Postcard Poems + Oxygen
on Sunday, August 3 @ 7pm
Poetry Espresso
wishes you HERE:
2202 Oxygen Bar
795 Valencia @ 19th
San Francisco
to celebrate & read from
Postcard Poems books
readings (in pairs) by:
Cassie Lewis
Tim Yu
Stephanie Young
Jennifer Dannenberg
Nick Piombino
Catherine Meng
Del Ray Cross
& if you can't attend
you can nab these
lovely books here:
www.poetryespresso.org
*
It is my great pleasure to remind you that I have been invited by
Cynthia Sailers and the New Brutalists to read at 21 Grand with
Patrick Durgin on Sunday, August 10th, 7-9 p. m.
449B 23rd Street Oakland
$4 cover
Distribution Automatique
Thursday, July 31
Limetree ... Kasey S. Mohammed posted some excerpts from my chapbook-essay The Boundary of Theory (Cuneiform Press, 2001), along with some of my comments from an accompanying interview with Kyle Schlesinger, over on his Zombie blog.
Thanks, Kasey. This chapbook was published in an edition of 100 so has long been out of print. This is its first internet appearance!
Thanks, Kasey. This chapbook was published in an edition of 100 so has long been out of print. This is its first internet appearance!
7/4/87
It keeps occuring to me that I do
best when I write about a topic-
in spite of what I said in
Subject to Change. But, even then,
have I simply said all I want
to say? Is this the problem?
No, I love to write, I really enjoy it.
It's just that I'm only now learning to
work with it in a way that's more satisfying
No-Who am I= Who is listening to me.
When it comes to poetry, I seem to
want to speak in a soft voice. Yes,
I remember about X's readings- declaiming
his lines in a loud, booming voice. Of
course, too, Leland- affirmative,
confident- like Y. But my poetic
voice is not so confident- yet I am
no longer afraid of coming out of a delusion.
Perhaps I've been deluding myself about
poetry- but I was out to show that I
can write. Constantly assailed by
doubts, I am forever choosing things
in my life that give me no solid
foundation- with one exception- my
therapy degrees and my practice (and my therapy).
One thing about the short poem that
attracted me was its "quick fix" satisfactions.
Once published,I could easily picture
certain forms being published in certain
settings. But in the past ten years-
the definitive date being X's pronouncement-
I have discovered again that my
poems do not *progress* the way my essay
writings progress. This is true from a
publishing context with no question. But this
is largely a question of "change" as Leland's
letter puts it. In a sense, going to
a publisher is like going to a doctor. That's
where an image of Douglas holding Emma
comes in. Maybe the fact that I've tried
hard to be honest with myself that makes my
writing interesting to others- and to myself.
I'm getting more and more of a taste for that.
Part of my anxiety (I felt it then) also
comes ffrom this successive (excessive) self honesty.
Only fears of coming out of a delusion
if I'm afraid I'll have nothing else.
But then at times I get fuzzy about what
is a delusion and what is not a delusion.
But art is based on fantasy- and the
environments of mind in which I build
whatever Iwrite are important to me. From
this perspective they are not delusions-
in fact- they are the opposite. They are
*armatures* (I prefer this word so much
more to structure with its whiff of
strict schedules and strict attention.)
Why should I write anything other than what
I want to? Oh, never again (baby), never
again. "I hate to see that
evening sun go down, cause it makes me
feel like I'm on my lastgo-round."
(Unidentified jazz singer)
"Oh, woe is me" days are over- not that
I'll never mourn a loss. But I'm not deluded
about the "powers" or"impact" or pleasures
of such mourning.
Yet again- stimulants- coffee,
nicotine, sugar constantly ingested-
points to a problem. There is a dependence
in me on (imaginary?) and *exhilirated*
states. These still must be the result of a great fear
of calming down. And yet, that I've
found more and more ways, to avoid
acting out my anxieties brings me a
measure of constant strength (awareness of
strength).
A "primitive language" is an awareness of
the values of giving expression to
ones thoughts as a way of learning
what they are. "Free speech" then "free association"
then- private language ("personal" language?)
It keeps occuring to me that I do
best when I write about a topic-
in spite of what I said in
Subject to Change. But, even then,
have I simply said all I want
to say? Is this the problem?
No, I love to write, I really enjoy it.
It's just that I'm only now learning to
work with it in a way that's more satisfying
No-Who am I= Who is listening to me.
When it comes to poetry, I seem to
want to speak in a soft voice. Yes,
I remember about X's readings- declaiming
his lines in a loud, booming voice. Of
course, too, Leland- affirmative,
confident- like Y. But my poetic
voice is not so confident- yet I am
no longer afraid of coming out of a delusion.
Perhaps I've been deluding myself about
poetry- but I was out to show that I
can write. Constantly assailed by
doubts, I am forever choosing things
in my life that give me no solid
foundation- with one exception- my
therapy degrees and my practice (and my therapy).
One thing about the short poem that
attracted me was its "quick fix" satisfactions.
Once published,I could easily picture
certain forms being published in certain
settings. But in the past ten years-
the definitive date being X's pronouncement-
I have discovered again that my
poems do not *progress* the way my essay
writings progress. This is true from a
publishing context with no question. But this
is largely a question of "change" as Leland's
letter puts it. In a sense, going to
a publisher is like going to a doctor. That's
where an image of Douglas holding Emma
comes in. Maybe the fact that I've tried
hard to be honest with myself that makes my
writing interesting to others- and to myself.
I'm getting more and more of a taste for that.
Part of my anxiety (I felt it then) also
comes ffrom this successive (excessive) self honesty.
Only fears of coming out of a delusion
if I'm afraid I'll have nothing else.
But then at times I get fuzzy about what
is a delusion and what is not a delusion.
But art is based on fantasy- and the
environments of mind in which I build
whatever Iwrite are important to me. From
this perspective they are not delusions-
in fact- they are the opposite. They are
*armatures* (I prefer this word so much
more to structure with its whiff of
strict schedules and strict attention.)
Why should I write anything other than what
I want to? Oh, never again (baby), never
again. "I hate to see that
evening sun go down, cause it makes me
feel like I'm on my lastgo-round."
(Unidentified jazz singer)
"Oh, woe is me" days are over- not that
I'll never mourn a loss. But I'm not deluded
about the "powers" or"impact" or pleasures
of such mourning.
Yet again- stimulants- coffee,
nicotine, sugar constantly ingested-
points to a problem. There is a dependence
in me on (imaginary?) and *exhilirated*
states. These still must be the result of a great fear
of calming down. And yet, that I've
found more and more ways, to avoid
acting out my anxieties brings me a
measure of constant strength (awareness of
strength).
A "primitive language" is an awareness of
the values of giving expression to
ones thoughts as a way of learning
what they are. "Free speech" then "free association"
then- private language ("personal" language?)
Wednesday, July 30
See Ironstone Whirlygig...Amanda Cook Tuesday, July 29 for the whole saga of Gata lost and Gata found, Xtina telling me she was found, but being wrong, me posting it but being right! A little bi-coastal time travel for your Wednesday entertainment.
8/4/84
Leaf hour slip harbor past
Light yellow fading slow quick gradually
Tilt move touch reach pull turn stand low
Far for turned new now know when
Simple heard good odd down way yearn
Neither never veer element pause certain
Let go gather here reveal nascent tremor
Mercurial leap peasant rush sheet where
Present person rush heather thought time mere
Item listen target storm map pleasant nurture
Grow reasoning glistening term time member bear
High glisten surround only unless perfect trim
Hum hammer next close dear receive every
Prism color vast stream strewn travel tow
Machine muscle merchant crew creme inter enter
Trade decent unusual swum proper primitive true
Harbor hover past striped simple crew last
Connect projection cotton link sally thrust
Imply implore arouse roam more apple
Pull level veil empty extra extreme trail
Lore arrive venture about contain natural
Varnish people present entail signal nor
Trust unveil voyage virtue untried untrammable
Travail looming moor only allow when near
Removal alters treasure doubt tools tails
Entreats greets enters avers a verse
Gross gas gears stress mobile efforts twice
Columns save inveterate scars scare
Returns tarnished hints twins assail votes
Motion mixes several renewed wise source
Rhythm satisfies tall tight watery yards
Several light heeds condensed scattered dim
Movement means towards rising reddening dew
Leaf hour slip harbor past
Light yellow fading slow quick gradually
Tilt move touch reach pull turn stand low
Far for turned new now know when
Simple heard good odd down way yearn
Neither never veer element pause certain
Let go gather here reveal nascent tremor
Mercurial leap peasant rush sheet where
Present person rush heather thought time mere
Item listen target storm map pleasant nurture
Grow reasoning glistening term time member bear
High glisten surround only unless perfect trim
Hum hammer next close dear receive every
Prism color vast stream strewn travel tow
Machine muscle merchant crew creme inter enter
Trade decent unusual swum proper primitive true
Harbor hover past striped simple crew last
Connect projection cotton link sally thrust
Imply implore arouse roam more apple
Pull level veil empty extra extreme trail
Lore arrive venture about contain natural
Varnish people present entail signal nor
Trust unveil voyage virtue untried untrammable
Travail looming moor only allow when near
Removal alters treasure doubt tools tails
Entreats greets enters avers a verse
Gross gas gears stress mobile efforts twice
Columns save inveterate scars scare
Returns tarnished hints twins assail votes
Motion mixes several renewed wise source
Rhythm satisfies tall tight watery yards
Several light heeds condensed scattered dim
Movement means towards rising reddening dew
Tuesday, July 29
Ironstone Whirlygig...Amanda Cook's cat Gata is back. And thanks to Gata's safe return, which it seems I anticipated, with the kind help of xtina.org....Christina Strong I have been placed in the #1 spot on Amanda's Crush List. Proud of it, too.
Best of all, Amanda's smiling again, nobody's freaked out and everybody's home.
Best of all, Amanda's smiling again, nobody's freaked out and everybody's home.
Monday, July 28
xtina.org....Christina Strong tells me that Amanda's cat is back. Let's give it a
Chris Murray YaY (sorry, David, this is an emergency). (The Whiffle sniffles are gone too, evidently.)
Chris Murray YaY (sorry, David, this is an emergency). (The Whiffle sniffles are gone too, evidently.)
Blogger alert! Ironstone Whirlygig...Amanda Cook is back but her cat is missing and she feels unwiffled. Welcome backs, letters, poems, ok?
Another convergence of East and West tonight at 21 Grand. Toni and I were delighted to see our poet friend from New York Chris Stroffolino perform as we hung out with loved and familiar New York poet friends from the Ear Inn/Segue scene (most recently at Bob Holman's Bowery Poetry Club) Laynie Browne, Judith Goldman, and Dan Farrell and new friends Chris Murray(Texas), Catherine Meng, Stephanie Young, Mike Cross, James Meetze and others (Bay Area). Eugene Ostashevsky's smashed philosophy of "DJ Spinoza" threw my mind right through the looking glass of hysterical laughter, zen wit and loony contemplation. Toni and Laynie enjoyed the Russian nuances. I was reminded of Andrei Codrescu. Geoffrey Dyer read sensitive, personal poems, sometimes evoking connections with family and friends in the audience, bringing an aura of warmth and friendship into the room, evocative and sophisticated yet a marked contrast to the richly complex. labyrinthal essay presentation on Friday at Mama Buzz. Chris Stroffolino's tight, hard driving yet melodic rock band Continuous Peasant well deserves the au courant adjectve awesome (we got a moment to briefly chat after his set) and Laynie Browne, Toni and me all agreed that we were sorry to be unable to hear out Eli Drabman's Black Plastics band, whose music seemed to gently follow us up the Berkeley hills. This weekend of New Brutalism poetry and music made me feel welcome and admiring of the poetry and music scene here, and hankering for more. And just you wait Enry Iggins there will be more!
