Iron Patriot #5

Iron Patriot #5 was the the end of line for the series. It is too bad. Because though the story by Ales Kot never in the main rose above the level of filler, the art by Garry Brown and the colors by Jim Charalampidis jumped out at you. Brown's work on Iron Patriot was truly alive, a combination of Primitivism and classic Kirby from his Silver Age heyday. When in the future I look back on 2014 Garry Brown's five-issue run on Iron Patriot will sparkle like a Zeitgeist diamond.

Kot acknowledged in a Tweet that Iron Patriot was not his best work: "I believe Iron Patriot is my weakest work, but I managed to find a way to make it personally relevant through what I feel amounts to sheer will and a firm refusal to give up on anything I ever put out into the world." 

Bravo! Very Nietzschean. And Kot strikes a Nietzschean chord that ends the series with strength and depth when a comatose Rhodey dreams of seeing his father, who just sacrificed his life to save him, as a boy. Make sure to see the last scan at the bottom of the page. The text reads:

I don't remember much of the next few days.

Just fragments of dreams. 

People stopping by. 

Being immersed in Tony's meditank.

I had a dream about you. 

You were fishing, alone. 

You were a boy. 

You smiled at me. 

I realized that I was myself, as I am now, and you were that boy again. 

You said something but I couldn't remember what it was.

Previously I have opined that nihilism is the province of fathers and sons. The father leads the way into the abyss and the son dutifully follows along behind. In the process, a reversal takes place. The father becomes the idealized son, "the youth of eternal summers" that Van Morrison sings about in No Guru, No Method, No Teacher (1986), and which Kot and Brown capture so well. And we are back in the garden.

This is "the tain of the mirror" to the ceaseless striving and constant suffering of the eternal recurrence: We are always already -- here, now -- back in the garden.

Remembering Jacques Derrida at the Holiday Inn

I did see Derrida. It was at the Holiday Inn in San Francisco. It was early 1988, a cold morning. I went with my buddy Matt. Before the conference began -- it was a big convention space, the American Philosophical Association was the sponsoring organization -- I was able to size up the great man in close proximity in the hallway outside. He was smallish in stature and well groomed and tailored, not in a foppish or dandy way, but in a formidable manner. He warmly greeted old lady Majorie Grene, a UC Davis professor who had written an early influential book in the U.S. on Existentialism, Introduction to Existentialism (1959), a copy of which I had at Berkeley and I think I have here somewhere.

Derrida was on a panel that morning in the big hall with a very nervous Rodolphe Gasche who almost melted down while speaking. Derrida was extremely kind to him up there in front of all the hostile American philosophers.

Derrida took the podium after Gasche, who had written a pro-Derrida book published in 1986, The Tain of the Mirror: Derrida and the Philosophy of Reflection, and in passing the red-faced Gasche who was on his way back to his seat at the table on the dais Derrida clasped him around the shoulders in a totally selfless act of benevolence. I always remembered that. That and Derrida's hostile reception from the majority of the audience who were obviously tenured old professors.

During the question and answer period (Matt took a crack with one about the etymology of genuflection and genius -- moving the seed up to the brain) Derrida responded to a hostile inquiry with what I thought was an incredible revelation for a professional philosopher and intellectual -- "More and more I cannot tell the difference between having read and not having read." Or something along those lines.

My project in my lost honors thesis was to place Derrida as a Kantian; that the Kantian nature of Deconstruction could be understood by looking at -- of all people -- the founder of analytic philosphy, Gottlob Frege. With this argument I would then bridge the divide between continental and analytic philosophy. My end point was to arrive at a new pedagogy, one Derrida points the way to in Of Grammatology (1967), but one that was more explicitly informed by Kant's Critique of Practical Reason (1788), his moral philosophy. Ambitious. Turned out to be too ambitious.