Caterina {click here} says
The Italians have (had)
a word for it
Distribution Automatique
Tuesday, May 4
The Poetry Society of America's {click here}
on Monday responded to our
"Lightness" post with a
meditation reminiscent of Francis Ponge.
Thanks also
to Wood s lot {click here}
Never Neutral {click here}
and The Ingredient {click here}
for linking to this piece.
**
"Goodtime Jesus"
A pungent slice from the
Limetree {click here}
for your morning tea (Monday, May 3rd)
on Monday responded to our
"Lightness" post with a
meditation reminiscent of Francis Ponge.
Thanks also
to Wood s lot {click here}
Never Neutral {click here}
and The Ingredient {click here}
for linking to this piece.
**
"Goodtime Jesus"
A pungent slice from the
Limetree {click here}
for your morning tea (Monday, May 3rd)
Monday, May 3
notebook: 1/3/88
It is harder to stay with
being a poet, than it is to
keep writing poetry-
just as it is harder
to stay human rather than
just keep living.
1/12/88
Mars distance
varies widely from Sun
right now
its perihelion
closest now
we are flying near
Mars in 47 days
Mars closest to us
in Sept than it has
in 2 decades
Sept- Mars-
a fiery beacon
in the sky
Bright red star in
the East after
midnight
University of Texas
McDonald observatory
Austin, Texas
78712
free publication
I hate writing so called.
You might wonder
why I'm here-
in that case
I hate writing so-called
poetry. I hate the
phoney pretentiousness, the
self-conscious aspiration
of the writer to become
part of history, the
oohs and ahs- the prizes,
awards, the readings.
I probably like only the
clean, crisp books themselves,
not even the words, just
the useless objects- the
lack of pragmatic usefulness.
It is harder to stay with
being a poet, than it is to
keep writing poetry-
just as it is harder
to stay human rather than
just keep living.
1/12/88
Mars distance
varies widely from Sun
right now
its perihelion
closest now
we are flying near
Mars in 47 days
Mars closest to us
in Sept than it has
in 2 decades
Sept- Mars-
a fiery beacon
in the sky
Bright red star in
the East after
midnight
University of Texas
McDonald observatory
Austin, Texas
78712
free publication
I hate writing so called.
You might wonder
why I'm here-
in that case
I hate writing so-called
poetry. I hate the
phoney pretentiousness, the
self-conscious aspiration
of the writer to become
part of history, the
oohs and ahs- the prizes,
awards, the readings.
I probably like only the
clean, crisp books themselves,
not even the words, just
the useless objects- the
lack of pragmatic usefulness.
Sunday, May 2
Equanimity (Jordan Davis) {click here} for Friday, April 30th asks:
Why aren't more blogs called "Hamlet's Soliloquy."
Perhaps this comment could more readily directed
towards books of poetry.
In fact, it seems the majority of blogs are more interactive,
dialogic, that is to say, responsive to the literary environment,
than most books of poetry or poems are for that matter.
Why aren't more blogs called "Hamlet's Soliloquy."
Perhaps this comment could more readily directed
towards books of poetry.
In fact, it seems the majority of blogs are more interactive,
dialogic, that is to say, responsive to the literary environment,
than most books of poetry or poems are for that matter.
Reading *Cuban Journal:
A Poet in the Venceremos
Brigade* by Joel Sloman
Zoland Books, Cambridge Mass, 2000
today
"I didn't know/ what the fuck they were talking about/
discussing formal organization/or the need for it/
I guess people's good intentions/
can't be taken for granted/self-discipline/
confused with authority/of leader or
institution/ refusal to discuss reality/
immediate leap to vague abstractions/
mystifications/axes to grind/
my impulse to say/fuck it/
I came here to cut cane/
but that's the deficient way/
I've acted in the past/
no longer acceptable/
current imperative/ to articulate my perspective/"
**
New Blogs Dep't
Due to moving, we've been remiss in publishing our
(((((HOT)))))(((((BLOGS)))))
feature but this new title is irrisistable:
electronic libretti of obscure poet x zen trick {click here}
now (Tuesday, May 4th) known as
xzentrick libretti {click here}
A Poet in the Venceremos
Brigade* by Joel Sloman
Zoland Books, Cambridge Mass, 2000
today
"I didn't know/ what the fuck they were talking about/
discussing formal organization/or the need for it/
I guess people's good intentions/
can't be taken for granted/self-discipline/
confused with authority/of leader or
institution/ refusal to discuss reality/
immediate leap to vague abstractions/
mystifications/axes to grind/
my impulse to say/fuck it/
I came here to cut cane/
but that's the deficient way/
I've acted in the past/
no longer acceptable/
current imperative/ to articulate my perspective/"
**
New Blogs Dep't
Due to moving, we've been remiss in publishing our
(((((HOT)))))(((((BLOGS)))))
feature but this new title is irrisistable:
electronic libretti of obscure poet x zen trick {click here}
now (Tuesday, May 4th) known as
xzentrick libretti {click here}
Saturday, May 1
The Unbearable Lightness of Blogging
I'm not at all surprised to find so many delectable
essays by Hazlitt in a volume of his collected works
titled *Fugitive Writings*. Fugitive, I see now,
because they he had published them in various journals
but they remained uncollected by him.
One of the pieces, "The Letter-Bell" (published in *The Monthly Magazine*, March, 1831) connects the announcing sounds made by approaching mail coaches (horse-driven, of course) to the welter of emotions they
invoke in Hazlitt as they occur, or by his evoking their memory. As I read this with great pleasure, imagining his pleasure in hearing from others, including his editors and other readers, I'm thinking of how much I want to mention all this here. The simultaneity of these interconnected activities within their subsequently evoked internal images, and all the connected feelings is the subject not only of Hazlitt's essay, but the occurance in the present of my anticipation of blogging this as well. Then I realize how much this lightness of blogging I kept thinking about has to do with blogging's complex rearrangements of the correspondances between, reading and writing, publishing and republishing, writing and responding. I've been thinking of Jackson MacLow's appropriations in this regard- and the powerful, silent points they make in regenerating & energizing the equivalence of reading and writing, which bends round ("overlaps") into the equivalence of reader and writer, the foregrounding of one only leading to the silent presence of the other's absence, the words said aloud only leading to the implied occurance of the silent thoughts that precede, and surround the current moment of reading, the past moment of speaking, the future moment of thinking aloud, writing silently, reading again, saying again, again listening, again speaking to & with, again thinking within oneself.
So that whatever gravity occurs within the content,
forms & their deft shifts lightly lift all if it from its concavity into the present, quiet, Spring air, the keys and the blog screen, its breathed fragrances of thought and season.
{What had all those stormy fears been about, anyway, with
those jets crashing through air like so much lightning, day after day,
night after night. Then a subsiding, a great long hush, and an actual sudden death close by, right on this floor of this building; the death of a relatively young man, who left behind a young daughter and a wife. On the one hand the cherry blossoms, bursting with rebirth and rejuvanation, and on the other hand, the stormy clash of a silent voice splitting listening in two, a living, thinking, speaking person hushed into eternal quiet. On the one hand, the intertwining algebra of past, present and future, on the other, the conceivable, empty world of no-time.}
The unbearable lightness of blogging consists, right now at least, of two things: the temporal equivalence, the harmonic cancellation and confrontation between writing and reading, ending and beginning, having and sharing, saying and repeating, writing and publishing, hearing and reading, sounding and the gradual, inevitablle decay of sound into the light, blank, moonlit, silent Spring night.
**
"Complaints are frequently made of the vanity and shortness of human life, when, if we examine its smallest details, they present a world by themselves. The most trifling objects, retraced with they eye of memory, assume the vividness, the delicacy, and importance of insects seen through a magifying glass.There is no end to the brilliancy or the variety...As I write this the *Letter-Bell* passes: it has a lively, pleasant sound with it, and not only fills the street with its importunate clamour, but rings clear through the length of many half-forgetten years. It strikes upon the ear, it vibrates to the brain, it wakes me from the dream of time, it flings me back upon my first entrance into life, the period of my first coming up to town, when all around was strange, uncertain, adverse- a hubbub of confused noises, a chaos of shifting objects- and when this sound alone, startling me with the recollection of a letter I had to send to the friends I had lately left, brought me as it were to myself, made me feel that I had links still connecting me with the universe, and gave me hope and patience to persevere..."
(Hazlitt)
I'm not at all surprised to find so many delectable
essays by Hazlitt in a volume of his collected works
titled *Fugitive Writings*. Fugitive, I see now,
because they he had published them in various journals
but they remained uncollected by him.
One of the pieces, "The Letter-Bell" (published in *The Monthly Magazine*, March, 1831) connects the announcing sounds made by approaching mail coaches (horse-driven, of course) to the welter of emotions they
invoke in Hazlitt as they occur, or by his evoking their memory. As I read this with great pleasure, imagining his pleasure in hearing from others, including his editors and other readers, I'm thinking of how much I want to mention all this here. The simultaneity of these interconnected activities within their subsequently evoked internal images, and all the connected feelings is the subject not only of Hazlitt's essay, but the occurance in the present of my anticipation of blogging this as well. Then I realize how much this lightness of blogging I kept thinking about has to do with blogging's complex rearrangements of the correspondances between, reading and writing, publishing and republishing, writing and responding. I've been thinking of Jackson MacLow's appropriations in this regard- and the powerful, silent points they make in regenerating & energizing the equivalence of reading and writing, which bends round ("overlaps") into the equivalence of reader and writer, the foregrounding of one only leading to the silent presence of the other's absence, the words said aloud only leading to the implied occurance of the silent thoughts that precede, and surround the current moment of reading, the past moment of speaking, the future moment of thinking aloud, writing silently, reading again, saying again, again listening, again speaking to & with, again thinking within oneself.
So that whatever gravity occurs within the content,
forms & their deft shifts lightly lift all if it from its concavity into the present, quiet, Spring air, the keys and the blog screen, its breathed fragrances of thought and season.
{What had all those stormy fears been about, anyway, with
those jets crashing through air like so much lightning, day after day,
night after night. Then a subsiding, a great long hush, and an actual sudden death close by, right on this floor of this building; the death of a relatively young man, who left behind a young daughter and a wife. On the one hand the cherry blossoms, bursting with rebirth and rejuvanation, and on the other hand, the stormy clash of a silent voice splitting listening in two, a living, thinking, speaking person hushed into eternal quiet. On the one hand, the intertwining algebra of past, present and future, on the other, the conceivable, empty world of no-time.}
The unbearable lightness of blogging consists, right now at least, of two things: the temporal equivalence, the harmonic cancellation and confrontation between writing and reading, ending and beginning, having and sharing, saying and repeating, writing and publishing, hearing and reading, sounding and the gradual, inevitablle decay of sound into the light, blank, moonlit, silent Spring night.
**
"Complaints are frequently made of the vanity and shortness of human life, when, if we examine its smallest details, they present a world by themselves. The most trifling objects, retraced with they eye of memory, assume the vividness, the delicacy, and importance of insects seen through a magifying glass.There is no end to the brilliancy or the variety...As I write this the *Letter-Bell* passes: it has a lively, pleasant sound with it, and not only fills the street with its importunate clamour, but rings clear through the length of many half-forgetten years. It strikes upon the ear, it vibrates to the brain, it wakes me from the dream of time, it flings me back upon my first entrance into life, the period of my first coming up to town, when all around was strange, uncertain, adverse- a hubbub of confused noises, a chaos of shifting objects- and when this sound alone, startling me with the recollection of a letter I had to send to the friends I had lately left, brought me as it were to myself, made me feel that I had links still connecting me with the universe, and gave me hope and patience to persevere..."
(Hazlitt)
Friday, April 30
"I am aquainted with but one person,
of whom I feel quilte sure that if he
were about to meet an old and tried
friend in the street, he would go up
and speak to him in the same manner,
whether in the interim he had become
a lord or a beggar. Upon reflection, I may
add a second to the list. Such is my
estimate of the permanence and sincerity
of our most boasted virtures. 'To be
honest as this world goes, is to be one
man picked out of then thousand'."
William Hazlitt
*Aphorisms On Man*
(#XXIX)
Seeing the news about Google's IPO today,
I sincerely hope, and that I am not
deluding myself that I feel I
have reason to hope, that Mr. Larry Paige
and Mr Sergey Brin fall into Hazlitt's
rare category.
If it's true, anyway, it's certainly
going to be good
luck for all us bloggers, as Google
has been unusually kind
to many of us so far, and I appreciate that.
of whom I feel quilte sure that if he
were about to meet an old and tried
friend in the street, he would go up
and speak to him in the same manner,
whether in the interim he had become
a lord or a beggar. Upon reflection, I may
add a second to the list. Such is my
estimate of the permanence and sincerity
of our most boasted virtures. 'To be
honest as this world goes, is to be one
man picked out of then thousand'."
