Notebook: 7/10/86
The Marriage of Language and Being
[based on Blake's *The Marriage of Heaven and Hell*]
Feeling roars & shakes his fires in the burdened mind:
Radioactive clouds sway on the deep.
Meek, expression follows a perilous path.
The so-called fair woman keeps tracks along
The vale of control.
Words are planted where memories stay.
And on the barren slate of meaning
Sing the commercial poets.
Then, some poets incorporate this stance.
And a stream of thought and a quick utterance
On every ad and show.
And on the emptied mind
They managed to get control of the media.
Till the investor stops reading trash
Is to continue the parboil any original thought and drive
The so-called sensible woman into writing dry hymns to money.
Here comes a hot agent, cool & quite hip
And our poet is tearing her hair out, walking around on Columbus Avenue
Where literary lions roam.
Feeling screams and blows off some steam-
What could this do against billions of units of radioactive vapors?
As a new literary movement is begun, and it is now about 10 years
since its advent, popular opinion roars its ugly attitudes. And lo!
Hilton Kramer, and occasionally Tom Clark put our vicious literary slander
attempting to court public opinion; their statements try to wrap some rebellious
poets in nast publicity. Now is the dominion of Reagan, Ray-gun as he is
affectionately called- just read nearly any issue of your local newspaper.
Without a lot of sharp disagreement, the public won't notice anything is
going on, so intrinsically this is not a bad thing. Attraction and repulsion,
thinking and feeling, love and hate, are all typical of human experience.
From this kind of total trashing springs more clearly defined philosophical
differences, formerly labelled Good and Evil. Now that we don't have authentic language,
attitudes have taken on infinitely increading inflationary conviction.
Good is Public Awareness; Evil ot Total Marginality.
THE VOICE OF THE OUTCAST
All books, poems and theories have caused continuing distortion:
1. That humankind has two responsibilities: acceptable attitudes and rent money.
2. That language, called marginal, emanates from a lot of bullshit;
and that Feelings, called Public, are the only authentic expression.
3. That Administrators will torment humans in Eternity for giving expression
to anything unique.
But the following contraries to these are True:
1. Humans have no language distinct from experience, for that which is called
language is a portion of Thought discerned by the five senses, the
chief inlets of Soul in this age.
2. Words are the only proof of expression, and are from experience, and
Feelings are bound to a socially determined set of attitudes.
**
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
The Argument
Rintrah roars & shakes his fires in the burden'd air
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.
Once meek, and in a perilous path,
The just man kept his course along
The vale of death.
Roses are planted where thorns grow,
And on the barren heath
Sing the honey bees.
Then the perilous path was planted:
And a river and a spring
On every cliff and tomb:
And on the bleached bones
Red clay brought forth.
Till the villain left the paths of ease,
To walk in perilous paths, and drive
The just man into barren climes.
Now the sneaking serpent walks
In mild humility.
And the just man rages in the wilds
Where lions roam.
Rintrah roars & shakes his fires in the burden'd air;
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.
And now a new heaven is begun, and it is now thirty-three years since its
advent: the Eternal Hell revives. And lo! Swedenborg is the Angel
sitting at the tomb: his writings are the linen clothes folded up. Now
is the dominion of Edom, & the return of Adam into Paradise; see
Isaiah xxxiv & xxxv Chap:
Without Contraries is no progression. Attraction and Repulsion,
Reason and Energy, Love and Hate, are necessary to Human
existence.
From these contraries spring what the religious call Good & Evil.
Good is the passive that obeys Reason. Evil is the active springing
from Energy.
Good is Heaven . Evil is Hell.
THE VOICE OF THE DEVIL
All bibles or sacred codes have been the causes of the following
Errors:
1. That Man has two existing principles: Viz: a Body & a
Soul.
2. That Energy, call'd Evil, is alone from the Body, & that Reason,
call'd Good, is alone from the Soul.
3. That God will torment Man in Eternity for following his Energies.
But the following Contraries to these are True:
1. Man has no Body distinct from his Soul; for that call'd Body is a
portion of the Sould discern'd by the five Senses, the chief inlets of Soul
in this age.
2. Energy is the only life and is from the Body and Reason is the
bound or outward circumference of Energy.
3. Energy is Eternal Delight.
Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be
restrained; and the restrainer of Reason usurps its place & governs
the unwilling.
And being restrain'd, by degrees becomes passive, till it is only
the shadow of desire.
Distribution Automatique
Wednesday, February 25
I keep coming back to this post, and the Terry Teachout points about blogging, so...
from A Fool In The Forest {click here}
February 18, 2004 from {A Fool In The Forest} ( originally published by
George Wallace in Arts and Culture At Large, Poetry, Weblogs)
"Belittled"
"Garrick Davis, editor of Contemporary Poetry Review, offers up a thumbnail history of "the little magazine" in his own online journal's freshly scrubbed Mission Statement:
The history of 20th century poetry is inextricably linked with the genre of the little magazine, and much of that genre’s history has been forgotten. We must remember that the little magazine was an outgrowth—and the necessary vehicle—of Modernism. When the Modernists attempted to publish their works in the general-circulation newspapers and magazines of their day and were rebuffed, they were forced to organize their own magazines in order to break into print. Ezra Pound was the very type and role model of this era; he was the midwife of 20th century literature by helping to found, edit, and fund dozens of literary magazines.
Many of them foundered, of course, though there are a few honorable exceptions still among us. . . .
The real problem with the present world of literary publications is, of course, cost and distribution. . . . Possessing a tiny readership, the little magazine cannot attract advertisers. Lacking advertisers, it cannot offset the costs of production. With no profit margin to encourage its sale and distribution, every issue of the little magazine begins its life stillborn as a commercial enterprise. . . . The result of this marketplace Darwinism is that the little magazine is almost a couture object in our society—both difficult to obtain and expensive to purchase.
Since there are literally thousands of little magazines, the cost of “keeping up” with the important literary periodicals of the day to the individual reader is prohibitive, and the cost to libraries is staggering. . . . The genre of little magazines, which was originally conceived to publish the difficult art of the Modernists, has ended up making literature itself inaccessible.
Terry Teachout, in the notes I linked to below, suggests that weblogs "will be to the 21st century what little magazines were to the 20th century," but he may have gotten the mechanism wrong. Because the hurdles that must be negotiated to create -- and, more importantly, to access -- a weblog are so modest, instead of having "influence . . . disproportionate to their circulation," the best weblogs may finally accomplish the feat of finding an audience large enough to match the caliber of their content.
Davis in his Mission Statement reminds us that T.S. Eliot's Criterion magazine had a peak circulation of 700; Pound and the Vorticists' Blast was presumably even smaller. Those journals' influence in the long term was out of all proportion to their circulation. Without the practical and financial impediments that Davis identifies, the potential influence of the right weblog at the right time could -- he said, thinking wishfully -- be even greater.
A random example, picked largely because he has actually voiced his goal in terms of audience size: Neocalvinist cultural observer Gideon Strauss is content to "dream[] of achieving my own little micro-readership of 250", a humble and seemingly achievable objective for many sites. If some significant percentage of even so small a core of readers have weblogs of their own, as is probable, a writer's best material will likely be linked and relinked, those links serving as levers with which the right post might move the world.
Then again, maybe this guy is right. [Link via American Digest.]"
Posted by George Wallace at 12:48 PM in Arts and Culture At Large, Poetry, Weblogs | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (1)
from A Fool In The Forest {click here}
February 18, 2004 from {A Fool In The Forest} ( originally published by
George Wallace in Arts and Culture At Large, Poetry, Weblogs)
"Belittled"
"Garrick Davis, editor of Contemporary Poetry Review, offers up a thumbnail history of "the little magazine" in his own online journal's freshly scrubbed Mission Statement:
The history of 20th century poetry is inextricably linked with the genre of the little magazine, and much of that genre’s history has been forgotten. We must remember that the little magazine was an outgrowth—and the necessary vehicle—of Modernism. When the Modernists attempted to publish their works in the general-circulation newspapers and magazines of their day and were rebuffed, they were forced to organize their own magazines in order to break into print. Ezra Pound was the very type and role model of this era; he was the midwife of 20th century literature by helping to found, edit, and fund dozens of literary magazines.
Many of them foundered, of course, though there are a few honorable exceptions still among us. . . .
The real problem with the present world of literary publications is, of course, cost and distribution. . . . Possessing a tiny readership, the little magazine cannot attract advertisers. Lacking advertisers, it cannot offset the costs of production. With no profit margin to encourage its sale and distribution, every issue of the little magazine begins its life stillborn as a commercial enterprise. . . . The result of this marketplace Darwinism is that the little magazine is almost a couture object in our society—both difficult to obtain and expensive to purchase.
Since there are literally thousands of little magazines, the cost of “keeping up” with the important literary periodicals of the day to the individual reader is prohibitive, and the cost to libraries is staggering. . . . The genre of little magazines, which was originally conceived to publish the difficult art of the Modernists, has ended up making literature itself inaccessible.
Terry Teachout, in the notes I linked to below, suggests that weblogs "will be to the 21st century what little magazines were to the 20th century," but he may have gotten the mechanism wrong. Because the hurdles that must be negotiated to create -- and, more importantly, to access -- a weblog are so modest, instead of having "influence . . . disproportionate to their circulation," the best weblogs may finally accomplish the feat of finding an audience large enough to match the caliber of their content.
Davis in his Mission Statement reminds us that T.S. Eliot's Criterion magazine had a peak circulation of 700; Pound and the Vorticists' Blast was presumably even smaller. Those journals' influence in the long term was out of all proportion to their circulation. Without the practical and financial impediments that Davis identifies, the potential influence of the right weblog at the right time could -- he said, thinking wishfully -- be even greater.
A random example, picked largely because he has actually voiced his goal in terms of audience size: Neocalvinist cultural observer Gideon Strauss is content to "dream[] of achieving my own little micro-readership of 250", a humble and seemingly achievable objective for many sites. If some significant percentage of even so small a core of readers have weblogs of their own, as is probable, a writer's best material will likely be linked and relinked, those links serving as levers with which the right post might move the world.
Then again, maybe this guy is right. [Link via American Digest.]"
Posted by George Wallace at 12:48 PM in Arts and Culture At Large, Poetry, Weblogs | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (1)
Class Struggle
Student and teacher disagree about me!
Read it for free
right now on:
Bemsha Swing (Jonathan Mayhew) {click here}
Student and teacher disagree about me!
Read it for free
right now on:
Bemsha Swing (Jonathan Mayhew) {click here}
Tuesday, February 24
notebook: 1987
K (*Reading As Revery*) in celebration of *North of Intention* by Steve McCaffery
1. It would be embarassing at the beginning to put my words in the mouths
of your characters, even if they are available to anyone, necessary but
not sufficient. History itself is just as fixed in the eye of a storm, in
the words themselves, that the characters beginning with A would not be
complete. But would it be possible to exceed "A" in another register, if
at least the integers compared to themselves were not abused by our own presence,
and the vault that enclosed such vocabularies, as arbitrary and unrecorded as
the (this) exact movement of tides: such are the boundaries of reading- ever
tidal and undeferred- and time itself accords with such vast rhythms. Imagine
the contrary: imbecilic gestures from the minds of tyrants- visual figurations
of their own power-lines. Like all insignificant and dried branches- leaving
all the more exposed the "north of intensions."
2. Is it by chance that I return to you by the same route that I came into
my own revery? A landscape that still bears a trace (*passed on*, not remaining)
of another epoch (not in the past perhaps, in another clime) which surrounds
some unspoken utterances in the full chorus of the senses. They came by here
by another route, i.e.: the cooling breeze on the chest and arms, waves crashing
between thick silences, gulls cries *and* the enveloping silence; engraved *and*
erased- that static. Dawns never confuse the issue, so exact, nor do the steady
afternoons, nights, shadows of gulls overhead. Into these serene particulars
comes one displaced opening, and then another, moves a corner of comprehension,
a welcome meaning freed of its image, a memory of speech to replace the holding
continuity of a particular place:- (imaginary small color photograph of Alan
Davies, Toni Simon and me sitting close to the waves edge at Jones Beach on a
hazy day in mid- June, 1987).
3. Any weakening of the will will be evinced by our action (its double in the
proximate actuality).The king of this terrain (Kafka-Khlebnikov) is its
experience in the slow dissolution of one meaning, and then another. But
time (and this includes this time in an album still gathering its forms,
always did, even as many immense particulars, these waves co-exist under
another measure- aspect of the so-called Now moment. Imaginary figures
rush by and are forgotten (never were) as they rush into an avalanche of one
duration (Smithson, "sandtorm of pauses".) The smell is still there, the sound,
the breeze's touch, and the remembered meaning (exactly zero) is still nascent.
That is to say, I almost forgot the sun and the gulls standing in a circle of wet
sand. Could the real itself have exploded from the tendency of all things to give,
or eventually give in (i.e., give way?)
4. "Nothing more. The image is exhausted in the multiplicity of meanings...One
might say that psychoanalysis gave the dream no status beyond that of speech,
and failed to see it in its reality as language." Dream, Imagination and Existence,
Michele Foucault (1954)
Giving, giving way, "making room." Now the gulls are standing closer. Had I
not given the day, in part, to you (as to them) such space would still exist.
And it may yet, since this gesture (this space) would not exist. And it may yet,
since it is, by now, already prefigured in its passing, antithesis to what I wanted,
or expected was in my reach, but beyond this choice. Noting the proximity of
this trebling I announce a tendency, meeting yours on a separate day, a widening,
not a focus, in order to engender space from space. This wrenching, simply said,
apocalyptic but minute, to hurl the discus of withered principles into an infinitely
distance place, intuited complicity.
K (*Reading As Revery*) in celebration of *North of Intention* by Steve McCaffery
1. It would be embarassing at the beginning to put my words in the mouths
of your characters, even if they are available to anyone, necessary but
not sufficient. History itself is just as fixed in the eye of a storm, in
the words themselves, that the characters beginning with A would not be
complete. But would it be possible to exceed "A" in another register, if
at least the integers compared to themselves were not abused by our own presence,
and the vault that enclosed such vocabularies, as arbitrary and unrecorded as
the (this) exact movement of tides: such are the boundaries of reading- ever
tidal and undeferred- and time itself accords with such vast rhythms. Imagine
the contrary: imbecilic gestures from the minds of tyrants- visual figurations
of their own power-lines. Like all insignificant and dried branches- leaving
all the more exposed the "north of intensions."
2. Is it by chance that I return to you by the same route that I came into
my own revery? A landscape that still bears a trace (*passed on*, not remaining)
of another epoch (not in the past perhaps, in another clime) which surrounds
some unspoken utterances in the full chorus of the senses. They came by here
by another route, i.e.: the cooling breeze on the chest and arms, waves crashing
between thick silences, gulls cries *and* the enveloping silence; engraved *and*
erased- that static. Dawns never confuse the issue, so exact, nor do the steady
afternoons, nights, shadows of gulls overhead. Into these serene particulars
comes one displaced opening, and then another, moves a corner of comprehension,
a welcome meaning freed of its image, a memory of speech to replace the holding
continuity of a particular place:- (imaginary small color photograph of Alan
Davies, Toni Simon and me sitting close to the waves edge at Jones Beach on a
hazy day in mid- June, 1987).
3. Any weakening of the will will be evinced by our action (its double in the
proximate actuality).The king of this terrain (Kafka-Khlebnikov) is its
experience in the slow dissolution of one meaning, and then another. But
time (and this includes this time in an album still gathering its forms,
always did, even as many immense particulars, these waves co-exist under
another measure- aspect of the so-called Now moment. Imaginary figures
rush by and are forgotten (never were) as they rush into an avalanche of one
duration (Smithson, "sandtorm of pauses".) The smell is still there, the sound,
the breeze's touch, and the remembered meaning (exactly zero) is still nascent.
That is to say, I almost forgot the sun and the gulls standing in a circle of wet
sand. Could the real itself have exploded from the tendency of all things to give,
or eventually give in (i.e., give way?)
4. "Nothing more. The image is exhausted in the multiplicity of meanings...One
might say that psychoanalysis gave the dream no status beyond that of speech,
and failed to see it in its reality as language." Dream, Imagination and Existence,
Michele Foucault (1954)
Giving, giving way, "making room." Now the gulls are standing closer. Had I
not given the day, in part, to you (as to them) such space would still exist.
And it may yet, since this gesture (this space) would not exist. And it may yet,
since it is, by now, already prefigured in its passing, antithesis to what I wanted,
or expected was in my reach, but beyond this choice. Noting the proximity of
this trebling I announce a tendency, meeting yours on a separate day, a widening,
not a focus, in order to engender space from space. This wrenching, simply said,
apocalyptic but minute, to hurl the discus of withered principles into an infinitely
distance place, intuited complicity.