The Brutal Kittens...James Meetze will no doubt disagree and find other things to tell you about how he liked the evening at 21 Grand more and better!
The Brutal Kittens...James Meetze will no doubt disagree and find other things to tell you about how he liked the evening at 21 Grand more and better!
Sunday, July 27
Looks like my lame attempt at blog humor didn't come off in that James Meetze felt obliged to answer my teasing post point for point Anyway, it gave us a chance to reiterate what a fine reading it was indeed. Not only that, but drinks and books and good vibes all around. I even won a raffle!
I just might never go back to New York
I just might never go back to New York
I think I need to clear the air here. James Meetze says our accounts of Friday night are different. I said the reading was terrific and he said the reading was great. He said this was the best group reading he's ever been to. I indirectly compared this reading with the start of the San Francisco Rennaisance and the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E group. I want to put our differences before the blogging community right now. Which of us was more positive about this reading? Maybe me and James can straighten out our disagreements and find an adjective we can both agree on. How about fantastically phenomenal? Don't you agree that it is important to clear up differing perceptions as soon as possible?
from Eeksy-Peeksy,,,Malcolm Davidson
Storm. I cannot sit still inside my head.
posted by eeksypeeksy | 3:17 PM
Storm. I cannot sit still inside my head.
posted by eeksypeeksy | 3:17 PM
Chris Sullivan asked me on Friday night at the reading at Mama Buzz if my
diary entries here are fictionalized. I wish I could make that claim, but no, they
are exact transcriptions from my diaries. Thanks for asking, Chris.
2/18/87
Insight: (thinking, today, of Martin Luther King, Jr.)
"Free at last, Free at last, dear God in heaven,
free at last." [Once you *really* start
talking, they won't want you to stop] [If you
have anything useful to say, or if the occasion
of your saying it is useful for people] [such as
"elevating" the way King effects me when he says,
free at last]
Visualization in each word is accompanied by
a visualization of its referent. To create
a tautology between the two a pictogram
or some variant of one is necessary.
The structure of the song mimes the
evolution of a thought or a sequence of
thoughts. Theme, variation, theme, as
in the Beethoven sense, a "searching"
for a "resolution." Think of the third or
the 5th Symphony. A motive is announced,
(the way the thought process "announces" or
"proclaims" an idea- and this idea resonates,
often with the pragmatic or realistic
applications of the thought) with other
thoughts. Then the whole thing usually quiets
down. Symphonic music usually follows
this structure- the better it is, the more
nuances are provided.
To return to the notion of visualization.
The symphonic form itself may be understood
as an acoustic visualization of the syntax
of thought (Watten's book)[note: Total Syntax]. New associations,
or revitalized associations may spring from,
for example, a stirring "motive"- "free at last,"
etc., or the opening motive of Beethoven's 5th.
The emotional element of thought is also
foregrounded in the establishment of a motive.
Each of us has a visualization referent for
nearly every word in our vocabulary.
Writing and reading poetry, in the 20th Century,
particularly, has established, again and again,
the powerful impact not of *confirming* past
visualizations, but of establishing new processes
for foregrounding the ideological
and social basis for frequently employed
visualizations.
2/21/87
To say that attention is the same as
consciousness is like saying that speed
is the same thing as the speedometer.
2/22
Very much wanting find the page
with the "ideal points" quote- I opened up
the book to the exact page (this is to avoid
citing Derrida *twice*-Oedipal?)
2/24
More resistance- when I found
the quote (on p. 574) of Interpretation
of Dreams-
I have decided to ADD the FReud
citation t *Currents of Attention*
2/26/87
The celebratory functions have long been
joined with the sacrificial and the addictive
facilities. I have long suspected this but
never before stated it quite this way. Thinking
and not-saying is powerful also (this is
related to the Jakobsen point about
listening) (this is a kind of gestation) (this
also reminds me of my father)
image drops
*
*
*
*
*
or stream
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
In the first image, each drop has more
specificity- NSCW also allows for more
specificity- such as using parentheses above.
2/26
Ha-ha-ha- this notebook is
titled *Single Subject*
poem: The Unspoken
diary entries here are fictionalized. I wish I could make that claim, but no, they
are exact transcriptions from my diaries. Thanks for asking, Chris.
2/18/87
Insight: (thinking, today, of Martin Luther King, Jr.)
"Free at last, Free at last, dear God in heaven,
free at last." [Once you *really* start
talking, they won't want you to stop] [If you
have anything useful to say, or if the occasion
of your saying it is useful for people] [such as
"elevating" the way King effects me when he says,
free at last]
Visualization in each word is accompanied by
a visualization of its referent. To create
a tautology between the two a pictogram
or some variant of one is necessary.
The structure of the song mimes the
evolution of a thought or a sequence of
thoughts. Theme, variation, theme, as
in the Beethoven sense, a "searching"
for a "resolution." Think of the third or
the 5th Symphony. A motive is announced,
(the way the thought process "announces" or
"proclaims" an idea- and this idea resonates,
often with the pragmatic or realistic
applications of the thought) with other
thoughts. Then the whole thing usually quiets
down. Symphonic music usually follows
this structure- the better it is, the more
nuances are provided.
To return to the notion of visualization.
The symphonic form itself may be understood
as an acoustic visualization of the syntax
of thought (Watten's book)[note: Total Syntax]. New associations,
or revitalized associations may spring from,
for example, a stirring "motive"- "free at last,"
etc., or the opening motive of Beethoven's 5th.
The emotional element of thought is also
foregrounded in the establishment of a motive.
Each of us has a visualization referent for
nearly every word in our vocabulary.
Writing and reading poetry, in the 20th Century,
particularly, has established, again and again,
the powerful impact not of *confirming* past
visualizations, but of establishing new processes
for foregrounding the ideological
and social basis for frequently employed
visualizations.
2/21/87
To say that attention is the same as
consciousness is like saying that speed
is the same thing as the speedometer.
2/22
Very much wanting find the page
with the "ideal points" quote- I opened up
the book to the exact page (this is to avoid
citing Derrida *twice*-Oedipal?)
2/24
More resistance- when I found
the quote (on p. 574) of Interpretation
of Dreams-
I have decided to ADD the FReud
citation t *Currents of Attention*
2/26/87
The celebratory functions have long been
joined with the sacrificial and the addictive
facilities. I have long suspected this but
never before stated it quite this way. Thinking
and not-saying is powerful also (this is
related to the Jakobsen point about
listening) (this is a kind of gestation) (this
also reminds me of my father)
image drops
*
*
*
*
*
or stream
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
In the first image, each drop has more
specificity- NSCW also allows for more
specificity- such as using parentheses above.
2/26
Ha-ha-ha- this notebook is
titled *Single Subject*
poem: The Unspoken
Saturday, July 26
I left Mama Buzz last night with an armful of books and a definite buzz. Two of 'em I won in a raffle! (Brenda Hillman)- others I received with the admission, others came my way by indirect trade with Michael Cross.
They include:
Michael Cross, six beautiful poems (letterpress) on separate cardstock sheets
Michael Cross- "gamut (for lz)" from "Involuntary Visions: after Kurosawa's Dreams
James Meetz "How Beautiful Tragic Weather" (Tougher Disguises)
Josely Vianna Baptista, "On the Shining Screen of The Eyelids" with artwork by Francisco Faris (Manifest Press)
Stephen Ratcliffe, "Sculpture"(Littoral Books)
Brenda Hillman,"The Firecage"(A + Bend Press)
Brenda Hillman, "Loose Sugar" (Wesleyan UP)
Syllogism #5 (edited by Lisa Kovaleski, Barbara Barrigan-Parilla, Carrie Laing Pickett)- Manifest Press, 2001, includes review of Kathleen Frazer's "Translating The Unspeakable:Poetry and Innovative Necessity" plus 31 poets and 3 fiction writers
Today I'm reading Tanya Brolaski's "The High Lonesome: Letters to Hank Williams" (True West, July 2003, tbrolaski@hotmail.com)
"dear hank,
from the distant past. with each separate thrill I begin. we are no common lemony lovers.
you are most murderous under the moonshine, like a stitch in time when no tongue can
accuse me."my heart's dead, and yet I'm livin" still squeaks when I'm close at arrow.
when I'm twelve feet below oyster shells.
I can only wait for you in all of them.
your
eunice"
(p. 6)
*
hank,
We're going around in circles. lately I've uprigged my thought on the rail-as-ship and
there are no cardinal directions- when you're selling postcards of the rubble I empty my
pockets for the opry. but does it cure what ails you? I hear the hills would literally come
alive.
Tell me something.
euie"
(p. 14)
*
They include:
Michael Cross, six beautiful poems (letterpress) on separate cardstock sheets
Michael Cross- "gamut (for lz)" from "Involuntary Visions: after Kurosawa's Dreams
James Meetz "How Beautiful Tragic Weather" (Tougher Disguises)
Josely Vianna Baptista, "On the Shining Screen of The Eyelids" with artwork by Francisco Faris (Manifest Press)
Stephen Ratcliffe, "Sculpture"(Littoral Books)
Brenda Hillman,"The Firecage"(A + Bend Press)
Brenda Hillman, "Loose Sugar" (Wesleyan UP)
Syllogism #5 (edited by Lisa Kovaleski, Barbara Barrigan-Parilla, Carrie Laing Pickett)- Manifest Press, 2001, includes review of Kathleen Frazer's "Translating The Unspeakable:Poetry and Innovative Necessity" plus 31 poets and 3 fiction writers
Today I'm reading Tanya Brolaski's "The High Lonesome: Letters to Hank Williams" (True West, July 2003, tbrolaski@hotmail.com)
"dear hank,
from the distant past. with each separate thrill I begin. we are no common lemony lovers.
you are most murderous under the moonshine, like a stitch in time when no tongue can
accuse me."my heart's dead, and yet I'm livin" still squeaks when I'm close at arrow.
when I'm twelve feet below oyster shells.
I can only wait for you in all of them.
your
eunice"
(p. 6)
*
hank,
We're going around in circles. lately I've uprigged my thought on the rail-as-ship and
there are no cardinal directions- when you're selling postcards of the rubble I empty my
pockets for the opry. but does it cure what ails you? I hear the hills would literally come
alive.
Tell me something.
euie"
(p. 14)
*
Friday, July 27th, Mama Buzz Cafe: Cynthia Sailers, James Meetze, Geoffrey Dyer, Eli Drabman, Michael Cross, Trevor Calvert, Tanya Brolaski & Julia Bloch in a benefit reading for the book INVOLUNTARY VISION:after Akira Kurosawa's Dreams, to be published by Avenue B.
If you couldn't make this terrific reading, get the book when it comes out this Fall. You might as well. You're going to be hearing a lot about the New Brutalists. Every now and then, a group of people start to inspire each other, enabling the spirit of poetry to be rekindled. Doesn't this usually happen first in the Bay Area? It seems that Michael Cross is on his way to the Suny/ Buffalo poetics program-just in time!
James Meetze: "Where are the men who do not explode?"
