my posts henceforth literary art and never social science

Thu, 7 Apr 1994 22:24:49 EDT

Dearly beloved Broad Masses:

I at this time take my leave of you forever as a phony & pretentious
ex-social-scientist living in a golden past which was objectively, and
subjectively Experienced [?] as such at the time, hellonearth (and as far
as Pluto); truth to tell, I had at no time the slightest talent for social
science and, what was worse, never could be acculturated into any culture
or subculture within the confines, that is, the *bars* (as in iron cage) of
this great, simply great land of ours, long may it wave, where I am supposed
to, yet cannot manage, to be a *native* such that I may as convenient for the
good of my development engage in simple happy joys of Normality Life, as you
have been doing today.

The inspiration came from the failure of any of you to make headortail
of what I was up to in those posts commencing Mon-Tue. Whatever any of you
said, publicly or offline, was way off, way out there, off the wall for
extra bases. As was anticipated. And just as I anticipated; there's enough
vestigial sociologist in me to know that you will never, till the fall of
capitalism if not thereafter, disappoint my expectations that you are going
to do exactly as predicted. If I'd bothered to predict it, or I'd have never
have tried so hard for starters, from 1992 on.

Henceforth, consider me a creative literary artist. If you read the
preceding post, which is not possible, you know that the author of fictitious
tales or poetic characterdata is wholly exempt from the burden of clarity,
disambiguation, linear-obsequious logic, and the calculus, differential,
integral, and the ever-filthy *propositional*.

This crushing burden falls upon the LitCrit, whose nerdy shoulders bear
full responsibility for that sort of "making sense" with professional aplomb.
Not for me, though: In that I have about as little talent in the arts as I do
in the social sciences, I leave to you, as your on-tenure-track nonstop to
Toronto to have Thingies *mean* things you cogently argue that's what they
mean. Which is your meaning in life, not mine with neither meaning nor life,
so I'm going to keep on keeping on, whilst you, at your discretion, are
free, *send no money*, to publish Professional-looking Knowledge, which
I've been forbidden to Know, myself, since 1978 when they cancelled my

Now I belong to the culture. Where I belong. Clash as I might with the
rest of it, not to mention the axioms of functionalism. Farewell, whatever
I was. A new Thingie beckons.

Explain me. I'm sick, frankly, of Explaining you.

Daniel A. Foss
<Don't call me Retarded; I prefer 'undergoing a tumultuous process of uneven
and combined development'.>