Monday, February 23
"The project of a hybridization or con-fusion of genres which
Ponge's texts share with Bloch's *Spuren*, the paradigmatic
texts of the modern prose poem tradition we have previously
examined, and Schlegel's notion of a *Universalpoesie* suggests
two directions running counter to each other: on the one hand,
a utopian aspiration toward oneness: on the other,a perhaps
equally utopian drive toward the greatest possible difference and
diversity, a breakdown of rigid categorical distinctions. A total
homogenization of the "universal" threatens the one: a total
fragmentation threatens the other. Ponge's texts are themselves,
as he himself has acknowledged, "very diverse, contradictory,
varied as to form...in *Le Parti pris des choses* there is a little
of everything: there are closed texts, there are open texts; each
one proposes as well an *ars poetica*" (CC. 411-12). Although
Ponge displays at times a nostalgia for the Book, he has himself
said that for the most part he is concerned with *texts* (CC, 426).
In other words, although Ponge sometimes entertains thoughts of
a singular coherence of separate texts on some formal or other unity,
more often he focuses his attention on particular phenomena, on the
individual rather than the collective. What the prose poem leads Ponge
to is less Schlegel's goal of a universal poetry than the nominalist
fragmentation suggested by Schlegel's polemical contention that
"every poem is a genre in itself" (*Jedes Gedich eine Gattung fur sich*)...
In order to contruct a new unity allowing for the greatest possible diversity
and difference, the poverty of received forms and the speciousness of any
notion of an already given, preexistent unity must first be exposed. The
possibility of a universal poetry must pass, in other words, *through* the
fragmented world of prose, not around it..."
Jonathan Monroe, *A Poverty of Objects: The Prose Poem
and The Politics of Genre*
Cornell UP, 1987
(from Chapter 8, *Fragments of a World
Restored: Francis Ponge's "Rhetoric of
Objects", pp 245-246)
Ponge's texts share with Bloch's *Spuren*, the paradigmatic
texts of the modern prose poem tradition we have previously
examined, and Schlegel's notion of a *Universalpoesie* suggests
two directions running counter to each other: on the one hand,
a utopian aspiration toward oneness: on the other,a perhaps
equally utopian drive toward the greatest possible difference and
diversity, a breakdown of rigid categorical distinctions. A total
homogenization of the "universal" threatens the one: a total
fragmentation threatens the other. Ponge's texts are themselves,
as he himself has acknowledged, "very diverse, contradictory,
varied as to form...in *Le Parti pris des choses* there is a little
of everything: there are closed texts, there are open texts; each
one proposes as well an *ars poetica*" (CC. 411-12). Although
Ponge displays at times a nostalgia for the Book, he has himself
said that for the most part he is concerned with *texts* (CC, 426).
In other words, although Ponge sometimes entertains thoughts of
a singular coherence of separate texts on some formal or other unity,
more often he focuses his attention on particular phenomena, on the
individual rather than the collective. What the prose poem leads Ponge
to is less Schlegel's goal of a universal poetry than the nominalist
fragmentation suggested by Schlegel's polemical contention that
"every poem is a genre in itself" (*Jedes Gedich eine Gattung fur sich*)...
In order to contruct a new unity allowing for the greatest possible diversity
and difference, the poverty of received forms and the speciousness of any
notion of an already given, preexistent unity must first be exposed. The
possibility of a universal poetry must pass, in other words, *through* the
fragmented world of prose, not around it..."
Jonathan Monroe, *A Poverty of Objects: The Prose Poem
and The Politics of Genre*
Cornell UP, 1987
(from Chapter 8, *Fragments of a World
Restored: Francis Ponge's "Rhetoric of
Objects", pp 245-246)
Sunday, February 22
"Like the fragment, the prose poem presents an analogon of a
complete work gesturing toward the utopian nonplace of a collective
labor that would constitute a reconstruction of the individual subject
and of the subject of humanity as a whole (AL, 373). It is both the
promise of what Francis Ponge will call the *Grand Oeuvre* and the sign
of its continued absence. In shifting the site from verse to prose of
the critique of the idealist subject of poetry and the dominant class
which is necessary to give *form* to such an *oeuvre*, Schlegel's
fragments and Baudelaire's prose poetry provide not so much
a "poetry of poetry"-the subject's critique of itself "from within"-
as a concretization of the *inter*subjective
nature of the *intra*subjectve. They thus offer not so much an
illumination of the self *by itself* (alone and self-sufficient)
as an illumination of the discourses that surround, traverse
and overdetermine it and from which it cannot finally retreat-as
Baudelaire's "A une heure du matin" trenchantly suggests- into
sublime isolation....If what constitutes the subject per se is
nothing other than the self-engendering power of its own discourse
(AL, 392), both the fragment and the prose poem call attention to
the fact that the discourse of any given subject is never really
self-engendering or absolutely autonomous but is instead inextricably
bound up with the discourses of others. Both the fragment and the
prose poem offer a critique of the world of prose with a view to making
poetry possible again through a rejection of the uncritical reproduction
of either poetry or prose in isolation. Their critique constitutes nothing
less, in other words, than an attempted reconstruction of a unity
that is missing in the chaotic fragmentation of the modern world,
a reparation of the world..."
Jonathan Monroe, *A Poverty of Objects: The Prose Poem and
The Politics of Genre*
Cornell UP, 1987 (pps 69-70)
(from Chapter 1
*Universalpoesie* as Fragment:
Friedrich Schlegel and the Prose
Poem")
complete work gesturing toward the utopian nonplace of a collective
labor that would constitute a reconstruction of the individual subject
and of the subject of humanity as a whole (AL, 373). It is both the
promise of what Francis Ponge will call the *Grand Oeuvre* and the sign
of its continued absence. In shifting the site from verse to prose of
the critique of the idealist subject of poetry and the dominant class
which is necessary to give *form* to such an *oeuvre*, Schlegel's
fragments and Baudelaire's prose poetry provide not so much
a "poetry of poetry"-the subject's critique of itself "from within"-
as a concretization of the *inter*subjective
nature of the *intra*subjectve. They thus offer not so much an
illumination of the self *by itself* (alone and self-sufficient)
as an illumination of the discourses that surround, traverse
and overdetermine it and from which it cannot finally retreat-as
Baudelaire's "A une heure du matin" trenchantly suggests- into
sublime isolation....If what constitutes the subject per se is
nothing other than the self-engendering power of its own discourse
(AL, 392), both the fragment and the prose poem call attention to
the fact that the discourse of any given subject is never really
self-engendering or absolutely autonomous but is instead inextricably
bound up with the discourses of others. Both the fragment and the
prose poem offer a critique of the world of prose with a view to making
poetry possible again through a rejection of the uncritical reproduction
of either poetry or prose in isolation. Their critique constitutes nothing
less, in other words, than an attempted reconstruction of a unity
that is missing in the chaotic fragmentation of the modern world,
a reparation of the world..."
Jonathan Monroe, *A Poverty of Objects: The Prose Poem and
The Politics of Genre*
Cornell UP, 1987 (pps 69-70)
(from Chapter 1
*Universalpoesie* as Fragment:
Friedrich Schlegel and the Prose
Poem")
"We hoped that in the peace after such a war, a great
expansion would follow in the mind of the Country; grand
views in every direction,- true freedom in politics, in
religion, in social science, in thought. But the energy of
the nation seems to have expanded itself in the war, and
every interest is found as sectional and as timorous as
before..."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
November 5, 1865
Journals
expansion would follow in the mind of the Country; grand
views in every direction,- true freedom in politics, in
religion, in social science, in thought. But the energy of
the nation seems to have expanded itself in the war, and
every interest is found as sectional and as timorous as
before..."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
November 5, 1865
Journals
from *Amiel's Journal*
10th January 1881
"To let oneself be
troubled by the ill-will, the ingratitude, the
indifference of others, is a weakness to
which I am very much inclined. It is
painful to me to be misunderstood, ill judged.
I am wanting in manly hardihood, and the
heart to me is more vulnerable than it
ought to be. It seems to me, however,
that I have grown tougher in this respect
than I used to be. The malignity of the
world troubles me less than it did. Is it
the result of philosophy, or an effect of age,
or simply caused by the many proofs of
respect and attachment that I have received?
These proofs were just what were wanting
to inspire me with some self-respect.
Otherwise I should have so easily believed
in my own nullity and in the insignificance
of all my efforts. Success is necessary
for the timid, praise is a moral stimulus
and admiration a strengthening elixir. We
think we know ourselves, but as long as we
are ignorant of our comparative value, our
place in the social assessment, we do not
know ourselves well enough. If we are to
act with effect we must count for something
with our fellow men; we must feel
ourselves possessed of some weight and
credit with them, so that our effort may be
rightly proportioned to the resistance which
has to be overcome. As long as we despise
opinion we are without a standard by which
to measure ourselves; we do not know our
relative power. I have despised opinion
too much, while yet I have been too sensitive
to injustice. These two faults have
cost me dear. I longed for kindness, sympathy,
and equity, but my pride forbade me to
ask for them, or to employ any address
or calculation to obtain them....I
do not think I have been wrong altogether,
for all through I have been in harmony
with my best self, but my want of adaptability
has worn me out, to no purpose. Now indeed,
I am at peace within, but my
career is over, my strength is running out,
and my life is near its end.
"Il n'est pas plus temps pour rien excepte
pour mourir."
This is why I can look at it all historically."
10th January 1881
"To let oneself be
troubled by the ill-will, the ingratitude, the
indifference of others, is a weakness to
which I am very much inclined. It is
painful to me to be misunderstood, ill judged.
I am wanting in manly hardihood, and the
heart to me is more vulnerable than it
ought to be. It seems to me, however,
that I have grown tougher in this respect
than I used to be. The malignity of the
world troubles me less than it did. Is it
the result of philosophy, or an effect of age,
or simply caused by the many proofs of
respect and attachment that I have received?
These proofs were just what were wanting
to inspire me with some self-respect.
Otherwise I should have so easily believed
in my own nullity and in the insignificance
of all my efforts. Success is necessary
for the timid, praise is a moral stimulus
and admiration a strengthening elixir. We
think we know ourselves, but as long as we
are ignorant of our comparative value, our
place in the social assessment, we do not
know ourselves well enough. If we are to
act with effect we must count for something
with our fellow men; we must feel
ourselves possessed of some weight and
credit with them, so that our effort may be
rightly proportioned to the resistance which
has to be overcome. As long as we despise
opinion we are without a standard by which
to measure ourselves; we do not know our
relative power. I have despised opinion
too much, while yet I have been too sensitive
to injustice. These two faults have
cost me dear. I longed for kindness, sympathy,
and equity, but my pride forbade me to
ask for them, or to employ any address
or calculation to obtain them....I
do not think I have been wrong altogether,
for all through I have been in harmony
with my best self, but my want of adaptability
has worn me out, to no purpose. Now indeed,
I am at peace within, but my
career is over, my strength is running out,
and my life is near its end.
"Il n'est pas plus temps pour rien excepte
pour mourir."
This is why I can look at it all historically."
Saturday, February 21
from *Amiel's Journal*
31st May, 1880
"...This soliloquy means- what? That
reverie turns upon itself as dreams do;
that impressions added together do not
always produce a fair judgement; that a
private journal is like a good king, and
permits repetitions, outpourings, complaint.
....These unseen effusions are the
conversation of thought with itself, the
arpeggios, involuntary but not unconscious of
that Aeolian harp we bear within us. Its
vibrations, compose no piece, exhaust no
theme, achieve no melody, carry out no
programme, but they express the innermost
life of man."
31st May, 1880
"...This soliloquy means- what? That
reverie turns upon itself as dreams do;
that impressions added together do not
always produce a fair judgement; that a
private journal is like a good king, and
permits repetitions, outpourings, complaint.
....These unseen effusions are the
conversation of thought with itself, the
arpeggios, involuntary but not unconscious of
that Aeolian harp we bear within us. Its
vibrations, compose no piece, exhaust no
theme, achieve no melody, carry out no
programme, but they express the innermost
life of man."
from *Baudelairean* by Mary Hawthorne
London Review of Books- 5 February, 2004
a review of *Walker Evans* by James Mellow
Perseus, 2002
"He returned to the United States a few months later, and
tried again to write...'Oh yes,' he said years later...'I was
a passonate photographer...I thought that this was a
substitute for something else- well, writing, for one thing.'
...He loved contained, miniature, controllable worlds- books,
maps, postcards...He himself cited the unconscious influences
of Baudelaire and, especially, of Flaubert..."
London Review of Books- 5 February, 2004
a review of *Walker Evans* by James Mellow
Perseus, 2002
"He returned to the United States a few months later, and
tried again to write...'Oh yes,' he said years later...'I was
a passonate photographer...I thought that this was a
substitute for something else- well, writing, for one thing.'
...He loved contained, miniature, controllable worlds- books,
maps, postcards...He himself cited the unconscious influences
of Baudelaire and, especially, of Flaubert..."
Friday, February 20
Notebook: 8/7/89
The social space a harmonization of the
universal cacaphony of thoughts.
Experience, from birth to death, an endless
welter of images. On the one side (so
little time to choose- not quantitatively- but
because frustration relentlessly pushes forward,
wheel scrapes against sand, head against chair-)
Scylla bends forward, beckoning, laughter,
taunting, hurry, hurry- Charybdis falls back,
deep, racking, rolling, hyterical laughter-
Social document- laws, inscriiptions in stone.
Paradyme shift of latitudes in mind space
cause social longitudes to turn to representation of mental
attitudes to redetermine (reinvent, realert) the social
Social as superego- John Phillip Sousa
but also Bob Dylan
The muted trombone represents a social situation-
a memory- something about
ice tea and smiling and talking bashfully on the
verandah. Wasn't that song *terrific*? Tommy Dorsey on "Sleepy Laguna"
The social space a harmonization of the
universal cacaphony of thoughts.
Experience, from birth to death, an endless
welter of images. On the one side (so
little time to choose- not quantitatively- but
because frustration relentlessly pushes forward,
wheel scrapes against sand, head against chair-)
Scylla bends forward, beckoning, laughter,
taunting, hurry, hurry- Charybdis falls back,
deep, racking, rolling, hyterical laughter-
Social document- laws, inscriiptions in stone.
Paradyme shift of latitudes in mind space
cause social longitudes to turn to representation of mental
attitudes to redetermine (reinvent, realert) the social
Social as superego- John Phillip Sousa
but also Bob Dylan
The muted trombone represents a social situation-
a memory- something about
ice tea and smiling and talking bashfully on the
verandah. Wasn't that song *terrific*? Tommy Dorsey on "Sleepy Laguna"
Thursday, February 19
Latta talk about Kathleen Fraser on
Hotel Point {click here}
Won't do Michigan a lotta good, but Fraser will read here
at the Bowery Poetry Club on February 28th.
Click on the *Segue Series* on the sidebar for details.
Hotel Point {click here}
Won't do Michigan a lotta good, but Fraser will read here
at the Bowery Poetry Club on February 28th.
Click on the *Segue Series* on the sidebar for details.
Boston Poets March Forth
on New York on March 4th
read all about it on
Fishblog (Aaron Tieger) {click here}
on New York on March 4th
read all about it on
Fishblog (Aaron Tieger) {click here}
Jordan Davis {click here}
and Noah Eli Gordon (click here} uncover
poetic shortcuts between Massachusetts and New York
and Noah Eli Gordon (click here} uncover
poetic shortcuts between Massachusetts and New York
A Laurable Log (Laura Willey)
posted over 50 items of great audible interest yesterday-
and *then* she mentioned it was
Andre Breton's birthday.
posted over 50 items of great audible interest yesterday-
and *then* she mentioned it was
Andre Breton's birthday.
Untitled Mood: A Note (3/7/86)
Now and then, on the occasion of a flu or an emotionally
upsetting experience, the whole of life, including all the
complex interweavings of values, beliefs, pleasures,
aspirations, relationships, comes under question. Whether it is
exhaustion or irritability that does this I can't be sure,
but it is certain that a particular perspective, occluded under ordinary
circumstances, becomes more lucid. It is like the quality
of light on a changeably cloudy day: objects take on
an otherwise dull cast, less sharp, somehow less
determined, blending into each other by dint of shaded or
hidden edges. Perhaps partly because of this effect and
the unease and instability of shadowed states
of mind and time, thoughts tend to turn
inward, a kind of quietness, even silence, envelops the
inner life and for a certain while all that had just previously
seemed firm and solid now appears
provisional, shapeless, haphazard, inexact, unfinal.