William Hazlitt
*Aphorisms On Man*
(#XXIX)
Seeing the news about Google's IPO today,
I sincerely hope, and that I am not
deluding myself that I feel I
have reason to hope, that Mr. Larry Paige
and Mr Sergey Brin fall into Hazlitt's
rare category.
If it's true, anyway, it's certainly
going to be good
luck for all us bloggers, as Google
has been unusually kind
to many of us so far, and I appreciate that.
"I am not very patriotic in my notions,
nor predjudiced in favour of my own
countrymen; and one reason is, I
wish to have as good an opinion as I
can of human nature in general. If we
are the paragons that some people
make us out, what must the rest of
the world be? If we monopolize all
the sense and virtue on the face of
the globe, we "leave others poor indeed,"
without having a very great superabundance
falling to our own share. Let them have
a few advantages that we have not-
grapes and the sun!"
William Hazlitt
*Aphorisms on Man*
(#XXXV)
nor predjudiced in favour of my own
countrymen; and one reason is, I
wish to have as good an opinion as I
can of human nature in general. If we
are the paragons that some people
make us out, what must the rest of
the world be? If we monopolize all
the sense and virtue on the face of
the globe, we "leave others poor indeed,"
without having a very great superabundance
falling to our own share. Let them have
a few advantages that we have not-
grapes and the sun!"
William Hazlitt
*Aphorisms on Man*
(#XXXV)
notebook:1/22/87
Repeated experiences of listening
to a specific piece of music will
sometimes lead to an experience
of pleasure even in listening to the
mistakes. Mistakes irritate mostly
insofar as they delay an expectable
progression. Once the progression
is known and understood, the
"mistake" is only a glaring record
of the past.
Resonance: starting with a small
vibration, other proximate
objects respond, and a momentum
eventually gets established. This
response is "harmonic" in that it
echoes and frames the original
event.
7/1/86
An instinct to record some boundaries
Marked here because this is a slate,
A quizzical vector.
Repeated experiences of listening
to a specific piece of music will
sometimes lead to an experience
of pleasure even in listening to the
mistakes. Mistakes irritate mostly
insofar as they delay an expectable
progression. Once the progression
is known and understood, the
"mistake" is only a glaring record
of the past.
Resonance: starting with a small
vibration, other proximate
objects respond, and a momentum
eventually gets established. This
response is "harmonic" in that it
echoes and frames the original
event.
7/1/86
An instinct to record some boundaries
Marked here because this is a slate,
A quizzical vector.
Thursday, April 29
"People cry out against the preposterous
absurdity of such representations as
the German inventions of the *Devil's
Elixir* and the *Bottle Imp*. Is it then
a fiction that we see? Or is it not a
palpable reality that atakes place every
day and every hour? Who is there that is
not haunted by some heated phantom
of his brain, some wizard spell, that
clings to him in spite of his will, and hurries
him on to absurdity or ruin? There is no
machinery or phantasmagoria of a melo-
drame, more extravagant than the
workings of the passions. Mr. Farley may
do his worst with scaly forms, with flames,
and dragon's wings: but after all, the true
demon is within us. How many, whose
senses are shocked at the outward
spectacle, and who turn away startled, or
disgusted might say, pointing to their
bosom, *'The moral is here!*
William Hazlitt
*Aphorisms on Man*
(LXVIII)
About William Hazlitt {click here}
absurdity of such representations as
the German inventions of the *Devil's
Elixir* and the *Bottle Imp*. Is it then
a fiction that we see? Or is it not a
palpable reality that atakes place every
day and every hour? Who is there that is
not haunted by some heated phantom
of his brain, some wizard spell, that
clings to him in spite of his will, and hurries
him on to absurdity or ruin? There is no
machinery or phantasmagoria of a melo-
drame, more extravagant than the
workings of the passions. Mr. Farley may
do his worst with scaly forms, with flames,
and dragon's wings: but after all, the true
demon is within us. How many, whose
senses are shocked at the outward
spectacle, and who turn away startled, or
disgusted might say, pointing to their
bosom, *'The moral is here!*
William Hazlitt
*Aphorisms on Man*
(LXVIII)
About William Hazlitt {click here}
Wednesday, April 28
"because the tongue is in the mouth
that is the book..."
by kari edwards
right now on
As/Is {click here}
(4/28)
that is the book..."
by kari edwards
right now on
As/Is {click here}
(4/28)
"A person who does not tell lies
will not believe that others tell
them. From old habit, he cannot
break the connection between
words and things. This is to labour
under a great disadvantage in his
transactions with *men of the world:*
it is playing against sharpers with
loaded dice. The secret of plausibility
and success is *point-blanc lying.*
The advantage which men of business
have over the dreamers and sleep-
walkers is not in knowing the exact
state of a case, but in telling you with
a grave face what is not, to suit their
own purposes. This is one obvious
reason why students and book-worms
are so often reduced to their last legs.
Education (which is a study and discipline
of abstract truth) is a diversion to the
instinct of lying and a bar to fortune."
William Hazlitt
*Aphorisms on Man*
(# XXXVIII)
will not believe that others tell
them. From old habit, he cannot
break the connection between
words and things. This is to labour
under a great disadvantage in his
transactions with *men of the world:*
it is playing against sharpers with
loaded dice. The secret of plausibility
and success is *point-blanc lying.*
The advantage which men of business
have over the dreamers and sleep-
walkers is not in knowing the exact
state of a case, but in telling you with
a grave face what is not, to suit their
own purposes. This is one obvious
reason why students and book-worms
are so often reduced to their last legs.
Education (which is a study and discipline
of abstract truth) is a diversion to the
instinct of lying and a bar to fortune."
William Hazlitt
*Aphorisms on Man*
(# XXXVIII)
Tuesday, April 27
Language Poet
Barrett Watten
Wins Literary Prize
as reported by his longtime
friend and literary associate-
right now on
Silliman's Blog, Sunday April 25
"Great moments in irony: The 2004 René Wellek Prize, awarded by the American Comparative Literature Association, has gone to Barrett Watten’s The Constructivist Moment: From Material Text to Cultural Politics. Wellek at least attended the Prague School for Linguistics while Roman Jakobson was on its faculty, from whom he seems to have borrowed (and denatured) much of the work of the Russian Formalists in his particular contribution to New Criticism as it emerged in the 1930s.
This blog gave Watten’s book – which I’m still reading – its very first critical mention back in June 2003. When I read it, the first verse of Bob Dylan’s “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues” runs incessantly through my backbrain. Not only are Watten’s own concerns similar, but the density that characterizes Dylan’s best writing – almost a verticality – is something that Watten shares & has brought forward both in his poetry & his critical work. Watten’s book deserves every award it gets."
Barrett Watten
Wins Literary Prize
as reported by his longtime
friend and literary associate-
right now on
Silliman's Blog, Sunday April 25
"Great moments in irony: The 2004 René Wellek Prize, awarded by the American Comparative Literature Association, has gone to Barrett Watten’s The Constructivist Moment: From Material Text to Cultural Politics. Wellek at least attended the Prague School for Linguistics while Roman Jakobson was on its faculty, from whom he seems to have borrowed (and denatured) much of the work of the Russian Formalists in his particular contribution to New Criticism as it emerged in the 1930s.
This blog gave Watten’s book – which I’m still reading – its very first critical mention back in June 2003. When I read it, the first verse of Bob Dylan’s “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues” runs incessantly through my backbrain. Not only are Watten’s own concerns similar, but the density that characterizes Dylan’s best writing – almost a verticality – is something that Watten shares & has brought forward both in his poetry & his critical work. Watten’s book deserves every award it gets."
Everything you
wanted to know
but were afraid to
ask about Hay(na)ku
right now on
Crag Hill's Poetry Scorecard {click here}
wanted to know
but were afraid to
ask about Hay(na)ku
right now on
Crag Hill's Poetry Scorecard {click here}
David Bromige interview in
Jacket 22{click here}
and more on David Bromige right now on
Wood s Lot {click here}
including Gary Sullivan's
*My David Bromige*
Jacket 22{click here}
and more on David Bromige right now on
Wood s Lot {click here}
including Gary Sullivan's
*My David Bromige*
At Home With Eeksy-Peeksy (Malcolm Davidson){click here)
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Break, Fast
Cats on the kitchen table. Two flying cats. Mayonnaise squeeze bottle farty noise splats. Tea, coffee, fruit juice, food on the mats. Phone, money, keys, door. Outrun the rats.
posted by eeksypeeksy | 8:24 AM
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Break, Fast
Cats on the kitchen table. Two flying cats. Mayonnaise squeeze bottle farty noise splats. Tea, coffee, fruit juice, food on the mats. Phone, money, keys, door. Outrun the rats.
posted by eeksypeeksy | 8:24 AM
from Swimming for Dummies (Tanya Brolaski){click here}
My Lief Is Faren in Londe (My beloved has gone away) -anon. medieval lyric
My lief is faren in londe -
Allas, why is she so?
And I am so sore bonde
I may nat come her to.
She hath myn herte in holde
Wherever she ride or go -
With trewe love a thousand folde.
My Lief Is Faren in Londe (My beloved has gone away) -anon. medieval lyric
My lief is faren in londe -
Allas, why is she so?
And I am so sore bonde
I may nat come her to.
She hath myn herte in holde
Wherever she ride or go -
With trewe love a thousand folde.
notebook (poem): 7/17/89
Early Morning Drift
Why do they slip from right to left
In the pause (paws) of a violet?
1) Dog Star Man 2) Pop star 3) Carbuncle
Sandslide at Lake Forget
Pizzicato Fortress and Goodbye
Atom toothpaste
Fast lane closed
Nuance
Geological
Have 'em set up toboggan trees
Record groove
Bebop
Late bus
Fire zone
New France
Airboy
Moon
Astrology
Microcosm
Cosby Crosby Cosign
Synesthesia
Sin is easier
Early Morning Drift
Why do they slip from right to left
In the pause (paws) of a violet?
1) Dog Star Man 2) Pop star 3) Carbuncle
Sandslide at Lake Forget
Pizzicato Fortress and Goodbye
Atom toothpaste
Fast lane closed
Nuance
Geological
Have 'em set up toboggan trees
Record groove
Bebop
Late bus
Fire zone
New France
Airboy
Moon
Astrology
Microcosm
Cosby Crosby Cosign
Synesthesia
Sin is easier
Monday, April 26
The quickly emerging internationalisation
of blogging is very exciting:
On Friday, April 23rd
we published a comment
we noticed on the excellent
French blog Media TIC {click here}.
The comment had originally been
published on Franchement!{click here}. On the same day (!)
that I published the comment with
my undoubtedly flawed translation
the comment was republished on
that blog along with my translation!
(from Franchement! April 23rd):
Journée mondiale du blogue?
Un blogue est un livre sans fin dont l'auteur écrit sans cesse la première page pour des lecteurs continuellement en attente de la dernière. Définition que Nick Piombino traduit ainsi :
My very rough translation: "A blog is a unending book in which the author keeps writing the first page for readers constantly waiting for the last." Nick Piombino, in Fait accompli
Aujourd'hui, 23 avril : journée mondiale du livre et du droit d'auteur. Si un blogue est un livre, c'est donc la journée mondiale du blogue...
| # | @ | ... |
of blogging is very exciting:
On Friday, April 23rd
we published a comment
we noticed on the excellent
French blog Media TIC {click here}.
The comment had originally been
published on Franchement!{click here}. On the same day (!)
that I published the comment with
my undoubtedly flawed translation
the comment was republished on
that blog along with my translation!
(from Franchement! April 23rd):
Journée mondiale du blogue?
Un blogue est un livre sans fin dont l'auteur écrit sans cesse la première page pour des lecteurs continuellement en attente de la dernière. Définition que Nick Piombino traduit ainsi :
My very rough translation: "A blog is a unending book in which the author keeps writing the first page for readers constantly waiting for the last." Nick Piombino, in Fait accompli
Aujourd'hui, 23 avril : journée mondiale du livre et du droit d'auteur. Si un blogue est un livre, c'est donc la journée mondiale du blogue...
| # | @ | ... |
Poetry is Alive and Well in Brooklyn
It's a damn shame we had to miss
Aaron McCollough's reading on
Saturday night at Shanna Compton's
apartment which is no more than a hop,
skip and a jump from our new digs
in Park Slope. If you haven't already
read her delightful report, replete
with photos and call-ins read it now on
Brand New Insects {click here}.
***
Another Brooklyn reading I regret missing
on Saturday night as listed on
Venepoetics {click here}
It's a damn shame we had to miss
Aaron McCollough's reading on
Saturday night at Shanna Compton's
apartment which is no more than a hop,
skip and a jump from our new digs
in Park Slope. If you haven't already
read her delightful report, replete
with photos and call-ins read it now on
Brand New Insects {click here}.