Tanya Brolaski: "just when you think a girl is buried with a stake in her heart there comes a clearing"
If you couldn't make this terrific reading, get the book when it comes out this Fall. You might as well. You're going to be hearing a lot about the New Brutalists. Every now and then, a group of people start to inspire each other, enabling the spirit of poetry to be rekindled. Doesn't this usually happen first in the Bay Area? It seems that Michael Cross is on his way to the Suny/ Buffalo poetics program-just in time!
James Meetze: "Where are the men who do not explode?"
Tanya Brolaski: "just when you think a girl is buried with a stake in her heart there comes a clearing"
Friday, July 25
Stephanie noticed that I slipped "Starbucks" for "Peets" in my blog about our meeting yesterday. I guess this means she read my post pretty carefully. Stephanie has a rare, impressive quality of looking at the positive side of things. This is a special in a friend, that inspires, or should inspire, reciprocity and gratitude, if not outright love. Also, I've noticed that she is a careful listener. Fans of Well Nourished Moon (among which I have long counted myself-a month in blogland is an eternity) no doubt have appreciated this. Recently she quoted this from a tee-shirt: "More dharma, less drama." Temperamental baby that I am, I have adopted this as my motto!
From "The Notebooks of Samuel Butler" (1835-1902)
Poetry
"The greatest poets never write poetry. The Homers and Shakespeare are not the greatest- they are only the greatest that we can know. And so with Handel among musicians. For the highest poetry, whether in music or literature, is ineffable -it must be felt from one person to another. It cannot be articulated."
Feeling
"Man is a substance, he knows not what, feeling, he knows not how, a rest and unrest that he can only in part distinguish. He is a substance feeling equilibrium or want of equilibrium; that is to say, he is a substance in a statical or dynamical condition and feeling the passage from one state to another.
Feeling is an art and, like any other art, can be acquired by taking pains. The analogy between feelings and words is very close. Both have their foundation in volition and deal largely in convention; as we should not be word-ridden so neither should we be feeling-ridden; feelings can deceive us; they can lie; they can be used in a non-natural, artificial sense; they can be forced; they can carry us away; they can be restrained.
When the surroundings are familiar, we know the right feeling and feel it accordingly, or if "we" (that is the central government of our personality) do not feel it, the subordinate departmental personality, whose business it is, feels it in the usual way and then goes on to something else. When the surroundings are less familiar and the departmental personality cannot deal with them, the position is reported through the central nervous systemt to the central government which is frequently at a loss to know what feeling to apply. Sometimes it happens to discern the right feeling and apply it, sometimes it hits on an inappripriate one and is thus reduced to solicism till the consequences lead to a crisis from which we recover and which, then becoming a leading case, forms one of the decisions on which our future action is based. Sometimes it applies to a feeling that is too inappropriate, as when the position is too horribly novel for us to have had any experience that can guide the central government in knowing how to feel about it, and this results in a cessation of the effort involved in trying to feel. Hence we may hope that the most horrible apparent suffering is not felt beyond a certain point, but is passed though unconsciously under a natural, automatic anaesthetic - the unconsciousness, in extreme cases, leading to death.
It is generally held that animals feel; it will soon be generally held that plants feel; and after that it will be held that stones also can feel. For, as no matter is so organic that there is not some of the organic in it, so, also, no matter is so inorganic that there is not some of the organic in it. We know that we have nerves and that we feel, it does not follow that other things do not feel because they have no nerves -it only follows that they do not feel as we do. The difference between the organic and the inorganic kingdoms will someday be seen to lie in the greater power of discriminating its feelings which is possessed by the former. Both are made of the same universal substance, but in the case of the organic world, this substance is able to feel more fully and discreetly and to show us that it feels.
Animals and plants, as they advance in the scale of life, differentiate their feelings more and more highly; they record them better and recognize them more readily. They get to know what they are doing and feeling, not step by step only, nor sentence by sentence, but in long flights, forming chapters and whole books of action and sensation. The difference as regard feeling between man and the lower animals is one of degree and not of kind. The inorganic is less expert in differentiating its feelings, therefore its memory of them must be less enduring; it cannot re-cognize what it can scarcely cognize. One might as well for some purposes, perhaps, say at once, as indeed people generally do for most purposes, that the inorganic does not feel; nevertheless the somewhat periphrastic way of putting it, saying that the inorganic feels but does not know, or knows only very slightly, how to differentiate its feelings, has the advantage of expressing the fact that feeling depends upon differentiation and sense of relation- inter se- of the things differentiated- a fact which, if never expressed, is apt tø be lost sight of.
As, therefore, human discrimination is to that of the lower animals, so the discrimination of the lower animals and plants is to that of inorganic things. In each case it is greater discriminating power (and this is mental power) that underlies the differentiation, but in no case can there be a denial of mental power altogther.
Poetry
"The greatest poets never write poetry. The Homers and Shakespeare are not the greatest- they are only the greatest that we can know. And so with Handel among musicians. For the highest poetry, whether in music or literature, is ineffable -it must be felt from one person to another. It cannot be articulated."
Feeling
"Man is a substance, he knows not what, feeling, he knows not how, a rest and unrest that he can only in part distinguish. He is a substance feeling equilibrium or want of equilibrium; that is to say, he is a substance in a statical or dynamical condition and feeling the passage from one state to another.
Feeling is an art and, like any other art, can be acquired by taking pains. The analogy between feelings and words is very close. Both have their foundation in volition and deal largely in convention; as we should not be word-ridden so neither should we be feeling-ridden; feelings can deceive us; they can lie; they can be used in a non-natural, artificial sense; they can be forced; they can carry us away; they can be restrained.
When the surroundings are familiar, we know the right feeling and feel it accordingly, or if "we" (that is the central government of our personality) do not feel it, the subordinate departmental personality, whose business it is, feels it in the usual way and then goes on to something else. When the surroundings are less familiar and the departmental personality cannot deal with them, the position is reported through the central nervous systemt to the central government which is frequently at a loss to know what feeling to apply. Sometimes it happens to discern the right feeling and apply it, sometimes it hits on an inappripriate one and is thus reduced to solicism till the consequences lead to a crisis from which we recover and which, then becoming a leading case, forms one of the decisions on which our future action is based. Sometimes it applies to a feeling that is too inappropriate, as when the position is too horribly novel for us to have had any experience that can guide the central government in knowing how to feel about it, and this results in a cessation of the effort involved in trying to feel. Hence we may hope that the most horrible apparent suffering is not felt beyond a certain point, but is passed though unconsciously under a natural, automatic anaesthetic - the unconsciousness, in extreme cases, leading to death.
It is generally held that animals feel; it will soon be generally held that plants feel; and after that it will be held that stones also can feel. For, as no matter is so organic that there is not some of the organic in it, so, also, no matter is so inorganic that there is not some of the organic in it. We know that we have nerves and that we feel, it does not follow that other things do not feel because they have no nerves -it only follows that they do not feel as we do. The difference between the organic and the inorganic kingdoms will someday be seen to lie in the greater power of discriminating its feelings which is possessed by the former. Both are made of the same universal substance, but in the case of the organic world, this substance is able to feel more fully and discreetly and to show us that it feels.
Animals and plants, as they advance in the scale of life, differentiate their feelings more and more highly; they record them better and recognize them more readily. They get to know what they are doing and feeling, not step by step only, nor sentence by sentence, but in long flights, forming chapters and whole books of action and sensation. The difference as regard feeling between man and the lower animals is one of degree and not of kind. The inorganic is less expert in differentiating its feelings, therefore its memory of them must be less enduring; it cannot re-cognize what it can scarcely cognize. One might as well for some purposes, perhaps, say at once, as indeed people generally do for most purposes, that the inorganic does not feel; nevertheless the somewhat periphrastic way of putting it, saying that the inorganic feels but does not know, or knows only very slightly, how to differentiate its feelings, has the advantage of expressing the fact that feeling depends upon differentiation and sense of relation- inter se- of the things differentiated- a fact which, if never expressed, is apt tø be lost sight of.
As, therefore, human discrimination is to that of the lower animals, so the discrimination of the lower animals and plants is to that of inorganic things. In each case it is greater discriminating power (and this is mental power) that underlies the differentiation, but in no case can there be a denial of mental power altogther.
Some minor computer problems last night prevented me from posting here. Also, at present my email is not working, so my apologies to the
peeps (Hi Eileen!) who have written to me of late. Jean and Kasey, I did receive yours, but right now am unable to respond. Would like to plan a visit soon. Catherine, Cassie, James, Del Ray, Chris, Patrick, Eileen, Kasey, Jean,so many others, can't wait to meet you! And hopefully this will take place very soon, and in some cases, at tonight's New Brutalist reading!
Finally met Stephanie in person. No surprise to me -since we are e-pals- that she is every bit as special as I expected but her in-person charm exceeds my powers of description. We went for a brief walk, drank some coffee at Starbucks (ahem, her treat!) and mostly talked about you wonderful bloggers and how exciting it is that so many of you are converging here this month. We looked forward to a similar East coast convergence this fall. We talked about her job (which I didn't realize she has had only since this past November), her pride in the fact that despite the fact that her boss smokes she has not had a cigarette since working there and Stephanie's new play project, which started, as she has already told you on Well Nourished Moon, with a major cry. Having had a little spin as an actor myself many an undernourished moon ago, I reassured her that I am positive she is off to a good start. Steph also gave me some posters for our upcoming Postcard reading at the Oxygen bar (I could have used the oxygen right then and there, because I was so thrilled to meet the glamorous -she is!- Stephanie in person, I could barely breathe, I kid you not). I gave her my extra copy of Bernadette Mayer's great book "Moving" and a miniature writing book, because I somehow needed to reward her for her hard work on our collaboration, and frankly, for putting up with difficult me as a new friend! To my delight, she seemed more pleased to meet me than to receive these humble gifts, which was flattering in itself. Soon enough I dropped the posters off at Moe's (spent a few bucks there for some great books, more on that later), Cody's, the campus and a record store. After she went back to work, I lingered around the places we walked for awhile. What can I say? Life gave me an awesome boost when I made friends last March or so with this warm and gifted Bay Area poet. She may be indeed a New Brutalist to you, but I must say she is a new Friendlyist to me!
peeps (Hi Eileen!) who have written to me of late. Jean and Kasey, I did receive yours, but right now am unable to respond. Would like to plan a visit soon. Catherine, Cassie, James, Del Ray, Chris, Patrick, Eileen, Kasey, Jean,so many others, can't wait to meet you! And hopefully this will take place very soon, and in some cases, at tonight's New Brutalist reading!
Finally met Stephanie in person. No surprise to me -since we are e-pals- that she is every bit as special as I expected but her in-person charm exceeds my powers of description. We went for a brief walk, drank some coffee at Starbucks (ahem, her treat!) and mostly talked about you wonderful bloggers and how exciting it is that so many of you are converging here this month. We looked forward to a similar East coast convergence this fall. We talked about her job (which I didn't realize she has had only since this past November), her pride in the fact that despite the fact that her boss smokes she has not had a cigarette since working there and Stephanie's new play project, which started, as she has already told you on Well Nourished Moon, with a major cry. Having had a little spin as an actor myself many an undernourished moon ago, I reassured her that I am positive she is off to a good start. Steph also gave me some posters for our upcoming Postcard reading at the Oxygen bar (I could have used the oxygen right then and there, because I was so thrilled to meet the glamorous -she is!- Stephanie in person, I could barely breathe, I kid you not). I gave her my extra copy of Bernadette Mayer's great book "Moving" and a miniature writing book, because I somehow needed to reward her for her hard work on our collaboration, and frankly, for putting up with difficult me as a new friend! To my delight, she seemed more pleased to meet me than to receive these humble gifts, which was flattering in itself. Soon enough I dropped the posters off at Moe's (spent a few bucks there for some great books, more on that later), Cody's, the campus and a record store. After she went back to work, I lingered around the places we walked for awhile. What can I say? Life gave me an awesome boost when I made friends last March or so with this warm and gifted Bay Area poet. She may be indeed a New Brutalist to you, but I must say she is a new Friendlyist to me!