It would be more comprehensible if thoughts were always
like a song's refrain, repeating themselves long enough
to be remembered, rhythmically even and predictable,
yet charmingly circumscribed and framed, allowing for
neat transitions from one state to another. But like
erratic gusts of wind, or sudden shifts in sunlight
breaking through gathering and moving clouds, thoughts
are just as likely to jump around in unusual ways when the inner
weather is erratic. As often happens when such events occur
and when an unmistakeable minor key emerges, a bleak
perspective may momentarily condition the inner view; a feeling,
perhaps uncomfortable, and which can
easily graduate to actual sorrow, glides the mind
along some specific narrrow furrows to memories
of difficult periods, awkward eras of doubt,
confusion and otherwise oppositional moods and
forces. Generally firm
convictions appear ephemeral; plans &
goals are now enveloped in fog, appearing to
move away from the mind's eye, leaving in their
wake a growing gulf and emptiness. This movement
leaves a blankness, a break in the everyday inner dialogue.
A space is hollowed out and some time is somehow
circumscribed for something strange to
happen. Instead of leaning forward in an attitude of
more or less pleasurable anticipation of future satisfaction,
interest or excitement, the mind hesitates between
present past and future. It is a stillness, a sense
of calm before the storm. A similar
mood has often been described by people who
live in places that are frequented by long periods of
cloudiness, humidity and gathering storms. There
are names for this type of prolonged, uncertain
weather I've heard employed in Southern France, I think, and Italy,
but I can't remember them now, perhaps one of my readers
will supply an example . Sometimes just having a name
for things can help to remove a bit of the
quality of impending doom that surrounds such unpleasant
admixtures of anxiety and possible excitement; the latter
I attribute almost completely to the beneficial effects of
the possibility of sudden change.
For it is change that pain sometimes
precedes, releases, torrential rains, spasmodic
bursts of thought lost in memories & hidden yearnings may thus be
forcibly displaced from their secret nests- flying out &
scattering like frightened birds heading towards
previously untouched ground.
Now and then, on the occasion of a flu or an emotionally
upsetting experience, the whole of life, including all the
complex interweavings of values, beliefs, pleasures,
aspirations, relationships, comes under question. Whether it is
exhaustion or irritability that does this I can't be sure,
but it is certain that a particular perspective, occluded under ordinary
circumstances, becomes more lucid. It is like the quality
of light on a changeably cloudy day: objects take on
an otherwise dull cast, less sharp, somehow less
determined, blending into each other by dint of shaded or
hidden edges. Perhaps partly because of this effect and
the unease and instability of shadowed states
of mind and time, thoughts tend to turn
inward, a kind of quietness, even silence, envelops the
inner life and for a certain while all that had just previously
seemed firm and solid now appears
provisional, shapeless, haphazard, inexact, unfinal.
It would be more comprehensible if thoughts were always
like a song's refrain, repeating themselves long enough
to be remembered, rhythmically even and predictable,
yet charmingly circumscribed and framed, allowing for
neat transitions from one state to another. But like
erratic gusts of wind, or sudden shifts in sunlight
breaking through gathering and moving clouds, thoughts
are just as likely to jump around in unusual ways when the inner
weather is erratic. As often happens when such events occur
and when an unmistakeable minor key emerges, a bleak
perspective may momentarily condition the inner view; a feeling,
perhaps uncomfortable, and which can
easily graduate to actual sorrow, glides the mind
along some specific narrrow furrows to memories
of difficult periods, awkward eras of doubt,
confusion and otherwise oppositional moods and
forces. Generally firm
convictions appear ephemeral; plans &
goals are now enveloped in fog, appearing to
move away from the mind's eye, leaving in their
wake a growing gulf and emptiness. This movement
leaves a blankness, a break in the everyday inner dialogue.
A space is hollowed out and some time is somehow
circumscribed for something strange to
happen. Instead of leaning forward in an attitude of
more or less pleasurable anticipation of future satisfaction,
interest or excitement, the mind hesitates between
present past and future. It is a stillness, a sense
of calm before the storm. A similar
mood has often been described by people who
live in places that are frequented by long periods of
cloudiness, humidity and gathering storms. There
are names for this type of prolonged, uncertain
weather I've heard employed in Southern France, I think, and Italy,
but I can't remember them now, perhaps one of my readers
will supply an example . Sometimes just having a name
for things can help to remove a bit of the
quality of impending doom that surrounds such unpleasant
admixtures of anxiety and possible excitement; the latter
I attribute almost completely to the beneficial effects of
the possibility of sudden change.
For it is change that pain sometimes
precedes, releases, torrential rains, spasmodic
bursts of thought lost in memories & hidden yearnings may thus be
forcibly displaced from their secret nests- flying out &
scattering like frightened birds heading towards
previously untouched ground.
Wednesday, February 18
"2. Everything immediately starts me thinking. Every joke
in the comic papers, every memory of Flaubert and
Grillparzer, the sight of the nightshirts on my parents'
beds, laid out for the night, Max's marriage. Yesterday
my sister said, "All the married people (that we know)
are happy. I don't understand it," this remark
started me thinking. I became afraid again.
3. I must be alone a great deal. What I accomplished
was only the result of being alone.
4. I hate everything that does not relate to literature,
conversations bore me (even if they relate to literature),
to visit people bores me, the sorrows and joys of my
relatives bore me to the very soul. Conversation takes
the importance, the seriousness, the truth out of everything
I think..."
*I Am I Memory Come Alive: Autobiographical Writings
of Franz Kafka*
edited by Nahum N. Glatzer
Schocken, 1974
in the comic papers, every memory of Flaubert and
Grillparzer, the sight of the nightshirts on my parents'
beds, laid out for the night, Max's marriage. Yesterday
my sister said, "All the married people (that we know)
are happy. I don't understand it," this remark
started me thinking. I became afraid again.
3. I must be alone a great deal. What I accomplished
was only the result of being alone.
4. I hate everything that does not relate to literature,
conversations bore me (even if they relate to literature),
to visit people bores me, the sorrows and joys of my
relatives bore me to the very soul. Conversation takes
the importance, the seriousness, the truth out of everything
I think..."
*I Am I Memory Come Alive: Autobiographical Writings
of Franz Kafka*
edited by Nahum N. Glatzer
Schocken, 1974
"This is the reason modern war is so monstrous:
its terrible reality is not seen in itself, but only as
part of the noise of radio. It does not stand
concretely before the human mind in itself and
therefore it is not properly controlled. Perhaps
war is becoming more and more violent and
terrible today because it wants to be seen as
what it really is, to be seen quite clearly as the
terrible thing it really is and not as a mere part
of the noise of the radio.
In times in which the power of silence was
still effective, war was heard from the
background of silence, and against this background it
became absolutely clear. There was still an
elemental simplicity in its terrors, and its noise
subsided again in the death that it brought in its
train. In these earlier forms of war man simply
suffered it in silence. It was not an object for
discussion, but an elemental experience.
Today, war is not even a rebellion against
silence; it is merely the biggest whirl of noise
in the general noisy bustle of life. If war reports
were not blaring out from the radio every
minute of the day the cannon fire and the wails
of the dying would be heard everywhere. In the
silence the wails of the dying would be heard
and they would weigh down even the sound of
the guns. In the silence the war would be heard
so loud that it would become intolerable. But
the constant noise of the war reports levels down
the sound of the guns and the cries of the dying
to the general and universal noise. War becomes
a part of the general noise of radio, adapted to
it; and as a result it is taken for granted like
everything that appears in the noise of radio.
It is as though the many and great deaths that
take place today were an attempt to restore a
zone of silence.When the noise-machine reaches
a maximum as it does today, then silence shows
itself as a maximum of death."
Max Picard
*The World of Silence*
Gateway, 1961
pps 202-203
its terrible reality is not seen in itself, but only as
part of the noise of radio. It does not stand
concretely before the human mind in itself and
therefore it is not properly controlled. Perhaps
war is becoming more and more violent and
terrible today because it wants to be seen as
what it really is, to be seen quite clearly as the
terrible thing it really is and not as a mere part
of the noise of the radio.
In times in which the power of silence was
still effective, war was heard from the
background of silence, and against this background it
became absolutely clear. There was still an
elemental simplicity in its terrors, and its noise
subsided again in the death that it brought in its
train. In these earlier forms of war man simply
suffered it in silence. It was not an object for
discussion, but an elemental experience.
Today, war is not even a rebellion against
silence; it is merely the biggest whirl of noise
in the general noisy bustle of life. If war reports
were not blaring out from the radio every
minute of the day the cannon fire and the wails
of the dying would be heard everywhere. In the
silence the wails of the dying would be heard
and they would weigh down even the sound of
the guns. In the silence the war would be heard
so loud that it would become intolerable. But
the constant noise of the war reports levels down
the sound of the guns and the cries of the dying
to the general and universal noise. War becomes
a part of the general noise of radio, adapted to
it; and as a result it is taken for granted like
everything that appears in the noise of radio.
It is as though the many and great deaths that
take place today were an attempt to restore a
zone of silence.When the noise-machine reaches
a maximum as it does today, then silence shows
itself as a maximum of death."
Max Picard
*The World of Silence*
Gateway, 1961
pps 202-203
Notebook: 7/26/86
All beauty may be measured by committment
Not that the sudden and strong may not leap into attention
With wit, verve and gallantry
But what is not with us everyday, as much as we remember,
Is really not yet quite ours again
So the first thing the poet must learn is to wait
And wait and wait
Wait by the rain and by the tides
By the long, lonely thoughts and the heartbroken night
By the chills of indifference and the vanishing words
Of the thoughtless, which ring again and again through
The lonely silence."Return to words" she said
Return to the way they make a thought seem special
To remind you that something best forgotten can still be summoned.
Take for yourself the words that just come
Blurted out to a friend on a bus
Whispered in your mind as you go to bed
As you turn in your seat to hear what is said.
All beauty may be measured by committment
Not that the sudden and strong may not leap into attention
With wit, verve and gallantry
But what is not with us everyday, as much as we remember,
Is really not yet quite ours again
So the first thing the poet must learn is to wait
And wait and wait
Wait by the rain and by the tides
By the long, lonely thoughts and the heartbroken night
By the chills of indifference and the vanishing words
Of the thoughtless, which ring again and again through
The lonely silence."Return to words" she said
Return to the way they make a thought seem special
To remind you that something best forgotten can still be summoned.
Take for yourself the words that just come
Blurted out to a friend on a bus
Whispered in your mind as you go to bed
As you turn in your seat to hear what is said.
"...And if no one reads me, have I wasted my time,
entertaining myself for so many idle hours with such
useful and agreeable thoughts? In modeling this picture
upon myself, I have had to fashion and compose myself
so often to bring myself out, that the model itself has to
some extent.grown firm and taken shape. Painting myself
for others, I have painted my inward self with colors clearer
than my original ones. I hve no more made my book than
my book has made me- a book cosubstantial with its author,
concerned with my own self., an integral part of my life, not
concerned with some third-hand, extraneous purpose, like
all other books. Have I wasted my time by taking stock
of myself so continually, so carefully? For those who go over
themselves only in their minds and occasionally in speech
do not penetrate to essentials in their examination as does
a man who makes that his study, his work, and his trade, who
binds himself to keep an enduring account, with all his faith,
with, with all his strength.
Indeed, the most delightful pleasures are digested inwardly,
avoid leaving any trace, and avoid the sight not not only of
the public but of any other person....
In order to train my fancy even to dream with some order
and purpose, and in order to keep it from losing its way
and moving with the wind, there is nothing like embodying
and registering all the little thoughts that come to it. I
listen to my reveries because I have to record them."
from *The Complete Essays of Montaigne*
translated by Donald A. Frame
Stanford, 1965
p. 504-505
entertaining myself for so many idle hours with such
useful and agreeable thoughts? In modeling this picture
upon myself, I have had to fashion and compose myself
so often to bring myself out, that the model itself has to
some extent.grown firm and taken shape. Painting myself
for others, I have painted my inward self with colors clearer
than my original ones. I hve no more made my book than
my book has made me- a book cosubstantial with its author,
concerned with my own self., an integral part of my life, not
concerned with some third-hand, extraneous purpose, like
all other books. Have I wasted my time by taking stock
of myself so continually, so carefully? For those who go over
themselves only in their minds and occasionally in speech
do not penetrate to essentials in their examination as does
a man who makes that his study, his work, and his trade, who
binds himself to keep an enduring account, with all his faith,
with, with all his strength.
Indeed, the most delightful pleasures are digested inwardly,
avoid leaving any trace, and avoid the sight not not only of
the public but of any other person....
In order to train my fancy even to dream with some order
and purpose, and in order to keep it from losing its way
and moving with the wind, there is nothing like embodying
and registering all the little thoughts that come to it. I
listen to my reveries because I have to record them."
from *The Complete Essays of Montaigne*
translated by Donald A. Frame
Stanford, 1965
p. 504-505
Tuesday, February 17
This just in! Josh Corey's {click here} book *Selah*
reviewed in Time Out and
wins Barrow Street award judged by Robert Pinsky-
Barrow Street {click here}
reviewed in Time Out and
wins Barrow Street award judged by Robert Pinsky-
Barrow Street {click here}
from *Amiel's Journal*
15th November, 1876
"...On my way through the book I perceived
many new applications of my law of irony.
Every epoch has two contradictory
aspirations which are logically antagonistic
and practically associated. Thus the
philosophic materialism of the last century
was the champion of liberty. And at the
present moment we find Darwinians in
love with equality, while Darwinism itself
is based on the right of the stronger.
Absurdity is interwoven with life: real
beings are animated contradictions, absurdities
brought into action. Harmony with self would
mean peace, repose and perhaps immobility.
By far the greater number of human beings
can only conceive action, or practise it,
under the form of war- a war of competition
at home, a bloody war of nations abroad, and
finally war with self. So that life is a perpetual
combat; it wills that which it wills not, and wills
not what it wills. Hence what I call the law of
irony- that is to say, the refutation of the self
by itself, the concrete realisation of the absurd.
Is such a result inevitable? I think not. Struggle
is the caricature of harmony, and harmony, which
is the association of contraries, is also a principle
of movement. War is a brutal and fierce means
of pacification; it means the suppression of
resistance by the destruction or enslavement
of the conquered. Mutual respect would be a
better way out of difficulties. Conflict is the
result of the selfishness which will acknowledge
no other limit than that of external force. The
laws of animality govern almost the whole of
history. The history of man is essentially zoological;
it becomes human late in the day, and then only in the
beautiful souls alive to justice, goodness, enthusiasm,
and devotion. The angel shows itself rarely and with
difficulty through the highly-organized brute. The divine
aureole plays only with a dim and fugitive light around
the brows of the world's governing race.
The Christian nations offer many illustrations of the
law of irony. They profess the citizenship of heaven,
the exclusive worship of external good; and never has
the hungry pursuit of perishable joys, the love of this
world, or the thirst for conquest, been stronger or
more active than among these nations. Their official
motto is exactly the opposite of their real aspiration.
Under a false flag they play the smuggler with a droll
case of conscience. Is the fraud a conscious one? No-
it is but an application of the law of irony. The deception
is so common a one that the delinquent becomes
unconscious of it. Every nation gives itself the lie
in the course of its daily life, and not one feels the
ridicule of its position..."
(p 213-215)
15th November, 1876
"...On my way through the book I perceived
many new applications of my law of irony.
Every epoch has two contradictory
aspirations which are logically antagonistic
and practically associated. Thus the
philosophic materialism of the last century
was the champion of liberty. And at the
present moment we find Darwinians in
love with equality, while Darwinism itself
is based on the right of the stronger.
Absurdity is interwoven with life: real
beings are animated contradictions, absurdities
brought into action. Harmony with self would
mean peace, repose and perhaps immobility.
By far the greater number of human beings
can only conceive action, or practise it,
under the form of war- a war of competition
at home, a bloody war of nations abroad, and
finally war with self. So that life is a perpetual
combat; it wills that which it wills not, and wills
not what it wills. Hence what I call the law of
irony- that is to say, the refutation of the self
by itself, the concrete realisation of the absurd.