***
Another Brooklyn reading I regret missing
on Saturday night as listed on
Venepoetics {click here}
Sunday, April 25
The patient who kept searching for her children
in the street.
"Why does she need to be hospitalized?" the
policeman asked the psychiatrist.
The psychiatrist
explained to the cop that when he told her
her children had been found
and were receiving care she answered:
"Not the facsimiles. I have to find them too."
"I guess you're right," the officer said.
"She does need the hospital."
**
Of all the possible time travel destinations,
the present is by far the most exacting
one to access. It takes a great deal
of patience to attend to the many details
and tasks the present presents us with,
when we pay close attention to it,
more or less insistently.
The past and the future may be browsed,
likes books on a bookshelf. The present
quickly insists on action- interaction-
on construction, even; e.g., Toni's
maxim, don't fret, file.
in the street.
"Why does she need to be hospitalized?" the
policeman asked the psychiatrist.
The psychiatrist
explained to the cop that when he told her
her children had been found
and were receiving care she answered:
"Not the facsimiles. I have to find them too."
"I guess you're right," the officer said.
"She does need the hospital."
**
Of all the possible time travel destinations,
the present is by far the most exacting
one to access. It takes a great deal
of patience to attend to the many details
and tasks the present presents us with,
when we pay close attention to it,
more or less insistently.
The past and the future may be browsed,
likes books on a bookshelf. The present
quickly insists on action- interaction-
on construction, even; e.g., Toni's
maxim, don't fret, file.
notebook (untitled fragment): c 1987
After the accusations for wasting time
After the conclusion that the poems were forgeries
After the years of worry
After the rejections by art museums
After the bounced checks of the collectors
After the armsfull of insect bites
After the outrageous outmoding of freedoms
After the dizzying ascent of repetitions
After the glorification of mathematical originality
After the recommendations of brevity and the mayoral citations
That continue dawn after dawn into the unheralded encyclopedias
After the descent into the past to search for editorial commentaries
After the insignias of printers and the imprimaturs of publishers
After the confusion of bells and the small litter in stuck drawers
We shall still read them
We shall still remember their voices
Which grunted with pleasure in spite of the mistakes
Which begged for confirmation
Despite many proclamations to the contrary.
There are years inside their expressions,
There are so many feelings of relief
Whenever anybody remembers to print their names
On the flyleafs.
This may be the December of time,
These may be the last days of gazelles,
This may be the dessication of caring,
The last leaves quietly collecting
On the rich earth of ancient books.
Yet we are among them
We are the ones who can no longer think
We are the shadows and the skulls
Of all that longing.
After the accusations for wasting time
After the conclusion that the poems were forgeries
After the years of worry
After the rejections by art museums
After the bounced checks of the collectors
After the armsfull of insect bites
After the outrageous outmoding of freedoms
After the dizzying ascent of repetitions
After the glorification of mathematical originality
After the recommendations of brevity and the mayoral citations
That continue dawn after dawn into the unheralded encyclopedias
After the descent into the past to search for editorial commentaries
After the insignias of printers and the imprimaturs of publishers
After the confusion of bells and the small litter in stuck drawers
We shall still read them
We shall still remember their voices
Which grunted with pleasure in spite of the mistakes
Which begged for confirmation
Despite many proclamations to the contrary.
There are years inside their expressions,
There are so many feelings of relief
Whenever anybody remembers to print their names
On the flyleafs.
This may be the December of time,
These may be the last days of gazelles,
This may be the dessication of caring,
The last leaves quietly collecting
On the rich earth of ancient books.
Yet we are among them
We are the ones who can no longer think
We are the shadows and the skulls
Of all that longing.
Saturday, April 24
Friday, April 23
notebook (untitled fragment): 3/24/87 12:30 am
Ten minutes after reading the by now familiar poems of A
I'm aware of how an ease in the sense of communication
Between his poems and their imagined readers
Suspends the moment of the poem - almost infinitely-
The listeners as an infinity of echo chambers
Fragmenting the remembered words and rejoining them
In an endless *assemblage* of intimate materials.
The poem frankly admits its status outside the needs
Of practical discourse, pulls over a chair and an ottoman
And elects to hold forth. "Words describe, people mean."
First, to find out about and hold on to-
To repeat and remember
Every day- easily slips away, into the
Torments of the righteous,
The wish to return punishments for slight.
Such a conversation is a touchstone, a lightning
Rod for admitting energies- a kind of circuit that
Can run from one person to another by means of spoken words
Which far transcends their immediate impact.
Such energy is occasioned by the ceremony
Of conversation, the constant background of thought.
Also, if you feel the need to exagerrate to make your point
This must be parly because your imagine that you
Lost the attention of your listeners.
Ten minutes after reading the by now familiar poems of A
I'm aware of how an ease in the sense of communication
Between his poems and their imagined readers
Suspends the moment of the poem - almost infinitely-
The listeners as an infinity of echo chambers
Fragmenting the remembered words and rejoining them
In an endless *assemblage* of intimate materials.
The poem frankly admits its status outside the needs
Of practical discourse, pulls over a chair and an ottoman
And elects to hold forth. "Words describe, people mean."
First, to find out about and hold on to-
To repeat and remember
Every day- easily slips away, into the
Torments of the righteous,
The wish to return punishments for slight.
Such a conversation is a touchstone, a lightning
Rod for admitting energies- a kind of circuit that
Can run from one person to another by means of spoken words
Which far transcends their immediate impact.
Such energy is occasioned by the ceremony
Of conversation, the constant background of thought.
Also, if you feel the need to exagerrate to make your point
This must be parly because your imagine that you
Lost the attention of your listeners.
"Don't remember the dream I had,
angle dangle, coffee in the morning..."
from nemski.com (4/18/04) {click here}
angle dangle, coffee in the morning..."
from nemski.com (4/18/04) {click here}
"��Un blogue est un livre sans fin dont l'auteur
écrit sans cesse la première page pour des
lecteurs continuellement en attente de la dernière."
from Frenchement! {click here}
via mediaTIC blog - actualite du blog et des blogs {click here}
My very rough translation:
"A blog is a unending book in which
the author keeps writing the first page
for readers constantly waiting
for the last."
écrit sans cesse la première page pour des
lecteurs continuellement en attente de la dernière."
from Frenchement! {click here}
via mediaTIC blog - actualite du blog et des blogs {click here}
My very rough translation:
"A blog is a unending book in which
the author keeps writing the first page
for readers constantly waiting
for the last."
Thursday, April 22
notebook (poem, untitled): circa 1987
The paradox is
Is that if the truth is imagined
All things false that folloow
Are like images distorted by snowy mists
A poison in me that has to get out
Of this individuality
But, I am confused
What you told me of sorrow
Does not demand my solitude
In your graces after thought
Time spells out your name indefinably
And I am tortured
My pain flies out like gulls
Fleeing choppy waves
And this is a caress
Behind my gentle hand
Lies aangry schoolteacher
Demanding silence
The paradox is
Is that if the truth is imagined
All things false that folloow
Are like images distorted by snowy mists
A poison in me that has to get out
Of this individuality
But, I am confused
What you told me of sorrow
Does not demand my solitude
In your graces after thought
Time spells out your name indefinably
And I am tortured
My pain flies out like gulls
Fleeing choppy waves
And this is a caress
Behind my gentle hand
Lies aangry schoolteacher
Demanding silence
Wednesday, April 21
Laughing Meme {click here}
presents an obsessively-
and riotously- researched discussion
("autopsy") of that
seemingly unstoppable blog rage:
the "page 23 sentence 5" meme.
via Boynton {click here}
presents an obsessively-
and riotously- researched discussion
("autopsy") of that
seemingly unstoppable blog rage:
the "page 23 sentence 5" meme.
via Boynton {click here}
Got a postcard from Dave Hess who
was visiting the Elvis Presley Museum
in Memphis, Tennessee. He also
mentioned the the Blues Museum in
Clarksville, Miss. It seems that
Howlin' Wolf used to crawl around
on all fours barking like a dog.
Hearing from Dave about 50's rock
stars was amazing to
me partly because the book I am reading
now, *Buddy Holly is Alive and Well
on Ganymede* by Bradley Denton
(I got a signed paperback edition of
this terrific 1989 Science Fiction novel
at Ivy's outside $1 bookshelf
on the Upper West Side) is custom made for 50's
rock and roll freaks like me. Buddy Holly
was one of my favorite stars- I saw
him live playing with the Crickets quite nearby
where I am living now, and where I went to
High School, at the Brooklyn Paramount in 1956.
In the book, Buddy suddenly appears on everyone's
tv set, evidently broadcast from Ganymede, a moon of
Jupiter. Nice bit of time travel. Thanks, Dave!
was visiting the Elvis Presley Museum
in Memphis, Tennessee. He also
mentioned the the Blues Museum in
Clarksville, Miss. It seems that
Howlin' Wolf used to crawl around
on all fours barking like a dog.
Hearing from Dave about 50's rock
stars was amazing to
me partly because the book I am reading
now, *Buddy Holly is Alive and Well
on Ganymede* by Bradley Denton
(I got a signed paperback edition of
this terrific 1989 Science Fiction novel
at Ivy's outside $1 bookshelf
on the Upper West Side) is custom made for 50's
rock and roll freaks like me. Buddy Holly
was one of my favorite stars- I saw
him live playing with the Crickets quite nearby
where I am living now, and where I went to
High School, at the Brooklyn Paramount in 1956.
In the book, Buddy suddenly appears on everyone's
tv set, evidently broadcast from Ganymede, a moon of
Jupiter. Nice bit of time travel. Thanks, Dave!
Tuesday, April 20
Monday, April 19
notebook: (poem) c. 1986
(politics)
Noise substitutes for continued defiance
absent relative appears on t.v.
Ply it out of the fumes of victory
pull meaning from its roots
this is different
rosy carcass signifies rifleman
Doorway symbolizes exit
voice predicts advancing military dictator
mechanical assent begins again
figure it out or don't eat
Yet this pie prophecies a shift in state
this system of definitions fails
to rescue the preening monarch
who marches triumphantly to a hidden lash
(politics)
Noise substitutes for continued defiance
absent relative appears on t.v.
Ply it out of the fumes of victory
pull meaning from its roots
this is different
rosy carcass signifies rifleman
Doorway symbolizes exit
voice predicts advancing military dictator
mechanical assent begins again
figure it out or don't eat
Yet this pie prophecies a shift in state
this system of definitions fails
to rescue the preening monarch
who marches triumphantly to a hidden lash
Sunday, April 18
notebooK: poem
written on an envelope
postmarked
17 Sep 1986
Unpublishable
A straining after
Unleavened leaves
Eucalyptus
Brunches- unspoken
Brightness darkened
In sunken syllables
At last exposed, branched
Against possibly whispered
Rant- jammed thoughts-
Signalled breathing spelled
By listenable- gratitude
written on an envelope
postmarked
17 Sep 1986
Unpublishable
A straining after
Unleavened leaves
Eucalyptus
Brunches- unspoken
Brightness darkened
In sunken syllables
At last exposed, branched
Against possibly whispered
Rant- jammed thoughts-
Signalled breathing spelled
By listenable- gratitude
Saturday, April 17
BBC One Minute Movies {click here}.
I checked out *Dave's Dream.* Cool.
Also *Scone in 60 Seconds*
*fishcake c5* and *One Black Wish*.
Don't miss *Italian Paint Job*!
(You need Real One Player or some equivalent)
Via Penny Dreadful {click here}
(links from the exquisitely beautiful
Notes from The Dovecote {click here})
I checked out *Dave's Dream.* Cool.
Also *Scone in 60 Seconds*
*fishcake c5* and *One Black Wish*.
Don't miss *Italian Paint Job*!
(You need Real One Player or some equivalent)
Via Penny Dreadful {click here}
(links from the exquisitely beautiful
Notes from The Dovecote {click here})
Notes towards: *The Unbearable Lightness of Blogging*
It seems I'll never stop being fascinated
by the machinations of time. Of course
as you get older, the past means more
and more. Why should it still be surprising
that time bends in on itself, that its
equivalencies change, the way the light
so gradually changes through twilight into
evening into night? Past events keep reviving
themselves in the present, from the present,
towards the past, and at other times the
current changes it around the other way.
I was reading Hazlitt on this topic of
relations among temporal classifications. He emphasizes
that the past in downplayed with relation to the
present, and particularly the future. He thinks we
underestimate it because it is finished. But he
focuses on the fact that it is definitively real and
observeable- in ways that the future and the present
are not; one can return to pleasant times in ones thoughts
at will, and keep on exploring the various meanings of
ones experiences. In this way he is close to Rousseau,
particulary in his *Reveries of a Solitary Walker*, and also,
of course (and I've been noticing this more and more) to
Freud.
