of engagements, of rage and rancor, of calculated ideas, of forlorn faces and in-depth, studies… All masks: or is it that, unseen, we are all freer, we are our own Others: perhaps the invisibility, also allows such reaches into our own depths…
All of the above? And more, so much more…
Or a prelude after all: the whole thing I mean: all of underfire a prelude: to a grander spectacle: one that we will never witness: a grand oeuvre, of an unknown collective…
I’ve left much out of course, and it is up to all to invent, define, fashion: Undefire as it goes on: an unfurling manifesto after all, a true manifesto, one that is in harmony, with all its parameters, with its own mode of being, and becoming…
underfire: A series of manifestoes after all, the kind one swears will happen: specifically when one refuses the manifesto as a genre: in Wien or New York or Paris or Tehran or Samana, or:
In all these ‘places’ from which you write: but as I close this first part of the prelude, I make another confession: long ago when I resolved to write not a manifesto, the manifesto is all I ached to write, as you can well imagine, and all that I wrote, was a Manifesto: tale or poem or ode or prelude, the whole oeuvre: was nothing that the grand manifesto: forever the MANIFESTO: so let me launch again
“From” all the “places” that “you” write:
Will “you” be coming along for the “ride”?
Will you “participate” “you” clever “actors” you?
“From” Madrid and Seville and Montana (are you on Mary) and Singapore (Ryan) and Paris and Cali and the British isles, and what am “I” leaving out “folks” – will you be wearing a beauteous disguise?
“Will” “you” “let” “us” “in” “on” “the” “secrets” “you” “have” “uncovered” !
“Will” “you” “let” “us” “in” “on” “the” “secrets” “you” “hold”!
“Will” “you” “play” “along”?
“Will” “you” “play”?!!!
Come one come all: it’s a feast and a parade! Come and see! Come and see the spoils of victory! Come and play, on the big stage, come and play, it’s a grand spectacle it is. A grand Spectacle I say:
Or rather:
“Let” “us” “make” “it” “so”:
underfire: The Spectacle
underfire: el Espectaculo!
underfire: the True, the Real, the Only: Manifesto!
“Will”
“You”
Play?
>Amir Parsa
It was in the coffeeshops of Vienna: among the elderly folks bent over comatose reading their papers, the aroma of their coffee, the heaviness of old-world establishments implanted in their concepts and world views, almost blind to all that surrounded them, in a metaphorical fogginess, not to mention the literal, enveloping the place, I, a young directionless lout in a corner booth reading my Kafka and my Nietzsche, in the corner booth I was saying, feasting on a cheese sandwich, all I could afford, taking one bite out every few minutes, to make the sandwich last, as long as possible, and, in fact, paying less attention to the books under my eyes than the eyes of the people around me, and their gazes, their untold tales, their sadness and their daze (the story of my life!); it was in the cafes of Paris: so long removed from the mythological people and events that surrounded them: with the cliché but o so true brooding poet across, the students and their perfectly lined notebooks, the philosophers – yes, there is a place where philosophers are a breed, and hang out, and read, and: are not considered fools; it was in the diners: of where else, but of the city, New York version: next to the New York football Giants’ fans and the Jets’ fans and the Mets’ fans, with the good people of the nypd and the attorneys and the workers on their breaks, blaring above us, behind us, all around us, the unbearable blasts of the all-news channels and their tickers, making these same good people comment on ‘them terrorists’ and ‘those damn idiots’ and the rest; it was in the recollection of a day in Tehran, one, only, when I sat in a long-lost coffee shop, where, supposedly, other scribblers of decades-ago had also sat; before the ocean in Samana, on the Eastern coast of la Republica, Dominican version, seeing before me the great expanse of ocean, green-blue and the sky, cyan and purple, under the palm trees, by the hammock (and not in), it’s true, not a sound around, not a soul around: I had resolved, this I had done, in these corners of the world: I had resolved:
There would be no more manifestoes! Strangely indeed, for perhaps, all of those wanderings would have convinced me of the opposite: but no, I had resolved that there would be not one more manifesto: no more of its habitual rhetoric, its dreams of revolutions, its polemics, its errors. There would be no more manifestoes, I hammered, because all Litterature (notice the capital L), contains, in its body, a theory of writing. No more manifestoes, because the language of the manifesto undermines the forms for which call, the theses of the manifesto. No more manifestoes, because a philosophy of history, a philosophy of the gaze, a philosophy of scriptoral intervention, of the scripting writer, are implicit, in the overall unfurling, in the total system, of the text. The form included, the effects, the stylistic fashionings, the structural innovations. There would be no more manifestoes, to prevent the crumbling of the foundations, the most fundamental of the points, the pulse: for every aesthetic manifesto, every Arts Poetica, must, at all times, accomplish, live out, play out, its doctrines, through its own form and content: a vision, complete, a total construction of a world, a universe, that stands alone, the author and progenitor even, be damned, soon enough… There was, in this anti-manifesto resolution, a dash of martyrdom indeed: the texts, all texts, needed to stand alone, outside of the contexts (historical, social, political, and whatever other adjective we can dream up) and outside, of the personhood that had given birth to them… This was an honorable path, a worthwhile venture, a most glorious ambition: the effacing of a self, in the service of the gazes and the picking up of all ambiguities, subtleties, complexities, the madness (tragic and comic) of all those inhabiting these same blue-ish sphere… Yes indeed: the answer was written: O world, how I shall uncover your mysteries…