Thursday, July 24
Thanks for the warm welcome, James. No doubt we will be meeting soon. I hope to earn the right to call myself an Old Brutalist!
Jean, Toni and I were duly warned and brought lots of warm clothes and we think the fog rollin' in the morning is quite atmospheric! The house we are in has a fireplace which we haven't used yet, but we plan to. So glad you can come on August 10th for my reading with Patrick at 21 Grand. But I don't think I can wait until the 10th to meet you, so we may come to Santa Cruz before then! The owner of the house we are renting couldn't find enough nice words to say about Santa Cruz- mostly that it is warm there now and that there are beautiful beaches. Soon we will have car so don't be suprised if we track you down and visit you!
I'm meeting Stephanie today! Wow!!! (SY exclamation points.) This may be the most planned and blogged meeting in history!
Bill Marsh posted the itinerary of his visit here today. He'll be at the postcard reading at the Oxygen Bar on the 3rd.
Stephen Vincent sent me the most amazing dream anybody has ever had with me in it that I know of. If he says it is ok, I may post it here. If he gives his permission, free copies of my early book "Poems" (Sun and Moon,1988) may be made available to anyone that can help me to understand it.
If I've neglected or forgotten anyone who I know who lives in the Bay Area who is for any reason offended please tell me. Ye olde memory function ain't what it used to be but I still love them, I am quite sure of that! Let me know, please, ok? I want to hear from you.
Jean, Toni and I were duly warned and brought lots of warm clothes and we think the fog rollin' in the morning is quite atmospheric! The house we are in has a fireplace which we haven't used yet, but we plan to. So glad you can come on August 10th for my reading with Patrick at 21 Grand. But I don't think I can wait until the 10th to meet you, so we may come to Santa Cruz before then! The owner of the house we are renting couldn't find enough nice words to say about Santa Cruz- mostly that it is warm there now and that there are beautiful beaches. Soon we will have car so don't be suprised if we track you down and visit you!
I'm meeting Stephanie today! Wow!!! (SY exclamation points.) This may be the most planned and blogged meeting in history!
Bill Marsh posted the itinerary of his visit here today. He'll be at the postcard reading at the Oxygen Bar on the 3rd.
Stephen Vincent sent me the most amazing dream anybody has ever had with me in it that I know of. If he says it is ok, I may post it here. If he gives his permission, free copies of my early book "Poems" (Sun and Moon,1988) may be made available to anyone that can help me to understand it.
If I've neglected or forgotten anyone who I know who lives in the Bay Area who is for any reason offended please tell me. Ye olde memory function ain't what it used to be but I still love them, I am quite sure of that! Let me know, please, ok? I want to hear from you.
11/17/84
The psychological issue of asking. Why we don't
ask-what makes us ask?
By returning meaning to its primary
forms such as letters we unearth the
inexact domain which constitutes the heart.
The other side of not asking is the right
to refuse, which is to choose, which ultimately
relates to the aesthetic, discriminatory function.
The dimensions "when" and "where" become the
obsessive"if," that is, if there is"if"
then there is "if not" and a story begins which
is transformed into the measurement of time.
11/29/84
Ron Silliman's-my writing = my writing-
resembles Derrida's "trace" except that
this presentation is tautological and
paradoxically pragmatic.
The psychological issue of asking. Why we don't
ask-what makes us ask?
By returning meaning to its primary
forms such as letters we unearth the
inexact domain which constitutes the heart.
The other side of not asking is the right
to refuse, which is to choose, which ultimately
relates to the aesthetic, discriminatory function.
The dimensions "when" and "where" become the
obsessive"if," that is, if there is"if"
then there is "if not" and a story begins which
is transformed into the measurement of time.
11/29/84
Ron Silliman's-my writing = my writing-
resembles Derrida's "trace" except that
this presentation is tautological and
paradoxically pragmatic.
Thanks for your warm welcome to the Bay Area, Johanna, Patrick, and Stephanie. I hear you are in town, Chris!
Hey Catherine, it's not Keats or Yeats its dates, dates, dates!
Thursday, July 24
Bhanu Kapil Rider and Arnold J. Kemp
read at New Langton Arts
8:00 pm, 4-6$, 1246 Folsom Street (between 8th and 9th streets), 415 626 5416
In Oakland:
Friday, July 25
Stephen Ratcliffe, Cynthia Sailers, James Meetze, Geoffrey Dyer, Eli Drabman, Michael Cross, Trevor Calvert Tanya Brolaski & Julia Bloch in a benefit reading for the book INVOLUNTARY VISION:after Akira Kurosawa's Dreams, to be published by Avenue B.
7:00pm, Mama Buzz Cafe
2318 Telegraph Ave at 23rd
$5-$50 Admission includes a limited edition chapbook from Tougher Disguises Press or Atticus/Finch.
Sunday, July 27th
Book release party for Geoffrey Dyer's new book from Krupskaya, featuring Eugene Ostashevsky, Eli Drabman's The Black Plastics and Chris Stroffolino’s Continuous Peasant.
7 - 9 @ 21 Grand
449B 23rd St., 4$
originally posted by Well Nourished Moon ... Stephanie Young
Hey Catherine, it's not Keats or Yeats its dates, dates, dates!
Thursday, July 24
Bhanu Kapil Rider and Arnold J. Kemp
read at New Langton Arts
8:00 pm, 4-6$, 1246 Folsom Street (between 8th and 9th streets), 415 626 5416
In Oakland:
Friday, July 25
Stephen Ratcliffe, Cynthia Sailers, James Meetze, Geoffrey Dyer, Eli Drabman, Michael Cross, Trevor Calvert Tanya Brolaski & Julia Bloch in a benefit reading for the book INVOLUNTARY VISION:after Akira Kurosawa's Dreams, to be published by Avenue B.
7:00pm, Mama Buzz Cafe
2318 Telegraph Ave at 23rd
$5-$50 Admission includes a limited edition chapbook from Tougher Disguises Press or Atticus/Finch.
Sunday, July 27th
Book release party for Geoffrey Dyer's new book from Krupskaya, featuring Eugene Ostashevsky, Eli Drabman's The Black Plastics and Chris Stroffolino’s Continuous Peasant.
7 - 9 @ 21 Grand
449B 23rd St., 4$
originally posted by Well Nourished Moon ... Stephanie Young
Wednesday, July 23
It is 6:22 am and I am in my quite lovely rented house in the Berkeley Hills. The extremely kind owner greeted us here and stayed overnight. She kindly offered to allow me to use her Apple G4 but I really didn't expect to be blogging this morning. To my surprise (have you noticed how inept I am with a computer-for example, Laura had to set up my template, Kasey and Stephanie and others are complaining how unreadable the type is, though others kindly came to my defense about staying with the dark background -thanks!) I figured out how to start this thing and with great joy I started reading the blogs. (Using somebody else's keyboard, though, feels like wearing somebody else's clothes) Peeps (borrowing from Eileen Tabios' page here) I am sitting here with a huge smile because I am feeling so welcomed thanks to comments from Jean Gier, Kasey, Cassie, Catherine and others. And thanks Del Ray Cross, who I am especially looking forward to meeting, for announcing my upcoming participation in the Postcard Book reading at the Oxygen Bar and for his having awhile back published selections from my part of my collaboration with Stephanie Young on Shampoo. (And greetings to Carl A- yes I do read Arm/Sasser every chance I get. And to Jim B for noticing my belated Petrarchian birthday greeting to adorable Laurable.) Folks, I think our little blogland is the warmest place on earth! But not Berkeley...brrr, it's cold here at 6am!
The plane trip was awful! We got stuck waiting for repairs in Dallas for 3 hours. Fortunately I brought my CD player and consoled myself with lots of Joni - but I lost my copy of Court and Spark boarding the second plane in Dallas (two of our planes needed maintenance). (Uh-oh, the connection was just terminated, I better save this). Toni was frantic because our friend Zee Zeleski-who lives in Berkeley- was meeting us at the airport. After a little wait, Zee showed up and took us to our lovely house here in the Hills. The owner owned an antique store so it is unusually charming with gardens in the back and front. I hope some my Bay Area friends will have a chance to come and see it. I am excited that lots of bloggers- including charismatic Chris Murray and charismatic David Hess will be visiting here-. And soon I'll be meeting many bloggers I've been reading avidly. Jack Kimball is right- I'm a natural fan- no apologies, I love it!
And the glamorous Stephanie Young -can you believe I'll be meeting her soon also? -though I know her schedule is full to bursting with her multitudinous friends and fans. But even if she can't fit me in, I know I'll be reading with her and her many other collaborators at the Oxygen Bar on Valencia in SF on August 3! Hope to see you there -and, if not, hope you'll visit here where I'll be writing about this excitement until my fingers grow numb. Hey, I better find the owner and see if I can post this. I've been writing to you for an hour and I haven't even had my tea yet, I'm so thrilled to be here!
The plane trip was awful! We got stuck waiting for repairs in Dallas for 3 hours. Fortunately I brought my CD player and consoled myself with lots of Joni - but I lost my copy of Court and Spark boarding the second plane in Dallas (two of our planes needed maintenance). (Uh-oh, the connection was just terminated, I better save this). Toni was frantic because our friend Zee Zeleski-who lives in Berkeley- was meeting us at the airport. After a little wait, Zee showed up and took us to our lovely house here in the Hills. The owner owned an antique store so it is unusually charming with gardens in the back and front. I hope some my Bay Area friends will have a chance to come and see it. I am excited that lots of bloggers- including charismatic Chris Murray and charismatic David Hess will be visiting here-. And soon I'll be meeting many bloggers I've been reading avidly. Jack Kimball is right- I'm a natural fan- no apologies, I love it!
And the glamorous Stephanie Young -can you believe I'll be meeting her soon also? -though I know her schedule is full to bursting with her multitudinous friends and fans. But even if she can't fit me in, I know I'll be reading with her and her many other collaborators at the Oxygen Bar on Valencia in SF on August 3! Hope to see you there -and, if not, hope you'll visit here where I'll be writing about this excitement until my fingers grow numb. Hey, I better find the owner and see if I can post this. I've been writing to you for an hour and I haven't even had my tea yet, I'm so thrilled to be here!
Tuesday, July 22
1977
An Arab in Marrakech: Why do you look all around?
Which? To see the faces to hear the
meanings of the voicings or put more
words next to words.
A poet: Something about not asking so
many questions.
Quality moments. Sun. Sound. It has
all happened many times before....
Before the next first
Hold on tight
It's outa sight
All through the night
B does most of the talking. B
speaks to A who listens
neutrally commenting very seldom.
B needs to talk because he
needs to see something about the
totality of his experience: so he
often speaks in generalities. He
is trying to see if there is
some coherence in what he is
saying. He doesn't need A
to say very much because he needs
to understand it himself though
he is so reliant on A's interest and
responsiveness.
