TEACHING THE CAN(N)ON.

Imagine a world in which you’re no longer a professor of literature, teaching the canon, but a professor of cannon, teaching the cannon. You realize that more sophisticated methods of delivering ordnance have arrived on the battlefield (and on the briny) (and in the cobalt, cobalt sky) yet you believe in a simpler, more classical war. “These implements”, you lecture, “might become requisite again, given the many catastrophes that may befall humankind, returning us to a more primitive, and enthralling, imposition of will.” A proper professor of cannon should teach the architecture of the device—the solid spaces and the negative—as well as the intellectual aspects of field artillery. Angle of fire and rate of fire, to be sure, but also the type of spark and type of propellant that ultimately lob the ball toward the fortifications. Your specialty, “Collateral Damage”, has yet to become unfashionable: the howling cannon-fire gone astray, and the ensuing despair of the unintended targets. Every so often, you congratulate yourself on completing a dissertation in this area, as this specialty provides you with a renewable means of presenting papers at conferences and pursuing promotions at your institution. “Fire!” you shout at your students. On cue, each of your students takes a turn shouting “Fire!” at the blackboard, where you’ve sketched out replica lip, muzzle, neck, and all the rest. As a special treat, you surprise your classes by playing the R.E.M. song, “The One I Love”, in which the singer croons, “Fire”, every so often. A very postmodern debate ensues about the intent of such a lyric, some students arguing that Michael Stipe must’ve been kindling a fuse a couple paces behind the chamber, so to speak, of a modern artillery piece, and yet other students contend that the song, “The One I Love”, belongs in another can(n)on altogether, the meaning of which troubles you, haunts your sensibilities. Perhaps you repair to the comfortable trappings of your office with a takeaway mug of decaf, noodling around in a canonical way: filing cabinet, bookshelf, computer, window, armchair. You relish the thought that, next semester, you will be on sabbatical, rising when you wish and working when you wish, if working means to grind coffee and peruse the Sunday funnies. In your absence, you realize, your students may be taught a thoroughly different cannon, but of course you, too, could consider teaching another cannon—or rather no canon, at all.                        

                                                                              

this post is part of a double issue. also see: TOPICAL PARADISE.

DID YOU RUN RIOT, OR DID YOU SIMPLY RUN, OR DID YOU SIMPLY RIOT? A GUIDE TO UNDERSTANDING YOUR LEVEL OF CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE.

[1.] Did You Run?

Your selfie entitled “D’oh!piate of the Masses” with hashtag #RunRiot may not qualify you as organic Dissident. Dis incident must have dint of inquiry, straightaway. First of all, hop off the treadmill, Gus. Technically, yes, you ran, but you ran indoors, and at that, fess up: you engaged Preset #1: Interpretive Pace to REM’s (This One Goes Out To) “The One I Love.” Until your earbuds fell out. “(Fiiire!)”  Did you sidle? Did you jaunt? Did you amble or ambulate? You may have skidded and you may have slid and you may have tripped, jogged, or slipped. “(Fiiire!)” We know that you click-liked several status updates, never mind your liberal commentary with devil emoticon. How do we know this? Because Facebook knows, and if Facebook knows, then the Government knows, too, and since the Government commits itself to error, I’d look over my shoulder from this point forward. “(Fiiire!)” Hey: Would you cut off that B****y song!

[2.] Did You Riot?

I know you’re into Occupy, but if you’re gonna Occupy the john, can you at least lock the door, so the john reads Occupied? You do have options by the by. Port Authority and Port-A-Potty now offer Port-A-Pottery: a 21^st Century slop jar for the Occupier on the go. Or, rather, the Occupier who has to go. Available now at Port-A-Pottery Barn. But we digress. Let’s move on to the results of your French Test, for, in order to riot, you must demonstrate simple Franco-phony competency. I regret to inform you that Emile Zola did not publish an article entitled “J’appose.” He did not write about human thumbs and he did not consider himself part of the Apposition. Have you opposed? Have you vetoed? Have you vetoed the line? Have you headbutted detritus? Have you denounced gentrification? Maybe you declared a point of order. Maybe you skipped dessert. Maybe, just maybe, you posted negative feedback in your native hemisphere, but are you a riot?

[3.] Did You Run Riot?

Understand this: you may have Jaunt Oppose. You may have Slide Denounce Gentrification. You may have Sidle Veto, but did you run riot? You may have Ambulate Declare a Point of Order. You may have Trip Headbutt Detritus. You may have Jog Skip Dessert, but did you run riot? You could’ve Run Veto the Line. You could’ve Trip Riot. You could’ve Skid Riot. You could’ve Run Post Negative Feedback. But did you Run Riot? Understand this: the U.S. Senate will now vote on the Run Riot Act of 2014. First, the Clerk will Read the Riot Act to the chamber but the Senators feel scalded. They yearn to say something like “hurl” or “hurl invective” but they say “hurl infective” without knowing any better. Joe Biden grins that tie-breaking grin of his. As for me, it’s been years since I ran riot. I’m headed home. I cross the street but someone honks at me. Understand this: the driver, therefore, is the honker, and I, the pedestrian, am the honkee.