Shandian piece

I saw brandon put his shandy piece on line, i shall do the same.
the last part is the best, so feel free to skip ahead
A Semester’s worth of Digression,
Opinions of John Nay,
Undergraduate

Introduction
To interject in a non subordinate way; I wish to give equal weight to all my opinions and observations thus far—which is not very far for you dear reader—but certainly far enough for me. This is an essay about consequence, and the consequence of opinion, or rather, lack thereof—because realistically, who takes English major’s that seriously. To give some location, and direction of time and context of where this essay actually starts, I will state that this paper begins with me—somewhere typing it (feel free to guess). If you would like to experience the actual feeling of me typing, here—I am thumbing and fingering words on a blank page, in a soft, white, blank absence of any real empirical opinion, in a blank room that exemplifies a mood of definable blankness that is certain and bleak in its sustaining blankness—because in my opinion—visually taxing the reader with blankness is quite appropriate. In an attempt to further one’s education in the field of dull colors, I suggest reading Melville’s story about a whale and its whiteness—I guarantee the anesthetic qualities of my first few sentence’s, and some of his thoughts on the color white are equally effective.
For even though I give blankness its’ Aesthetic merit—in the quality of sleep one might get (especially when composing and constructing essays) I like to let the reader know a certain innovator in blankness, and sleep improvement will have his opinion—a paraphrased literary critic---------but then, on waking from the best slumber available in the undergraduate market (a night out with Levi-Straus)—I think to myself; I would rather drunkenly gaze at the light break through the blinds in my apartment, illuminating the iridescent fibers as they find a momentary glow, then read another word of Aristotle’s Poetics in (as I have already said, and the reader knows) a white and blank room.
Sitting on my couch, reflecting on fibers and their divine quality, in a day’s worth of delightful laziness and perfected procrastination; I realize blankness has a certain color other than that shade of white, I might have above mentioned. For to be a learned participant in the English Literature department, at Montana State University, one has to amass a certain amount of literary wit—weather it pertains to the text or not. I suggest reading Rawson—he exemplifies a lovely color of blankness, and its importance in a field that is beyond the genius of the text. For example: he has taken careful measure to document one of the only two times Jonathan Swift laughed in his lifetime; and he has also demonstrated the appropriate use of the words “Proloxities” and “Solecism”, in the English Language. Don’t worry reader, the essayist is here to clarify what he meant: the use of Fielding’s long winded sentences were seen by upper class reader’s as ungrammatical—but in the context of the time period, were appealing for that reason. I think rule 14 in, “An Approach To Style” by Stunk and White, would be quite an appropriate solution to de-intellectualize Rawson. But who cares, the real objective of his writing is to test how long a hundred dollar bill can be tucked in the leather binding of a book without being found, in the course of 20 years. Hmmmmm—these are all interesting topics—but this is not an introduction to an essay. No, an introduction to an essay is supposed to be the cusp of a thesis statement. Which I have not done; perhaps my thesis statement will go something like this:
Thesis Statement:
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
Body of the Essay:
Argument 1:
—All right, so I do not have a thesis statement yet; I decided in this moment of intellectual catharsis—which is happening precisely at 2:48 pm on a Sunday—to let the reader take a glimpse of my life.— Today is April 2, 2009. A day that I care about as much as any other day—which means I must care quite a bit. I jogged this morning—for the first time in months—and saw the world for all that it was, hypothesized its evils, felt moist spring wind on my cheeks, smelt dog shit in the dog park, and watched snow scorch into steam off the black tarmac, and finally fell into a fit of laughter as I neared the end of my run on Garfield and 5th,to the image of a sorority girl who slipped on the black ice, and smeared dirt on her jeans…I have to interject here…if this were in a serious piece of prose I was writing, I would have to delete that to the moment stream of consciousness farce I just wrote—with all the ferocity the backspace button has to offer.
Argument 2:
My word count is at 790, which means I am half way through, without a serious bit of reflection, interjection, and a profound epiphany other than that—the quality of the coffee in the library is awful. Which means in a Platonic sense, its artifice is a poor one when trying to achieve the ideal plane of coffee—that being a cup of Starbucks. Still, in Plato’s eye’s(yuppie eyes), at least library coffee has its purpose; which brings this essay to perhaps its dominant argument of ambiguities, definition of words, word play, word fun, and the opinions of Samuel Johnson. Samuel Johnson, like many other Samuel’s I have met, is melancholy, obsessed with opinions, and Tibetan prayer flags. Samuel Johnson— my dear reader who is familiar and agreeable with all the opinions of Plato—had the audacity to embellish the nature of being a poet in an unsuccessful work (like his dictionary) called The History of Rasselas, Prince Of Abissina. To quote him is to degrade him—so I will quote him, “for every idea is useful for the enforcement or decoration of moral or religious truth; and he, who knows most, will have most power of diversifying his scenes, and gratifying his reader with remote allusions and unexpected instruction (21) ”. What awful tripe. And to think, the literary critic has the tedious obligation to decipher this whole mess, and assert their genius on the work, in order to understand the components that make a work even readable.
Argument 3:
I am the writer…and am not actually of the opinion of Plato. This is just a note: an opportunity for myself to not literally become the paper, or its opinions.
Argument 4:
I have come to the conclusion, that argument four will be written at 6:30 pm, which it is, as I speak, being written now. Argument 4 will be on the topic of conclusions, if I could formulate a thesis, I might have the ability to discuss how—Jonathan Lamb proposes an interesting idea on Sterne’s readability to his contemporaries—and how it might relate to my opinions, mixed with Deconstruction opinions, Richetti’s opinions, and finally attempt to answer the overwhelming question that has been eluding this whole essay. What makes Tristram Shandy a novel, and what 18th century elements does it have, that exists in all of our texts we have read thus far. If I could answer this, perhaps I could rant about the contribution of Tristram Shandy to the genre, societal judgment, epistemological inference, and the altering affects that might have arisen if this novel had not been written. It’s sad and disheartening, but I am not very original, and the feeling of being drawn out, like a haze into the atmosphere of forgotten obscurity always lingers.
Argument 5:
But it isn’t worth it after all to live, love and lust after morning dew, and then watch dawn’s haze and recollect moments past. To remember the dirt brown cannel’s of Holland, the purple-green fragrant blossoms spouting out of the concrete walls, and my yellow lab that ran along the shore of the beach with me—in the ocean’s gray haze, and cold breeze. And later, when I was teenager, in the old green wet hills near the lakes—New Hampshire, New England. The infinite long, and windy back roads through the fall’s yellow and red dropping leaves, the white churches, and the perfume from those first lips—the cascade of her blue eyes and that white dress, spring 2005. And the first time I really loved Montana’s mountains—when we were all still best friends playing catch outside—watching crimson-red fleeting-orange swirls—the last of days the sunlight, fluster in the clouds on the snowcapped mountains above the evergreen and aspen trees. For, in that final moment between light and dark, a coyote howled at 9 pm on the pastor, behind RJ’s fence, and that—that was my last best memory.
Conclusion:
“And what was all that about”, my proof reader said on finishing the essay. “A Cock and Bull essay” I said—“Cock and Bull Essay, and the best I have ever wrote”.