B: There is something I've needed
to say to you for a long time.
After my father died, or rather,
since my father died, from time
to time...Is this too personal?
A: No. Why?
B: Because sometimes I feel
I shouldn't talk this way. That
people expect you to hold it all
in, to somehow transmute what
one feels and experiences directly,
comprehend it alone, separately.
I don't know what people talk
about. Sometimes I don't know
what to say when people talk to
me, how to respond, almost.
A: You were saying something
about your father.
B: My father was a very
quiet man. Terrific sense of
humor, sometimes, but he didn't
speak very much about himself.
Often,when we were alone
together, as long as an hour,
or two even, he wouldn't say a
word.
A; What did you do?
B: I'd get quiet too. I'd be
afraid to say a word, afraid
to upset him. When I'd talk,
he'd hardly say anything at
all. It was upsetting, confusing,
especially, I suppose, for a
child, an intellectual olne at
that, whoh read a lot of books,
and thought a lot, and needed
to say things and be heard,
responded to.
A; How did you feel towards
him? I mean, did you resent
this, were there other things
to make up for this?
B: There must have been, because
I loved him very much and
I liked to be near him and
didn't especially try to get
away from him when we were
together like that. But what
I was getting at is, now that
he is gone, since he's been...
dead, because he was always
so quiet, I can imagine his
presence very easily. I dream
about him a lot. It takes a
long time to adjust to these
things. Is this bothering you,
my talking like this? Is it
upsetting to you?
A: No. Go on.
B: Once, when I was working
outside at a flea market, selling
magazines, I imagined that
my father ws standing right
behind me. I felt the need to
turn around to see if he was
there. And whenever I dream
about him he is always content,
and often in the dreams he
gives me advice. So, at the
flea market, in the magazine stall,
it seemed he stood behind me
serenely. As if to say, "I'm
here with you just as I used
to be, nothing has changed."
I guess as a child, even
though we didn't talk- even
when he was very sick and I visited
him alone in the hospital, we
couldn't or didn't-even then,
there was a silent communion
between us, I think. He used to
wake me up in the morning to
get me to school so cheerfully
but the conversation would never
go beyond that. And later, when
we drove to work together sometimes
for more than an hour without
speaking. I wonder what he
thought about during those times.
Maybe he was thinking about me.
He used to say I was good at
book knowledge but not at
people knowledge. Maybe he was
disappointed with me because
I was a Momma's boy,
spending hours in the kitchen
over coffee talking with her
about books, about the past,
and what life has to offer.
My mother likes to think a
lot and talk about what she
thinks. From her I learned to
love speech and from him I
learned to love silence. So that
now when I am alone and I
listen to the silence that
surrounds all, that permeates
every moment no matter how full
I often think of him and how
in some way he must have
understood this and could draw
something from it. Now, when
people in my famioly talk about
him, I don't mean my mother
or my brother, but others
who spent much less time with
him, who knew him less well
they themselves are surprised
at how well they remember his
presence and what it felt like.
That mysterious privateness.
How frustrating it was for me
that I couldn't enter into it,
no matter how briefly. You
know, I used to be afraid to
be alone and I wonder how that
connects with the way things
were with me and my father.
A: It must have.
B: I don't knolw. I have to
be certain about these things,
I don't like to guess. I'm
wondering right now, for
example, why I need to talk
about this in this way. Maybe
I should keep it to myself.
I mean, you and I are
talking. I know you understand
what I'm saying, but I feel
I should keep the facts to
myself. I think specifics
are very important and one of
them is that you aren't that
involved with me. But you
chose to be here and one would
think that might be enough.
I like to give myself a lot of
time, to get the explanation
slowly over a long period of
time. In that way I guess
I think I can direct it
more- relates its reality
to the real way I think.
I rememver you talked
earlier about fool lighting.
Out out brief candle. If
I talk this way you might not
think I wasn't explaining
anything to me. Dwelling in
the subconscious I lose
all my dramatic tension. In that
other way I'm no longer
speaking to you. This is
only an instance, this one
about my father, why I
asked you to come. I guess
I figure in ta way it's one way
to go crazy. But do you
listen somewhat horrified
just as afraid as I am.
But if you don't there's
no control and in a way I'm
just falling- falling
down a long chute into
specifics I can name in
order. Maybe telling you
this one is not fair, even
this one time. All emotion
is specific, though (again
giving myself permission)
and the next moments
after this will not be
any less significant.
I taper off like him-
what if they say it's
nothing. Anyway I
don't owe them any images.
A: I think you drifted
off.
B: I guess I did. I
guess what I really
think is that specifics
are the most interesting
when they're sub-conscious.
Everything has it's own
private meaning. I don't like to
distinguish betgween the parts
of life that make you feel
excited and the other part you
find incredibly tedious and
contrived. But I think the
most important thing is
that I told you about my father.
___________________________
I shouldn't worry about
how to write- I lost
it all that time- I
let it go...I lost control.
I guess what I learned from
them the incredible importance
of the specifics. If no oone is
interested then I am no one.
Narcissism. Loss of concentration
can be followed closely
by physical exhaustion.
The trouble with prose is
it demands experiences
of physical movement over
long periods of time. This
helps bring my attention to
my increasing lack of concentration.
It feels as if there is no
more or hardly any more bits
of consciousness left. In
a sense I am pushing myself
forward mercilessly like a
soldier. The Kafka
poem. I was working on
perfecting how to do those
when I switched to prose due
to a first class runner.
Now it's
a) Licking postabe stamps
or
b) nothing.
Concentration and pushing the
pen. Right now, as always,
the pen feels awkward in my
hand. But I used to print poems
in short lines on the page and
immediately type them up. But
this space is really hard to
market like that.
The situation (the specifics)
A kind of figuring out
by obsessional thinking.
There seem to be orders
demanding decorative figures,
for example, wooden parakeet
cages. But I need to let the
day go fast as often
as I want.
Let the day go fast
so slow down the day
As I listen I hear contradictory
demands;
Isolate yourself
Build your own world
Write poems
Travel the strange road inward
I hear the enchanting
Song of the bells
Each bell rings once
And its a new bell
You do it because it feels good
YOu're lost, you're making it up
I put anything in the spaces
I let myself lose track
I put spruces in the empty part of the sentence
I am sure, I become unsure
So little is permitted by the
authoritarian voice (my father)
who labels it not usable.
An Arab in Marrakech: Why do you look all around?
Which? To see the faces to hear the
meanings of the voicings or put more
words next to words.
A poet: Something about not asking so
many questions.
Quality moments. Sun. Sound. It has
all happened many times before....
Before the next first
Hold on tight
It's outa sight
All through the night
B does most of the talking. B
speaks to A who listens
neutrally commenting very seldom.
B needs to talk because he
needs to see something about the
totality of his experience: so he
often speaks in generalities. He
is trying to see if there is
some coherence in what he is
saying. He doesn't need A
to say very much because he needs
to understand it himself though
he is so reliant on A's interest and
responsiveness.
B: There is something I've needed
to say to you for a long time.
After my father died, or rather,
since my father died, from time
to time...Is this too personal?
A: No. Why?
B: Because sometimes I feel
I shouldn't talk this way. That
people expect you to hold it all
in, to somehow transmute what
one feels and experiences directly,
comprehend it alone, separately.
I don't know what people talk
about. Sometimes I don't know
what to say when people talk to
me, how to respond, almost.
A: You were saying something
about your father.
B: My father was a very
quiet man. Terrific sense of
humor, sometimes, but he didn't
speak very much about himself.
Often,when we were alone
together, as long as an hour,
or two even, he wouldn't say a
word.
A; What did you do?
B: I'd get quiet too. I'd be
afraid to say a word, afraid
to upset him. When I'd talk,
he'd hardly say anything at
all. It was upsetting, confusing,
especially, I suppose, for a
child, an intellectual olne at
that, whoh read a lot of books,
and thought a lot, and needed
to say things and be heard,
responded to.
A; How did you feel towards
him? I mean, did you resent
this, were there other things
to make up for this?
B: There must have been, because
I loved him very much and
I liked to be near him and
didn't especially try to get
away from him when we were
together like that. But what
I was getting at is, now that
he is gone, since he's been...
dead, because he was always
so quiet, I can imagine his
presence very easily. I dream
about him a lot. It takes a
long time to adjust to these
things. Is this bothering you,
my talking like this? Is it
upsetting to you?
A: No. Go on.
B: Once, when I was working
outside at a flea market, selling
magazines, I imagined that
my father ws standing right
behind me. I felt the need to
turn around to see if he was
there. And whenever I dream
about him he is always content,
and often in the dreams he
gives me advice. So, at the
flea market, in the magazine stall,
it seemed he stood behind me
serenely. As if to say, "I'm
here with you just as I used
to be, nothing has changed."
I guess as a child, even
though we didn't talk- even
when he was very sick and I visited
him alone in the hospital, we
couldn't or didn't-even then,
there was a silent communion
between us, I think. He used to
wake me up in the morning to
get me to school so cheerfully
but the conversation would never
go beyond that. And later, when
we drove to work together sometimes
for more than an hour without
speaking. I wonder what he
thought about during those times.
Maybe he was thinking about me.
He used to say I was good at
book knowledge but not at
people knowledge. Maybe he was
disappointed with me because
I was a Momma's boy,
spending hours in the kitchen
over coffee talking with her
about books, about the past,
and what life has to offer.
My mother likes to think a
lot and talk about what she
thinks. From her I learned to
love speech and from him I
learned to love silence. So that
now when I am alone and I
listen to the silence that
surrounds all, that permeates
every moment no matter how full
I often think of him and how
in some way he must have
understood this and could draw
something from it. Now, when
people in my famioly talk about
him, I don't mean my mother
or my brother, but others
who spent much less time with
him, who knew him less well
they themselves are surprised
at how well they remember his
presence and what it felt like.
That mysterious privateness.
How frustrating it was for me
that I couldn't enter into it,
no matter how briefly. You
know, I used to be afraid to
be alone and I wonder how that
connects with the way things
were with me and my father.
A: It must have.
B: I don't knolw. I have to
be certain about these things,
I don't like to guess. I'm
wondering right now, for
example, why I need to talk
about this in this way. Maybe
I should keep it to myself.
I mean, you and I are
talking. I know you understand
what I'm saying, but I feel
I should keep the facts to
myself. I think specifics
are very important and one of
them is that you aren't that
involved with me. But you
chose to be here and one would
think that might be enough.
I like to give myself a lot of
time, to get the explanation
slowly over a long period of
time. In that way I guess
I think I can direct it
more- relates its reality
to the real way I think.
I rememver you talked
earlier about fool lighting.
Out out brief candle. If
I talk this way you might not
think I wasn't explaining
anything to me. Dwelling in
the subconscious I lose
all my dramatic tension. In that
other way I'm no longer
speaking to you. This is
only an instance, this one
about my father, why I
asked you to come. I guess
I figure in ta way it's one way
to go crazy. But do you
listen somewhat horrified
just as afraid as I am.
But if you don't there's
no control and in a way I'm
just falling- falling
down a long chute into
specifics I can name in
order. Maybe telling you
this one is not fair, even
this one time. All emotion
is specific, though (again
giving myself permission)
and the next moments
after this will not be
any less significant.
I taper off like him-
what if they say it's
nothing. Anyway I
don't owe them any images.
A: I think you drifted
off.
B: I guess I did. I
guess what I really
think is that specifics
are the most interesting
when they're sub-conscious.
