AtDTDA: 18/19 Sea Change

[robinlandseadel at comcast.net]

                     Full fathom five thy father lies;
                     Of his bones are coral made;
                     Those are pearls that were his eyes;
                     Nothing of him that does fade,

                     But doth suffer a sea-change

                     Into something rich and strange.
                     Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
                     Ding-dong,
                     Hark! Now I hear them – Ding-dong, bell.

http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/shakespeare/full_fathom_five.html

http://www.shakespeare-literature.com/The_Tempest/1.html

. . . .and surely, has there ever been a greater sea-change? In the middle of 
the ocean, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, the luxury liner Stupendica 
suddenly and irreversible becomes contra-factual, in two places at once which 
might also mean that they're not anywhere at at—I mean, seeing as they're 
fictional and all, and how can you be in Adagir and Venice at the same time 
anyway [stomps foot petulantly like Shirley Temple in a low-grad snit-fit], and 
here we are messing with a western thread, a fantasy thread, a romance 
thread, a gothic thread. . . .

          From: The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism,
          Fredric Jameson

          The postmodernisms have, in fact, been fascinated precisely 
          by this whole "degraded" landscape of schlock and kitsch, of 
          TV series and Reader’s Digest culture, of advertising and 
          motels, of the late show and the grade-B Hollywood film, of 
          so-called paraliterature, with its airport paperback categories 
          of the gothic and the romance, the popular biography, the 
          murder mystery, and the science fiction or fantasy novel: 
          materials they no longer simply "quote;" as a Joyce or a 
          Mahler might have done, but incorporate into their very 
          substance.

http://tinyurl.com/2waz5u

. . . .a Sci-Fi thread, but they're all getting jumbled together, emulsfied—is 
that the true meaning of Mayonaisse? Or is Kit being attacked by the 
industrial means of production?

. . . .when it comes to postmodernism, where's chicken, where's egg with 
TRP? We know that he knows what he knows, though we don't know just 
how much he knows but we're willing to bet it's one hell of a lot more than 
we ever will. We don't know if it's just an intellectual shell game, but we 
know he'd run a slick one if he really wanted to.

I'm new to this whole po-mo racket, so bear with me and feel free to expand, 
correct or otherwise embelish. When I read a passage like Fredric Jameson's 
and look at Against the Day, they line up altogether too neatly—would someone 
better versed in postmodern texts find commentary on Postmodernism 
encrypted—or maybe even blaring out like a choir of 100 kazoos with 
perfect pitch? I suppose, in some way, by virtue of Against the Day's focus 
on high modernity, we find ourselves facing what's coming over the hill: the 
dis-junct, "anti-paranoiac" state of postmodernism.