Response+7

Make sure to check out the Foucault/Derrida slash fiction I found at the link in the end of this paragraph.

First, I would like to type an interesting articulation in the famous power/knowledge translation: "The trick is to get some of the homely verbiness of //savior// in //savior-faire, savior-vivre// into //pouvoior,// and you might come up with something like this; if the lines of making sense of something are laid down in a certain way, then you are able to do only those things with that something which are possible within and b the arrangement of those lines. //Pouvoir-savior// - being able to do something - only as you are able to make sense of it. This everyday sense of the doublet seems to be indispensable to the crucial aspect of Foucault's work." (34) - I want to make sense of group of sentences as a way of expressing a simultaneousness of, or making something known as power movement, that is "can-do"-ness in power. This appears as an active process in which doing something is the making sense of, the knowledge building of a domaine. But this a bound collection of dancing walls that cannot be transgressed in a way I understand but deconstruction does something to make dents, I think. Here I am active in the can-do-ness of power in that this speaks to the power of identifying power - identifying as the knowledge making - as I do now. Consider this discussion against Foucault nominalism when reading Foucault/Derrida: "Thus reading Foucault slashed in Derrida, let me further propose that the bestowal of the name power upon the complex situation proudces power in the general sense. The trace of the empirical entailed by the word in the history of the language give the so-called narrow sense of power. The relationship between the general and the narrow sense pans the active articulation of deconstruction in a considerable variety of ways. " (28). But this is not clear cut, nor should it be as clarify demarcates a general sense of separateness which cannot be - slash (the link is real Derrida/Foucault slash... fiction, a bit dark).

"There are terminals of resistance inscribed under the level of the tactics, something explicit, with which these women fill their lives." (35) In wonder how this is similar to Michel de Certeau's use of the term tactic: "Although they remain dependent upon the possibilities offered by circumstances, these transverse //tactics// do not oby he law of teh palce, for they are not defined or idientifed by it." (de Certeau 29) I think there is a similarity, especially in terms of production/repression beyond positive and negative binaries. Both are constrained by the repertoire available, for tactics in both cases cannot be separated from the strategies of built places, discursive circulations, etc. the tactics are also the production/repression, in their own can-do-ness they are knowledge and therefore knowledge/power - i think this is a real problem with English - damn it it is the only language I know, it is powerful indeed, but at the same time "English cannot match" a lot. This I think shows the bounds in which power can be produced through the partial view, even though blinding the gods-eye-veiw can dismantle the position of objectivity, in its popular form, there is a sense in which as a partial view is never anything else, even when claiming to be, and therefore power/knowledge emerges from the point of narrowness, but the generalness of the power/knowledge is real and this is where the deconstruction of something takes place - go for it.

But then it seems to go the other way, pissed off that I am not being able to nail it down is imperialistic reading: "//Pouvior/savior,// then, is catachrestic in the way that all names of process not anchored in the intending subject must be: lines of knowing constituting way of doing and not doing, the lines themselves irregular clinamens from subindividual atomic systems - fields of force, archive of utterance,. Inducing them is that moving field of shredded //enonces// or differential forces that cannot be constructed as objects of investiation. Ahead of them, making their rationality fully visible are the great apparatuses of //puissance/connaissance.// Between the firs and the second there is a misfit of the general and the narrow sense. Between the last two is the misfit that describes example that seem not to be faithful to the theorist's arguments. If read by way of the deconstructive theorizing of practice, this does not summon up excuse or accusatioon. This is how theory brings practice to crisis, and practice norms theory, and deviations constitute a forever precarious norm; everything opened and menaced by the rise of paleonymy,. This I give the name of Foucault in to Derrida."

Within these frames, both Derrida and Foucault are interested in the production of "truth." Deconstruction is not exposure of error. Logocentrism is not a pathology. Deconstruction is "justice," says Derrida. And Foucault: "My objective... had been to create a history of the different modes of objectification which transform human beings into subjects." Derrida, too, always rushing on the track of the ruses of the subject creating itself in the act, in decision, in thought, in affirmation, with no hope of closure" (39)

"...the subject "subjects" itself though "ability to know" (//pouvior-savoir//)." (39)

"Puvior-savior is the onto-phenomenological truth of ethics, to the very extent it is the contradiction of subjecting" (42)

"Given Derrida's open early warning that grammatology cannot be a positive science, he somewhat reinvents the wheel by asking and answering in the negative the question: "is there a positive practice that can emerge from such dark 'realism'?" In fact this "realism" is as "dark" as it is "light" for its persistent talk is to keep grounded plans in touch with spaciness of of space. (43).