FORGIVE ME then, friends, for I have launched underfire with, O great Sigh of Sighs, a further, not reconsideration no, but an ever more convinced call: a call that shall reverberate all throughout this, and all other underfires if more installments are borne at later times: for, even though we are not in the business of manifestoes, it is with a very astute, driven conviction that we know this creation to be: an ars politica, an ars estetica, an unfurling that fashions a new type of genre, a new form perhaps, in the, if not literary, then intellectual/cultural written exchanges: for now, underfire itself, will live out its form, will become a theater indeed, a stage, with actors, mimes, (clowns?), prophets and preachers no doubt, and professors, for sure (can’t avoid it!):
Think of all that it has been and all it can aspire to: and before that even, a question I bet most here have wondered about, if only in the privacy of their own chambers (bodily even): what the hell is underfire anyway, and/or, after all? Who are its participants, who are its progenitors? We know the official linguo: we know what the description says it ‘is’. But really… What are ‘posts’ and interventions and discussants? What kinds of creatures are these?
Think also of the parameters of the form – and all the ways in which it undermines and deconstructs (pardon the loose use of such a loaded term!) narrative unfurlings, lo, the very foundations of communicative get-togethers. A salon, underfire? But folks have been at each other’s metaphorical throats! So, no no salon this venture.
Think of the modes of interventions: you could post however many texts or images, and an unseen deity will resolve to include and/or edit them and or not. You could be impolite and inconsiderate, or you could actually comply, and post analytical pieces that differ from live versions only in their communicative ways.
But you cannot escape the form, you cannot flee this theater of engagement: underfire is that type of creature, not yet a manifesto – or perhaps, the only true kind of manifesto: an ars, if not poetica, then estetic orelse, not: an Ars ---- Teatrica? Ars ---- Tecnologica? a new type of interaction – among people and among those with the outside world; a new type of unfurling of textualities; a new type of narrative construct, a new type of creator/ player; with a new type of physical presence in the world: all the parameters lead to this newness: the number and type of participants, the possible mode of participation, the identities (revealed and not: after all, how can we be sure who is listening in, who is writing down; any spies among us, any agents, cracking up and putting into their notebooks the names of this and that ‘poster’ of texts – not far-fetched, at all in fact…), the duration and length of the interventions; the tone, the style, the structure, even of the intervention, and of course, the product: the final traces -- not to mention the Author. Who the hell is the author after all: is Mr Crandall an editor, a creator, a composer, an architect, a Deity: invisible and all-powerful, omniscient, unrepresentable: who decides the final sequences of the book: are we all Crandall’s marionettes, our texts the silly offerings at the altar that the mythological figure then disburses and rearranges as He sees fit, in the final Books of underfire! Book I, Book II, Book III, still unnamed, each… O Deity, forgive my sinning here, but, am I allowed such digressions, am I allowed such provocations?
Surely, we must be conscious of this form: that allows all participants to play with the parameters, to USE the parameters. And have we used the parameters in the past? Or have we just carried on, online, as if all were sitting on some stage in a ‘symposium’! I urge and challenge all: to use the parameters at your disposal: there is no separation between affect and symbol and representation. Style, tone, number of texts and images, the very manner in which you throw them out there: the ‘research’ need not be sacrificed of course, the ‘points’ and the ‘ideas’, sacred to many of you I’m sure, need not be compromised. Not even your personhood, need be terrorized! But the language, and the form of communication, there, yes, it all needs to be: problematized. I know, I know what underfire purports to be: ongoing art and research project for the analysis of war and political violence, I know…And that is all good: and a hey hey and a cheerio… But at each turn, the tone and intensity, the rhythms and the directions and digressions, the expected type and mode of intervention, can be challenged. Even here, even in this forum. The exploration of the organization, representation and materialization (lots of words in ‘tion!) cannot be accurately portrayed or discussed without performative, theatrical, and, dare I say, I will I promise I will, poetic, Peoetic, interventions, on the parts of the interlocutors, if the ‘posters’ can be labled thus. It is not the affective dimensions of the armed conflict I speak of, but the tonalities and the personalities of the contributors themselves.