It seems I'll never stop being fascinated
by the machinations of time. Of course
as you get older, the past means more
and more. Why should it still be surprising
that time bends in on itself, that its
equivalencies change, the way the light
so gradually changes through twilight into
evening into night? Past events keep reviving
themselves in the present, from the present,
towards the past, and at other times the
current changes it around the other way.
I was reading Hazlitt on this topic of
relations among temporal classifications. He emphasizes
that the past in downplayed with relation to the
present, and particularly the future. He thinks we
underestimate it because it is finished. But he
focuses on the fact that it is definitively real and
observeable- in ways that the future and the present
are not; one can return to pleasant times in ones thoughts
at will, and keep on exploring the various meanings of
ones experiences. In this way he is close to Rousseau,
particulary in his *Reveries of a Solitary Walker*, and also,
of course (and I've been noticing this more and more) to
Freud.
Friday, April 16
from Caterina {click here}
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
"You held doors open."
from Peter Handke
*Kaspar and other Plays*
Hill and Wang, 1989
first published by Farrar and Straus,
1969
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
"You held doors open."
from Peter Handke
*Kaspar and other Plays*
Hill and Wang, 1989
first published by Farrar and Straus,
1969
Thursday, April 15
Wednesday, April 14
notebook: 10-14-87
Would it be possible to capture the inflations
of optimism and the deflations of pessimism
that surround the life of a petty
bureaucrat who wishes to imagine that he
has a noble heart? With each elaborate
strategy to realize some scheme which
would establish his importance in his own
eyes and the eyes of the world, eventually
there emerges a crushing disappointment
which brings home to him in no uncertain
terms the futility of his resolve. For it
becomes more and more clear to him that
in a society in which comfort and prosperity
are the only conceivable goals for the
individual or for the mass, there is no
hope, none whatsoever to realize the ultimate
fruits of the moral passions implanted in
him by the religious fervor of his youth.
The noble worlds and ringing phrases which
he read again and again at that time
can never be totally abolished in his mind
or heart by cynicism because
neither his ideals nor those of his
lover will permit this. On the other hand,
a fiery rage has gradually grown within
him as a result of all of this, a
rage which vents itself meaninglessly on the
small injustices which emanate from the
(mostly) naive incompetencies of those people
he comes in contact with in his daily
life who have- by necessity or choice- embraced
and maintained a station in life
similar to his own. And long since has
he ceased to pump himself up from
within by employing feelings of superiority
over those who have been less fortunate
than he. If nothing else, his training as a
helper of others has taught him that these
slight "advantages" may be ascribed not
to any superior effort or qualities of his
own, but basic accidents of
background and early family life.
How desperately he wishes to
believe that there is some social path which can
be opened to him which would lead to
a wellspring of potential actions which- in taking-
would serve to continuously demonstrate his
good will. But ultimatelly he becomes
suspicious of this impulse (which is really
nothing more than "caring") because those
around him either frustrate it or
deride it or are threatened by it. Like
Melville's heroes, he stops himself
short- again and again- of the total
self-destruction which is the only
possible outcome of the continuous cultivation
of the impulse to "love and serve"
his fellow man. Is it nothing more than
a distorted replica of an impulse to find
love with a particular woman and found his
own family? "Book the first" would
end with this?
Reference Camus- The Fall,
Melville- Billy Budd
Would it be possible to capture the inflations
of optimism and the deflations of pessimism
that surround the life of a petty
bureaucrat who wishes to imagine that he
has a noble heart? With each elaborate
strategy to realize some scheme which
would establish his importance in his own
eyes and the eyes of the world, eventually
there emerges a crushing disappointment
which brings home to him in no uncertain
terms the futility of his resolve. For it
becomes more and more clear to him that
in a society in which comfort and prosperity
are the only conceivable goals for the
individual or for the mass, there is no
hope, none whatsoever to realize the ultimate
fruits of the moral passions implanted in
him by the religious fervor of his youth.
The noble worlds and ringing phrases which
he read again and again at that time
can never be totally abolished in his mind
or heart by cynicism because
neither his ideals nor those of his
lover will permit this. On the other hand,
a fiery rage has gradually grown within
him as a result of all of this, a
rage which vents itself meaninglessly on the
small injustices which emanate from the
(mostly) naive incompetencies of those people
he comes in contact with in his daily
life who have- by necessity or choice- embraced
and maintained a station in life
similar to his own. And long since has
he ceased to pump himself up from
within by employing feelings of superiority
over those who have been less fortunate
than he. If nothing else, his training as a
helper of others has taught him that these
slight "advantages" may be ascribed not
to any superior effort or qualities of his
own, but basic accidents of
background and early family life.
How desperately he wishes to
believe that there is some social path which can
be opened to him which would lead to
a wellspring of potential actions which- in taking-
would serve to continuously demonstrate his
good will. But ultimatelly he becomes
suspicious of this impulse (which is really
nothing more than "caring") because those
around him either frustrate it or
deride it or are threatened by it. Like
Melville's heroes, he stops himself
short- again and again- of the total
self-destruction which is the only
possible outcome of the continuous cultivation
of the impulse to "love and serve"
his fellow man. Is it nothing more than
a distorted replica of an impulse to find
love with a particular woman and found his
own family? "Book the first" would
end with this?
Reference Camus- The Fall,
Melville- Billy Budd
Tuesday, April 13
Brenda Iijima, Leslie Scalapino,
Mairead Byrne & Rachel Levitsky's
books displayed &
essayed on Pantaloons {click here}
Mairead Byrne & Rachel Levitsky's
books displayed &
essayed on Pantaloons {click here}
"Rent out my side of the bed, she says, because I won't be coming home tonight.
25 cents = two minutes of Magic Fingers = the vibration of loneliness.
Did the earth move? Was it good for you?
I think I want my money back...."
New posts right now on
Negative Velocity {click here}
25 cents = two minutes of Magic Fingers = the vibration of loneliness.
Did the earth move? Was it good for you?
I think I want my money back...."
New posts right now on
Negative Velocity {click here}
Tim Yu's new poem *Chasm*
right now on
Tympan {click here}
"Contributors
are listed in the order in which their heads
can be fit to a vanishing framework..."
right now on
Tympan {click here}
"Contributors
are listed in the order in which their heads
can be fit to a vanishing framework..."
Monday, April 12
notebook (poem): 7/10/86
The Statue of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E
Give me your bored, your sore,
Your programmed synapses yearning to break free
The wretched syntax of your meanings sure
For we are as on a plain darkening
Where blind alleys lead to faulty cash machines
By sight- and not with a bang but a particle accelerator
Rage, rage against the writings of the bright
And words shall have no denomination.
Dead thoughts naked they shall be one
With the grammar of the texts in your classrooms.
TV, TV burning in the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could flame thy beerful robotry?
For we are as aspirin
Rolling down a flight
Of stares, plop, plop
Into the peripheral consciousness
Where ignorant critics bash from the Right.
One ray the more, one cathode less
Could half repair that empty space
Between our thoughts, the chide
Is blather to the Plan
And the Who if I shouted among the hierarchy
Of Hell's Angels could bear me?
The Statue of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E
Give me your bored, your sore,
Your programmed synapses yearning to break free
The wretched syntax of your meanings sure
For we are as on a plain darkening
Where blind alleys lead to faulty cash machines
By sight- and not with a bang but a particle accelerator
Rage, rage against the writings of the bright
And words shall have no denomination.
Dead thoughts naked they shall be one
With the grammar of the texts in your classrooms.
TV, TV burning in the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could flame thy beerful robotry?
For we are as aspirin
Rolling down a flight
Of stares, plop, plop
Into the peripheral consciousness
Where ignorant critics bash from the Right.
One ray the more, one cathode less
Could half repair that empty space
Between our thoughts, the chide
Is blather to the Plan
And the Who if I shouted among the hierarchy
Of Hell's Angels could bear me?
Sunday, April 11
Our heartfelt gratitude goes out to Tympan (Tim Yu) {click here}
for intervening on the latest Poetics List
verbal onslaught. Since Okir (Jean Vengua) {click here}
mentioned "silences" on the part of list members
we feel it is important to overtly censure
harsh and offensive comments made on the list
and all such mean spirited activity
that abuses the freedom of speech granted there or anywhere.
Why do so many people conflate harshness and strength?
Apologies for our slowness in response:
we are still knee deep in boxes, and we have yet
to tell you in detail about the occasional
jet scream problem
going on here since moving in March 26th, finally very nicely
alleviated by the purchase
of a Marsona sound conditioner.
for intervening on the latest Poetics List
verbal onslaught. Since Okir (Jean Vengua) {click here}
mentioned "silences" on the part of list members
we feel it is important to overtly censure
harsh and offensive comments made on the list
and all such mean spirited activity
that abuses the freedom of speech granted there or anywhere.
Why do so many people conflate harshness and strength?
Apologies for our slowness in response:
we are still knee deep in boxes, and we have yet
to tell you in detail about the occasional
jet scream problem
going on here since moving in March 26th, finally very nicely
alleviated by the purchase
of a Marsona sound conditioner.
Longtime Poetry Project board member
Vicki Hudspith {click here and scroll down}
has been nominated for
a Pushcart Prize
*************
Spalding Gray memorial: Tuesday, April 13 {click here}
via wood s lot {click here}
Vicki Hudspith {click here and scroll down}
has been nominated for
a Pushcart Prize
*************
Spalding Gray memorial: Tuesday, April 13 {click here}
via wood s lot {click here}
Saturday, April 10
notebook (untitled poem): 2/12/90
This isn't work, I insisted,
If it is work, I will not do it,
If it's work I cannot relate to it
Or will not relate to it,
This is mine and it can't be sold.
Outside it is raining
Outside it is night time
I listen to the whoosh of the cars passing
Nothing has changed for 15 years:
Books not alphabetized, an obscure order
I long ago forgot, an invisible
And fading order- importance vanishes here
And is built again on the outside by others-
But they have to strain or exagerrate things
to make it a saleable article
And I don't believe it, but a fiction nevertheless, no blame
That it makes this acceptable- a good you- rationalized
Approachable- things are harder & harder to hide,
My name is a made thing and a brand name
Making illegible articles, incomprehensible
Noplace to hide in the whole flourescent universe.
As soon as you hear this I am invisible to you
As soon as you answer I can't see you.
I close my eyes in the middle of the conversation
something is changing and I can't keep track of it.
Rousseau thought that he lived to keep the conversation going-
Try to relax- all we have is time.
This isn't work, I insisted,
If it is work, I will not do it,
If it's work I cannot relate to it
Or will not relate to it,
This is mine and it can't be sold.
Outside it is raining
Outside it is night time
I listen to the whoosh of the cars passing
Nothing has changed for 15 years:
Books not alphabetized, an obscure order
I long ago forgot, an invisible
And fading order- importance vanishes here
And is built again on the outside by others-
But they have to strain or exagerrate things
to make it a saleable article
And I don't believe it, but a fiction nevertheless, no blame
That it makes this acceptable- a good you- rationalized
Approachable- things are harder & harder to hide,
My name is a made thing and a brand name
Making illegible articles, incomprehensible
Noplace to hide in the whole flourescent universe.
As soon as you hear this I am invisible to you
As soon as you answer I can't see you.
I close my eyes in the middle of the conversation
something is changing and I can't keep track of it.
Rousseau thought that he lived to keep the conversation going-
Try to relax- all we have is time.
Friday, April 9
FUTUREPOEM SPRING READING AT THE BOWERY POETRY CLUB
308 Bowery @ Bleecker (Bowery between Houston & Bleecker),
F train to Second Ave | 6 train to Bleecker | 212-614-0505
SATURDAY, APRIL 10, 2:00 p.m. - 4:00 p.m., $5.00 admission (to support
the press)
PRESENTS
A FUTUREPOEM SPRING READING EXTRAVAGANZA
A Futurepoem Book Party and Reading by current and forthcoming FP
authors, editors and friends of the press including: Charles Bernstein,
Lewis Warsh, Jo Ann Wasserman, Merry Fortune, Garrett Kalleberg, Rachel
Levitsky, Kristin Prevallet, Dan Machlin, Heather Ramsdell, Virtual
Edwin Torres, And special guests: just-announced 04/05 authors: Michael
Ives & Shanxing Wang.
And stay on afterwards for Drew Gardner and Deborah Richards at the
Segue Series at 4:00 p.m.
308 Bowery @ Bleecker (Bowery between Houston & Bleecker),
F train to Second Ave | 6 train to Bleecker | 212-614-0505
SATURDAY, APRIL 10, 2:00 p.m. - 4:00 p.m., $5.00 admission (to support
the press)
PRESENTS
A FUTUREPOEM SPRING READING EXTRAVAGANZA
A Futurepoem Book Party and Reading by current and forthcoming FP
authors, editors and friends of the press including: Charles Bernstein,
Lewis Warsh, Jo Ann Wasserman, Merry Fortune, Garrett Kalleberg, Rachel
Levitsky, Kristin Prevallet, Dan Machlin, Heather Ramsdell, Virtual
Edwin Torres, And special guests: just-announced 04/05 authors: Michael
Ives & Shanxing Wang.