Is such a result inevitable? I think not. Struggle
is the caricature of harmony, and harmony, which
is the association of contraries, is also a principle
of movement. War is a brutal and fierce means
of pacification; it means the suppression of
resistance by the destruction or enslavement
of the conquered. Mutual respect would be a
better way out of difficulties. Conflict is the
result of the selfishness which will acknowledge
no other limit than that of external force. The
laws of animality govern almost the whole of
history. The history of man is essentially zoological;
it becomes human late in the day, and then only in the
beautiful souls alive to justice, goodness, enthusiasm,
and devotion. The angel shows itself rarely and with
difficulty through the highly-organized brute. The divine
aureole plays only with a dim and fugitive light around
the brows of the world's governing race.
The Christian nations offer many illustrations of the
law of irony. They profess the citizenship of heaven,
the exclusive worship of external good; and never has
the hungry pursuit of perishable joys, the love of this
world, or the thirst for conquest, been stronger or
more active than among these nations. Their official
motto is exactly the opposite of their real aspiration.
Under a false flag they play the smuggler with a droll
case of conscience. Is the fraud a conscious one? No-
it is but an application of the law of irony. The deception
is so common a one that the delinquent becomes
unconscious of it. Every nation gives itself the lie
in the course of its daily life, and not one feels the
ridicule of its position..."
(p 213-215)
from an interview with Peter Riley
conducted by Kevin Corcoran
pubished in Reality Studios
Volume 8
edited by Ken Edwards, 1986
"Ken Corcoran: so where does politics come in? You
suggest in *LInes on the Liver* that oil is using us, but
surely that's power, somebody owns that oil...Petrol
is cheap in North America. Look at the Middle East. They've
got Marines over there and 200 of them have been blown
up this morning. They're human decisions. I don't understand
your geo-economic metaphysics or something."
"Peter Riley: It's the people manipulating the oil who
are being used by it, "us" in the sense not only that they
are human but that they exert economic pressure on
everybody else. They want to be used by the oil, and it's
because of their mindlessness and advantage that humanity
is degraded to the mere tool of a geophysical energy source.
The situation with nuclear power is exactly similar: we become
victims of it because powermongers see advantage in it (and by
victims I don't mean the big bang, I mean the constant tension)
and use it against morality. But all I can see is vast institutions full
of people running around and destroying themselves beause that's
what nuclear fission wants them to do- they turn themselves into
channels for its emergence. So mankind subserves the power of
the earth..."
conducted by Kevin Corcoran
pubished in Reality Studios
Volume 8
edited by Ken Edwards, 1986
"Ken Corcoran: so where does politics come in? You
suggest in *LInes on the Liver* that oil is using us, but
surely that's power, somebody owns that oil...Petrol
is cheap in North America. Look at the Middle East. They've
got Marines over there and 200 of them have been blown
up this morning. They're human decisions. I don't understand
your geo-economic metaphysics or something."
"Peter Riley: It's the people manipulating the oil who
are being used by it, "us" in the sense not only that they
are human but that they exert economic pressure on
everybody else. They want to be used by the oil, and it's
because of their mindlessness and advantage that humanity
is degraded to the mere tool of a geophysical energy source.
The situation with nuclear power is exactly similar: we become
victims of it because powermongers see advantage in it (and by
victims I don't mean the big bang, I mean the constant tension)
and use it against morality. But all I can see is vast institutions full
of people running around and destroying themselves beause that's
what nuclear fission wants them to do- they turn themselves into
channels for its emergence. So mankind subserves the power of
the earth..."
from *Semiotics of Art* edited by
Ladislav Matejka and Irwin R. Titunik
MIT, 1984
"....Thus, in poetry, as against informational language,
there is a reversal in the hierarchy of relations:
in the latter attention is focussed above all on
the relation, important from the practical point of view,
between reference and reality, whereas for the former
it is the relationship between the reference and the
context incorporating it that stands to the fore. This
is not to say that informational reference is absolutely
exempt from any effect of the context or that, on the
other hand, poetic reference is excluded from any contact
with reality. All that is involved is a shift, so to speak,
in the center of gravity. As for poetic reference, the
weakening of its immediate relationship with reality
makes of it an artistic device. That means that the
poetic reference is not evaluated in terms of an
extralinguistic mission but with relation to the role
imposed upon it in the organization of the work's
semantic unity."
Ladislav Matejka and Irwin R. Titunik
MIT, 1984
"....Thus, in poetry, as against informational language,
there is a reversal in the hierarchy of relations:
in the latter attention is focussed above all on
the relation, important from the practical point of view,
between reference and reality, whereas for the former
it is the relationship between the reference and the
context incorporating it that stands to the fore. This
is not to say that informational reference is absolutely
exempt from any effect of the context or that, on the
other hand, poetic reference is excluded from any contact
with reality. All that is involved is a shift, so to speak,
in the center of gravity. As for poetic reference, the
weakening of its immediate relationship with reality
makes of it an artistic device. That means that the
poetic reference is not evaluated in terms of an
extralinguistic mission but with relation to the role
imposed upon it in the organization of the work's
semantic unity."
Monday, February 16
Notebook 8//8/98
It comes
down to little
specks of things.
Even the smallest
particle of time
can be
crucial. Like
an accordian , life
expands and contracts.
For example,
a bit of a lesson might
be gained in experiencing a
mistake. Such
contractions and
expansions emit,
over time,
considerable amount
of energy.
I wonder
what the relationship
is between such
tiny specks or
particles of things
and the constant
expansion of time which
is called "forever."
Except as an
idea, whatever
forever is can only
be understood in
relation to the
tiniest portion
of time.
"Anything might
be transformation
if you would only
allow yourself to
complete it."
He had come to
distrust any
kind of of explanation.
Or is that a way
to talk about
what you might
talk about in
everyday conversation.
For example,
some sentences may
be incomplete,
in verbal terms.
But the nuances
of a person's
gestures and tone
of voice- not
to speak of
years of even
decades of
exchange...
Always, some
things are too
much to say
or too little.
Then, more and
more things are
too much to say
or too
little.
The glances
may become
embarassing.
More and more
and eventually you
turn to your
violin.
You take your
violin in your
hands and play
it. As you play
it, you're creating
the melody. You've
put on a tape
recorder.
Unbelievably, you
realize as you
are playing that
you are actually
creating music. As
as result, later,
when you put
it down, you
suspect very
strongly that you''ll
come back to it.
As you are
playing, you
realize that the
opening chords
were very
important. You go
back and listen
to them. You
go on your way
after them, but
now and then you
come back to
them.
To know how
to do someting
is to know what
the constituants
of the doing might
be. These might
be many difficult
kinds of steps,
but there will
always be steps..
Sometimes there
is an apprehension
that precedes
steps. The step
is visualized,
imagined, and
anxiety
creeps in . On
some level,
however slightly,
danger has
been realized, or
rather, recognized.
There might be
hardly any
expectable order
in the events
that precede
the steps.
*
The piece we
listened to this
afternoon is
of the type we
may call
epansive, or
ever-expanding.
Constant pushing
on, but calmly,
the oboe glides
the violins to
places where they
did not expect
to go. By means
of a kind of
gentle layering,
or playful
challenging, the
violins, those
so subtly sighing
sopranos,echo or
convince their
companions, the
woodwinds. The
ending leads
to nothing more
astonishing, or
tragic, than a
nap. But such
a lyrical
seductive
flute, that are
memories and
words have
vanished, both
happy and sad.
(Debussy's prelude,
on the radio,
the second hello
from him today).
Always comes
down to a question
of meaning...
Can much be
made of the
distinctioin
between
meaning and
significance?
Such questions
can enter us into the
muddy area,
the place between
Smithson writes
about.
Solitude for sale
Easy as 1 2 3
I love you
You love me
Easy as 1 2 3
It comes
down to little
specks of things.
Even the smallest
particle of time
can be
crucial. Like
an accordian , life
expands and contracts.
For example,
a bit of a lesson might
be gained in experiencing a
mistake. Such
contractions and
expansions emit,
over time,
considerable amount
of energy.
I wonder
what the relationship
is between such
tiny specks or
particles of things
and the constant
expansion of time which
is called "forever."
Except as an
idea, whatever
forever is can only
be understood in
relation to the
tiniest portion
of time.
"Anything might
be transformation
if you would only
allow yourself to
complete it."
He had come to
distrust any
kind of of explanation.
Or is that a way
to talk about
what you might
talk about in
everyday conversation.
For example,
some sentences may
be incomplete,
in verbal terms.
But the nuances
of a person's
gestures and tone
of voice- not
to speak of
years of even
decades of
exchange...
Always, some
things are too
much to say
or too little.
Then, more and
more things are
too much to say
or too
little.
The glances
may become
embarassing.
More and more
and eventually you
turn to your
violin.
You take your
violin in your
hands and play
it. As you play
it, you're creating
the melody. You've
put on a tape
recorder.
Unbelievably, you
realize as you
are playing that
you are actually
creating music. As
as result, later,
when you put
it down, you
suspect very
strongly that you''ll
come back to it.
As you are
playing, you
realize that the
opening chords
were very
important. You go
back and listen
to them. You
go on your way
after them, but
now and then you
come back to
them.
To know how
to do someting
is to know what
the constituants
of the doing might
be. These might
be many difficult
kinds of steps,
but there will
always be steps..
Sometimes there
is an apprehension
that precedes
steps. The step
is visualized,
imagined, and
anxiety
creeps in . On
some level,
however slightly,
danger has
been realized, or
rather, recognized.
There might be
hardly any
expectable order
in the events
that precede
the steps.
*
The piece we
listened to this
afternoon is
of the type we
may call
epansive, or
ever-expanding.
Constant pushing
on, but calmly,
the oboe glides
the violins to
places where they
did not expect
to go. By means
of a kind of
gentle layering,
or playful
challenging, the
violins, those
so subtly sighing
sopranos,echo or
convince their
companions, the
woodwinds. The
ending leads
to nothing more
astonishing, or
tragic, than a
nap. But such
a lyrical
seductive
flute, that are
memories and
words have
vanished, both
happy and sad.
(Debussy's prelude,
on the radio,
the second hello
from him today).
Always comes
down to a question
of meaning...
Can much be
made of the
distinctioin
between
meaning and
significance?
Such questions
can enter us into the
muddy area,
the place between
Smithson writes
about.
Solitude for sale
Easy as 1 2 3
I love you
You love me
Easy as 1 2 3
Sunday, February 15
Still sorting books, selling books, giving them
away-friends are starting to come by to look
at the free box. Last night couldn't sleep-
got up and read Gill Ott's *Public Domain*
(Potes and Poets Press, 1989). I was moved
by what a beautiful and fascinating book it is,
child of the high era of L=A poetry, it stands
as one of the most insightful and rereadable
books of prose poetry
of the era. I went to sleep very sad that I did
not get to know Gill Ott better. The same for Joe
Ceravolo, Daniel Davidson, Ramez Quereshi,
and also Frank Kuenstler,
who one day a few years I tried to track
down through a close friend of his, only to discover
his memorial was slated for that day. Not to
speak of my forgotten ticket to Stephen Spender's
last reading in this country.
away-friends are starting to come by to look
at the free box. Last night couldn't sleep-
got up and read Gill Ott's *Public Domain*
(Potes and Poets Press, 1989). I was moved
by what a beautiful and fascinating book it is,
child of the high era of L=A poetry, it stands
as one of the most insightful and rereadable
books of prose poetry
of the era. I went to sleep very sad that I did
not get to know Gill Ott better. The same for Joe
Ceravolo, Daniel Davidson, Ramez Quereshi,
and also Frank Kuenstler,
who one day a few years I tried to track
down through a close friend of his, only to discover
his memorial was slated for that day. Not to
speak of my forgotten ticket to Stephen Spender's
last reading in this country.
Friday, February 13
Bemsha Swing (Jonathan Mayhew) {click here} makes the point that
"an obscure novel by Warsh or
Fanny Howe or Michael Brownstein"
might be every bit as good as any
mainstream novelist and I agree.
Now that I'm packing to move one
of the books I let go of was
"Self-Reliance" by Michael Brownstein.
In its ability to evoke the 70's, the
New York literary scene in particular,
I can think of no better source. Along
with "The Ice Storm" by Rick Moody, this
book is an excellent primer for 70's
time travel.
"an obscure novel by Warsh or
Fanny Howe or Michael Brownstein"
might be every bit as good as any
mainstream novelist and I agree.
Now that I'm packing to move one
of the books I let go of was
"Self-Reliance" by Michael Brownstein.
In its ability to evoke the 70's, the
New York literary scene in particular,
I can think of no better source. Along
with "The Ice Storm" by Rick Moody, this
book is an excellent primer for 70's
time travel.
Notebook: 5/16/88
[scribbled on a mimeographed agency memo
"Training Reaction Form" dated May 16, 1988;
i.e., "The purpose of the training was clear-
strongly agree, agree, don't know, disagree,
strongly disagree, etc]
Story with *bureaucratic* atmosphere.
Bells, loudspeaker announcements,
*all the accoutrements*-
Wonderful example: *loudspeaker going
while speaker is speaker*
*all such* "contradictions"
qualities which press me
*against* bureaucracy
Rooms w/chipped paint-
odd colors- pink
Collage (old peeling off wall)
plastic couches
graffitti on walls
filthy bathrooms
sounds of a toilet running & running
phone ringing & ringing
[scribbled on a mimeographed agency memo
"Training Reaction Form" dated May 16, 1988;
i.e., "The purpose of the training was clear-
strongly agree, agree, don't know, disagree,
strongly disagree, etc]
Story with *bureaucratic* atmosphere.
Bells, loudspeaker announcements,
*all the accoutrements*-
Wonderful example: *loudspeaker going
while speaker is speaker*
*all such* "contradictions"
qualities which press me
*against* bureaucracy
Rooms w/chipped paint-
odd colors- pink
Collage (old peeling off wall)
plastic couches
graffitti on walls
filthy bathrooms
sounds of a toilet running & running
phone ringing & ringing
Thursday, February 12
Wednesday, February 11
notebook: 8/1/86
As long as you live
You can wait for your chance
The unwritten poem exists
Like an imagined dance
**
notebook: 10/3/83
in the event of solitude
after a time of waiting
purer tones will follow
the precise hour
is vague
the time of collection
varied
after a pure stop
vanish
listen
place things back
put them in order
collect your thoughts
organize your time
disrupt the interval
bend time to follow
circle facts
with varied tones
in the surest interval
repetition is foregrounded
mostly by memory
this is precisely matched
to bring the shrill tones
to a halt
freedom
is not a
counter-command
the release
is more than
the subtotal
characteristic in cities
is the primary concentration of value
what remains is more than
the simple dictation of virtues
to release what is there
it is insufficient to let go
or the secondary resonance
will occur out of phase
As long as you live
You can wait for your chance
The unwritten poem exists
Like an imagined dance
**
notebook: 10/3/83
in the event of solitude
after a time of waiting
purer tones will follow
the precise hour
is vague
the time of collection
varied
after a pure stop
vanish
listen
place things back
put them in order
collect your thoughts
organize your time
disrupt the interval
bend time to follow
circle facts
with varied tones
in the surest interval
repetition is foregrounded
mostly by memory
this is precisely matched
to bring the shrill tones
to a halt
freedom
is not a
counter-command
the release
is more than
the subtotal
characteristic in cities
is the primary concentration of value
what remains is more than
the simple dictation of virtues
to release what is there
it is insufficient to let go
or the secondary resonance
will occur out of phase
::fait accompl:: opened a year ago today with this posting.
Tuesday, February 11 ::
I take it as a given that the past, present and future are one. One big bang, hey? This is not meant to imply some kind of fatalism. I can remember, hear, observe and predict: source of what admittedly sketchy presentiments. previews, protections I might obtain. It is a vantage point, a perch, a post to watch out from. "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." (F.Scott Fitzgerald).
Special thanks to Ron Silliman and Gary Sullivan. Welcome, all: readers, surfers, bloggers, friends.
:: Nick Piombino 7:38 PM [+] ::
. . . . . .
Tuesday, February 11 ::
I take it as a given that the past, present and future are one. One big bang, hey? This is not meant to imply some kind of fatalism. I can remember, hear, observe and predict: source of what admittedly sketchy presentiments. previews, protections I might obtain. It is a vantage point, a perch, a post to watch out from. "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." (F.Scott Fitzgerald).
Special thanks to Ron Silliman and Gary Sullivan. Welcome, all: readers, surfers, bloggers, friends.
:: Nick Piombino 7:38 PM [+] ::
. . . . . .
Tuesday, February 10
Notebook: 11/2/87
If one hates systems enough, one
is in danger of accepting no system
at all. This choice quickly leads to
anarchy and stasis. And stasis, no
matter how monumental, is passed by.
Otherwise,how could one have
seen so much moving by so quick?...
