Now What?

I fantasized about this post not only because it’s the last one, but because this is the final chance to say something profound.  After being utterly immersed in rhetoric this semester, I’m not entirely sure what it means to be profound anymore.  Different groups of people respond to different rhetorical strategies, and what may strike some as profound may make others cringe.  I mentioned a particular anxiety of mine in terms of blogging in Doug’s class the other day, which is the permanent nature of blogging.  Everything we say on here now exists in the entire world…some kid might have copy/pasted bits and pieces of our blogs to strengthen his paper, or some beginning rhetoric teacher might have stumbled across our blog page and pulled out examples for class discussion.  Even if we delete our presence after this class ends, we still exist in the abyss of the Internet.  It’s not unlikely, given the human tendency to stretch and distort interpretations, that a simple sentence by one of us in this blog could end up in a new Rhetorical Tradition in the year 4000.  My anxiety is this: we are still in the early stages of our eloquence and articulation, yet our blogs could become a new rhetorical theory long after we die.  Doug says, “Hey man it’s out of our control, just do what you do.”  It is out of our control, but perhaps the way to go about blogging is to compose every thought as if it is absolutely going to be referenced and even depended upon in the future.  It’s a heavy weight to carry, the future of mankind in every blog post, and can definitely create a mental block in terms of saying useful things. 

Looking back, I did not follow my own advice to maintain the highest form of eloquence that I’m capable of, but the simple fact is that sometimes we run out of passion and the damn thing is due in a few hours.  So, in my anxiety-ridden imagination, I risk humankind’s future of informed rhetoric and compose a sub-par post.  This class has filled my head with knowledge, but honestly given me some unwanted isolation with a tinge of fear.  How could one read these texts and not hope to aspire to the legendary reputation of one of the greats of the classical era?  How can we, as writing majors, not hope to guide a future civilization long after we’re gone with the impact of our lingering words?  I’ve realized that this is my goal in life, and it’s massive.  I don’t actually want to achieve this, but it’s like I have to now with all of this knowing. 

Rhetoric united us as a class in a friendly way.  This is some difficult content, and we bonded through figuring it out.  In this sense, I do not feel the isolation of rhetoric in class.  Rather, I feel more at home in that shitty portable classroom than I do in most places.  But after I leave class, rhetoric still decorates the walls of my mind.  Who am I to discuss this with?  Sitting at the Thanksgiving table, everyone talks about normal things like weather, family drama, and current events.  And there I am, stoic and reserved, stuck in the era before Christ, wondering if the Sophistic movement would be significantly further along if Plato’s texts were not so widely circulated.  Who the hell do I discuss this with?  I want to continue to develop my own rhetorical theories, but the more I do the more the world unravels, and the more isolated life seems.  Rhetoricians are like a leper colony this way.  The more we know, the less we can have stimulating conversations with ‘casual’ people, and eventually we can only live amongst each other to intellectually survive.  It’s obviously not that drastic, but man, it sure feels that way. 

On that note, I’d like to end this post with an open invitation: let’s talk rhetoric, even after this class ends.  Let’s go out for a beer, or a soda, or water with a lemon wedge, and expand our heads and limit that intellectual isolation. 

It’s been an absolute pleasure learning with all of you.