And stay on afterwards for Drew Gardner and Deborah Richards at the
Segue Series at 4:00 p.m.
notebook: 1980
Her schedule in the present (hospital, clinic,
parents, male friend she used to live with,
husband, etc.), classes, events- parties,
visits, concerts, films books she's reading
Her schedule- *then*
type the lists
t.v. programs she watches
make illustrative collage of *her* life
from magazines-
her *casual* observations
her *casual*, peripheral memories, feelings,
thoughts, reflections, beliefs
her *way* of talking to friends about her problems
what makes her cheerful
what saddens her
*how* she responds when people
give her advice, criticize her, praise her,
talk about themselves, tell her their
problems
her response to pain
what gives her pleasure
her strengths
her weaknesses
what she likes to look at
where she likes to go- how she likes to travel
her ways of dealing with loneliness
her attitudes towards people
he attitude towards money
how she sleeps
how she wakes
************
write about each seperately
write the events, then outline, then order (order
last)
*as* I live- use the events of the day as
material for specifics
************
the list- go to the list for *topics*
compound the topics
attitudes
feelings
ways of resolving
her ideas
thoughts that could create a structure
It wouldn't have to be one continuous
emotion- in fact, it could begin with her
angry or enraged- I could score the emotions
before each section of writing- it's emotions
not music- I could be precise about those-
she does not always have to be likeable or
understandable-
the music-
Her emotions
her fantasies
the situation "explained"
-My abstract writing as purely music
her memories- the beach, school
feelings
relationships
interests-
her clothes
her obsessions
her needs
her desires
her disappointments
her intelligence, her intellectual experiences-
I don't have to use all the details but I
have to know them-
bring *all* of my intelligence to bear on the
writing
describe her physically *completely*
her apartment completely
her car-
her neighborhood
I could base her character on F
How she feels physically during each
what she things about *as* she *does* each
use index cards in front of me as I write
because I can't hold it all in my mind
my resistance to really concentrating on writing-
the energy level need not be ecstatic as
when I write poetry-
Before I write- the topics on cards-
*don't worry* about fragmentation- that's
what stops me-
Not my mood, but the mood of the narrator-
I don't really feel like writing about you.
I still hate you too much.
It's my hate that stops me- if I write
& discharge the troublesome emotion or
find a way to discharge it, I'm free-
I no longer hve to worry about the
text- it will get written
Her schedule in the present (hospital, clinic,
parents, male friend she used to live with,
husband, etc.), classes, events- parties,
visits, concerts, films books she's reading
Her schedule- *then*
type the lists
t.v. programs she watches
make illustrative collage of *her* life
from magazines-
her *casual* observations
her *casual*, peripheral memories, feelings,
thoughts, reflections, beliefs
her *way* of talking to friends about her problems
what makes her cheerful
what saddens her
*how* she responds when people
give her advice, criticize her, praise her,
talk about themselves, tell her their
problems
her response to pain
what gives her pleasure
her strengths
her weaknesses
what she likes to look at
where she likes to go- how she likes to travel
her ways of dealing with loneliness
her attitudes towards people
he attitude towards money
how she sleeps
how she wakes
************
write about each seperately
write the events, then outline, then order (order
last)
*as* I live- use the events of the day as
material for specifics
************
the list- go to the list for *topics*
compound the topics
attitudes
feelings
ways of resolving
her ideas
thoughts that could create a structure
It wouldn't have to be one continuous
emotion- in fact, it could begin with her
angry or enraged- I could score the emotions
before each section of writing- it's emotions
not music- I could be precise about those-
she does not always have to be likeable or
understandable-
the music-
Her emotions
her fantasies
the situation "explained"
-My abstract writing as purely music
her memories- the beach, school
feelings
relationships
interests-
her clothes
her obsessions
her needs
her desires
her disappointments
her intelligence, her intellectual experiences-
I don't have to use all the details but I
have to know them-
bring *all* of my intelligence to bear on the
writing
describe her physically *completely*
her apartment completely
her car-
her neighborhood
I could base her character on F
How she feels physically during each
what she things about *as* she *does* each
use index cards in front of me as I write
because I can't hold it all in my mind
my resistance to really concentrating on writing-
the energy level need not be ecstatic as
when I write poetry-
Before I write- the topics on cards-
*don't worry* about fragmentation- that's
what stops me-
Not my mood, but the mood of the narrator-
I don't really feel like writing about you.
I still hate you too much.
It's my hate that stops me- if I write
& discharge the troublesome emotion or
find a way to discharge it, I'm free-
I no longer hve to worry about the
text- it will get written
Thursday, April 8
notebook (untitled poem): 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 all 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 simople dictation of virtues
to release what is there
it is insufficient to let go
or the secondary resonance
will occur out of phase
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 all 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 simople dictation of virtues
to release what is there
it is insufficient to let go
or the secondary resonance
will occur out of phase
Wednesday, April 7
Notebook: 3-30-88
Energy a kind of
information-
therefore matter
a kind of information.
3-31-88
Scene:
Musician in
subway is ragged
and pathetic. Gradually
he draws an impressive
crowd- and is
surrounded by an air
of serene confidence.
6/25/88
To give things a
name is to personify
them to some degree,
because we call
persons by names,
which also tends to
rob- in our perceptions
of them- persons
of their thingness.
But an identity is
something that has
thingnesss but is not
a thing
Because they are so familiar
to me the Catskill mountains are
just mountains.
It is a place to
be in the mountains
as much as it is
a place in the mountains (that has
its "own" locale-
and character.)
Why am I so
reisistant to the
specificity of place?
I easily get lost.
Do I like it?
8/23/88
The emphasis
this year
should be *flow.* Flow
over *particularity*.
Energy a kind of
information-
therefore matter
a kind of information.
3-31-88
Scene:
Musician in
subway is ragged
and pathetic. Gradually
he draws an impressive
crowd- and is
surrounded by an air
of serene confidence.
6/25/88
To give things a
name is to personify
them to some degree,
because we call
persons by names,
which also tends to
rob- in our perceptions
of them- persons
of their thingness.
But an identity is
something that has
thingnesss but is not
a thing
Because they are so familiar
to me the Catskill mountains are
just mountains.
It is a place to
be in the mountains
as much as it is
a place in the mountains (that has
its "own" locale-
and character.)
Why am I so
reisistant to the
specificity of place?
I easily get lost.
Do I like it?
8/23/88
The emphasis
this year
should be *flow.* Flow
over *particularity*.
Tuesday, April 6
January 10, 1973
Dear Bernadette,
You asked about the sources for Bunting Ideas last night
and in my excitement about what was going on I didn't really
get it together to remember it all after I came home from
my office where I typed up Bunting Ideas during my lunch hour
(it was a long one!) i wrote out a list of sources- the
world of silence is the book by max picard that ron padgett
read from at the recent poetry reading in the greene street
loft ive had that book around for years and never have been
able to decide whether i liked it or not it is a very strange
and interesting book ... the table of contents goes the ego
and silence knowledge and silence things and silence history and
silence world of myth images and silence love and silence and
so on...at the workshop ron padgett told us that he hadnt been
writing i think for 6 months (i think he meant poetry) so that
fitted in nicely...when I have times that i cant
write sometimes i have trouble haring what people say and
it really feels like a world of silence...i don't like it so
much and once wrote a poem against silence...for a long time it was
my favorite word...X once sent me a book by john cage
titled silence and he sent it anonymously...also sonnet xivii
by Ted Berrigan...ideas of order at key west by Wallace Stevens
you asked about the war image coming from another poem and I
looked at the list when I came home and saw the hollow men by
TS Eliot...but i changed in my mind "not with a bang but a
whimper" to "whisper" also as I said last night ron padgetts
spontaneous poem about the anonymous poets poem b52s bomb people
b83s bomb pretzels he said if he were to write it it would
go something like that...also as i was writing i thought about
a poem by Jack Foss in Locus Solus iii-iv
The Categorical Avoidance
To say you are like this
or this is like you
is to begin the comparison
and you would become
less like any other thing;
and would become relatively pale
and absolutely die,
belonging finally everywhere
metaphorically (p242)
[correction: this poem is by
Musa McKim]
there was someting else...oh yes...i appreciate your encouragement
to write prose as I have been planning to drop out (from social
work) for awhile and write poetry and a book about psychoanalysis
and poetry...X has been encouraging me for a year now to write
about poetry and i think i can work it into a sort of fictional
literary journal (did you ever read *The Burning Brand* by Cesar Pavese?)
im so excited about publishing the basil poems with you...I wrote
to my analyst (alan grossman) yesterday morning saying that if it
were to be published i might want to dedicate Bunting Ideas
to the memory of my father who was a career soldier and fought
in africa and italy during world war II... he died of a heart
attack on October 2, 1972 During the war
he received the Bronze Star
Well I dont know how to express my gratitude for
your encouragement except to say that Bunting Ideas is especially a
gift from me and you to you and everyone
Dear Bernadette,
You asked about the sources for Bunting Ideas last night
and in my excitement about what was going on I didn't really
get it together to remember it all after I came home from
my office where I typed up Bunting Ideas during my lunch hour
(it was a long one!) i wrote out a list of sources- the
world of silence is the book by max picard that ron padgett
read from at the recent poetry reading in the greene street
loft ive had that book around for years and never have been
able to decide whether i liked it or not it is a very strange
and interesting book ... the table of contents goes the ego
and silence knowledge and silence things and silence history and
silence world of myth images and silence love and silence and
so on...at the workshop ron padgett told us that he hadnt been
writing i think for 6 months (i think he meant poetry) so that
fitted in nicely...when I have times that i cant
write sometimes i have trouble haring what people say and
it really feels like a world of silence...i don't like it so
much and once wrote a poem against silence...for a long time it was
my favorite word...X once sent me a book by john cage
titled silence and he sent it anonymously...also sonnet xivii
by Ted Berrigan...ideas of order at key west by Wallace Stevens
you asked about the war image coming from another poem and I
looked at the list when I came home and saw the hollow men by
TS Eliot...but i changed in my mind "not with a bang but a
whimper" to "whisper" also as I said last night ron padgetts
spontaneous poem about the anonymous poets poem b52s bomb people
b83s bomb pretzels he said if he were to write it it would
go something like that...also as i was writing i thought about
a poem by Jack Foss in Locus Solus iii-iv
The Categorical Avoidance
To say you are like this
or this is like you
is to begin the comparison
and you would become
less like any other thing;
and would become relatively pale
and absolutely die,
belonging finally everywhere
metaphorically (p242)
[correction: this poem is by
Musa McKim]
there was someting else...oh yes...i appreciate your encouragement
to write prose as I have been planning to drop out (from social
work) for awhile and write poetry and a book about psychoanalysis
and poetry...X has been encouraging me for a year now to write
about poetry and i think i can work it into a sort of fictional
literary journal (did you ever read *The Burning Brand* by Cesar Pavese?)
im so excited about publishing the basil poems with you...I wrote
to my analyst (alan grossman) yesterday morning saying that if it
were to be published i might want to dedicate Bunting Ideas
to the memory of my father who was a career soldier and fought
in africa and italy during world war II... he died of a heart
attack on October 2, 1972 During the war
he received the Bronze Star
Well I dont know how to express my gratitude for
your encouragement except to say that Bunting Ideas is especially a
gift from me and you to you and everyone
Monday, April 5
Notebook: 4/1/88
The lustre of
something new.
The reader
brings something
dead to life.
For me,
learning to read
got connected to
ancientness,
particularly thoughts
about mummies,
pyramids, and
most of all,
ancient hieroglyphic
tablets.
I'm able to glance
through such books
as Bridges to
Infinity or Playing
and Reality by
Winnicott by
realizing the entire
span of thought of
one person is
just as much
an example of a
kind of unravelling.
Reality is like
a suit of clothes
or a dress hanging
in a closet. It
tends to sustain
itself much longer
than it keeps
its lustre, therefore
giving dissolution
a measure of
respectability.
The universe ages
gracefully and
stormily, just
like the individual.
[B hated
paper with lines-
which I love-
probably
because it remnded
her that her
mother was not
"straight" with her
in some way.]
The lustre of
something new.
The reader
brings something
dead to life.
For me,
learning to read
got connected to
ancientness,
particularly thoughts
about mummies,
pyramids, and
most of all,
ancient hieroglyphic
tablets.
I'm able to glance
through such books
as Bridges to
Infinity or Playing
and Reality by
Winnicott by
realizing the entire
span of thought of
one person is
just as much
an example of a
kind of unravelling.
Reality is like
a suit of clothes
or a dress hanging
in a closet. It
tends to sustain
itself much longer
than it keeps
its lustre, therefore
giving dissolution
a measure of
respectability.
