The Phantom Helen, Professors conjure- to but bore us
Is Akrebia, unlovely, till that palinode of Stesichorus
& Intuition's pump- as Liquidity's sump
Reveal the Parrando game of Horus.
Envoi-
Prince! Who, of money, make ducks and drakes, are disciples of Agnes Callard
Gottlieb's stochastic epigenesis consecrates thou, Magnus Mallard!
Note-
Agnes Callard is an up and coming psilosopher who switched from Physics to Classics to Philosophy- where she has bottomed out at a Tyler Cowan level of assertive American, bovine, stupidity and affectless rhetoric.
I sent her this email-
Dear Prof. Callard,
I will recall reading your erudite paper with the above title after I have properly appreciated such papers as you have already written but, I think, not with as much lip smacking zest as if I thought you might currently think it worth your wiles to indite any such thing.
The spam filter processing this email, might, if it fails to prevent this landing in your inbox, have a dynamic of phronesis sufficient to prevent a recurrence of this utter waste of your time.
But what of me- your Mussar, not Levinasian, alterity? You gave up vegetarianism, for Philosophic reasons, in your ancestral Hungary, whereas my sister and I, in acuter Hunger and East Africa, discovered lamb samosas actually make really cute 'baa, baa' noises when ground down by young molars. My big sis may have reverted to our Brahminical, and dismal, diet now she is a big UN diplomat but I have kept the faith. Two Hungarians sustained me in it. No. Not Von Neumann, Erdos or any other 'Martian'. One was that Rabbi, mentioned by Buber, who wished to be reborn as a cow so as to provide Yeshiva students morning milk. But, this entails ending up as the sort of beef burger I can afford. The other Hungarian was an elderly dentist who wanted my help- back when I was 17- to translate the 'Garbo-Upanishad' for some Jungian reason to do with the fact that guys in space suits circling the Earth have this, like, umbilical cord?- and it connects them with the 'mother ship'?
I expressed my skepticism and wouldn't take the old man's money. He retaliated with a bon mot I have treasured all my life 'You Indians speak English in a manner which revenges you the more ruinously if against their Raj'.
I, sadly, am not a Dentist- Hungarian or otherwise. Still, I visited one earlier today. Apparently there is a Kastner train for such of my teeth as remain stalwart despite the Joint Dictatorship of my tastebuds- whose perurility incline me to the cloyingly sweet- and my tongue- whose acerbity gets me punched in the mouth.
Yet, as an archetypal Socioproctologist, how could I be other than I am- the irreducible alterity of your Profession's ipseity?
I draw your attention to the following posts on the Poetry as Socioproctology blog- https://socioproctology.
I'm being serious. I've done both 'self-cultivation' and 'aspiration'. Aspiration sucks. Not so, such conatus as answers to the economia of the world.
I did well, or so I piously hope, by my dependents because I streamlined teaching processes so others could surge ahead though, in relative terms, I got left behind. I wasn't then an asshole- a part of the body, or body politic, we only worry about if it hoards what is worthless and better expelled from the system- but I am so much of one now that even this email I write to some rando charlatan on the make, is- suitably interpreted- capable of limning the sublimity of Socioproctology's not 'fitness landscape' but topos of receiving compliments re. one's Brazilian while shvitzing in the sauna, if not kibitzing in the Symposium.
There is something appealing about you though you write like Atilla.
Do you watch Shtisel?
Best
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