All shall be aware that this version of underfire is marked! Yes, marked I say, I shudder, I tremble and shout: all participants must be warned not to trust the stringing along of words transmitted through some grand network (literal) as anything other than a performative mandate: beware all, of the uses of language and style and tone and form: for this underfire is in no mood to conveniently ignore (not even dismiss, for often, the very consciousness of it is not there), ignore, I say, the easily verifiable notion that alphabetical languages offer nothing other than one grid, some grille, on the world: one version of reality, constructing and inventing, rather than portraying and communicating: all fiction then, you clever man you, you ask? That is not what I said: not fiction vs non-fiction, that horrible dichotomy: but always present: style, grammar, form, structure, impossible to escape: and as I heat up, as the adrenaline takes over, I must now warn all underfire participants: that the forum is in no mood, correct me if I’m wrong omniscient Deity, no mood at all, for the easy polemic, or the frivolous ideological tract, the defending of a position, ‘left’ or ‘right’, blue or red: no colors or directions, no: I submit that all of underfire is perhaps a grand performance, a Spectacle, a spectacle it is, if only we imagine it to be: A grand Spectacle indeed…
How, are the texts to be read, in such an arena: are they grand soliloquies, passionate polemics, academic theses, strung along for the convenience, or to score a point, in the endless march towards intellectual victory… What is perhaps more important though, how are the texts to be WRITTEN? Yes, yes, friends, I am not ashamed to make us all aware, all superconscious of the form and the structure: to wrest away the ease with which we might ‘post’: how will the texts be written, sent, re-arranged, reconfigured, played out. Perhaps even, an underfire puppet must ask him or her or transgendered self: not just how do I read the texts, and how do I write the texts, but, the grand one, the only query that matters perhaps, in the domain of such wonderings: who the hell am I, on, in, through, underfire, In (capital I ), underfire: who do I become, with, underfire…
Forget not then, as you post away, explain away and clash and chat, and politely or un-, disagree, forget not that you are engaged in a form all its own, using the new technologies to fashion a new type of endeavor, nameless, by definition, still nameless, still defining its own self:
underfire as parable: of a time, of the actors on this world stage? A funky, freaky, funny even (hopefully) parable…
underfire as a narrative: narrative eulogy, ode, or just a plain old story: with the texts cut and their creators rendered anonymous through the Network: all pawns, or else willing martyrs, to the cause – but then: which?
underfire as Sanctuary: after all, if the uniformed soldiers of this and that nation-state can gather, if the ‘cells’ belonging to this and that ideological school can be triggered, if countless communities spawned in the same space can talk of countless fun and freaky and funky topics, then perhaps all underfire folk are gathered: a ‘cell’, with our own secrets, and our own mecanisms for triggering: a sanctuary yes, but should we perhaps have a call to action: action to… think: do: revel: laugh – or what?
underfire as epic: when all the books come together, an epic ode, to a time seriously lost to the madness of the few, where some dig and dig and come up with words and more, somehow fighting, somehow carrying on: an epic, that like all its brethren, can only wonder and marvel, again in silence…
A theatre, no doubt: of engagements, of rage and rancor, of calculated ideas, of forlorn faces and in-depth, studies… All masks: or is it that, unseen, we are all freer, we are our own Others: perhaps the invisibility, also allows such reaches into our own depths…
All of the above? And more, so much more…
Or a prelude after all: the whole thing I mean: all of underfire a prelude: to a grander spectacle: one that we will never witness: a grand oeuvre, of an unknown collective…
I’ve left much out of course, and it is up to all to invent, define, fashion: Undefire as it goes on: an unfurling manifesto after all, a true manifesto, one that is in harmony, with all its parameters, with its own mode of being, and becoming…
underfire: A series of manifestoes after all, the kind one swears will happen: specifically when one refuses the manifesto as a genre: in Wien or New York or Paris or Tehran or Samana, or:
In all these ‘places’ from which you write: but as I close this first part of the prelude, I make another confession: long ago when I resolved to write not a manifesto, the manifesto is all I ached to write, as you can well imagine, and all that I wrote, was a Manifesto: tale or poem or ode or prelude, the whole oeuvre: was nothing that the grand manifesto: forever the MANIFESTO: so let me launch again
“From” all the “places” that “you” write:
Will “you” be coming along for the “ride”?
Will you “participate” “you” clever “actors” you?
“From” Madrid and Seville and Montana (are you on Mary) and Singapore (Ryan) and Paris and Cali and the British isles, and what am “I” leaving out “folks” – will you be wearing a beauteous disguise?
“Will” “you” “let” “us” “in” “on” “the” “secrets” “you” “have” “uncovered” !
“Will” “you” “let” “us” “in” “on” “the” “secrets” “you” “hold”!
“Will” “you” “play” “along”?
“Will” “you” “play”?!!!
Come one come all: it’s a feast and a parade! Come and see! Come and see the spoils of victory! Come and play, on the big stage, come and play, it’s a grand spectacle it is. A grand Spectacle I say:
Or rather:
“Let” “us” “make” “it” “so”:
underfire: The Spectacle
underfire: el Espectaculo!
underfire: the True, the Real, the Only: Manifesto!
“Will”
“You”
Play?
>Amir Parsa