How (not) to reference

I am currently writing an article on postmodernism (Derrida, Lyotard, Kristeva et al)  and its influence on the intersubjective school of  psychotherapy (Schore, Stolorow, Hargaden and Sills et al).  

I am getting in a bit of a pickle (Crosse and Blackwell 1922). 

Not necessarily because I worry that I don't know what I'm talking about (although that doesn't mean that I do.) The beauty of using postmodern theory is that you can fully admit to simply making up stories about the world because, ultimately, all we do is....er......simply make up stories about the world (Grimm and Grimm 1812)

My jam (Weller/Buckler/Foxton 1977) is with academic referencing.

Were I writing an article using specific theories or techniques such as the Drama Triangle (Thespis 534 BC, Euclid 300 BC) or the Script Matrix (Wachowski and Wachowski 1999) it would be straightforward enough. But when you are writing about the pervasive philosophical movements of modernity, the ownership of  knowledge becomes significantly less clear.

At what point does something become part of the canon of received wisdom, I wonder? (Del Shannon 1961). Writers frequently refer to 'paradigm shifts' without referencing Thomas Kuhn's seminal work The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962). Is Kuhn twitching in his grave at not getting a mention? 

Do I really need to reference 25 impenetrable French philosophers if I use the term postmodern?

(As a mildly amusing aside, Derrida once confirmed that a quarter of his work was impenetrable. "I am a French philosopher", he declared. "If 25% of my work was not impenetrable, nobody would take me seriously." At least I think it was Derrida, but frankly I just can't be arsed to look it up.)

I have no wish to be accused of plagiarism (Harrison 1971) so I shall err, naturally, on the side of caution and reference everything - including the kitchen sink (Osborne 1956). 

There is a devil in me, though, that would love (Lennon/McCartney 1967) to just write 'Wikipedia' under the heading references. 

The Breakfast Club

I have been invited to join a breakfast club. 

I have absolutely no idea what a breakfast club is, or why someone would want to join me in my pjs at stupid o'clock whilst I bemoan my lack of sleep and the fact that I have burnt my toast again.*

 

I told Stray.

"I have been invited to join a breakfast club" I said. 

"Mmmm" she said.

"What is a breakfast club?" I said.

"It's a club for people who think they are so fucking important that they can't eat a croissant without simultaneously holding a seminar" she said.

"Ah" I said.

"..and only attended by those who are so socially inept that it's the only way they can make relationships with people outside of their own dull-as-fuck profession."

"Accountants?" I said.

"Indeed" she said.

I think thats probably a no then, although the fact that they have invited a psychotherapist intrigues me. I might turn up for just the one. I could analyse their breakfast choices with some over-interpretive pseudo-Freudian nonsense and cheer myself up for at least half an hour.

Organic free trade muesli? Generalised anxiety disorder, probably.

Egg white omelette? Histrionic personality, repressed by an undiagnosed eating disorder.

Pork sausage? Small-penis neurosis, obviously.

 

And if Ally Sheedy and Emilio Estevez are there, I may stay for the long haul. 

* My toast-making skills are legendary. Stray only knows it's morning by the smell of burnt toast drifting up the stairs. The first time I stayed at my best friend's house when I was a wee little 7 yr old, I corrected her mum on her technique. With great sincerity I told her that my mum made toast differently: she cooks it 'til it's black and then scrapes it with a knife over the bin, I informed her. I had no idea why it made her laugh. 

Postscript: On telling Badger:

"Goodness gracious! Isn't that where people have sex in their scuba suits?"

No, I have absolutely no idea either. 

Chasing Sheep pt I

Ruby, Stray’s very bouncy boxer, has an obsessive-compulsive disorder. It’s official. A leading animal psychologist, who described her as one of the most obsessive dogs she has ever worked with, diagnosed Ruby recently. This very clever and experienced psychologist did not manage to cure Ruby of her obsession.

We could live with Roo’s particular peccadillo if it involved compulsively tidying away her bones or obsessively washing her paws after a muddy walk. We might even learn to live with her switching off all of the electrical appliances in the house before retiring to her basket. Unfortunately she is yet to learn any of these skills. Little Roo’s particular obsession is for sheep and so, having brought her to live in a village where sheep outnumber humans by at least ten to one, Ruby thinks that all her doggy Christmases have come at once. Ruby likes to chase the sheep. The local farmers do not want Ruby to chase the sheep. This presents us with a problem.

A dog with an irresolvable psychological problem is something of a bus driver’s holiday for me. Ruby’s OCD, however, pales into insignificance when faced with the identity disorder of Stray’s so-called Siamese cat, Ophelia.

‘Siamese cat’ is just one of Ophelia’s multiple identities. Ophelia is actually a wallaby (please note the above evidence.) It is a well-known fact that wallabies are mentally unstable, and Ophelia – or ‘wallaby-cat’ – is no exception. Wallaby-cat doesn’t just have an identity disorder, she has a fully blown Borderline Personality Disorder.

Wallaby-cat loves, loves, lurves you…..you really are her bestest friend in the whole world…..no-one has ever understood her like you do…..where have you been all her life?....you make her feel loved like never before. Until that fateful moment when you just fail to meet her needs by a whisker (forgive the pun) and she hates you with a passion that can only be expressed by biting very hard on exposed flesh. Wallaby-cat believes that the sole purpose of your existence is to minister to her every need. As bus-driver’s holidays go, this is much less pleasurable than chasing sheep.

When I asked Badger if she thought that Frank, her ginger tom, had any neurotic disorders she thought very long and hard before answering ‘he’s a boy’. Whilst it’s true that Frank’s boyness is his defining characteristic – he manages a delicate balance of testosterone fuelled hunting trips for local vermin with lounging passively in Badger’s arms – as far as I am aware ‘masculinity’ has yet to be classified as a psychiatric disorder. Please do correct me if I am wrong.

Stray is currently writing a book that meanders through anthropology, psychology and evolutionary biology before stumbling headlong into the arena of global warming. She is trying to persuade her co-author that Chasing Sheep is a catchy and appropriate title.

Let’s face it, don’t we all just try very hard not to chase the sheep?