Professional Documents
Culture Documents
5-11-10
My project was born in fear and paranoia, mystery and judgement. I came to the project in ignorance.
Into a tunnel of darkness it has led me. I do not know if sorrow brought me to this subject, or if it has
brought me to grief. I began in a kind of innocence of curiosity regarding others. I had emerged from a
cavern of tyrannical depression to resume my studies, halfheartedly but with vigor, facetiousness. To
presume to ask, why, is far more than I can now assay.
My project has taken me deeper into silence and left me there in an unknown land. I am reminded of
samuel beckett. That words might fail you with my wordlessness. To go deeper into silence, as the depths
of the torture drill, the white phosphorus gas, I am gasping for words. The sand invades my throat. Smog
has pickled me from inside. I have no more words for this anymore, human rights, and other idealistic
tones.
What I chose, as if existing chooses itself, was to ponder something, and the ways and words were wrong
all. With english a written language, and one I despise, what I have to say is as of yet in languages
unknown to me.
I will not put my hands on the word “anthropology” as if it were different from exoticization, ethno-
essentialism, eugenics, colonization, and war. There is no ethical anthropology so far as I can see.
The word maims its subjects with the logos, strife. I will not abide by its rules.
And even worse, to force the ethnos out of me like a giant amoeba from my lips. It will not be done. I
cannot and will not use this word. It humiliates me. If science might have at what it has, I barely presume.
I entertained this course re: a re: the cult of personality, and leave it with no cult, and apropos money.
As refugee, I resist the refoulement to the blue collar world, when clearly I can see neither it nor the
academy prevail.
In limbo I write, deeper in the silence, than when I came.
If it is the accumulated neurochemical irregularity resulting from erratic appetites and attempts to
balance them, so I must undertake that fact too.
I go to the veil in tears, and leave in tears, and I flee again in tears.
Now deeper in silence, I cannot know allah, have not since my thirteen years understood ordered belief, is
not belief. I can know fear, and trauma. I can feel as a sarcophagus bound. Mummified, and preserved, for
love for paradise. My notes are all too clear. I began imagining a death warrant, but end in malaise and
disbelief. The digital ether has transposed realities. The 2003 era has passed. New words have come into
the propaganda. Islamism, a pernicious word connoting religious fanaticism.
I wonder daily of columbine, and anger, and the suicide bomber vest, and Baader-Meinhoff. For all I can
hope I will be hit by a bus, and never deliver this apology letter in lieu of a paper.