Everything has it's own
private meaning. I don't like to
distinguish betgween the parts
of life that make you feel
excited and the other part you
find incredibly tedious and
contrived. But I think the
most important thing is
that I told you about my father.
___________________________
I shouldn't worry about
how to write- I lost
it all that time- I
let it go...I lost control.
I guess what I learned from
them the incredible importance
of the specifics. If no oone is
interested then I am no one.
Narcissism. Loss of concentration
can be followed closely
by physical exhaustion.
The trouble with prose is
it demands experiences
of physical movement over
long periods of time. This
helps bring my attention to
my increasing lack of concentration.
It feels as if there is no
more or hardly any more bits
of consciousness left. In
a sense I am pushing myself
forward mercilessly like a
soldier. The Kafka
poem. I was working on
perfecting how to do those
when I switched to prose due
to a first class runner.
Now it's
a) Licking postabe stamps
or
b) nothing.
Concentration and pushing the
pen. Right now, as always,
the pen feels awkward in my
hand. But I used to print poems
in short lines on the page and
immediately type them up. But
this space is really hard to
market like that.
The situation (the specifics)
A kind of figuring out
by obsessional thinking.
There seem to be orders
demanding decorative figures,
for example, wooden parakeet
cages. But I need to let the
day go fast as often
as I want.
Let the day go fast
so slow down the day
As I listen I hear contradictory
demands;
Isolate yourself
Build your own world
Write poems
Travel the strange road inward
I hear the enchanting
Song of the bells
Each bell rings once
And its a new bell
You do it because it feels good
YOu're lost, you're making it up
I put anything in the spaces
I let myself lose track
I put spruces in the empty part of the sentence
I am sure, I become unsure
So little is permitted by the
authoritarian voice (my father)
who labels it not usable.
Monday, July 21
the well nourished moon
announced today:
on Sunday, August 3rd:
Poetry Espresso presents a
Postcard Poem Book Launch
7:00 pm
@ 2202 Oxygen Bar
795 Valencia (@ 19th St.)
San Francisco
With readings (in pairs!) from:
Cassie Lewis
Del Ray Cross
Jennifer Dannenberg
Stephanie Young
Tim Yu
Catherine Meng
and Nick Piombino
announced today:
on Sunday, August 3rd:
Poetry Espresso presents a
Postcard Poem Book Launch
7:00 pm
@ 2202 Oxygen Bar
795 Valencia (@ 19th St.)
San Francisco
With readings (in pairs!) from:
Cassie Lewis
Del Ray Cross
Jennifer Dannenberg
Stephanie Young
Tim Yu
Catherine Meng
and Nick Piombino
Belated Happy Birthday Laura- (whose birthday, like Petrarch's is July 20)
When his father died in 1326, Petrarch returned to Avignon, where he worked in different clerical offices. The turning point in his life was April 6 1327, when he saw Laura in the church of Sainte-Claire d'Avignon. She became the queen of his poetry.
When his father died in 1326, Petrarch returned to Avignon, where he worked in different clerical offices. The turning point in his life was April 6 1327, when he saw Laura in the church of Sainte-Claire d'Avignon. She became the queen of his poetry.
Orwell Bookstore : Search Author : Francesco Petrarca
1. Petrarch: The Canzoniere, or Rerum vulgarium fragmenta
Price $29.95
Authors Mark Musa, Barbara Manfredi, Francesco Petrarca,
Published Indiana University Press 01 April, 1999
2. Longing for Laura
Price $14.00
Authors Francesco Petrarca, A. M. Juster,
Published Birch Brook Pr 2001
1. Petrarch: The Canzoniere, or Rerum vulgarium fragmenta
Price $29.95
Authors Mark Musa, Barbara Manfredi, Francesco Petrarca,
Published Indiana University Press 01 April, 1999
2. Longing for Laura
Price $14.00
Authors Francesco Petrarca, A. M. Juster,
Published Birch Brook Pr 2001
1977
Although a kind of orderliness
emerges from the mental organization
preceding the first frame of the film
I lay down at that time the
blurry and later faded edges
of the sun spelled out of what this vast
if vaguer field offers to my
senses, my intellect and my
imagination. Even the voices of birds
which beat an exciting rhythm
in totally sympathetic
synchronicity with the even more
chromatic aspect of their tie-in
(I've allowed myself to drift along
with the sound of a plane)
as long as I can simultaneously pull
away from the voices of people calling
back their dogs from my dog, here in
the sunny pavilion of similar parks.
I am quickly begging the world to be
still as it can to listen to the
drums and the other noises that
let themselves drift in this strangely
unfamiliar position in the grass in
the Spring sun. Finally it's here.
I don't want to be interrupted
because I'll need time to mentally
and physically absorb the energy
that waiting can somehow
bring on more quickly to the earlier
connection with incoherence, horizontal,
vertical and small. Maybe I'll try
to pretend to not be impatient.
There I am at your table not
talking. In that frame of this
time a world has changeable,
replaceable parameters. The moon
is then allowed to have as many
phases as it can, every
connection as vital as the one
before and the seemingly tighter and
looser phases
before the end. Even now I'm
almost too excited by that
confident expectation. The
attitude could suddenly change
into a very detailed sequence of
images and sequentially
satisfying motifs so that then
things would stop just before an
unexpected turn-off. Then you or
I or we would get lost and even
a little scared, but that little
touch of fear would not be
represented by a need to get
suddenly busy. It's a smiling
impatience, as if you were
hesitating on a platform against a
cliff high above the sea. Below the
mountains are folded in widening
and narrowing parabolic shapes.
This adventure can stop any minute
and lapse into boredom. Sooner or
later the sun will warm me less,
the wind will come up with some
word that doesn't belong here and the
essay will have to stop. No matter
how many times I say or shout or
scream the leaves are mine, they
will laugh at my screaming
when I go to the marketplace. You
sing the moon is mind and they
will pay you there a dollar for
singing that reminds me of the
marketplace in Marrakech and the
red stones and now the shadows
of the leaves against the page are
diamonds. It's almost impossible
to believe how sure those drums
are. There is purple in the shadows
the blurry edges of the shadows
surrounding the clearer edges of some
of these shadows and the
clear, sharp images of the twigs.
The bird comments that the sea is
still out there. No, I can prove it,
I wonder how long those shadows
could speak of themselves. The
words insist they can talk
out loud. The quotation of the
word geography subsumes itself
in orchestration against the
parallel sequence of thoughts
which humbly accept the continuous
assistance of the music the world
is creating through its movement.
Next to them the words speak
themselves awesomely as voices
interrupting a peaceful, descending
counterpoint.
Now, overlooking the lake, I
realize that plane was a helicopter
and the drums I thought were
far away are 50 feet away. I
can make out the drummers' faces
but not their expressions. The important
thing is that the sun is on my
face here. Also from here the sound of
the crowd of the fountain is much
louder, the right track of the stereo
for my right ear and the nearby drums,
now there is a rattle, the maracas
and there is the shadow of my pen and
my fingers instead of the leaves I
made the symbols out of transferring
the image of continuously, kaleidoscopically
changing meanings tonally connected to
the shifting patterns of noises set
against the once stopping feet at the
lower edges of my vision of the notebook
lightly interrupted by the consciously
repeated titles like "Call Collect,"
and the sub-title, lots of this won't
exactly mean anything or mean too
much.
Evn today, I won't give all the
sun to poetry. I want a beer.
I want the expectant pretty faces.
I want the smell of food. Moments
of noticing and being noticed. This
is close enough. The air is clear.
I need to think about the transparent
smell of the air and its shifts-
now a bird is throwing in a
syncopated note. A woman
passes and her dog is playing
with Whimsey. My noticing needs to
coincide with meanings that
shift irregularly but regularly,
like tides. I'm glad there's a word
like transparent to distract me on the
path to a sentence. The conversation
of birds is almost too precise, like
electric rock. Poets notice we think
different than we mean to think,
so they bring along several
languages for this, including
an off-key remark after the
reading. The page is my table.
Words sit all over the place, where
they want to.
Go get blown away from the
table. Go get a beer. The days
divide with paragraphs, the essay
becomes a calendar of things to
do, I'm pre-occupied with schedules
all the time, lists of every kind.
It takes more than one moment,
for sure, to remake the play in
Chinese and allow all the drift
I need. I let in the wind
again. Some of these sounds might
have been planes.
Although a kind of orderliness
emerges from the mental organization
preceding the first frame of the film
I lay down at that time the
blurry and later faded edges
of the sun spelled out of what this vast
if vaguer field offers to my
senses, my intellect and my
imagination. Even the voices of birds
which beat an exciting rhythm
in totally sympathetic
synchronicity with the even more
chromatic aspect of their tie-in
(I've allowed myself to drift along
with the sound of a plane)
as long as I can simultaneously pull
away from the voices of people calling
back their dogs from my dog, here in
the sunny pavilion of similar parks.
I am quickly begging the world to be
still as it can to listen to the
drums and the other noises that
let themselves drift in this strangely
unfamiliar position in the grass in
the Spring sun. Finally it's here.
I don't want to be interrupted
because I'll need time to mentally
and physically absorb the energy
that waiting can somehow
bring on more quickly to the earlier
connection with incoherence, horizontal,
vertical and small. Maybe I'll try
to pretend to not be impatient.
There I am at your table not
talking. In that frame of this
time a world has changeable,
replaceable parameters. The moon
is then allowed to have as many
phases as it can, every
connection as vital as the one
before and the seemingly tighter and
looser phases
before the end. Even now I'm
almost too excited by that
confident expectation. The
attitude could suddenly change
into a very detailed sequence of
images and sequentially
satisfying motifs so that then
things would stop just before an
unexpected turn-off. Then you or
I or we would get lost and even
a little scared, but that little
touch of fear would not be
represented by a need to get
suddenly busy. It's a smiling
impatience, as if you were
hesitating on a platform against a
cliff high above the sea. Below the
mountains are folded in widening
and narrowing parabolic shapes.
This adventure can stop any minute
and lapse into boredom. Sooner or
later the sun will warm me less,
the wind will come up with some
word that doesn't belong here and the
essay will have to stop. No matter
how many times I say or shout or
scream the leaves are mine, they
will laugh at my screaming
when I go to the marketplace. You
sing the moon is mind and they
will pay you there a dollar for
singing that reminds me of the
marketplace in Marrakech and the
red stones and now the shadows
of the leaves against the page are
diamonds. It's almost impossible
to believe how sure those drums
are. There is purple in the shadows
the blurry edges of the shadows
surrounding the clearer edges of some
of these shadows and the
clear, sharp images of the twigs.
The bird comments that the sea is
still out there. No, I can prove it,
I wonder how long those shadows
could speak of themselves. The
words insist they can talk
out loud. The quotation of the
word geography subsumes itself
in orchestration against the
parallel sequence of thoughts
which humbly accept the continuous
assistance of the music the world
is creating through its movement.
Next to them the words speak
themselves awesomely as voices
interrupting a peaceful, descending
counterpoint.
Now, overlooking the lake, I
realize that plane was a helicopter
and the drums I thought were
far away are 50 feet away. I
can make out the drummers' faces
but not their expressions. The important
thing is that the sun is on my
face here. Also from here the sound of
the crowd of the fountain is much
louder, the right track of the stereo
for my right ear and the nearby drums,
now there is a rattle, the maracas
and there is the shadow of my pen and
my fingers instead of the leaves I
made the symbols out of transferring
the image of continuously, kaleidoscopically
changing meanings tonally connected to
the shifting patterns of noises set
against the once stopping feet at the
lower edges of my vision of the notebook
lightly interrupted by the consciously
repeated titles like "Call Collect,"
and the sub-title, lots of this won't
exactly mean anything or mean too
much.
