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June 10, 2003

The Semiotic Swamp

Google tells me that my phrase never quite caught on, though my pseud was 'semiotic swampist' for quite some time at the Well. Since I am being self-referential, I may as well refine some understanding about a blackness which has no end, despite the fact that many blacks don't bother to think about it much. I refer to that perennial invocation, Keep It Real. In 1997, Brother Boohab explained to a knucklehead who said blacks have nothing to be proud about:

miller genuine draft, you don't belong here. your provocation is
boring. but to answer your question directly, i direct you to the
norton anthology of african american literature, and then to the
collected works of bud powell, no better yet, art tatum, then further
to the research of dr. kenneth clark, and on the backside of that, the
adventures of matthew henson.

what there is to be proud of america hasn't taught you, and in that
lies the tragedy, but then is it so tragic if what is internationally
acclaimed lies without fame in the mind of a lamebrain whose pitiful
aim is to defame the few he can name in a the racial blame game.

more of the same...

you've mouthed off a bit about the lack of the blacks achieving
without the oversight of whites. that's simpleminded at best and only
proves you to be a blood and soil conservative without any vested
interest in the intellectual bond of americans to the principles of
american nationhood - the true invention of the colonial rebels.
isn't it interesting that i have shown pride in that, and you have
not?

as to the semiotic swamp - it is that vast western wasteland described
and demystified by marshall blonsky (of the new school). it is that
think mcluhan thought he understood and why webmonkeys are fixated at
what they believe to be content yet only stands rootless - floating
above the heads of those without solid footing in historical fact. the
semiotic swamp is fashion, and fashion is the staple of postmodern
society, and postmodern society is run by every currency not anchored
to the gold standard. it is a rabbit pulled endlessly out of a
bottomless hat.

standing in direct contrast to the nebulous value of a castle economy
floating in midair is the black mass which through its own gravity
falls directly through the cracks and lands with an earthshattering
thud upon the floor of human reality. its hunger and pain, its shrieks
and emotion jangle the evanescent chandeliers of the cloud city even
as those lofty denizens self-consciously pepper their fashionable
speech with the questions such as 'what's up with that?' its ambition
and drive, its recreation and re-incarnation shimmies and shakes with
vibrations that rearrange texts until the only valid eternal
fashion-less statements and prophesies are ebonically rendered and
those who said 'reality bites' end up bit with reality when they
discover that 'i love the black man' who calls them to 'show me the
money'.

mona lisas and mad hatters, sons of doctors, sons of lawyers turn
around and say 'good morning' to the night. for unless they see the
sky - but they can't and that is why - they know not if it's dark
outside or light. they are the eternal denizens of the semiotic swamp.
i mock them in their mock drowning, in their mock slavery, in their
hissy fits, in their pseudo profundities, in their apologetic
innocence, in their bourgeois bragadoccio, in their minding of the
mindless mediocrities which are the essence of all their class
sentiments.

i am the semiotic swampist, waltzing right along side in the selfsame
swamp, humming classic rock tunes and vivaldi as well, sporting nice
pants and tapping into cyberspace.

but i am also a black man, and i can turn at any moment. in fact i
turn at every moment. i am dual consciusness, doubly informed. i am a
bipolar switch running hot at 300 gigahertz but all you see are my 1s
at 150. i am so fast in emulation you cheer me as principle - you are
just another part of me - half vast while i haul ass. you look at
clouds from both sides now but really don't know clouds at all. they
are my breath, condensed from the divine wind which was only the air's
evidence of where i used to be. i am completeness and the summation of
american yin and yang - the ghetto priest, the suburban prophet, the
rural soloist and the urban choir. i am backbeat and on the one. i am
moon and sun and light and the dark matter of the universe.

i be that i be.

Posted by mbowen at June 10, 2003 08:01 AM

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Comments

Posted by: George at June 10, 2003 03:37 PM