The universe ages
gracefully and
stormily, just
like the individual.
[B hated
paper with lines-
which I love-
probably
because it remnded
her that her
mother was not
"straight" with her
in some way.]
Sunday, April 4
Saturday, April 3
notebook (poem, untitled): 1990
All's well that ends well.
This story has a thousand endings.
One is narrowed into a corner.
Another funnels itself out into the sun.
The thought. Somehow, the trail leading
To the word. In the exactitude...
You were skipping. There were devices.
It was even, evening, Eve. It was loud.
It was aloud, it was allowed. It was a.
There were diaries. These tunnel into also.
This was listening. And if not, what.
Now coming into the suspense. Possible to start
From the need. Possible to start from the
Need to hear. Possible to start out from
The need to hear. Possible to hear.
Possible once. The thought...the trial leading
To the crime. If you could specify
This once. In a sense, leading
Backwards, or weaving the two together
Shuttling back and forth.
Not so crafty to hide them.
These were displayed with curious care.
Now the bookcase. Now the sudden opening
Of time. Now the amount. Now the
Timetable, the schedule, the instructions.
The ornaments, please. Behind the bookcase.
"Look in the back of my brown slacks.
And one Socony station." To let the stop go,
This is all that was wanted.
All aboard! All a bored who? All
Abroad whatever you wanted done with it.
Whatever you wanted to have done with it.
"Il pleut. Il pleut dans mon couer
Comme il pleut dans la ville."
Il est un memoir.
Il est un memoir d'une histoire
Da beaucoupo des gens.
Now, people are streaming in from everywhere.
There are millions of planets in the solar system.
Come in. Over.
Caught. Caught again. Caught again empty.
This constant interruption for stories.
An lllustration. Perhaps no one's sure.
A story can still exist. Can you say
One? What do you remember about the last one?
Were you only a bystander, or part of the
Event yourself? How would you define the
Difference? Can you supply us with enough
details to convince us you were there?
Can you supply us with enough details to
Convince us you were there?
Can you supply us with enough details to
Convince us you are actually here?
Your name? Occupation? Telephone number?
Social security number? Your religious affiliation?
What is the month of your birth?
Where were your parents born?
Do you have sisters or brothers?
Your current bank references.
Did you vote in the general election?
Are you registered to vote in primaries?
Have you served in the armed forces?
Have you been arrested for a felony?
Married? Single? Divorced?
Do you suscribe to one of the following
Nationallly circulated magazines?
Come in. Come in.
Climate control. Do your hear me?
Yes, I read you. Coming in loud and clear.
Thank you. Over.
The sun. Glossolalia.
Glossolalia of moonlight and sunlight.
Soon light.
The harbor.
Outa here.
All's well that ends well.
This story has a thousand endings.
One is narrowed into a corner.
Another funnels itself out into the sun.
The thought. Somehow, the trail leading
To the word. In the exactitude...
You were skipping. There were devices.
It was even, evening, Eve. It was loud.
It was aloud, it was allowed. It was a.
There were diaries. These tunnel into also.
This was listening. And if not, what.
Now coming into the suspense. Possible to start
From the need. Possible to start from the
Need to hear. Possible to start out from
The need to hear. Possible to hear.
Possible once. The thought...the trial leading
To the crime. If you could specify
This once. In a sense, leading
Backwards, or weaving the two together
Shuttling back and forth.
Not so crafty to hide them.
These were displayed with curious care.
Now the bookcase. Now the sudden opening
Of time. Now the amount. Now the
Timetable, the schedule, the instructions.
The ornaments, please. Behind the bookcase.
"Look in the back of my brown slacks.
And one Socony station." To let the stop go,
This is all that was wanted.
All aboard! All a bored who? All
Abroad whatever you wanted done with it.
Whatever you wanted to have done with it.
"Il pleut. Il pleut dans mon couer
Comme il pleut dans la ville."
Il est un memoir.
Il est un memoir d'une histoire
Da beaucoupo des gens.
Now, people are streaming in from everywhere.
There are millions of planets in the solar system.
Come in. Over.
Caught. Caught again. Caught again empty.
This constant interruption for stories.
An lllustration. Perhaps no one's sure.
A story can still exist. Can you say
One? What do you remember about the last one?
Were you only a bystander, or part of the
Event yourself? How would you define the
Difference? Can you supply us with enough
details to convince us you were there?
Can you supply us with enough details to
Convince us you were there?
Can you supply us with enough details to
Convince us you are actually here?
Your name? Occupation? Telephone number?
Social security number? Your religious affiliation?
What is the month of your birth?
Where were your parents born?
Do you have sisters or brothers?
Your current bank references.
Did you vote in the general election?
Are you registered to vote in primaries?
Have you served in the armed forces?
Have you been arrested for a felony?
Married? Single? Divorced?
Do you suscribe to one of the following
Nationallly circulated magazines?
Come in. Come in.
Climate control. Do your hear me?
Yes, I read you. Coming in loud and clear.
Thank you. Over.
The sun. Glossolalia.
Glossolalia of moonlight and sunlight.
Soon light.
The harbor.
Outa here.
Friday, April 2
Thursday, April 1
The Corpus Callosum {click here}
An occasional journal of armchair musings, by an Ann-Arbor-slightly-left-of-center regular guy who reserves the right to be highly irregular at times. Topics: social commentary, neuroscience, politics, science news. Mission: to develop connections between hard science and social science, using linear thinking and intuition; and to explore the relative merits of spontaneity vs. strategy.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
An occasional journal of armchair musings, by an Ann-Arbor-slightly-left-of-center regular guy who reserves the right to be highly irregular at times. Topics: social commentary, neuroscience, politics, science news. Mission: to develop connections between hard science and social science, using linear thinking and intuition; and to explore the relative merits of spontaneity vs. strategy.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm not running away; or maybe I am hiding.
I'm trying to find where you were,
where we were talking, dear blog reader.
So I reached into a suitcase and out fell this:
Notebook: 12/6/80
Observe people working-
suppression of emotion-
concentration on action &
external form-
Like not knowing which
streets- finding by
feeling- a different
remembering
I'm trying to find where you were,
where we were talking, dear blog reader.
So I reached into a suitcase and out fell this:
Notebook: 12/6/80
Observe people working-
suppression of emotion-
concentration on action &
external form-
Like not knowing which
streets- finding by
feeling- a different
remembering
Wednesday, March 31
Overwhelmed and not even time
to read beautiful new posts on
The Ingredient {click
here} or Jonathan's new poem on
Bemsha Swing {click here}
Just grazing over these two blogs
quickly, I'm already feeling better!
Have I mentioned that moving
sucks?
Today, I'm having a major
pity party. Last night I felt so down
I couldn't even blog. There's a first
time for everything. But this too
will pass, of course.
Didn't even have time to call up
Nada and Gary to try to cheer them
up for missing Nada's reading due
to their both having the stomach flu.
But I've got the moving flu.
"Please be patient. Our sanity will
return in just one moment. We
appreciate your call. Our operators
(our mental functions)
are busy with other callers. Please
hold on and we will be with you as
soon as possible..."
to read beautiful new posts on
The Ingredient {click
here} or Jonathan's new poem on
Bemsha Swing {click here}
Just grazing over these two blogs
quickly, I'm already feeling better!
Have I mentioned that moving
sucks?
Today, I'm having a major
pity party. Last night I felt so down
I couldn't even blog. There's a first
time for everything. But this too
will pass, of course.
Didn't even have time to call up
Nada and Gary to try to cheer them
up for missing Nada's reading due
to their both having the stomach flu.
But I've got the moving flu.
"Please be patient. Our sanity will
return in just one moment. We
appreciate your call. Our operators
(our mental functions)
are busy with other callers. Please
hold on and we will be with you as
soon as possible..."
Tuesday, March 30
Monday, March 29
Sunday, March 28
Seeing the branchy brown trees in the
park across the street soon to spring
to leaves and buds, listening to the
children play in the small schoolyard
on the other side, it occurred to me that
if people realized our job of parenting
didn't end with children, or even other
adults in need at times, it extends to every
growing thing, even every living
thing at times, then life's energies might shift away
from destructiveness and towards growth.
Still Kali has two faces and conflict
never ends.
Nonliving things need care too, and
respond to it (read Ponge).
In any case. Toni's idea from Seth
that "you create your own reality"
is true; it's just that the reality
around us changes isomorphically
with our own transitions; see
*It's A Wonderful Life*. How could
Jimmy Stewart have been so right
wing and come to represent caring
so much in that movie?
park across the street soon to spring
to leaves and buds, listening to the
children play in the small schoolyard
on the other side, it occurred to me that
if people realized our job of parenting
didn't end with children, or even other
adults in need at times, it extends to every
growing thing, even every living
thing at times, then life's energies might shift away
from destructiveness and towards growth.
Still Kali has two faces and conflict
never ends.
Nonliving things need care too, and
respond to it (read Ponge).
In any case. Toni's idea from Seth
that "you create your own reality"
is true; it's just that the reality
around us changes isomorphically
with our own transitions; see
*It's A Wonderful Life*. How could
Jimmy Stewart have been so right
wing and come to represent caring
so much in that movie?
While Toni and I are knee deep in boxes,
Shanna Compton's *Brand
New Insects* {click here}, social fireflies that they are,
are buzzing around everywhere
bringing back glittering bits of poetry news. Flashy!
**
Jim Behrle {click here}
reads tonight at the Zinc Bar.
Don't know if we can make it- we
have to go back and clean up our
old apartment so the landlords can
do a walk-through tomorrow. Ugh!
Meanwhile Caterina's {click here}
apartment near Vancouver has been invaded,
but Caterina describes it as a conceptual
art piece.
**
A bouquet of dahlias, dahlings,
from Boynton {click here}
**
Some new poems on
UMBRellA {click here}
**
Beautiful, but heartrending,
personal blogging byMark Lamoureux {click here}.
Shanna Compton's *Brand
New Insects* {click here}, social fireflies that they are,
are buzzing around everywhere
bringing back glittering bits of poetry news. Flashy!
**
Jim Behrle {click here}
reads tonight at the Zinc Bar.
Don't know if we can make it- we
have to go back and clean up our
old apartment so the landlords can
do a walk-through tomorrow. Ugh!
Meanwhile Caterina's {click here}
apartment near Vancouver has been invaded,
but Caterina describes it as a conceptual
art piece.
**
A bouquet of dahlias, dahlings,
from Boynton {click here}
**
Some new poems on
UMBRellA {click here}
**
Beautiful, but heartrending,
personal blogging byMark Lamoureux {click here}.
Saturday, March 27
Wish I'd Said That Dep't
"The world people peruse
is not the one they pursue."
from Crag Hill's Poetry Scorecard {click here}
"The world people peruse
is not the one they pursue."
from Crag Hill's Poetry Scorecard {click here}
Got to make a long story short and just
say the move took two days but all's
well that ends well and we're in the new
place. A broken elevator and a delay,
but no broken hearts, the opposite,
we like it here and we're sure we'll
be comfortable. Toni likes the
kitchen, and the Park Slope
vibes, and we like the layout and
the bit of river view far off in the distance,
you can see from the bedroom
window; especially at sunset time.
Hope someday to post some
images here. Too tired to blog much more,
and still too much to do. Special
thanks to Toph for the kind words
and congratulatory poem. Love those
images on Topher Tune's Times(Christy Church)
{click here}
and Toph's way of describing
that moment of finding a poem you wrote
lying around, especially if a certain slice
of it catches your eye.
Thanks also to Okir (Jean Vengua){click here}. I had
written to Jean when the necessity for the move first came up.
She was surprised to hear I was giving up Central Park,
and I was too, but this is right on Prospect Park,
a park also designed
by Olmstead, and the Botanical Gardens are right
up the block. By the way, I got to meet Jean in when she came
to a reading I gave there in SF with the Postcard Poets
and at 21 Grand Performance Space {click here}
in August last year.
say the move took two days but all's
well that ends well and we're in the new
place. A broken elevator and a delay,
but no broken hearts, the opposite,
we like it here and we're sure we'll
be comfortable. Toni likes the
kitchen, and the Park Slope
vibes, and we like the layout and
the bit of river view far off in the distance,
you can see from the bedroom
window; especially at sunset time.
Hope someday to post some
images here. Too tired to blog much more,
and still too much to do. Special
thanks to Toph for the kind words
and congratulatory poem. Love those
images on Topher Tune's Times(Christy Church)
{click here}
and Toph's way of describing
that moment of finding a poem you wrote
lying around, especially if a certain slice
of it catches your eye.
Thanks also to Okir (Jean Vengua){click here}. I had
written to Jean when the necessity for the move first came up.
She was surprised to hear I was giving up Central Park,
and I was too, but this is right on Prospect Park,
a park also designed
by Olmstead, and the Botanical Gardens are right
up the block. By the way, I got to meet Jean in when she came
to a reading I gave there in SF with the Postcard Poets
and at 21 Grand Performance Space {click here}
in August last year.