In the past we had truths, now we
have quotes. The aura once attached to
words is now eroding, and with these
auras all the past beliefs.
The past romanticisms, attachments, all
eroding. One holds belief passionately
long enough and the shape one's reality
will conform to it. In this transition many
familiar things will disappear. Didn't
Walter Benjamin look for the pores of
revolution in the changing
values of substantives, as revealed
in the auras around an object?
11/4/87
The religions of the future
will perhaps concern themselves
with the art of sharing.
11/7/87
Deciding is always the hardest
part of any action.
11/11/87
The world the way we seem to
remember it. Then I conceived this
as a narrative- someone comes here
from a world in which chance plays
very little part- a much more
relaxed world. Coming here and observing
the life of a poet is his assignment-
but meanwhile the idea that someone
can die out of mismanaging their own
actuality as bodies is incredible
to this person.
11/12
Numbers, like words, offer incomplete meanings.
There is a residue of mistrust
That gathers around our most faithful estimates.
Quantity confuses maybe because
It is inexchangeable with quality.
In the long run quality and quantity cannot connect.
They separate, like water and oil.
Numbers tell is nothing about what is good.
They speak mainly of what is left.
If one hates systems enough, one
is in danger of accepting no system
at all. This choice quickly leads to
anarchy and stasis. And stasis, no
matter how monumental, is passed by.
Otherwise,how could one have
seen so much moving by so quick?...
In the past we had truths, now we
have quotes. The aura once attached to
words is now eroding, and with these
auras all the past beliefs.
The past romanticisms, attachments, all
eroding. One holds belief passionately
long enough and the shape one's reality
will conform to it. In this transition many
familiar things will disappear. Didn't
Walter Benjamin look for the pores of
revolution in the changing
values of substantives, as revealed
in the auras around an object?
11/4/87
The religions of the future
will perhaps concern themselves
with the art of sharing.
11/7/87
Deciding is always the hardest
part of any action.
11/11/87
The world the way we seem to
remember it. Then I conceived this
as a narrative- someone comes here
from a world in which chance plays
very little part- a much more
relaxed world. Coming here and observing
the life of a poet is his assignment-
but meanwhile the idea that someone
can die out of mismanaging their own
actuality as bodies is incredible
to this person.
11/12
Numbers, like words, offer incomplete meanings.
There is a residue of mistrust
That gathers around our most faithful estimates.
Quantity confuses maybe because
It is inexchangeable with quality.
In the long run quality and quantity cannot connect.
They separate, like water and oil.
Numbers tell is nothing about what is good.
They speak mainly of what is left.
Notebook: 12/11/87
Key Grip (Poem)
All elements come forth to play
their role in the existence of the
poem.This is the essential state of'
equivalence which underlies the
poem's actuality and it is from this
state of reduced specificity
that such a diversity of meanings and
uses can interact and can continue to
cohabit the same bounded system.
In order to continue to remain
actual, any particular thing must repeat
itself or be repeated indefinitely. This is not
true of a more general system which may be
maintained by its presence through
the entire structure. Very
likely the
overall continuity between substantiality
and experience resides in the intermixture
of fluctuating states that
confounds the entrance of new
types of conglomorations of
interacting forces at the boundary zone
of the object.
Later:
It is the year 2142. A letter is
being written to the International Society
of Psycho-Cybernetic Counselors.
Glen Linang is the the Senior
Dean of the International
Society. For the past two years he
has been studying the writing of a
small group of writers in the late 20th
Century. He had discovered the writings
by accidentally coming across a piece of antique
"software" whilch contained the key to
a record keeping system which lay
unused for decades in the City College
of New York library.
12/1
The pathos of life lies in the disparity
between the actuality of a specific thing
we are focussed on at any given moment
and the fact of life itself.
Then again, this observation when
depended on to justify too much can
dampen the sense of reality.
The other is a melody
which exists most of all in its own right.
Key Grip (Poem)
All elements come forth to play
their role in the existence of the
poem.This is the essential state of'
equivalence which underlies the
poem's actuality and it is from this
state of reduced specificity
that such a diversity of meanings and
uses can interact and can continue to
cohabit the same bounded system.
In order to continue to remain
actual, any particular thing must repeat
itself or be repeated indefinitely. This is not
true of a more general system which may be
maintained by its presence through
the entire structure. Very
likely the
overall continuity between substantiality
and experience resides in the intermixture
of fluctuating states that
confounds the entrance of new
types of conglomorations of
interacting forces at the boundary zone
of the object.
Later:
It is the year 2142. A letter is
being written to the International Society
of Psycho-Cybernetic Counselors.
Glen Linang is the the Senior
Dean of the International
Society. For the past two years he
has been studying the writing of a
small group of writers in the late 20th
Century. He had discovered the writings
by accidentally coming across a piece of antique
"software" whilch contained the key to
a record keeping system which lay
unused for decades in the City College
of New York library.
12/1
The pathos of life lies in the disparity
between the actuality of a specific thing
we are focussed on at any given moment
and the fact of life itself.
Then again, this observation when
depended on to justify too much can
dampen the sense of reality.
The other is a melody
which exists most of all in its own right.
Monday, February 9
Only twenty minutes left of Monday but it is still
Marianne Shaneen's {click here}
birthday. Happy Birthday, Marianne!
Marianne Shaneen's {click here}
birthday. Happy Birthday, Marianne!
"*Praise of Aphorisms*-A good aphorism is too hard for the
tooth of time and is not consumed by all millenia, although it
serves every time for nourishment: thus it is the great paradox
of literature, the intransitory and the changing, the food that
always remains esteemed, like salt, and never loses its savor,
as even that does."
Friedrich Nietzsche
tooth of time and is not consumed by all millenia, although it
serves every time for nourishment: thus it is the great paradox
of literature, the intransitory and the changing, the food that
always remains esteemed, like salt, and never loses its savor,
as even that does."
Friedrich Nietzsche
Notebook: 12/15/87
Teaching and movement are instincts.
Light and dark are contained
in their images.
Light is a constant thing that
comes and goes. Dark is
in a hurry and is (always) inevitable.
On account of light we are not
necessarily watchful. With dark
advancing we are forced to advance.
12/26/87
One of and one. (Poem)
The Age of Hoots (Poem)
12/27/87
Sitting in the most relaxed position
I can find, I go into my
professional poet's revery.This
revery acts as a direction-
finder, in it I become a sail
placed in the winds of my mind
and hopefully by the end I've found
the starting point of some writing.
These notes are markers depicting
those starting points.
Conduits are being constructed
between voices. You can listen to
them at the margins. Placed into
type, these wooded constructions
become mannikins you are
willing to spend real time with...
and then, willy-nilly we can talk
about it. Oh, Carlos! I am tracing
the connections between the back-beat and
the image on the screen. Didn't you
have the same hunch I did, that this
is all a screen-test for something
else? The garden fits the image
of eternity. Children are happily playing on
the grass while the earth below conceals
the dead with cosmic sympathy.
(Ponge,*Le Pre*)
Also, do not be afraid of your informers.
Poetics found at the line between
what can be known and what can
be touched. An inscription at the
boundary between what can be
seen and what can be held. An
area is encircled where a small
bit of time is placed on a slide.
Later or much later we look at
it. Again- it is a *terrain* that is
depicted. Some of us stay there, while
others move on, while still others
come and go. I repeat: if your
source of information frightens you,
something is being misconstrued. There it
is again; how many times I have used
this word this month. Earth,
air, water and fire considered
as freedoms. What are the freedoms
of a particlle, a specific unit
of charge in the physical universe?
"Look at the clock which becomes language."
says Tristan Tzara. (*Mr. Saturn*)
An adroit fusion of the obvious
and the repressed, a willing
juxtaposition of the precious and
the oppressed. The revolutionary
as an empowering person rather
than a self-indulgent,
self-destructive person.
12/28
Poetry: nice work if you can get
it.
12/29
Poetry: A "foreign" language I
read and write but I don't live in its
native land.
I thought of titling this "Sotto voce"
or "Native Land."
At all events, writing is an
elliptical condensation of time.
Teaching and movement are instincts.
Light and dark are contained
in their images.
Light is a constant thing that
comes and goes. Dark is
in a hurry and is (always) inevitable.
On account of light we are not
necessarily watchful. With dark
advancing we are forced to advance.
12/26/87
One of and one. (Poem)
The Age of Hoots (Poem)
12/27/87
Sitting in the most relaxed position
I can find, I go into my
professional poet's revery.This
revery acts as a direction-
finder, in it I become a sail
placed in the winds of my mind
and hopefully by the end I've found
the starting point of some writing.
These notes are markers depicting
those starting points.
Conduits are being constructed
between voices. You can listen to
them at the margins. Placed into
type, these wooded constructions
become mannikins you are
willing to spend real time with...
and then, willy-nilly we can talk
about it. Oh, Carlos! I am tracing
the connections between the back-beat and
the image on the screen. Didn't you
have the same hunch I did, that this
is all a screen-test for something
else? The garden fits the image
of eternity. Children are happily playing on
the grass while the earth below conceals
the dead with cosmic sympathy.
(Ponge,*Le Pre*)
Also, do not be afraid of your informers.
Poetics found at the line between
what can be known and what can
be touched. An inscription at the
boundary between what can be
seen and what can be held. An
area is encircled where a small
bit of time is placed on a slide.
Later or much later we look at
it. Again- it is a *terrain* that is
depicted. Some of us stay there, while
others move on, while still others
come and go. I repeat: if your
source of information frightens you,
something is being misconstrued. There it
is again; how many times I have used
this word this month. Earth,
air, water and fire considered
as freedoms. What are the freedoms
of a particlle, a specific unit
of charge in the physical universe?
"Look at the clock which becomes language."
says Tristan Tzara. (*Mr. Saturn*)
An adroit fusion of the obvious
and the repressed, a willing
juxtaposition of the precious and
the oppressed. The revolutionary
as an empowering person rather
than a self-indulgent,
self-destructive person.
12/28
Poetry: nice work if you can get
it.
12/29
Poetry: A "foreign" language I
read and write but I don't live in its
native land.
I thought of titling this "Sotto voce"
or "Native Land."
At all events, writing is an
elliptical condensation of time.
Sunday, February 8
An interview with Gill Ott from
Banjo: Poets Talking (CA Conrad) {click here}
via transdada (kari edwards)
Note: kari edwards reads tomorrow
details on the sidebar
Banjo: Poets Talking (CA Conrad) {click here}
via transdada (kari edwards)
Note: kari edwards reads tomorrow
details on the sidebar
I found this fraying poster today among some
notes I hadn't looked at for a long time. It was
pinned to my day job office bulletin board for many years.
I've seen versions of the quote many times since,
but I like this translation
more than any other I've seen.
"Until one is committed there is hesitancy,
the chance to drawback, always ineffectiveness,
concerning all acts of initiative (and creation),
there is one elementary truth the ignorance of
which kills countless ideas and splendid plans:
that the moment one definitely commits oneself,
then Providence moves too.
All sorts of things occur to help one that would
never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of
events issues from the decision, raising in one's favour
all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and
material assistance, which no man could
have dreamed would have come his way.
Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.
Begin It Now."
-Goethe-
notes I hadn't looked at for a long time. It was
pinned to my day job office bulletin board for many years.
I've seen versions of the quote many times since,
but I like this translation
more than any other I've seen.
"Until one is committed there is hesitancy,
the chance to drawback, always ineffectiveness,
concerning all acts of initiative (and creation),
there is one elementary truth the ignorance of
which kills countless ideas and splendid plans:
that the moment one definitely commits oneself,
then Providence moves too.
All sorts of things occur to help one that would
never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of
events issues from the decision, raising in one's favour
all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and
material assistance, which no man could
have dreamed would have come his way.
Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.
Begin It Now."
-Goethe-
from *The King of Time*
Velimir Khlebnikov
translated b Paul Schmidt
Harvard UP, 1985
"To The Artists of the World
A Written Language for Planet Earth
A Common System of Hieroglyphs
for the People of Our Planet
We have long been searching for a program that would act
something like a lens, capable of focusing the combined rays of
the work of the artist and the work of the thinker toward a
single point where they might join in a common task and been able
to ignite even the cold essence of ice and turn it to a blazing
bonfire. Such a program, the lens capable of directing together
your fiery courage and the cold intellect of the thinker, has now
been discovered.
The goal is to create a common language shared by
all the peoples of this third satellite of the Sun, to invent written
symbols that can be understood and accepted by our entire star,
populated as it is with human beings and lost here in the universe.
You can see that such a task is worthy of the time we live in.
Painting has always used a language accessible to everyone. And the
Chinese and Japanese peoples speak hundreds of different languages,
but they read and write in one single language. Languages have
betrayed their glorious beginnings. There was once a time when words
served to dispel enmity and make the future transparent and peaceful,
and when languages, proceeding in stages, united the people of
(1) the cave, (2) a settlement, (3), a tribe or kinship group, (4), a state,
into a single rational world, a union of those who shared one
single auditory instrument for the exchange of values and ideas. One
savage caveman understood another and laid his blind weapons aside.
Nowadays sounds have abandoned their past functions and serve
the purposes of hostility; they have become differentiated auditory
instruments for the exchange of rational wares; they have divided
multilingual mankind into different camps involved in tariff wars, into
a series of verbal marketplaces beyond whose confines any given
language loses currency. Every system of auditory currency claims
supremacy, and so languages as such serve to disunite mankind
and wage spectral wars. Let us hope that one single written language
may henceforth accompany the longterm destinies of mankind and
prove to be the new vortex that unites us, the new integrator
of the human race. Mute graphic marks will reconcile the cacaphony
of languages.
To the artist who work with ideas falls the task of creating
an alphabet of concepts, a system of basic units of thought
from which words may be constructed.
The task of artists who work with paint is to provide graphic
symbols for the basic units of our mental processes.
We have now accomplished that part of that labor which
was the thinkers' task, we stand now on the first landing
of the staircase of thinkers, and we find there the artists
of China and Japan, who were already ahead of us, and our
greetings to them!..."
Velimir Khlebnikov
translated b Paul Schmidt
Harvard UP, 1985
"To The Artists of the World
A Written Language for Planet Earth
A Common System of Hieroglyphs
for the People of Our Planet
We have long been searching for a program that would act
something like a lens, capable of focusing the combined rays of
the work of the artist and the work of the thinker toward a
single point where they might join in a common task and been able
to ignite even the cold essence of ice and turn it to a blazing
bonfire. Such a program, the lens capable of directing together
your fiery courage and the cold intellect of the thinker, has now
been discovered.
The goal is to create a common language shared by
all the peoples of this third satellite of the Sun, to invent written
symbols that can be understood and accepted by our entire star,
populated as it is with human beings and lost here in the universe.
You can see that such a task is worthy of the time we live in.
Painting has always used a language accessible to everyone. And the
Chinese and Japanese peoples speak hundreds of different languages,
but they read and write in one single language. Languages have
betrayed their glorious beginnings. There was once a time when words
served to dispel enmity and make the future transparent and peaceful,
and when languages, proceeding in stages, united the people of
(1) the cave, (2) a settlement, (3), a tribe or kinship group, (4), a state,
into a single rational world, a union of those who shared one
single auditory instrument for the exchange of values and ideas. One
savage caveman understood another and laid his blind weapons aside.
Nowadays sounds have abandoned their past functions and serve
the purposes of hostility; they have become differentiated auditory
instruments for the exchange of rational wares; they have divided
multilingual mankind into different camps involved in tariff wars, into
a series of verbal marketplaces beyond whose confines any given
language loses currency. Every system of auditory currency claims
supremacy, and so languages as such serve to disunite mankind
and wage spectral wars. Let us hope that one single written language
may henceforth accompany the longterm destinies of mankind and
prove to be the new vortex that unites us, the new integrator
of the human race. Mute graphic marks will reconcile the cacaphony
of languages.
To the artist who work with ideas falls the task of creating
an alphabet of concepts, a system of basic units of thought
from which words may be constructed.
The task of artists who work with paint is to provide graphic
symbols for the basic units of our mental processes.
We have now accomplished that part of that labor which
was the thinkers' task, we stand now on the first landing
of the staircase of thinkers, and we find there the artists
of China and Japan, who were already ahead of us, and our
greetings to them!..."
from *Public Domain*
Gill Ott
Potes and Poets Press
1989
"Language is no one's. Never was. The true site of all language
is the pairing, writer to reader, speaker to listener. The
poem is a public event, host to a multitude of private entries,
a defined anarchy. Understood and practiced in this way, it is
powerful.