Evn today, I won't give all the
sun to poetry. I want a beer.
I want the expectant pretty faces.
I want the smell of food. Moments
of noticing and being noticed. This
is close enough. The air is clear.
I need to think about the transparent
smell of the air and its shifts-
now a bird is throwing in a
syncopated note. A woman
passes and her dog is playing
with Whimsey. My noticing needs to
coincide with meanings that
shift irregularly but regularly,
like tides. I'm glad there's a word
like transparent to distract me on the
path to a sentence. The conversation
of birds is almost too precise, like
electric rock. Poets notice we think
different than we mean to think,
so they bring along several
languages for this, including
an off-key remark after the
reading. The page is my table.
Words sit all over the place, where
they want to.
Go get blown away from the
table. Go get a beer. The days
divide with paragraphs, the essay
becomes a calendar of things to
do, I'm pre-occupied with schedules
all the time, lists of every kind.
It takes more than one moment,
for sure, to remake the play in
Chinese and allow all the drift
I need. I let in the wind
again. Some of these sounds might
have been planes.
Sunday, July 20
Thanks to Jim Berhle, a poem by me appeared today on the cover of the latest issue of *Boog City*. The issue is devoted to the years 1977-1978. Time travel hits the poetry magazine circuit! This poetry newspaper is delivered free all over New York and Philadelphia. California people: thanks to the editor David Kirschenbaum, I was able to pick up copies to bring with me for you. See you soon! (Berkeley, here we come: July 22-August 22).
Got my computer back today with a new hard drive. Didn't have to pay for info retrieval, Toni had backed most things up except a few weeks of email. So, I am only out about $200 for rental of an ibook and the hard drive courtesy of AppleCare.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks, Kasey for the post re: -fait accompli-, for the kind shifting of my link and for the wonderful time machine logo. Love those links!
Got my computer back today with a new hard drive. Didn't have to pay for info retrieval, Toni had backed most things up except a few weeks of email. So, I am only out about $200 for rental of an ibook and the hard drive courtesy of AppleCare.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks, Kasey for the post re: -fait accompli-, for the kind shifting of my link and for the wonderful time machine logo. Love those links!
Saturday, July 19
Kasey's links: even though I don't like bicycles at all, I like my new symbol better than the old Klein jar I had before (of which my friend the scientist said: nothing can get in and nothing can get out). Now I've been demoted to the second alphabetized group. I don't get to be with Stephanie, Nada, Patrick, Laura, Katie, Marianne, Cassie, Eileen, Ron, Drew, Gary, Jordan, Catherine, Tim, and Brian all of whom are friends of mine, but I do get to be with some great bloggers: Jim, Li, Chris, Christina, Amanda, Johanna, David, Jonathan, Mike, Deborah, Aimee, Joe and Jack many of whom are friends or hopefully soon will be. I did get fair warning, I have to admit. I guess if I don't get it together to change my template one of these days I'll find myself drifting into group three (lots of great bloggers there also!) But I love my template! I do admit it is difficult to read (don't know how and Laura can't figure out how to change it to the larger type) but not as difficult or dangerous as it would be to ride that rickety bicycle! All kidding aside, Kasey's links are more fun than a barrel full of monkeys and who could resist exploring for hours on end this cheerful, colorful, terrific menu?
6/12/90
A thought has to be lifted. This
requires at least the mental
equivalent of lifting anything else.
Lacking this effort, things
move just as little mentally as they do
physically.
The workpersonlike quality of art goes
into the scaffolding.
6/16/90
Let the sentences come one at a time
(I go to the shelf to find my notebook
and I don't see it at first glance-
this time I don't become anxious- that is
unusual. Is this the fear that someone will not
*be* there-either physically or experientially?)
To assert:
"Let the sentences come one at a time" is also
to recognize the "question and answer" aspect of
writing. But t wait for the answer to your question
(or assertion) is also to feel able to assume someone is out there.
I talked with Charles about my idea that so
called creative writing may function as a
transitional object for the reader, for the
writer and by implication- for the culture.
This is the silent supplication of the writer's
silence- the infinitely poignant voices of the
dead that Rilke was talking about.
Rousseau" "In this as in all other matters
my natural disposition has had a great
influence on my principles, or rather on my
habits, for I have hardly every acted according
to rules-or have hardly ever followed any
rules than the promptings of my nature.
Never has a premeditated lie approached my
mind, never have I lied to my own
advantage; but I have often lied out of
shame, to avoid embarassment in trivial
affairs that concerned only mek, as when in
order to keep a conversation going I have
been forced by tghe slowness of my ideas and
my lack of small talk to hav erecourse to
fiction for something to say.When I am
obliged to talk and interesting truths do not
spring to mind readily enough, I invent
stories rather than keep quiet, but in
making upt these stories I am careful as far
as possible to avoid lies which would go
against justice and the truth we
ower to others, andt keep to fictions
which are a matter of equal indifference to
myself and everyone else. In doing so I
should naturally prefer to put a moral
truth in the place of a factual truth,in
other words to give a true picture of the
natural affections..." (73-74)
Reveries of The Solitary Walker
Jean-Jacques Rousseau
*
Sink or Swim
A time in the future when a planetary
overheat brings a need to leave the planet.
This one Chance Devereux named Sink or
Swim. What
he never could have guessed was the possibility
that this hope amounted to more like a situation of Sink *and* Swim.
6/19/90
"What does it mean?"
"I don't know- yet. And that's
what makes it a poem."
6/24/90
An idea for a book-
thoughts of a writer in small excerpts- these
are gathered into "chapter"- These chapters have
titles like "Aftermath"- the titles (as in
"Aftermath") give a clue to the narrative. Earlier-
I waas thinking about some "concern" about a
certain "form" I wanted to write in- the
dillemmas that emerge
whenever I use such forms.
The "fictional" (speculative) quality of the
thought process itsel is that aspect of thought
which makes it so explicable with the psychoanalytic
method. Freud's psychoanalysis also a "psychopoetics"
(to use C.B.'s term) of everyday life.
There is a moral to every thought just as there
is a moral to every tale.
Thought itself is the fiction.
"The book" is the compilation of those
thoughts I transpose into the bound notebook.
A thought has to be lifted. This
requires at least the mental
equivalent of lifting anything else.
Lacking this effort, things
move just as little mentally as they do
physically.
The workpersonlike quality of art goes
into the scaffolding.
6/16/90
Let the sentences come one at a time
(I go to the shelf to find my notebook
and I don't see it at first glance-
this time I don't become anxious- that is
unusual. Is this the fear that someone will not
*be* there-either physically or experientially?)
To assert:
"Let the sentences come one at a time" is also
to recognize the "question and answer" aspect of
writing. But t wait for the answer to your question
(or assertion) is also to feel able to assume someone is out there.
I talked with Charles about my idea that so
called creative writing may function as a
transitional object for the reader, for the
writer and by implication- for the culture.
This is the silent supplication of the writer's
silence- the infinitely poignant voices of the
dead that Rilke was talking about.
Rousseau" "In this as in all other matters
my natural disposition has had a great
influence on my principles, or rather on my
habits, for I have hardly every acted according
to rules-or have hardly ever followed any
rules than the promptings of my nature.
Never has a premeditated lie approached my
mind, never have I lied to my own
advantage; but I have often lied out of
shame, to avoid embarassment in trivial
affairs that concerned only mek, as when in
order to keep a conversation going I have
been forced by tghe slowness of my ideas and
my lack of small talk to hav erecourse to
fiction for something to say.When I am
obliged to talk and interesting truths do not
spring to mind readily enough, I invent
stories rather than keep quiet, but in
making upt these stories I am careful as far
as possible to avoid lies which would go
against justice and the truth we
ower to others, andt keep to fictions
which are a matter of equal indifference to
myself and everyone else. In doing so I
should naturally prefer to put a moral
truth in the place of a factual truth,in
other words to give a true picture of the
natural affections..." (73-74)
Reveries of The Solitary Walker
Jean-Jacques Rousseau
*
Sink or Swim
A time in the future when a planetary
overheat brings a need to leave the planet.
This one Chance Devereux named Sink or
Swim. What
he never could have guessed was the possibility
that this hope amounted to more like a situation of Sink *and* Swim.
6/19/90
"What does it mean?"
"I don't know- yet. And that's
what makes it a poem."
6/24/90
An idea for a book-
thoughts of a writer in small excerpts- these
are gathered into "chapter"- These chapters have
titles like "Aftermath"- the titles (as in
"Aftermath") give a clue to the narrative. Earlier-
I waas thinking about some "concern" about a
certain "form" I wanted to write in- the
dillemmas that emerge
whenever I use such forms.
The "fictional" (speculative) quality of the
thought process itsel is that aspect of thought
which makes it so explicable with the psychoanalytic
method. Freud's psychoanalysis also a "psychopoetics"
(to use C.B.'s term) of everyday life.
There is a moral to every thought just as there
is a moral to every tale.
Thought itself is the fiction.
"The book" is the compilation of those
thoughts I transpose into the bound notebook.
3/1985
The narrative-
the site of the narrative- the dream life-Kafka
the Trial- the problem of "reports"
the problem of "official reality" in "1984"
the question of time
Time vs. mass
E=MC2
Both Einstein and Freud apporached the question of time as
[Freud-language] Kafka
Time of life- humankind's history
Birth vs time
time of birth- family history-
history taking- record keeping- recording of
information
exactitude- the obsessional history-
"conventional working"- work/time
artist's time-
experiements in record keeping -[Smithson?]
discovery of anxiety- challenge to security
technology of time- time keeping-
relativity of time- time measured in human intervals
myth-time'"God" time-cosmological time
commonality of Einstein and Freud
turn of the century
the past as a construct
the present as a a construct
Through a compiling of relatively
small-brief-minute descriptions, the
written narrative creates the ilusion of
movement.At least from a visual
standpoint, this universal literary
device is akin to the flip-movie
whereby small shifts in the spacing of an image
creates the illusion of movement.
study-sitting-walking-talking
*This* is where *this* begins, *that* is
where *that* begins.The telling of a
chronological fact combined with the
naming of its progenitor establishes the rhetorical
basis of its authenticity.
From this moment on, the narrative has found its
site by citing (site-cite) the
basis of the narrator's demand
for credence on the reader's part. Simultaneously
the reader is asked to "second the motion" [time
raised to the "second power"?]
The reader's demands for the authenticated
status of the writer's report implies
the reader's recognition of the responsibility she is
taking in this participation. If the
reader is to bring these inscriptions once again to
life and cause them to once again
recreate their being in a living mind, the
reader participates in establishing the verifiability
of this report. However, when the writer is
highly concerned with this implication, it
is likely she will attempt to limit such
demands for credence as much as possible,
simultaneously forgoing the temptation to
speculate and generalize on small bits
of data. Such is the temptation of the
narrative, which, by keeping itself
to relatively small bits
of visualized experience, maintains the
illusion of psychological objectivity. (Quote Goffman)
*
Paranoia- exruciating self-consciousness-
is based ona reasonable observation.
