… you learn degree by degree.”

Love is artifice, a construction. It is μίμησις; ποιέσις. It is, what Heidegger calls in “Die Frage nach der Technik” the “irruption of the bringing forth” à la φύσις, which, Heraclitus reminds us, loves to hide.

Love is τέχνη; it is erotic technology. It is the disclosure of the radically asymmetrical other in his own light. (Perhaps it’s the far-too-young boy standing in the corner trying too hard to fade into the shadows he wishes would rather expose him to love.)

It is most definitely the 40-year-old man sitting at home on a Saturday night typing crazy shit in Greek and German after trying to salvage the technological shite cluttering his desk, the one who has somehow managed to transform an external hard drive into a useless piece of Chinese plastic with a yellow light.

Perhaps by the time I earn my final (and thankfully terminal) degree, technology—and love—will not be so useless.

… you learn degree by degree.”

Love is artifice, a construction. It is μίμησις; ποιέσις. It is, what Heidegger calls in “Die Frage nach der Technik” the “irruption of the bringing forth” à la φύσις, which, Heraclitus reminds us, loves to hide.

Love is τέχνη; it is erotic technology. It is the disclosure of the radically asymmetrical other in his own light. (Perhaps it’s the far-too-young boy standing in the corner trying too hard to fade into the shadows he wishes would rather expose him to love.)

It is most definitely the 40-year-old man sitting at home on a Saturday night typing crazy shit in Greek and German after trying to salvage the technological shite cluttering his desk, the one who has somehow managed to transform an external hard drive into a useless piece of Chinese plastic with a yellow light.

Perhaps by the time I earn my final (and thankfully terminal) degree, technology—and love—will not be so useless.