CRITIQUE THREAD? CRITIQUE THREAD

>I'll start

An article recently written for linkedin. Does the beginning show any promise?

Other urls found in this thread:

pastebin.com/LCpqaFKE
synthesis.blog/2017/04/07/the-mask-of-social-media/
pastebin.com/WtweCZis
twitter.com/AnonBabble

Indeed dialectical critical realism may be seen under the aspect of Foucauldian strategic reversal — of the unholy trinity of Parmenidean/Platonic/Aristotelean provenance; of the Cartesian-Lockean-Humean-Kantian paradigm, of foundationalisms (in practice, fideistic foundationalisms) and irrationalisms (in practice, capricious exercises of the will-to-power or some other ideologically and/or psycho-somatically buried source) new and old alike; of the primordial failing of western philosophy, ontological monovalence, and its close ally, the epistemic fallacy with its ontic dual; of the analytic problematic laid down by Plato, which Hegel served only to replicate in his actualist monovalent analytic reinstatement in transfigurative reconciling dialectical connection, while in his hubristic claims for absolute idealism he inaugurated the Comtean, Kierkegaardian and Nietzschean eclipses of reason, replicating the fundaments of positivism through its transmutation route to the superidealism of a Baudrillard.

I say that a football is a mass-produced wad of polyeurethane and lace with traces of leather--Browner says it’s a pigskin with a Southern drawl so emphasized that you hear the saliva build. Browner says high school is for the sake of the girls, the hedonism, and the “opportunity cost of youth” as if he knew what half of the words meant that came out of his bright mouth, with teeth so shiny you want to swing a fist at each molar and feed him candy until they rot to the core.
Every Christmas was configured the same:
We’d wake up,and Browner would make sure he took the plumpest of the pancakes before I got downstairs, and he’d beat me with his legs that had to of been stolen from an ostrich. He’d get a football, a jersey with the numbers “08” stamped and pressed in the back, and a new videogame console. I’d open the books I requested and I’d thank ma and pap for them, and I’d get plucked by my brother once again. We’d sanction ourselves into our own spaces. The top bunk was his territory, a proper nest for his posture. I was left with the creaky bottom bunk that withdrew a constant “Hey, Lucas, how ‘bout you shut up down there, yeah?” And we’d bask in our newly received pleasures of Christmas while eating Aunt Beth’s traditional piles of chocolate and other assorted candies wrapped in their noisy foils and wrappers. I’d read a book and he’d lay around texting the seventh high school-sweetheart of the month about his new jersey and his “hard-earned-cash” (that is, the cash Granpa handed to him for Christmas).
We didn’t have the traditional gingerbread houses or the marvelous dinners, nor the caroling, nor the making of snowmen. These were alien to Floridians. But our family always had one tradition, and it was always to play the glorified sport of football. In fact, the mere word “football” is the epitome of us, the Brownsters, Christmas. And Browner would always ask me the afternoon if Christmas, “Want to play some football?” Last Christmas, the following exchange of conversation after the question was as followed:
“No, I don’t want to play the stupid sport.”
“You never want to do anything. You just sit in some cave and read books all day while thinking about everything, like everything is just some fantasy to you.”
“Well all you do is play some sweaty sport and waste your life on thrills and feelings.”
“And?”
“And? It’s stupid. You think it’s all about having fun, don’t you? You think you’re going to ‘make it’ in the big leagues and not have a worry in your life.”
“Where’d you read that, one of your stupid book? Did your idol Shakerspeare quote that in one of his books?”
I threw a punch at him we rolled around on the carpeted floor of our room for some time until Pa came in and broke the two of us up, sending us to two separate rooms. He gave me some sort of stare as if to intimidate me, and we exchanged some colorful words.
not bad

Don't know why O.P but every time I read it, it sounds pretensions in the beginning. can you post the rest of it? or is that all?

Not bad, get really into it. Browner should be the main character

Thanks. I'm always a little suspect of my pretensions, any point in particular that comes to mind for you? The reason I'm not posting the link is because it's attached to my "professional" linkedin page.

Here's the ending, though.

I didn't really think it was pretentious user. It's fine. The first page felt like it dragged on a bit longer than it should have, and I would suggest getting to the point a bit quicker, if anything, but it was alright overall: it accomplishes its purpose.

Typo in the first sentence. An overabundance of words in the first section. "The candlelight, his only source of light" can be condensed.

Is English not your first language? There's just some very rudimentary grammatical mistakes.

How do you mean "bright mouth"?

Pretty good, though, man.

I enjoyed this one. It's abrasive in the right way and not try-hard.

Sunflowers swayed, a soft slow dance in the heat of noon, rows and rows and rows. They painted the hills butter yellow, swells like the rolling ocean made still, all the way to the horizon, upon which, a cathedral nested.

Sun baked clay brick, somewhere between blood and sand, the color of Tuscany, cobbled together and rising against the sky in an act of rebellion. Cavernous inside. Like sunflowers, empty pews: rows and rows and rows. Statues of cherubim made of dead wood, daily polished. Light streamed in great dusty beams through the windows. Stained glass arches, soft-lit altars.

In the back, behind the heavy, burgundy drape, a straight and narrow little hall the light could not quite reach, and at the end, a door, a room, a bed, a boy.

>Typo in the first sentence.
Can you highlight it? I'm having trouble finding it.

>An overabundance of words in the first section.
?????
"The candlelight, his only source of light" can be condensed.
How so?

Gallery

Two democrats gather here.
Six paintings bloom before them,
their eyes pure and blue,
wide with estrogen.

And, afterwards, they nail their chairs,
built with pride, to the floor of the next room.

Their sons are in the third;
and they have yet to notice.