The regimentation of meaning is criminal, even in the least
increment. Language is at once ambiguous and persuasive
enough to offer itself as a tool to advantage and oppression,
and seen as a medium, neutral. Complicity in this crime, as
auditor/actors as much as speakers, contributes heartily to our
public experience and behavior, as consumers, workers,
citizens."
Gill Ott
Potes and Poets Press
1989
"Language is no one's. Never was. The true site of all language
is the pairing, writer to reader, speaker to listener. The
poem is a public event, host to a multitude of private entries,
a defined anarchy. Understood and practiced in this way, it is
powerful.
The regimentation of meaning is criminal, even in the least
increment. Language is at once ambiguous and persuasive
enough to offer itself as a tool to advantage and oppression,
and seen as a medium, neutral. Complicity in this crime, as
auditor/actors as much as speakers, contributes heartily to our
public experience and behavior, as consumers, workers,
citizens."
from *Fits of Dawn*
Joseph Ceravolo
C Press, 1965
published by Ted Berrigan
"Coyote! Swivel! innocent
java texas upside survival pawn
of gazelles Let preamble!
July easily darkness serious fussing have
'Oh raffle of drunkenness woven
released adirondack whatever succint
l'ete with cello Guilty supreme
of shoulders, tattoo doze and yet sky Yes!'
taboo algonquin remedial
orgone obtruse poppily reefs
Grateful ranch! Wallop ranch of
fin!"
Joseph Ceravolo
C Press, 1965
published by Ted Berrigan
"Coyote! Swivel! innocent
java texas upside survival pawn
of gazelles Let preamble!
July easily darkness serious fussing have
'Oh raffle of drunkenness woven
released adirondack whatever succint
l'ete with cello Guilty supreme
of shoulders, tattoo doze and yet sky Yes!'
taboo algonquin remedial
orgone obtruse poppily reefs
Grateful ranch! Wallop ranch of
fin!"
Politicians Sounding Like A Broken Record?
Read These Blogs!
A midnight menagerie on
Moonshine Highways (Amy Bernier} {click here}
**
"A case for hallucinogens: writing poetry."
Right now on Process Documents (Ryan Fitzpatrick) {click here}
**
Score 19 is Out {click here}
edited by Crag Hill.
**
"that stressy nutty feeling of fingernails running down your psyche."
Nada Gordon (ululations) {click here}
riffs on her own reading, and that of two others, at Bluestockings
**
An important small press conference in Ithaca, New York
discussed in detail by Josh Corey (Cahiers de Corey){click here}
**
"The apartheid might have legally ended, but for
as many as 90% of the women of Afghanistan,
these "reforms" — such as the setting up of a
women's ministry in Kabul — are little more than a technicality."
Looking for true political sensitivity? Check out
Froth (Marianne Shaneen {click here}
Read These Blogs!
A midnight menagerie on
Moonshine Highways (Amy Bernier} {click here}
**
"A case for hallucinogens: writing poetry."
Right now on Process Documents (Ryan Fitzpatrick) {click here}
**
Score 19 is Out {click here}
edited by Crag Hill.
**
"that stressy nutty feeling of fingernails running down your psyche."
Nada Gordon (ululations) {click here}
riffs on her own reading, and that of two others, at Bluestockings
**
An important small press conference in Ithaca, New York
discussed in detail by Josh Corey (Cahiers de Corey){click here}
**
"The apartheid might have legally ended, but for
as many as 90% of the women of Afghanistan,
these "reforms" — such as the setting up of a
women's ministry in Kabul — are little more than a technicality."
Looking for true political sensitivity? Check out
Froth (Marianne Shaneen {click here}
Saturday, February 7
Noam Chomsky
who we've been watching tonight on
C Span
is a brilliant academic political commentator
but
Reno {click here}
who will be
back at the Bowery Poetry Club {click here} for two shows:
Fri., 2/13, 8pm
Sat, 2/20, 8pm
is much funnier! And also politically astute!
Her recent scathingly funny
but thoughtful and insightful monologue
on the far right Christian coalition
mesmerized the Bowery
Poetry Club audience a few weekends ago,
and, I'm told, the Poetry Project audience
on New Year's day.
who we've been watching tonight on
C Span
is a brilliant academic political commentator
but
Reno {click here}
who will be
back at the Bowery Poetry Club {click here} for two shows:
Fri., 2/13, 8pm
Sat, 2/20, 8pm
is much funnier! And also politically astute!
Her recent scathingly funny
but thoughtful and insightful monologue
on the far right Christian coalition
mesmerized the Bowery
Poetry Club audience a few weekends ago,
and, I'm told, the Poetry Project audience
on New Year's day.
Weekend
Excuse me, but remember the time when most lit bloggers
didn't blog on weekends? I just checked my "favorites"
on bl.ogs and counted 33 bloggers who posted today. And these
are not by far all my favorites! Including
Notes from the Dovecote {click here},
the former *Solipsistic Gazette*, surely among the
most drop dead beautiful of all blogs, who apparently now has a partner,
and has been presenting a new blog daily of late.
**
After publishing one of the best blogged
reading reviews I've seen yet,
Pantaloons:Tykes on Poetry (Jack Kimball) {click here} on Friday posted a lovely prose poem
titled, quite simply, "Close".
Excuse me, but remember the time when most lit bloggers
didn't blog on weekends? I just checked my "favorites"
on bl.ogs and counted 33 bloggers who posted today. And these
are not by far all my favorites! Including
Notes from the Dovecote {click here},
the former *Solipsistic Gazette*, surely among the
most drop dead beautiful of all blogs, who apparently now has a partner,
and has been presenting a new blog daily of late.
**
After publishing one of the best blogged
reading reviews I've seen yet,
Pantaloons:Tykes on Poetry (Jack Kimball) {click here} on Friday posted a lovely prose poem
titled, quite simply, "Close".
from *Fits of Dawn*
Joseph Ceravolo
C Press, 1965
"SATURDAYS
'There the same squint untrue of the feast
There songe utility
Swoop quays of skies
Whore for the cyclone always
Hum cherry fleet lettuce of the hill---
Day listing quiet who love booze of
The clothes, hannibal tumble.
The stars a doze C soothing counter!
Poor sessame his self
Dawn the evening this this acquarian unwren
In the bundle of the coo some-
Times Theodosia is yours
For the lotus like a toy you marry
Eternity wink: jamais hotel'"
Joseph Ceravolo
C Press, 1965
"SATURDAYS
'There the same squint untrue of the feast
There songe utility
Swoop quays of skies
Whore for the cyclone always
Hum cherry fleet lettuce of the hill---
Day listing quiet who love booze of
The clothes, hannibal tumble.
The stars a doze C soothing counter!
Poor sessame his self
Dawn the evening this this acquarian unwren
In the bundle of the coo some-
Times Theodosia is yours
For the lotus like a toy you marry
Eternity wink: jamais hotel'"
Thanks to Vanishing Points (Tom Beckett){click here}
for the link and kind words about this blog and
our Friday *Desert Island Book List* post
for the link and kind words about this blog and
our Friday *Desert Island Book List* post
from Where is Raed? (Salem Pax) {click here}
"My new computer background image says:
'Re-examine every thought and concept you have'".
:: salam 4:52 AM [+] ::
"My new computer background image says:
'Re-examine every thought and concept you have'".
:: salam 4:52 AM [+] ::
Friday, February 6
Bemsha Swing (Jonathan Mayhew) {click here} expressed jealousy regarding my
copy of *Fits of Dawn* by Joe Ceravolo.
But may I remind him that on Feb. 3rd
he published the following:
"The urge to collect additional Ceravolo books...
Some are quite difficult to find, but the
internet makes it all too easy."
A cursory check of about 6 used and rare
book search web sites turned up 0 for "Fits of Dawn."
While the web is good for finding some
books, others are impossible to find this way.
I learned this searching for first editions of
certain books by William Hazlitt, which I am still longing for.
copy of *Fits of Dawn* by Joe Ceravolo.
But may I remind him that on Feb. 3rd
he published the following:
"The urge to collect additional Ceravolo books...
Some are quite difficult to find, but the
internet makes it all too easy."
A cursory check of about 6 used and rare
book search web sites turned up 0 for "Fits of Dawn."
While the web is good for finding some
books, others are impossible to find this way.
I learned this searching for first editions of
certain books by William Hazlitt, which I am still longing for.
Desert Island Book List
Consciousness, that master poet, never forgets that final touch
even when the heart itself does.
**
Awhile back in blogland, there was a spate of writers listing
what books they would take with them to a desert island.
Having spent a little time over my life in places where I couldn't
get the books I needed, you remember how this kind of list can have serious consequences
in terms of readerly frustrations.
For one thing, for example when I lived in Rapallo, Italy once for
six months I realized not only quality, but quantity can be a real issue
for readers who have all their time free and want to read all the time.
Also, in this town there was no tv and no movie theaters either, no
bookstores with English language books either. I brought a huge
suitcase full of books, but that went quickly. Luckily there was an English
language library. Every single one of Virginia Woolf's books were there, a
lot of other stuff and then I went through all of that. Though all this
was annoying, I got so bored that that's how I started to make collages, which
I made by obtaining large quanities of European magazines in Genoa, with
the help of my friend, the artist John Freda.
Somehow thinking about how Gill Ott had died the same day that the Chax/Boog
City reading took place (I had had a strange thought the night before that I should post
a part of a poem by Gill Ott ; I had heard of course that he was very ill, that very soon
he would no longer be with us). Today I thought about
the title: *Knowing When To Stop* by Ned Rorem. That Gill Ott's timing of the moment
to die was a kind of spirit-poem- an elegie concrete, perhaps. In any case, thinking
of that title gets me back to the desert island issue.
I think what I would mostly take with me would be diaries- for example, the diaries of the American
composer Ned Rorem. Rorem is the author of *The Paris Diary*, *The New York Diary*, *The Nantucket Diary*, *The Later Diaries*, *The Final Diary*, (which, of course is not the final diary) and the more recent *Knowing When To Stop*. Having these books, as a group, that I've never
had a chance to read exhaustively, but have nibbled at endlessly, would be the equivalent
of having a complete daily blog to read daily for a long period of time that evokes the dailiness of
an inventive and witty mind.
Quote from *The Paris Diaries*:
"'Nothing is worse than death. And if one consoles oneself
that death is the end of all, it's also certain that nothing is
worse than life.Why work, Why bother? For of that which was
Nikolai Nikolanievitch nothing remains. (Tolstoy on his brother's
death). '"
******
(to be continued)
Consciousness, that master poet, never forgets that final touch
even when the heart itself does.
**
Awhile back in blogland, there was a spate of writers listing
what books they would take with them to a desert island.
Having spent a little time over my life in places where I couldn't
get the books I needed, you remember how this kind of list can have serious consequences
in terms of readerly frustrations.
For one thing, for example when I lived in Rapallo, Italy once for
six months I realized not only quality, but quantity can be a real issue
for readers who have all their time free and want to read all the time.
Also, in this town there was no tv and no movie theaters either, no
bookstores with English language books either. I brought a huge
suitcase full of books, but that went quickly. Luckily there was an English
language library. Every single one of Virginia Woolf's books were there, a
lot of other stuff and then I went through all of that. Though all this
was annoying, I got so bored that that's how I started to make collages, which
I made by obtaining large quanities of European magazines in Genoa, with
the help of my friend, the artist John Freda.
Somehow thinking about how Gill Ott had died the same day that the Chax/Boog
City reading took place (I had had a strange thought the night before that I should post
a part of a poem by Gill Ott ; I had heard of course that he was very ill, that very soon
he would no longer be with us). Today I thought about
the title: *Knowing When To Stop* by Ned Rorem. That Gill Ott's timing of the moment
to die was a kind of spirit-poem- an elegie concrete, perhaps. In any case, thinking
of that title gets me back to the desert island issue.
I think what I would mostly take with me would be diaries- for example, the diaries of the American
composer Ned Rorem. Rorem is the author of *The Paris Diary*, *The New York Diary*, *The Nantucket Diary*, *The Later Diaries*, *The Final Diary*, (which, of course is not the final diary) and the more recent *Knowing When To Stop*. Having these books, as a group, that I've never
had a chance to read exhaustively, but have nibbled at endlessly, would be the equivalent
of having a complete daily blog to read daily for a long period of time that evokes the dailiness of
an inventive and witty mind.
Quote from *The Paris Diaries*:
"'Nothing is worse than death. And if one consoles oneself
that death is the end of all, it's also certain that nothing is
worse than life.Why work, Why bother? For of that which was
Nikolai Nikolanievitch nothing remains. (Tolstoy on his brother's
death). '"
******
(to be continued)
Aimee Nezhukumatathil, Al Gore, Jesse Jackson and Jordan Davis
campaign for vice-president on Jim Behrle's Famous: The Jim Side {click here}
campaign for vice-president on Jim Behrle's Famous: The Jim Side {click here}
Many of the poets at yesterday's Boog City/Chax reading
at ACA Galleries, including the publisher/poet Charles Alexander
were close friends with Gill Ott, poet and publisher of Singing Horse Press
who died yesterday. It was noted that Charles Bernstein and Bob
Perelman both had visited him at his hospital bed last Tuesday. Mr. Ott
had had numerous kidney transplants throughout his brief but
very fruitful life, so had faced this threat for nearly 25 years,
as Charles Bernstein explained during his portion of the group reading.
The reading was in honor of Chax Press' 20th birthday.
Here is a bit more of Gill Ott's poetry from his book *The Whole Note*
from Zasterle Press.
"This feeble stick, this debris. Pry with a twig
the mass aready man dances to reconcile
sounds from a rural grave with vacant uni-
son. He is revealed
spirits demanded split from the grove of
hands to burn, incarnate, white up a sweat.
Name deity the rounds of the blank assem-
bled to charge fealty with alcohol, poverty to
congregate
penury undone. Out of the blood a knife's
work freed him for these rounds and un-
marked he every mark inspected. Glazed
the city of souls thick dependence momen-
tarily undone. Raw sensory equivalence an
animal tongue, a limp or worse affliction
raises the dead among us. Harm and again
relieved."
(another short passage from this book
appeared on ::fait accompli:: yesterday.)
**
For More on Gill Ott click here for Ron Silliman's Blog
Gill Ott memorial page & more links right now on The Philly Sound {click here}
at ACA Galleries, including the publisher/poet Charles Alexander
were close friends with Gill Ott, poet and publisher of Singing Horse Press
who died yesterday. It was noted that Charles Bernstein and Bob
Perelman both had visited him at his hospital bed last Tuesday. Mr. Ott
had had numerous kidney transplants throughout his brief but
very fruitful life, so had faced this threat for nearly 25 years,
as Charles Bernstein explained during his portion of the group reading.
The reading was in honor of Chax Press' 20th birthday.
Here is a bit more of Gill Ott's poetry from his book *The Whole Note*
from Zasterle Press.
"This feeble stick, this debris. Pry with a twig
the mass aready man dances to reconcile
sounds from a rural grave with vacant uni-
son. He is revealed
spirits demanded split from the grove of
hands to burn, incarnate, white up a sweat.
Name deity the rounds of the blank assem-
bled to charge fealty with alcohol, poverty to
congregate
penury undone. Out of the blood a knife's
work freed him for these rounds and un-
marked he every mark inspected. Glazed
the city of souls thick dependence momen-
tarily undone. Raw sensory equivalence an
animal tongue, a limp or worse affliction
raises the dead among us. Harm and again
relieved."
(another short passage from this book
appeared on ::fait accompli:: yesterday.)
**
For More on Gill Ott click here for Ron Silliman's Blog
Gill Ott memorial page & more links right now on The Philly Sound {click here}
Saturday, February 7th. 4:00 p.m.
Eleni Sikelianos
Christopher Stackhouse
Segue Series at
The Bowery Poetry Club
308 Bowery, New York, NY 10012
212.614.0505
**** $5.00 cover ****
Coffee, tea, sandwiches plus full bar available.
Note: We are trying to start readings promptly this spring.
foot of First Street, between Houston & Bleecker
across the street from CBGBs
F train to Second Ave, or 6 train to Bleecker
CHRISTOPHER STACKHOUSE
Christopher Stackhouse’s writing has appeared in the journals Aufgabe, Bridge, Hambone, and NYArts, among others. Seismosis, a book featuring his line drawings with text by writer John Keene was published as a letterpress, limited-edition book by The Center for Book Arts in NYC in November 2003. He is a poetry editor for Fence and a Cave Canem Writers Fellow. He is also a former events/readings curator at The Poetry Project at St. Mark's Church.