= This is Slash, and it Involves Philosophy = by thesocktag

I am posting this here because I don't know where else to post it, and because I thought you all would get a chuckle out of it, and maybe have some fun discussing how the philosophers in question relate to slash fanfic. **I did not write this**. A friend did, but they don't have a LJ account. In all actuality, I think they sweded it from another fic, which is a whole other discussion in and of itself, especially if you bring Foucault's notions on authorship into the equation.

Here goes

Naked, his arms bound in an aching, painful way, the ground cold against his bare knees, his collar chained to a ring in the wall, his eyes blindfolded tightly and a sharp blade being run over his skin, Derrida realized what fear really was.

Fear was something he had long since learned to deal with, since meeting Foucault. It was imperitive for any scene, and added to the thrill, but with the feel of such a sharp blade ghosting across the sides and back of his neck, scant inches from slitting a vital vein or artery, should Foucault feel such a whim, Derrida learned what real fear was.

Foucault could hurt him severly, kill him, with one slight push, and he was helpless to do anything about it.

Derrida shivered.

He heard Foucault laugh darkly, before the blade moved back further, away from his neck and onto the shoulderblade.

Their was a slight noise, and suddenly, a sharp, searing pain slit through his skin, and Derrida cried out.

The blade was turned, and the sharp edge of the cold metal bit at the skin on his shoulder blade, slicing it apart with a horizontal cut, and Derrida could feel his warm blood start to ooze on his back, his mind hazy from the pain.

Derrida bit his lip, determined to endure it. Foucault had told him that this was necessary, and it hadn't even crossed his mind to refuse.

“You bleed quite a lot, Jackie. Did you know that?”

Derrida felt Foucault make another cut, and he whimpered slightly.

“Such soft flesh you have. No wonder you're always so responsive.”

Derrida felt the blade slit his skin once more, and he bit his lip hard, determined not to cry.

Stopping and starting, the blade made short, straight cuts, criss-crossing and overlapping, before it stopped again. He felt Foucault's mouth come down upon his shoulder, and Derrida could feel him licking the blood up, his breath hot against the torn skin.

“Hurts, doesn't it?” He whispered. “Pain isn't always so fun.”

The blade descended again, slicing through the skin quicker now, as if Foucault had learned how to control it with greater ease. Derrida grit his teeth as he felt the blade turn in the same stroke, doing his best to endure the fire on his back.

“Interesting. You're hard, Jackie. Did you notice that?”

Derrida hadn't. All he had noticed was the agony in his shoulder, and the hard, cold pavement of the basement pressing into his knees, but, of course now that his mind had heard it, Derrida realized that he was hard.

How had that happened?

“Perhaps part of you likes this. Did you ever think of that? Maybe part of you likes being hurt.”

Foucault's voice was low, taunting, and as the blade cut through his skin again, Derrida felt a sharp stab of arousal go straight to his center as the pain stabbed at him once more. Another cut, and he cried out, moving slightly, though this cry was distinctly different then that first.

“You do enjoy this. You do. I never knew you were such a masochist, Jackie. What hidden depths you have.”

The blade slashed his skin in two quick strokes, and Derrida felt his mind start to go numb.

“Nearly there. Just two more to go.”

Another cut, another burst of pain. Another stab of foreign lust to his nether regions, as Derrida clenched his eyes shut, despite already not being able to see.

“One more.”

The last was long, slow, drawn-out, and Derrida cried out for a last time.

“All done.”

A wet cloth was wiped across his skin, then nothing.

Slowly, Derrida felt his hand restraints removed and heard the chain from the wall disconnect from his collar. Gently pulled up from his knees to stand once more on unsteady legs, the blindfold was quickly whisked away, and Derrida's eyes met the satisfied smirk of Foucault.

“Well done. Come see, Jackie. It turned out well.”

Foucault guided him over to a chair in front of a mirror, prearranged in the darkened basement. Foucault positioned another one behind him, reflecting the reflection of the cuts on his back into the mirror so Derrida could see.

It was a mark. A scar. A permanent fixture, to let all know who he belonged to. Derrida's eyes strained in the dark light, picking out the six impeccably-carved characters.

Michel, they read. Derrida knew it would scar, leaving him forever marked, bound, to his lover.

“I rather like it,” Foucault said, reflecting upon it thoughtfully. “Don't you?”

“Yes, Master,” Derrida replied, breathless. “Thank you.”

Foucault turned him around, a dark look in his eyes.

“You're welcome,” He whispered, before kissing him fiercely, and Derrida felt all the pain of his mark being washed away.