sUPRALIMINAL sALAD*

I am a nickelodeon, a collocation of this and that, a Turing machine without a plus minus register, an abacus without baubles or cable. I think in euphemisms, doublespeak and nice-nellyisms. I am Schopenhauer’s will-less will, an intention without distention; I make Dennett sick with unconscious rage, a leguminous word salad. Dennett refuses to acknowledge the existence of the unconscious, the libidinal granary of supraliminal thought. If he were to concede the existence of an unconscious mental process, his supposal about the intention of intention, the intentional conscious stance, would be rendered leguminous, word salad without the mincemeat filling. Perhaps hidden somewhere in the runnel of his great white beard lies the answer to his dubiety: his oedipal attachment to mommy-daddy, or just plain bullheadedness, intentional or not. Immanent applesauce. We go through life, this life, with the gun pointed to our head, waiting for that propitious moment, waiting, hiding in the recoil of our thoughts. It’s not a conscious thought that pulls the trigger, but a phantasy, an unconscious wish never to be fulfilled, an oversight in interpretation, a piglet without a signifier. I can explain consciousness in one word: unconscious; not a trickle of hypothalamic fluid or a tawdry of synaptic oxidation, no Newtonian cruse-crossing or Jungian collective, not a supraliminal intention in the lot.