Friday, March 26
Well, I'm really not quite going mad,
but anyone who has moved with a long term
partner knows why the kindly Claude
who shares my office reminded me that
moving is up there with the top stressors
like, well, the worst things that can happen!
Claude told me he has an Inuit shaman statue
whose head is upsidedown and represents
the Trickster. Claude says in Jungian psychology
the trickster is in rare form having a great time
with your head while you are going through transitions.
Toni and I have tried to be as patient with each other
as we could but at certain points tensions ran high. But
we're working on a project to improve the way we
work together, and while there have been some
discouraging moments, late last night (it's now 2:38
am and the movers are coming around 8 am), Toni
showed a moment of stellar empathy when I kept
looking around for a certain flashlight and kept losing
it, and Toni keeps on finding other flashlights and
giving them to me. At the very moment when I was most
frustrated in having lost it again (don't go there:
sometimes a cigar is just a cigar) at just the moment
I was finding the one I was looking for she was offering
me still another one.
Don't tell me these small triiumphs don't count!
"Oh lord, shine that little ol' light right on me...!"
but anyone who has moved with a long term
partner knows why the kindly Claude
who shares my office reminded me that
moving is up there with the top stressors
like, well, the worst things that can happen!
Claude told me he has an Inuit shaman statue
whose head is upsidedown and represents
the Trickster. Claude says in Jungian psychology
the trickster is in rare form having a great time
with your head while you are going through transitions.
Toni and I have tried to be as patient with each other
as we could but at certain points tensions ran high. But
we're working on a project to improve the way we
work together, and while there have been some
discouraging moments, late last night (it's now 2:38
am and the movers are coming around 8 am), Toni
showed a moment of stellar empathy when I kept
looking around for a certain flashlight and kept losing
it, and Toni keeps on finding other flashlights and
giving them to me. At the very moment when I was most
frustrated in having lost it again (don't go there:
sometimes a cigar is just a cigar) at just the moment
I was finding the one I was looking for she was offering
me still another one.
Don't tell me these small triiumphs don't count!
"Oh lord, shine that little ol' light right on me...!"
Thursday, March 25
Though we're excited about moving to Park Slope,
it is difficult to leave these familiar surroundings. In
yesterday's *fait accompli* I evoked the names of'
some bloggers, I realized as I awoke this morning, as
people who have become important to me, who I
hope wll continue to be there, to be here, wherever
I go so I had a need to evoke some of these names, not as
some kind of "roll call" and I am hoping that no one
feels left out, because that list was meant to be
evocative, not inclusive. Even if I put together a list
from the Bloglinks on the EPC and all the ((((HOT))))
((((BLOG)))) lists we've published here, it would still
not be inclusive. I forgot to mention Alex Trimble Young,
Ron Silliman, Deborah Wardlaw Patillo, for example,
Gregory Vincent St Thomassino,
and Laura Wiley, Carlos Arribos and Chris Murray
just to name a few. If I have forgotten anyone else,
and I suspect I have, I hope they
will forgive me; at the moment, moving
has driven me clear out of my mind. Also,
like so many other bloggers, I am
constantly rediscovering blogs I haven't read recently
and enjoying the excitement of discovering new ones
all the time.
it is difficult to leave these familiar surroundings. In
yesterday's *fait accompli* I evoked the names of'
some bloggers, I realized as I awoke this morning, as
people who have become important to me, who I
hope wll continue to be there, to be here, wherever
I go so I had a need to evoke some of these names, not as
some kind of "roll call" and I am hoping that no one
feels left out, because that list was meant to be
evocative, not inclusive. Even if I put together a list
from the Bloglinks on the EPC and all the ((((HOT))))
((((BLOG)))) lists we've published here, it would still
not be inclusive. I forgot to mention Alex Trimble Young,
Ron Silliman, Deborah Wardlaw Patillo, for example,
Gregory Vincent St Thomassino,
and Laura Wiley, Carlos Arribos and Chris Murray
just to name a few. If I have forgotten anyone else,
and I suspect I have, I hope they
will forgive me; at the moment, moving
has driven me clear out of my mind. Also,
like so many other bloggers, I am
constantly rediscovering blogs I haven't read recently
and enjoying the excitement of discovering new ones
all the time.
Notebook: 1988
There is nowhere a
more intense life
than the one you are
living right now. If
you think so you are
buying into a Hollywood
or a bohemian scam.
Ideas are everywhere.
I would have trouble
getting along without a good
bookstore, on the
other hand...
I felt the effects,
short term and long-
term of events that
hadn't actually
happened. As this
capacity to
imagine such events
flourished, I felt more alive.
Style is as
much a state of
undress as it is
of dress. Letting down
my guard, I imagined
saying things to
people I would never
allow myself in real
life. In this fantasy, I always
hang up the
phone in a state
of intense satisfaction.
It is life, *not*
the imagination,
which is oblique
and mysterious.
(Truth of poetry: St John Perse).
The source of humor
is the tolerance
for paradox, and
this is gained
by increased participation
in acquiring knowledge
about anything, as
we reach the limit-
or saturation point-
this is intimately
connectede with the
balance between
satisfaction and
frustration. For
example: the necessity
that teachers and
students (hearers and
speakers) attack each
other- however
nimbly- is related
to the necessity
to acquire *playfullness*
in order to learn.
What Lorenz limited
to humor should be
extended to include
the capacity to
hurt and be hurt
and to reinvent
creativity in
*that* connectedness.
All sense organs
are also sexual
organs.
I guess I've
known for a long
time now that, in
the long run, I'm
for the poem not
for the book. Poems
seem to last longer
than books- (like songs).
Let's put it this
way: I've never
wanted to think of you
as confused, but I've
always known you were
a lonely man.
I've had to hide
my work from you
the way the mother
of a handicapped
child hides her child's
defect- inside part
of herself which is even
a mystery to herself.
Because she is protecting
something more valuable
than the truth.
Even freedom hnas
its price. But this
is true because price
is such a good parasite
that feeds on everything.
Freedom protects itself
in its constant attention
in watching for an
opening.
Freedom evades
something- right. But
this is because
it is advancing.
While evasion
contains a kind
of freedom it is
not generative of
freedom. Freedom
raises, so it scares.
Structure is strong.
This is why it seems
beautiful. But the
spark of beauty is
not in the structure.
It is in the particularity.
Where am I going?
I'm going back to
where every particle
came from. Why
do I come? The tendency
for particles to
come together.
Senses play with
each other, like children,
like birs.
People attach themselves
to things and to
ideals. Often the
two conflict. But
both committments are
strong.
The depths of
human tenacity are
inestimable. Is this
the most visible
similarity- in
personality- to our
immediate ancestors-
the apes?
Why do we
imagine that
readers have no
sense of touch in their
eyes? Reading is
*all* Braille.
Reader and
writer- no faith in
each other.Both
fear betrayal-
but the reader-
more, even though
the writer takes
most of the risk.
The final thought
of thought is
freedom from thought.
There is nowhere a
more intense life
than the one you are
living right now. If
you think so you are
buying into a Hollywood
or a bohemian scam.
Ideas are everywhere.
I would have trouble
getting along without a good
bookstore, on the
other hand...
I felt the effects,
short term and long-
term of events that
hadn't actually
happened. As this
capacity to
imagine such events
flourished, I felt more alive.
Style is as
much a state of
undress as it is
of dress. Letting down
my guard, I imagined
saying things to
people I would never
allow myself in real
life. In this fantasy, I always
hang up the
phone in a state
of intense satisfaction.
It is life, *not*
the imagination,
which is oblique
and mysterious.
(Truth of poetry: St John Perse).
The source of humor
is the tolerance
for paradox, and
this is gained
by increased participation
in acquiring knowledge
about anything, as
we reach the limit-
or saturation point-
this is intimately
connectede with the
balance between
satisfaction and
frustration. For
example: the necessity
that teachers and
students (hearers and
speakers) attack each
other- however
nimbly- is related
to the necessity
to acquire *playfullness*
in order to learn.
What Lorenz limited
to humor should be
extended to include
the capacity to
hurt and be hurt
and to reinvent
creativity in
*that* connectedness.
All sense organs
are also sexual
organs.
I guess I've
known for a long
time now that, in
the long run, I'm
for the poem not
for the book. Poems
seem to last longer
than books- (like songs).
Let's put it this
way: I've never
wanted to think of you
as confused, but I've
always known you were
a lonely man.
I've had to hide
my work from you
the way the mother
of a handicapped
child hides her child's
defect- inside part
of herself which is even
a mystery to herself.
Because she is protecting
something more valuable
than the truth.
Even freedom hnas
its price. But this
is true because price
is such a good parasite
that feeds on everything.
Freedom protects itself
in its constant attention
in watching for an
opening.
Freedom evades
something- right. But
this is because
it is advancing.
While evasion
contains a kind
of freedom it is
not generative of
freedom. Freedom
raises, so it scares.
Structure is strong.
This is why it seems
beautiful. But the
spark of beauty is
not in the structure.
It is in the particularity.
Where am I going?
I'm going back to
where every particle
came from. Why
do I come? The tendency
for particles to
come together.
Senses play with
each other, like children,
like birs.
People attach themselves
to things and to
ideals. Often the
two conflict. But
both committments are
strong.
The depths of
human tenacity are
inestimable. Is this
the most visible
similarity- in
personality- to our
immediate ancestors-
the apes?
Why do we
imagine that
readers have no
sense of touch in their
eyes? Reading is
*all* Braille.
Reader and
writer- no faith in
each other.Both
fear betrayal-
but the reader-
more, even though
the writer takes
most of the risk.
The final thought
of thought is
freedom from thought.
Wednesday, March 24
Three more days, two nights in an apartment on
the Upper West Side where Toni and I have lived
for 12 years. And 12 years in the previous Upper
West Side apartment. When I moved back here from
Park Slope in 1980, John Lennon was living
in the Dakota- a few blocks away on Central
Park West. A few years earlier, Jim Brody
dubbed the local L=A writers, The West Side Wall
of Words.
I'm glad to be moving back to Park Slope and Toni
is also. My office is here, on West End Avenue, so
I'll still be around here frequently- so technically the
Wall of Words is still extant.
I've given away or sold over 40 boxes of books, and just
finished packing 40 more. As anyone who has done this knows,
you can't help but see your life passing before your eyes.
This isn't easy, but there is still lots to look forward to. Especially
here in blogland- glad to see the likes of Li Bloom,Alli Warren, Ray Davis,
Jim Behrle, Mike Snyder, Jonathan Mayhew, Nada Gordon,
Guillermo Parra, Gary Sullivan, Eileen Tabios, Dagzine,
DaDooDoFlow, Josh Corey,
Drew Gardner, Lanny Quarles, Brother Tom,
Katie Degentesh, Jukka-Pekka Kervinen,
Stephen Kirbach, Jack Kimball, Christy Church,
Amanda Cook, Tony Tost, Jordan Davis, Clayton Couch,
Mark Woods, Andrew Lundwall, Michael Bogue,
Christina Strong,Cassandra and Boynton,
the Dovecote, Shanna Compton, Caterina,
& all the New Brutalists, Savoradin, Priego,
Amy Bernier, Michael Gates,
Jean Vengua, Heriberto Yepez, Marianne Shaneen,
John Latta, Michaela Cooper,
Malcolm Davidson, Daniel Nester, Mark Lamoureux,
the Umbrists, Tim Peterson, Bill Marsh,
kari edwards, Steve Tills, Tom Beckett, Crag Hill,
Johanna Rauhala & so many other hot bloggers
still enthusiastically blogging and new bloggers jumping in
alll the time. (Check out the sidebar to your left for a link to the
most recent *fait accompli* ((((HOT)))))((((BLOGLISTS))))). There are,
of course, thousands of great bloglists out there to be discovered.
Technorati has added some new features including current events
as seen in blogland, as well as a new links beta feature.
Silliman is determined to blog less, and better. That is no doubt a given.
Nice to see Robert Creeley more and more in the blogging midst.
Will he be the among the first septuagenarians to start a blog? Imagine
that! Usually, when bloggers start getting letters from terrific poets, it
means they're thinking about it.
Well, rummaging around my stuff, naturally I came across a few lost
journals. Here's some time travel back to 1988.
**
Notebook: 1988
I do have something.
Little pieces of paper
with words on them
to look at. They call
it reading but first
and last it is looking.
1) Stack
2) Alphabetize
Why is is that few
care to state the
obvious? The government
collapsed so the
economy collapsed.
The peoplle are more
ordered than the
language because they
are free.
You think because
I am not dressed
I am not armed.
You think because I
stand here poised to
glimpse the future I
don't understand what
the stacks in front
of me represent. the
secret to finding order
is to attend to the
disorder. But, for now,
we know each other
only by our effects.