ELENI SIKELIANOS
Eleni Sikelianos' most recent book is The Monster Lives of Boys & Girls (Green Integer/National Poetry Series 2003). Previous books include Earliest Worlds (Coffee House) & The Book of Tendons (Post-Apollo). Forthcoming are The Book of Jon (City Lights) & The California Poem (Coffee House). Sikelianos currently lives in Colorado, where she teaches at Naropa & Denver Univ.’s Creative PhD Program.
The Segue Reading Series is made possible by the support of The Segue Foundation and The New York State Council on the Arts. For more information, please visit www.segue.org/calendar, http://bowerypoetry.com/midsection.htm or call (212) 614-0505. Curators: Feb.-March by Dan Machlin & Charles Borkhuis, April-May by Karen Weiser & Tonya Foster.
Eleni Sikelianos
Christopher Stackhouse
Segue Series at
The Bowery Poetry Club
308 Bowery, New York, NY 10012
212.614.0505
**** $5.00 cover ****
Coffee, tea, sandwiches plus full bar available.
Note: We are trying to start readings promptly this spring.
foot of First Street, between Houston & Bleecker
across the street from CBGBs
F train to Second Ave, or 6 train to Bleecker
CHRISTOPHER STACKHOUSE
Christopher Stackhouse’s writing has appeared in the journals Aufgabe, Bridge, Hambone, and NYArts, among others. Seismosis, a book featuring his line drawings with text by writer John Keene was published as a letterpress, limited-edition book by The Center for Book Arts in NYC in November 2003. He is a poetry editor for Fence and a Cave Canem Writers Fellow. He is also a former events/readings curator at The Poetry Project at St. Mark's Church.
ELENI SIKELIANOS
Eleni Sikelianos' most recent book is The Monster Lives of Boys & Girls (Green Integer/National Poetry Series 2003). Previous books include Earliest Worlds (Coffee House) & The Book of Tendons (Post-Apollo). Forthcoming are The Book of Jon (City Lights) & The California Poem (Coffee House). Sikelianos currently lives in Colorado, where she teaches at Naropa & Denver Univ.’s Creative PhD Program.
The Segue Reading Series is made possible by the support of The Segue Foundation and The New York State Council on the Arts. For more information, please visit www.segue.org/calendar, http://bowerypoetry.com/midsection.htm or call (212) 614-0505. Curators: Feb.-March by Dan Machlin & Charles Borkhuis, April-May by Karen Weiser & Tonya Foster.
Thursday, February 5
Notebook: November 2000
God Bless Obscurity
God bless obscurity
land that I love
stand beside her
and guide her
with the dark from the spark
of a glove
[inspiration=concentration/yearly income]
[or concentration=inspiration x yearly income]
from the dictionary
to the libraries
to the used bookstoress
deep in debt
God bless obscurity
my home sweet home
that dear old gnome
**
Graffiti In The Cafe Jaffa
"Give me ambiguity or give me something else."
**
Since there has been building noise on the street outside
my apartment for months, it seems for years, and since
because of this I listen
to music every morning. I got into the habit of listening
to Chopin, particularly the Ballades. I don't know why, but
this music appears to be of inexhaustible interest to me. Surely,
eventually I will tire of it, but when? Like Debussy, it
opens out into feelings I want to return to endlessly.
God Bless Obscurity
God bless obscurity
land that I love
stand beside her
and guide her
with the dark from the spark
of a glove
[inspiration=concentration/yearly income]
[or concentration=inspiration x yearly income]
from the dictionary
to the libraries
to the used bookstoress
deep in debt
God bless obscurity
my home sweet home
that dear old gnome
**
Graffiti In The Cafe Jaffa
"Give me ambiguity or give me something else."
**
Since there has been building noise on the street outside
my apartment for months, it seems for years, and since
because of this I listen
to music every morning. I got into the habit of listening
to Chopin, particularly the Ballades. I don't know why, but
this music appears to be of inexhaustible interest to me. Surely,
eventually I will tire of it, but when? Like Debussy, it
opens out into feelings I want to return to endlessly.
from *The Whole Note*
by Gill Ott
Zasterle Press, 1996
"My love, in all my imperfection, are here,
despite your attribution to another entry. Less
than breeze, than presence, the transmission
circles like a hawk, or any other problem set to
right
candles to tense, in our knowledge of each
other, three. This difficulty multiplies a pin-
point phrases, care taken in song's resolve.
My rider has descended, you."
by Gill Ott
Zasterle Press, 1996
"My love, in all my imperfection, are here,
despite your attribution to another entry. Less
than breeze, than presence, the transmission
circles like a hawk, or any other problem set to
right
candles to tense, in our knowledge of each
other, three. This difficulty multiplies a pin-
point phrases, care taken in song's resolve.
My rider has descended, you."
Wednesday, February 4
Elsewhere (Gary Sullivan) {click here} is suggesting, along with
ululations (Nada Gordon) {click here}
[scroll down to Monday, February 2
*When Will The Book Be Ready*]
that they are anxious to see
a "big book"
of *fait accompli*. Among other nicer things,
they've observed that time is passing.
Well, the manuscript is
in the works, but first Toni and I have to move.
Many thanks to Gary and Nada for the
boost!
ululations (Nada Gordon) {click here}
[scroll down to Monday, February 2
*When Will The Book Be Ready*]
that they are anxious to see
a "big book"
of *fait accompli*. Among other nicer things,
they've observed that time is passing.
Well, the manuscript is
in the works, but first Toni and I have to move.
Many thanks to Gary and Nada for the
boost!
Lorianne Schaub (Hoarded Ordinaries) {click here}
posted the following (and more) on
Heart @ Work,
a blog that is now running a series on one
of my favorite topics, "Why I blog": "The thought
that you are sitting there reading keeps me writing,
for writing is lonely if not shared. In my mind nestles
the hope that if my memories inspire--
if they touch a trigger in your own
heart, a place where similar
memories reside--you too might notice the
the ordinary, the forgotten, and the unloved.
For the world is filled with ordinaries--a limitless,
unending supply--but we have only a finite number of
hearts and eyes. Pay attention, pay attention: the
world is passing like a parade, and all its
drummers and dancers are destined
to die. How much can you notice
of this beautiful daily panorama?
How many shop-window
bargains in your
heart of hearts
can you save?"
# posted by Lois @ 7:37 AM
I don't know if there is a conscious
reference to Walter Benjamin's
*Arcades Project* here, but
I appreciated the connection,
and the thought.
posted the following (and more) on
Heart @ Work,
a blog that is now running a series on one
of my favorite topics, "Why I blog": "The thought
that you are sitting there reading keeps me writing,
for writing is lonely if not shared. In my mind nestles
the hope that if my memories inspire--
if they touch a trigger in your own
heart, a place where similar
memories reside--you too might notice the
the ordinary, the forgotten, and the unloved.
For the world is filled with ordinaries--a limitless,
unending supply--but we have only a finite number of
hearts and eyes. Pay attention, pay attention: the
world is passing like a parade, and all its
drummers and dancers are destined
to die. How much can you notice
of this beautiful daily panorama?
How many shop-window
bargains in your
heart of hearts
can you save?"
# posted by Lois @ 7:37 AM
I don't know if there is a conscious
reference to Walter Benjamin's
*Arcades Project* here, but
I appreciated the connection,
and the thought.
Beginning Again At The Mouth of the River
Often I'll think of adding something here, and then
think, why would I do that? I feel strangely
embarassed about the idea, like why would anyone
want to to see this, or, everybody knows about
this, say, or has read it.
This is what happened with these lines from *Four Quartets*
by TS Eliot. Ah, the old anti-semite, everybody's bored with his stilted
mawkish jokes and musings. But then I reread it in a few minutes and think:
(I'm moving so I'm starting to pack my books and this one somehow ended
up on the floor in front of my reading chair)-
But it's all there, isn't it, a lot of what I think about still.
"Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past."
This is what I understand as the basis of
time travel. If we examine the past carefully,
we find correspondances and links to the present,
possibly by means of a kind of linking between the two,
a very brief hopskotch into the future.
"Go, go, go said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.'
This seems obvious, yet again...
"Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present"
Gertrude Stein all the way.
..."Time past and time future
Allow but little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time...
Only through time, time is conquered."
Now we're getting into the meat of the matter.
For most, all that can be expected is
",,,Only a flicker
over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction"
A simpler, or more basic description or diagnosis of contemporary consciousness
is hard to imagine- so much said in five words
about what continues to be the heart of the backsliding
observeable in the overall human ability to focus and comprehend
a situation and its implications, its roots and branches into the future.
"Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometime break, under the burden
Will not stay still....
It appears that a pattern is being sought, but this
isn't true
"For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been..."
This timeless place is in time and is found
most of all in memories.
"There is a time for the evening under starlight
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album)"
And despite this, due to time's ultimate paradox
"...not escaping from the past
Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or will arrive at any terminus...
You shall not think "the past is finished"
Or "the future is before us."
Because the final surprise is
"I sometimes wonder of that is what Krishna meant-
...The mind of a man may be intent
At the time of death'- that is the one action
(And the time of death is every moment)
So it seems that
"...to apprehend
The point of intersection of the timeless
with time, is an occupation for the saint-
No occupation either, but something given
And taken..."
Since this is an impossibility, yet human
must move towards this,
"...right action is freedom
From past and future also,
For most of us, this is the aim
Never here to be realized..."
That this is an idealization is acknowledged,
so we have to search the past for specifics
to ground ourselves in life as we actually live
it-
"We die with the dying:
See, they depart and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
After all this learning, and striving to
connect with all being and not-being
"We shall not cease from exploration
And at the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time."
Full circle: the paradox of living is
not eternity, but the interconnection
between all states of being and not-being
There is a kind of surprise in all experience
which is a constant reminder of the
"...unknown remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall."
At first the sound of the waterfall
is distant and strange, maybe even
an invasion of the quiet soundlessness.
Something is jarring, a sound is heard'
as though a thought wanted to be heard.
The thought at first was a naive thought,
a shy being hardly even dressed or self-aware.
It has to be left to itself to find its feet at last,
to find a way to dress itself, and then address
itself to others to be heard.
Now, again I guess I'll leave these poems to themselves
for awhile, even a long while, it doesn't matter. They
themselves more and more become what they tried
to address in the world- finally becoming more known
than unknown, and thus becoming less distinguishable
from their objects.
I just noticed that "The Dry Salvages" is a small group
of rocks ,with a beacon, off the N.E. coast of Cape Ann
Massachusetts.
All these books scattered around like rocks on the shores
of my consciousness. Or are they the shores of my consciousness?
Often I'll think of adding something here, and then
think, why would I do that? I feel strangely
embarassed about the idea, like why would anyone
want to to see this, or, everybody knows about
this, say, or has read it.
This is what happened with these lines from *Four Quartets*
by TS Eliot. Ah, the old anti-semite, everybody's bored with his stilted
mawkish jokes and musings. But then I reread it in a few minutes and think:
(I'm moving so I'm starting to pack my books and this one somehow ended
up on the floor in front of my reading chair)-
But it's all there, isn't it, a lot of what I think about still.
"Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past."
This is what I understand as the basis of
time travel. If we examine the past carefully,
we find correspondances and links to the present,
possibly by means of a kind of linking between the two,
a very brief hopskotch into the future.
"Go, go, go said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.'
This seems obvious, yet again...
"Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present"
Gertrude Stein all the way.
..."Time past and time future
Allow but little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time...
Only through time, time is conquered."
Now we're getting into the meat of the matter.
For most, all that can be expected is
",,,Only a flicker
over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction"
A simpler, or more basic description or diagnosis of contemporary consciousness
is hard to imagine- so much said in five words
about what continues to be the heart of the backsliding
observeable in the overall human ability to focus and comprehend
a situation and its implications, its roots and branches into the future.
"Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometime break, under the burden
Will not stay still....
It appears that a pattern is being sought, but this
isn't true
"For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been..."
This timeless place is in time and is found
most of all in memories.
"There is a time for the evening under starlight
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album)"
And despite this, due to time's ultimate paradox
"...not escaping from the past
Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or will arrive at any terminus...
You shall not think "the past is finished"
Or "the future is before us."
Because the final surprise is
"I sometimes wonder of that is what Krishna meant-
...The mind of a man may be intent
At the time of death'- that is the one action
(And the time of death is every moment)
So it seems that
"...to apprehend
The point of intersection of the timeless
with time, is an occupation for the saint-
No occupation either, but something given
And taken..."
Since this is an impossibility, yet human
must move towards this,
"...right action is freedom
From past and future also,
For most of us, this is the aim
Never here to be realized..."
That this is an idealization is acknowledged,
so we have to search the past for specifics
to ground ourselves in life as we actually live
it-
"We die with the dying:
See, they depart and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
After all this learning, and striving to
connect with all being and not-being
"We shall not cease from exploration
And at the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time."
Full circle: the paradox of living is
not eternity, but the interconnection
between all states of being and not-being
There is a kind of surprise in all experience
which is a constant reminder of the
"...unknown remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall."
At first the sound of the waterfall
is distant and strange, maybe even
an invasion of the quiet soundlessness.
Something is jarring, a sound is heard'
as though a thought wanted to be heard.
The thought at first was a naive thought,
a shy being hardly even dressed or self-aware.
It has to be left to itself to find its feet at last,
to find a way to dress itself, and then address
itself to others to be heard.
Now, again I guess I'll leave these poems to themselves
for awhile, even a long while, it doesn't matter. They
themselves more and more become what they tried
to address in the world- finally becoming more known
than unknown, and thus becoming less distinguishable
from their objects.
I just noticed that "The Dry Salvages" is a small group
of rocks ,with a beacon, off the N.E. coast of Cape Ann
Massachusetts.
All these books scattered around like rocks on the shores
of my consciousness. Or are they the shores of my consciousness?
Tuesday, February 3
Never Neutral (Ernesto Priego){click here}
opens with a sweet tune today, played
hauntingly on a what sounds to be a slightly out
of tune old piano or a child's music box.
opens with a sweet tune today, played
hauntingly on a what sounds to be a slightly out
of tune old piano or a child's music box.
Jonathan Mayhew (Bemsha Swing) {click here}
boasts of finding a Joseph Ceravolo book
online, and how easy it was, speaking
like a hunter disappointed at the relative
ease in tracking down his quarry.
But he is unlikely to match a great find
I purchased some years ago from Steve Clay
of Granary Books. A copy of * Fits of Dawn* bound by
Ted Berrigan in pebbly black dissertation covers, and published by
his *C* Press in 1965. By far Ceravolo's most abstract work
it features poems with lines like:
"...Beyond you jar unself
aroma ax almul chad rugyrebel sex
Leapon silent rebel chain riding
silence aback him eruption pile-
on disk outsent babe nibble have
a shu lift Kota memory ahoy
cultivate so all chomine recussion
soulen boy mirage resume
Ecola! Going there! make ya took
Caribbean remind exuberance
tabu avalance voyant will curse"
What moxie, eh?
And how about that Ted Berrigan
for publishing it so lovingly?
boasts of finding a Joseph Ceravolo book
online, and how easy it was, speaking
like a hunter disappointed at the relative
ease in tracking down his quarry.
But he is unlikely to match a great find
I purchased some years ago from Steve Clay
of Granary Books. A copy of * Fits of Dawn* bound by
Ted Berrigan in pebbly black dissertation covers, and published by
his *C* Press in 1965. By far Ceravolo's most abstract work
it features poems with lines like:
"...Beyond you jar unself
aroma ax almul chad rugyrebel sex
Leapon silent rebel chain riding
silence aback him eruption pile-
on disk outsent babe nibble have
a shu lift Kota memory ahoy
cultivate so all chomine recussion
soulen boy mirage resume
Ecola! Going there! make ya took
Caribbean remind exuberance
tabu avalance voyant will curse"
What moxie, eh?
And how about that Ted Berrigan
for publishing it so lovingly?
Recently I rather peevishly complained
that a certain blogger had incorporated
my link list without acknowledgement.
Now, This Certain Blogger {click here}
has not only acknowledged my link list,
but he's added a photo of the cover of my most
recent book to the list. I'm smiling from ear to ear
and I am abashed. Thanks, Mr. Gordon!
Where else could this happen but in Blogland, I ask you?
Or, maybe I should say, Massachusetts?
And, this is, as I am on record as having stated before,
further evidence that the New Brutalists are anything but.
that a certain blogger had incorporated
my link list without acknowledgement.
Now, This Certain Blogger {click here}
has not only acknowledged my link list,
but he's added a photo of the cover of my most
recent book to the list. I'm smiling from ear to ear
and I am abashed. Thanks, Mr. Gordon!
Where else could this happen but in Blogland, I ask you?
Or, maybe I should say, Massachusetts?
And, this is, as I am on record as having stated before,
further evidence that the New Brutalists are anything but.
Black Spring (Menno ter Braak) {click here}
dedicated a poem yesterday to
Tom Beckett (Vanishing Points of Resemblance) {click here},
along with some laudatory words, that
this tireless contributor to the contemporary
poetry scene certainly well deserves
(be sure to check out
Beckett's new blog).
Black Spring also features a discussion of
Barrett Watten's excellent book
*Bad History* (scroll down to January 29).
A controversial, imaginative hybrid of fiction, essay, prose poetry, philosophy,
commentary, this 1998 book from Atelos is, in a word, indispensable.
dedicated a poem yesterday to
Tom Beckett (Vanishing Points of Resemblance) {click here},
along with some laudatory words, that
this tireless contributor to the contemporary
poetry scene certainly well deserves
(be sure to check out
Beckett's new blog).
Black Spring also features a discussion of
Barrett Watten's excellent book
*Bad History* (scroll down to January 29).
A controversial, imaginative hybrid of fiction, essay, prose poetry, philosophy,
commentary, this 1998 book from Atelos is, in a word, indispensable.
from Buzz Machine {click here}
I dislike lists of precepts like this about blogging, but for some
reason they fascinate me (I had typed gascinate me!).
" .Laws of nature and blogging
: Terry Teachout's laws of blogging. Among them:
3. Blogs without links aren’t blogs. Blogs without blogrolls aren’t blogs. Blogs without mailboxes aren’t blogs....
6. Blogging puts professionals and amateurs on an even footing. That’s why so many professional writers dislike and distrust it.
7. The whole point of a blog is that its author controls its content. That’s why no major newspaper will ever be successful at running in-house blogs: the editors won’t allow it. The smart ones will encourage their best writers to blog on their own time—and at their own risk. The dumb ones will refuse to let any of their writers blog, on or off the job....
9. Within a decade, blogs will replace op-ed pages.
10. Blogs will be to the 21st century what little magazines were to the 20th century. Their influence will be disproportionate to their circulation....
14. If you want to be noticed, you have to blog every day.
15. An impersonal blog is a contradiction in terms"
I dislike lists of precepts like this about blogging, but for some
reason they fascinate me (I had typed gascinate me!).
" .Laws of nature and blogging
: Terry Teachout's laws of blogging. Among them:
3. Blogs without links aren’t blogs. Blogs without blogrolls aren’t blogs. Blogs without mailboxes aren’t blogs....
6. Blogging puts professionals and amateurs on an even footing. That’s why so many professional writers dislike and distrust it.
7. The whole point of a blog is that its author controls its content. That’s why no major newspaper will ever be successful at running in-house blogs: the editors won’t allow it. The smart ones will encourage their best writers to blog on their own time—and at their own risk. The dumb ones will refuse to let any of their writers blog, on or off the job....
9. Within a decade, blogs will replace op-ed pages.
10. Blogs will be to the 21st century what little magazines were to the 20th century. Their influence will be disproportionate to their circulation....
14. If you want to be noticed, you have to blog every day.
15. An impersonal blog is a contradiction in terms"
Monday, February 2
Ludwig Wittgenstein on Fashion
"Language disguises thought. So much so,
that from the outward form of the clothing
it is impossible to infer the form of the
thought beneath it, because the outward
form of the clothing is not designed to reveal
the form of the body, but for entirely different
purposes..."
Look again, Ludwig!
"Language disguises thought. So much so,
that from the outward form of the clothing
it is impossible to infer the form of the
thought beneath it, because the outward
form of the clothing is not designed to reveal
the form of the body, but for entirely different
purposes..."
Look again, Ludwig!
*King Cowboy Rufus Rules The Universe* by Richard Foreman
opened at Ontological at The St Mark's Poetry Project, 2cd
Avenue and 10th street (212)533-4650 on January 8th and will
continue until April 18th. If you go by the list on the playbill, this
is the 40th play of Foreman's to be produced.
Don't miss it. It is a joy to behold,
though its subject is, of course,
among the most obnoxious possible.
At the end of the play, Richard's recorded voiced intones
over the loudspeaker that the audience,
in lightly applauding, will
not , in fact, be applauding the subject of the play.
Foreman has this to say
on the first page of the playbill:" I always
feel that my overriding obligation is to
make a complex compositional
object that gives aesthetic pleasure...
though I am anti-Bush and anti-
war- I don't find it artistically satisfying to simply
'preach to the converted'....
The solution I attempt in "King Cowboy
Rufus Rules the Universe" is to put on stage,
not George Bush
himself but a foppish English
gentleman who, while seeming a
figure out of the past- yet
dreams of becoming an imitation
George Bush- acquiring that
same power and manifesting
similar limits of vision..."
Toni and I went with
Nada Gordon (ululations) {click here} and Gary Sullivan (Elsewhere) {click here}.
While Toni has probably been to at least 15 of these plays,
and I have probably been to at least
25, this is the second for Gary and Nada.
All four of us left the theater feeling exhilirated
as I said so to Richard, who happened to trot
by as we were leaving. By the way, Richard
has been present at virtually every
performance of his plays that I have seen.
Lately, Foreman's plays have moved closer to
music and this work featured a number of songs,
a couple of them sung in a hauntiingly light,
lovely voice by the superb Juliana Francis, who plays Susie Sitwell.
The lead player, Jay Smith, who
plays gun-toting King Cowby Rufus in a huge cowboy hat,
is hilariously funny. He manages the extremely difficult task
of making every line sound like what they are,
lines of poetry. This is surely one of the best
lead player performances in one of Foreman's recent plays
since Tony Torn starred in *Now That Communism
Is Dead My Life Feels Empty.* I notice that Jay Smith
had a role in that play. I can't help mentioning, that still,
after many years of absence from Richard's plays,
I miss the presence of his brilliant wife Kate Manheim,
(Rhoda of "Rhoda in Potatoland" among many others).
Her genius is as yet revealed in the
performance of every lead actress in
Foreman's works.
As in most of Richard's plays, the audience plays an important
role. The stage lights always shine equally on the
audience and the stage. In this one,
Jay Smith frequently climbs a set of stairs
that leads out into the audience. At one point he urges himself,
to return to the world of the
stage and imagination where "nothing
is real." No doubt this is allusion to the clear
fact that to George Bush nothing appears
to be real.
While the witty, complex, visually awesome
stage set (constructed my Michael Darling
and Paul DiPietro) remains constant throughout
the play, there are literally scores of scenes
as in every Foreman play. In this case, as I mentioned
to Richard afterwards, the transitions were so smooth
that they were, amazingly, nearly invisible. This is a result,
no doubt, of the long experience Richard has as a director
of his own plays. This brings about the strange paradox
that, although each scene lasts only a few minutes, the
transitions are never disruptive because the choreography
of these transformations is rhythmically entrancing. Which
returns me to the musical aspect of Foreman's work.
As we were leaving, Gary mentioned the fact that, although
the play is political satire, it is still extremely abstract. As we
know, music is the most abstract of the arts. It seems to me
that Foreman is among the greatest abstractionist of our era, and
this in an era with many great abstractionists, from Rauchenberg
and James Rosenquist to Gertrude Stein to
Jackson MacLow and John Ashbery, to, at some
their best moments, the Beatles. It is for this reason, perhaps,
that Foreman's work keeps evolving closer to music- and pure poetry-
(TS Eliot's "April is the cruellest month" is quoted twice-
perhaps partly referring to the
fact that the play closes in April,) and the play also includes a
quote from my favorite of all books of poetry *The Duino Elegies*
"Who, if I shouted among the angelic orders, would hear me", although
I prefer the the McIntyre translation of Rilke's most famous line,
"Who, if I shouted among the hierarchies of angels, would hear me?"
What more apropos line could a poet utter in the Age of King Bush?
**
Richard Foreman/EPC Home Page {click here}
opened at Ontological at The St Mark's Poetry Project, 2cd
Avenue and 10th street (212)533-4650 on January 8th and will
continue until April 18th. If you go by the list on the playbill, this
is the 40th play of Foreman's to be produced.
Don't miss it. It is a joy to behold,
though its subject is, of course,
among the most obnoxious possible.
At the end of the play, Richard's recorded voiced intones
over the loudspeaker that the audience,
in lightly applauding, will
not , in fact, be applauding the subject of the play.
Foreman has this to say
on the first page of the playbill:" I always
feel that my overriding obligation is to
make a complex compositional
object that gives aesthetic pleasure...
though I am anti-Bush and anti-
war- I don't find it artistically satisfying to simply
'preach to the converted'....
The solution I attempt in "King Cowboy
Rufus Rules the Universe" is to put on stage,
not George Bush
himself but a foppish English
gentleman who, while seeming a
figure out of the past- yet
dreams of becoming an imitation
George Bush- acquiring that
same power and manifesting
similar limits of vision..."
Toni and I went with
Nada Gordon (ululations) {click here} and Gary Sullivan (Elsewhere) {click here}.
While Toni has probably been to at least 15 of these plays,
and I have probably been to at least
25, this is the second for Gary and Nada.
All four of us left the theater feeling exhilirated
as I said so to Richard, who happened to trot
by as we were leaving. By the way, Richard
has been present at virtually every
performance of his plays that I have seen.
Lately, Foreman's plays have moved closer to
music and this work featured a number of songs,
a couple of them sung in a hauntiingly light,
lovely voice by the superb Juliana Francis, who plays Susie Sitwell.
The lead player, Jay Smith, who
plays gun-toting King Cowby Rufus in a huge cowboy hat,
is hilariously funny. He manages the extremely difficult task
of making every line sound like what they are,
lines of poetry. This is surely one of the best
lead player performances in one of Foreman's recent plays
since Tony Torn starred in *Now That Communism
Is Dead My Life Feels Empty.* I notice that Jay Smith
had a role in that play. I can't help mentioning, that still,
after many years of absence from Richard's plays,
I miss the presence of his brilliant wife Kate Manheim,
(Rhoda of "Rhoda in Potatoland" among many others).
Her genius is as yet revealed in the
performance of every lead actress in
Foreman's works.
As in most of Richard's plays, the audience plays an important
role. The stage lights always shine equally on the
audience and the stage. In this one,
Jay Smith frequently climbs a set of stairs
that leads out into the audience. At one point he urges himself,
to return to the world of the
stage and imagination where "nothing
is real." No doubt this is allusion to the clear
fact that to George Bush nothing appears
to be real.
While the witty, complex, visually awesome
stage set (constructed my Michael Darling
and Paul DiPietro) remains constant throughout
the play, there are literally scores of scenes
as in every Foreman play. In this case, as I mentioned
to Richard afterwards, the transitions were so smooth
that they were, amazingly, nearly invisible. This is a result,
no doubt, of the long experience Richard has as a director
of his own plays. This brings about the strange paradox
that, although each scene lasts only a few minutes, the
transitions are never disruptive because the choreography
of these transformations is rhythmically entrancing. Which
returns me to the musical aspect of Foreman's work.
As we were leaving, Gary mentioned the fact that, although
the play is political satire, it is still extremely abstract. As we
know, music is the most abstract of the arts. It seems to me
that Foreman is among the greatest abstractionist of our era, and
this in an era with many great abstractionists, from Rauchenberg
and James Rosenquist to Gertrude Stein to
Jackson MacLow and John Ashbery, to, at some
their best moments, the Beatles. It is for this reason, perhaps,
that Foreman's work keeps evolving closer to music- and pure poetry-
(TS Eliot's "April is the cruellest month" is quoted twice-
perhaps partly referring to the
fact that the play closes in April,) and the play also includes a
quote from my favorite of all books of poetry *The Duino Elegies*
"Who, if I shouted among the angelic orders, would hear me", although
I prefer the the McIntyre translation of Rilke's most famous line,
"Who, if I shouted among the hierarchies of angels, would hear me?"
What more apropos line could a poet utter in the Age of King Bush?
**
Richard Foreman/EPC Home Page {click here}
Sunday, February 1
from *The Notebooks of Samuel Butler*
from "Truth and Convenience"
...The arrangement of our ideas is as much a matter
of convenience as the packing of goods in a druggist's or
draper's store and leads to exactly the same kind of difficulties
in the matter of classifying them. We all admit the arbitrarinesss of
classifications in a languid way, but we do not think of it more
than we can help- I suppose because it is so incovenient to
do so. The great advantage of classification is to conceal the
fact that subdivisions are as arbitrary as they are.
"Classification"
There can be no perfect way, for classification presupposes
that a thing has absolute limits whereas there is nothing that
does not partake of the universal infinity- something whose
boundaries do not vary. Everything is one thing at one time
and to some respects, and another at other times and in other
respects. We want a new mode of measurement altogether; at
present we take what gaps we can find, sent up milestones and
declare them irremoveable. We want a measure which shall express,
or at any rate recognize, the harmonics and resemblance that lurk
even in the most absolute differences and vice-versa.
"Attempts at Classification"
are like nailing battens of our own flesh, and blood upon ourselves
as an inclined plane that we may walk up ourselves more easily; and
yet it answers very sufficiently.
from "Truth and Convenience"
...The arrangement of our ideas is as much a matter
of convenience as the packing of goods in a druggist's or
draper's store and leads to exactly the same kind of difficulties
in the matter of classifying them. We all admit the arbitrarinesss of
classifications in a languid way, but we do not think of it more
than we can help- I suppose because it is so incovenient to
do so. The great advantage of classification is to conceal the
fact that subdivisions are as arbitrary as they are.
"Classification"
There can be no perfect way, for classification presupposes
that a thing has absolute limits whereas there is nothing that
does not partake of the universal infinity- something whose
boundaries do not vary. Everything is one thing at one time
and to some respects, and another at other times and in other
respects. We want a new mode of measurement altogether; at
present we take what gaps we can find, sent up milestones and
declare them irremoveable. We want a measure which shall express,
or at any rate recognize, the harmonics and resemblance that lurk
even in the most absolute differences and vice-versa.
"Attempts at Classification"
are like nailing battens of our own flesh, and blood upon ourselves
as an inclined plane that we may walk up ourselves more easily; and
yet it answers very sufficiently.
A Good Read
Found poetry by Chris Murray
right now on Texfiles {click here}
***********
Cybergenerosity
Prolific August Highland boasts the largest collection
of poetry on the web. His new minil-mag is online now at
Highland's Mini-Mag {click here}
and includes work by Tom Bell, Stephen-Paul Martin,
Daniella Gioseffi, Harry Polkinhorn, Suzi, August Highland
and 30 others
************
Ridley Scott's *1984* ad for
McIntosh
Great Scott! {click here}
************
Talking Trees
right now on The Cassandra Pages {click here}
************
Brian Kim Stefans' prose poem
"We Make"
Free Space Comix {click here}
Found poetry by Chris Murray
right now on Texfiles {click here}
***********
Cybergenerosity
Prolific August Highland boasts the largest collection
of poetry on the web. His new minil-mag is online now at
Highland's Mini-Mag {click here}
and includes work by Tom Bell, Stephen-Paul Martin,
Daniella Gioseffi, Harry Polkinhorn, Suzi, August Highland
and 30 others
************
Ridley Scott's *1984* ad for
McIntosh
Great Scott! {click here}
************
Talking Trees
right now on The Cassandra Pages {click here}
************
Brian Kim Stefans' prose poem
"We Make"
Free Space Comix {click here}
I consider it a great misfortune that nature
has not granted me that indefinite something
which attracts people. I believe it is this lack
more than any other which has deprived me of
a rosy existence. It has taken me so long to
win my friends, I have had to struggle so long
for my precious girl, and every time I meet
someone I realize that an impulse, which defies
analysis, leads that person to underestimate me.
This may be a question of expression or
temperament, or some other secret of nature,
but whatever it may be it affects one deeply. What
compensates me for all this is the devotion shown
to me by all those who have become my friends-
but what am I talking about?
Letters of Sigmund Freud #93
to Martha Bernays
January 27, 1886
has not granted me that indefinite something
which attracts people. I believe it is this lack
more than any other which has deprived me of
a rosy existence. It has taken me so long to
win my friends, I have had to struggle so long
for my precious girl, and every time I meet
someone I realize that an impulse, which defies
analysis, leads that person to underestimate me.
This may be a question of expression or
temperament, or some other secret of nature,
but whatever it may be it affects one deeply. What
compensates me for all this is the devotion shown
to me by all those who have become my friends-
but what am I talking about?
Letters of Sigmund Freud #93
to Martha Bernays
January 27, 1886
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