I have to stop if only
to pause on a word,
returning to the sisyphus
labyrinth. And *if* you
stop in time it
momentarily unifies.
You can protect
yourself by consciously
assessing others. Mark
their traits well. Do
not feel guilty about
it- there's no other
was to establish
reciprocal relations.
An inner measure
of things taken
as a gradual edge
is cut by a person's
individuality set against
experience's constant
pressure. The mind has
a chance of staying
ahead of this- but
the disparity is often
hard on balance.
There is a give
and take when the
thought comes back
to me, dear reader,
just the way it comes
back in thought. It
circles around and
won't go away,
anyway.
Poets, poets, poets.
Everywhere I see
poets. Poets to the
right of me, poets
to the left of me.
Poets seizing the sun-
paragraph, and poets
gathering the moon
paraphernalia. They
resist my bolts and
dress in the most
obvious forms imaginable.
No matter
how hard I try to
imagine them
fooling me with
their masks
(no one told them to
stop concealing their
attacks) I still
recognize all the
animal disguises
they use- almost
immediately.
Realizing perfectly
that my assertion
contains an invitation,
which may, of course,
be refused.Then
again, life is a
series of occasions
not matter what.
Isn't this also, in
itself, a kind of
companionship? As
one poet said (as
another poet said and
this *could* go on
forever) opposition
is true friendship.
The close you
look into a mirror,
the more you see
your own face.
Something else is
exactly what you
won't find there.
Hold a few
things in place and
watch where the
change takes place.
Order is one kind
of illusion very
useful for steadying
the structure. "I
hate structure*
writes Alan {Davies}. Rock
what? Rock the
boat (the "ship of
state") says Allen {Ginsberg}.
Numbers confuse
me. No more trace of
this and trace of that.
Lets go back to copying
pages one at a time
and passing them around.
(Let the machines take care
of themselves. Rusty
ventilator or Venite
Adoremus, Daddy.)
Again, the idea
(deja vu, for you) that
a poem is a kind
of legalized symbiosis.-
(Another way of expressing
Winnicott's idea of
transitional objects, an
idea which stresses the
developmental phase aspect
of art, (not* its *timelessness*.)
Blake's "Enough- or
too much"= go
too far and come back-
or don't go at all.
All in good time.
The abandoned journey
began with a single step.
To love is to return.
the Upper West Side where Toni and I have lived
for 12 years. And 12 years in the previous Upper
West Side apartment. When I moved back here from
Park Slope in 1980, John Lennon was living
in the Dakota- a few blocks away on Central
Park West. A few years earlier, Jim Brody
dubbed the local L=A writers, The West Side Wall
of Words.
I'm glad to be moving back to Park Slope and Toni
is also. My office is here, on West End Avenue, so
I'll still be around here frequently- so technically the
Wall of Words is still extant.
I've given away or sold over 40 boxes of books, and just
finished packing 40 more. As anyone who has done this knows,
you can't help but see your life passing before your eyes.
This isn't easy, but there is still lots to look forward to. Especially
here in blogland- glad to see the likes of Li Bloom,Alli Warren, Ray Davis,
Jim Behrle, Mike Snyder, Jonathan Mayhew, Nada Gordon,
Guillermo Parra, Gary Sullivan, Eileen Tabios, Dagzine,
DaDooDoFlow, Josh Corey,
Drew Gardner, Lanny Quarles, Brother Tom,
Katie Degentesh, Jukka-Pekka Kervinen,
Stephen Kirbach, Jack Kimball, Christy Church,
Amanda Cook, Tony Tost, Jordan Davis, Clayton Couch,
Mark Woods, Andrew Lundwall, Michael Bogue,
Christina Strong,Cassandra and Boynton,
the Dovecote, Shanna Compton, Caterina,
& all the New Brutalists, Savoradin, Priego,
Amy Bernier, Michael Gates,
Jean Vengua, Heriberto Yepez, Marianne Shaneen,
John Latta, Michaela Cooper,
Malcolm Davidson, Daniel Nester, Mark Lamoureux,
the Umbrists, Tim Peterson, Bill Marsh,
kari edwards, Steve Tills, Tom Beckett, Crag Hill,
Johanna Rauhala & so many other hot bloggers
still enthusiastically blogging and new bloggers jumping in
alll the time. (Check out the sidebar to your left for a link to the
most recent *fait accompli* ((((HOT)))))((((BLOGLISTS))))). There are,
of course, thousands of great bloglists out there to be discovered.
Technorati has added some new features including current events
as seen in blogland, as well as a new links beta feature.
Silliman is determined to blog less, and better. That is no doubt a given.
Nice to see Robert Creeley more and more in the blogging midst.
Will he be the among the first septuagenarians to start a blog? Imagine
that! Usually, when bloggers start getting letters from terrific poets, it
means they're thinking about it.
Well, rummaging around my stuff, naturally I came across a few lost
journals. Here's some time travel back to 1988.
**
Notebook: 1988
I do have something.
Little pieces of paper
with words on them
to look at. They call
it reading but first
and last it is looking.
1) Stack
2) Alphabetize
Why is is that few
care to state the
obvious? The government
collapsed so the
economy collapsed.
The peoplle are more
ordered than the
language because they
are free.
You think because
I am not dressed
I am not armed.
You think because I
stand here poised to
glimpse the future I
don't understand what
the stacks in front
of me represent. the
secret to finding order
is to attend to the
disorder. But, for now,
we know each other
only by our effects.
I have to stop if only
to pause on a word,
returning to the sisyphus
labyrinth. And *if* you
stop in time it
momentarily unifies.
You can protect
yourself by consciously
assessing others. Mark
their traits well. Do
not feel guilty about
it- there's no other
was to establish
reciprocal relations.
An inner measure
of things taken
as a gradual edge
is cut by a person's
individuality set against
experience's constant
pressure. The mind has
a chance of staying
ahead of this- but
the disparity is often
hard on balance.
There is a give
and take when the
thought comes back
to me, dear reader,
just the way it comes
back in thought. It
circles around and
won't go away,
anyway.
Poets, poets, poets.
Everywhere I see
poets. Poets to the
right of me, poets
to the left of me.
Poets seizing the sun-
paragraph, and poets
gathering the moon
paraphernalia. They
resist my bolts and
dress in the most
obvious forms imaginable.
No matter
how hard I try to
imagine them
fooling me with
their masks
(no one told them to
stop concealing their
attacks) I still
recognize all the
animal disguises
they use- almost
immediately.
Realizing perfectly
that my assertion
contains an invitation,
which may, of course,
be refused.Then
again, life is a
series of occasions
not matter what.
Isn't this also, in
itself, a kind of
companionship? As
one poet said (as
another poet said and
this *could* go on
forever) opposition
is true friendship.
The close you
look into a mirror,
the more you see
your own face.
Something else is
exactly what you
won't find there.
Hold a few
things in place and
watch where the
change takes place.
Order is one kind
of illusion very
useful for steadying
the structure. "I
hate structure*
writes Alan {Davies}. Rock
what? Rock the
boat (the "ship of
state") says Allen {Ginsberg}.
Numbers confuse
me. No more trace of
this and trace of that.
Lets go back to copying
pages one at a time
and passing them around.
(Let the machines take care
of themselves. Rusty
ventilator or Venite
Adoremus, Daddy.)
Again, the idea
(deja vu, for you) that
a poem is a kind
of legalized symbiosis.-
(Another way of expressing
Winnicott's idea of
transitional objects, an
idea which stresses the
developmental phase aspect
of art, (not* its *timelessness*.)
Blake's "Enough- or
too much"= go
too far and come back-
or don't go at all.
All in good time.
The abandoned journey
began with a single step.
To love is to return.
Tuesday, March 23
Notebook: 1/4/90
Adversity
The human capacity
to create or even to
fabricate
the human out of the
inhuman is at the center
of our ability to
tolerate and finally to
weather adversity-
sometimes even to
recognize
the challenge inherent in
adversity and to rise to
the occasion,
adapting to even
the most
tiresome burden, gradually
the circumstances become
part of the landscape,
and then ourselves.
A child's father is
poisoned. The boy clings to
the stretcher and in
order to make him
let go of his father- who
is bleeding from the
mouth- an attendant
tells him his daddy
will live. He is 4
years old. It is
Christmas Eve. When
he dies- the boy
cannot forget- night
after night his
mother must rock him
quiet.
5/20/90
One day you see that
you can do no more
than accept the
washings, the
wendings, the
meanderings of
feelings which
arose from the comings
and goings of joys and
sorrows.
Emotions wash over
me, splash through
me
Fate's tides
approach my feet on
the beach.
I watch the waves
but I want to keep
my feet dry.
Adversity
The human capacity
to create or even to
fabricate
the human out of the
inhuman is at the center
of our ability to
tolerate and finally to
weather adversity-
sometimes even to
recognize
the challenge inherent in
adversity and to rise to
the occasion,
adapting to even
the most
tiresome burden, gradually
the circumstances become
part of the landscape,
and then ourselves.
A child's father is
poisoned. The boy clings to
the stretcher and in
order to make him
let go of his father- who
is bleeding from the
mouth- an attendant
tells him his daddy
will live. He is 4
years old. It is
Christmas Eve. When
he dies- the boy
cannot forget- night
after night his
mother must rock him
quiet.
5/20/90
One day you see that
you can do no more
than accept the
washings, the
wendings, the
meanderings of
feelings which
arose from the comings
and goings of joys and
sorrows.
Emotions wash over
me, splash through
me
Fate's tides
approach my feet on
the beach.
I watch the waves
but I want to keep
my feet dry.
Monday, March 22
"Aggression against the individual self, the denial of the
personality, seems to me to be, consciously or not, the belated fruit of the
two main collectivist trends of our century: Nazism and Left-
wing totalitarianism (as realized in history).(The personalist
philosophy of Emmanuel Mounier and his journal *Esprit* had
overcome this problem at one time, and provided an answer;
how urgently we feel the need for a new personalism!) If the
individual self is an illusion, who's to prevent me from repudiating
it, from destroying and despising it, from killing or imprisoning
my fellow men?
And yet the fact that there is such a relentless attack on the
personality suggests that basically it is still believed in, that it is not
considered an illusion, that people believe in it so strongly that
they want to destroy it. Other selves are resented as rivals by those
who deny the self. Yesterday's politicians, today's ideologies, all
those who deny individualism are fierce and violent individualists,
impelled by a pathological will to power and an excessive urge
to assert themselves, to realize themselves, to absorb or dominate
others so that only their own hypertrophied self may survive:
personalities, races, works, signatures, everything must be
submerged in the collective impersonalism, in the collective
unconscious, except the self which denounces the presence of the
*others* whom he seeks to drive out from his own being."
Eugene Ionesco
*Fragments of a Journal*
Grove, 1968
personality, seems to me to be, consciously or not, the belated fruit of the
two main collectivist trends of our century: Nazism and Left-
wing totalitarianism (as realized in history).(The personalist
philosophy of Emmanuel Mounier and his journal *Esprit* had
overcome this problem at one time, and provided an answer;
how urgently we feel the need for a new personalism!) If the
individual self is an illusion, who's to prevent me from repudiating
it, from destroying and despising it, from killing or imprisoning
my fellow men?
And yet the fact that there is such a relentless attack on the
personality suggests that basically it is still believed in, that it is not
considered an illusion, that people believe in it so strongly that
they want to destroy it. Other selves are resented as rivals by those
who deny the self. Yesterday's politicians, today's ideologies, all
those who deny individualism are fierce and violent individualists,
impelled by a pathological will to power and an excessive urge
to assert themselves, to realize themselves, to absorb or dominate
others so that only their own hypertrophied self may survive:
personalities, races, works, signatures, everything must be
submerged in the collective impersonalism, in the collective
unconscious, except the self which denounces the presence of the
*others* whom he seeks to drive out from his own being."
Eugene Ionesco
*Fragments of a Journal*
Grove, 1968
Sunday, March 21
no more little miss nice kantogirl {click here}:
"Online we lie less...
Perhaps in the machine age
everything be remembered,
none forgotten."
This reminded me of the fascinating
*Physics of Immortality* by
Frank J. Tipler in which someday
computers resurrect everybody
and everything.
"Online we lie less...
Perhaps in the machine age
everything be remembered,
none forgotten."
This reminded me of the fascinating
*Physics of Immortality* by
Frank J. Tipler in which someday
computers resurrect everybody
and everything.
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, a
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 transformative
if you would only
allow yourself to
complete it."
He had come to
distrust any
kind of explanation.
Or is it 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 or 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
arms 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
a 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 something
is to know that
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.
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, a
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 transformative
if you would only
allow yourself to
complete it."
He had come to
distrust any
kind of explanation.
Or is it 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 or 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
arms 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
a 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 something
is to know that
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.
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