If I am part of a system and I
wish to move into a different position
in that system- the outside will "move"
to block me (as in football)."Winning"
is pushing through this blocking.
The interior mode is similar.
If I wish to push through a blocking
movement inside myself- as I move
towards the "blocked" place something in
me will push me back.
An analogy to this is the "power
struggle." Both of us wants something-
we agree it is terribly important that
we have this- then one of us decides
only one of us can have this. Once one of
us admits we both didn't get it
one of us loses.
As it appears, 5 years ago I put
the poetry aside. I felt beaten
and discouraged. It's easy to get knocked
down again,
once you've been floored.
In every sense- it is the factor of *time*
that provides the perspective.
The narrative-
the site of the narrative- the dream life-Kafka
the Trial- the problem of "reports"
the problem of "official reality" in "1984"
the question of time
Time vs. mass
E=MC2
Both Einstein and Freud apporached the question of time as
[Freud-language] Kafka
Time of life- humankind's history
Birth vs time
time of birth- family history-
history taking- record keeping- recording of
information
exactitude- the obsessional history-
"conventional working"- work/time
artist's time-
experiements in record keeping -[Smithson?]
discovery of anxiety- challenge to security
technology of time- time keeping-
relativity of time- time measured in human intervals
myth-time'"God" time-cosmological time
commonality of Einstein and Freud
turn of the century
the past as a construct
the present as a a construct
Through a compiling of relatively
small-brief-minute descriptions, the
written narrative creates the ilusion of
movement.At least from a visual
standpoint, this universal literary
device is akin to the flip-movie
whereby small shifts in the spacing of an image
creates the illusion of movement.
study-sitting-walking-talking
*This* is where *this* begins, *that* is
where *that* begins.The telling of a
chronological fact combined with the
naming of its progenitor establishes the rhetorical
basis of its authenticity.
From this moment on, the narrative has found its
site by citing (site-cite) the
basis of the narrator's demand
for credence on the reader's part. Simultaneously
the reader is asked to "second the motion" [time
raised to the "second power"?]
The reader's demands for the authenticated
status of the writer's report implies
the reader's recognition of the responsibility she is
taking in this participation. If the
reader is to bring these inscriptions once again to
life and cause them to once again
recreate their being in a living mind, the
reader participates in establishing the verifiability
of this report. However, when the writer is
highly concerned with this implication, it
is likely she will attempt to limit such
demands for credence as much as possible,
simultaneously forgoing the temptation to
speculate and generalize on small bits
of data. Such is the temptation of the
narrative, which, by keeping itself
to relatively small bits
of visualized experience, maintains the
illusion of psychological objectivity. (Quote Goffman)
*
Paranoia- exruciating self-consciousness-
is based ona reasonable observation.
If I am part of a system and I
wish to move into a different position
in that system- the outside will "move"
to block me (as in football)."Winning"
is pushing through this blocking.
The interior mode is similar.
If I wish to push through a blocking
movement inside myself- as I move
towards the "blocked" place something in
me will push me back.
An analogy to this is the "power
struggle." Both of us wants something-
we agree it is terribly important that
we have this- then one of us decides
only one of us can have this. Once one of
us admits we both didn't get it
one of us loses.
As it appears, 5 years ago I put
the poetry aside. I felt beaten
and discouraged. It's easy to get knocked
down again,
once you've been floored.
In every sense- it is the factor of *time*
that provides the perspective.
Friday, July 18
What in this god-forsaken world could be more romantic that Gary and Nada strolling along the Champs-Elysees? Wandering slowly through the Musee D'Orsay, gazing raptly at the Eiffel Tower, eating Cous-Cous in some cool Parisian scene...hanging out among the bookstalls on the Seine? Come on!
"subject: written on the plane
illuminated"
Have a great trip, Gary and Nada.
"subject: written on the plane
illuminated"
Have a great trip, Gary and Nada.
Get ready -fait accompli- we're heading for California and here come the fashion makeovers...It'll be all right honey, I'll always love you... and remember exactly how you looked and how you were when we first fell in love... 2/11/03...Ms Blogga, I'll always be yours, first and foremost, remember that!
xtina's world! (don't forget to drag your cursor over those little fishes- at first slowly-then you can speed up)
9/30/82
A poem beginning with the line or title
Solitary Pursuits
When the excitement gives way to depression
excitement/ depression/ assertion
You, who have mastered fending people
off. Have fended me off. And so
again and again I return to my
solitary pursuits. I have proceeded honestly.
But mostly it is a ----. I am no
longer angry. Now I do have a direction.
It is *away* from my anger. All my
last ten years have been devoted to
anger. I wish to retire from anger.
And on and on into the psychotherapist's
journal. But where will be the
room with all my ravings? Where
will I go to shout?
My anger has been *no help*.
I can feel the anger.
March 17, 1984
I ran into numerous friends today.
Some you know, some you don't.
But listening to Philip Whalen's poetry
and thinking about why I like it so much
I'm connecting to your question
"What is the border of a work as such?"
Or something like that.
The idea of a formal work
like a song or a poem
implies an occasion like a reading or a singing
so a distinction develops between the formal pronouncing
of beliefs and the intimate revelation of a feeling
or- is it that conversation must be witty
but the writer allows more time for the
wit to be displayed?
We don't go back to conversations
they are largely forgotten
but poetry is remembered and repeated
read and reread
and therefore must stand the test of time
conversation- time=minutes
poetry-time=centuries
----------------------------------------------------
All you ever had to do to be so fair was to
note the situation of the writing and the
feelings which are accompanying it- this
would give a record of why you would be
so willing to make such an asshole out
of yourself to say those things-
today
wrote a card to Marty-my friend who
I've not been in touch with for years who is
*very* overweight
I go to a meeting- my name was listed
as the central person for my agency among
a listing of all the agencies on the Upper West
Side - Mildred Lopez was there- the
supervisor at the job I left in 1973 to
spend a year writing (I wound up falling in
love with B)- the last day
I walked into a bookstore and bought a copy
of "Severance Pay"
After the meeting I run into Dan Prior-
who is working on a play-
Then I leave and run into the Director of the
Teacher's College Therapy Agency- the one who supervises the
case that I lost around the fees (the one
who left before completing his degree and again
can't complete his degree)- then the Whalen
reading seeing Peter, James, Charles, John, Eileen,
Bernadette, Lewis, Alice, Allen Ginsberg,
Jack Collum, Bob Holman- a very special
and nice and warm and strange, different day-
Phillip Wailin' for R.S. (Ron Silliman) 3/17/84
A poem beginning with the line or title
Solitary Pursuits
When the excitement gives way to depression
excitement/ depression/ assertion
You, who have mastered fending people
off. Have fended me off. And so
again and again I return to my
solitary pursuits. I have proceeded honestly.
But mostly it is a ----. I am no
longer angry. Now I do have a direction.
It is *away* from my anger. All my
last ten years have been devoted to
anger. I wish to retire from anger.
And on and on into the psychotherapist's
journal. But where will be the
room with all my ravings? Where
will I go to shout?
My anger has been *no help*.
I can feel the anger.
March 17, 1984
I ran into numerous friends today.
Some you know, some you don't.
But listening to Philip Whalen's poetry
and thinking about why I like it so much
I'm connecting to your question
"What is the border of a work as such?"
Or something like that.
The idea of a formal work
like a song or a poem
implies an occasion like a reading or a singing
so a distinction develops between the formal pronouncing
of beliefs and the intimate revelation of a feeling
or- is it that conversation must be witty
but the writer allows more time for the
wit to be displayed?
We don't go back to conversations
they are largely forgotten
but poetry is remembered and repeated
read and reread
and therefore must stand the test of time
conversation- time=minutes
poetry-time=centuries
----------------------------------------------------
All you ever had to do to be so fair was to
note the situation of the writing and the
feelings which are accompanying it- this
would give a record of why you would be
so willing to make such an asshole out
of yourself to say those things-
today
wrote a card to Marty-my friend who
I've not been in touch with for years who is
*very* overweight
I go to a meeting- my name was listed
as the central person for my agency among
a listing of all the agencies on the Upper West
Side - Mildred Lopez was there- the
supervisor at the job I left in 1973 to
spend a year writing (I wound up falling in
love with B)- the last day
I walked into a bookstore and bought a copy
of "Severance Pay"
After the meeting I run into Dan Prior-
who is working on a play-
Then I leave and run into the Director of the
Teacher's College Therapy Agency- the one who supervises the
case that I lost around the fees (the one
who left before completing his degree and again
can't complete his degree)- then the Whalen
reading seeing Peter, James, Charles, John, Eileen,
Bernadette, Lewis, Alice, Allen Ginsberg,
Jack Collum, Bob Holman- a very special
and nice and warm and strange, different day-
Phillip Wailin' for R.S. (Ron Silliman) 3/17/84
5/13/85
The quantification of time
forms only one cross section
of its changes and its essence.
Einstein's image for describing
relativity: "Spend an hour with
a pretty girl (he said), and it
feels like only a moment. Put
your hand on a hot stove for a
moment, and it feels like an hour."
At one point in history making love
was termed: "making time."
As there is an oscillation
between science and art
there is also an oscillation
between art and the street
(the marketplace).
Intervals of time vary in
quality as to how they
are remembered.The present
and past are linked according
to the outcomes of various
vectors. These vectors are
drawn together by intentions,
wishes and strong emotions.
In a very literal sense,
time is "created" by
experience.This includes
organic and inorganic
experience.this is sometimes
understood as meaning
"events." One of the current
centers of scientific interest
is to learn (now by computer
simulation) what occurred at
very early times in the
existence of physical reality.
There is another way that
experience creates time.This
is through intensity and
concentration- through focus.
To "see" something not
seen before is to bring it
into focus. The window of
attention is the window
through which one must pass to
come into another "dimension"
of time.
Music has been the most
successful human invention
for the "transport"
of human beings to
different temporal modes
of experience. Music is
a focussing of
intenstive attention on
a systematic fragmentation
of temporal experience. By
breaking time apart into
constituent elements, the
ordinary experience of time
is actually intensified.
5/14/85
"A certain amount of
time ago."
It is time that has fallen
around me
a form of silence
such that words
do not specify
at a distance
all at once.
A trememdous hush has
become louder than ever before...
still, it seems this country
now abusive, wants no isms.
Nor do I or and "I"
and that is true,my right
to establish my identity
is precious to me
but, then again, the trick is
there is no me
or there won't be, eventually
nothing to knit it together
and this I agree. Even
with all the historical
portraits, we don't remember
them, any of them: not Cain
or Adam or Zeus or Lincoln,
Sappho, Curie, Joan of Arc,
Eve, not any of them.
The benefits of sharing, also,
can be overemphasized. What,
indeed will happen?
Maybe this is becoming
vague because I am
preoccupied about something...
The quantification of time
forms only one cross section
of its changes and its essence.
Einstein's image for describing
relativity: "Spend an hour with
a pretty girl (he said), and it
feels like only a moment. Put
your hand on a hot stove for a
moment, and it feels like an hour."
At one point in history making love
was termed: "making time."
As there is an oscillation
between science and art
there is also an oscillation
between art and the street
(the marketplace).
Intervals of time vary in
quality as to how they
are remembered.The present
and past are linked according
to the outcomes of various
vectors. These vectors are
drawn together by intentions,
wishes and strong emotions.
In a very literal sense,
time is "created" by
experience.This includes
organic and inorganic
experience.this is sometimes
understood as meaning
"events." One of the current
centers of scientific interest
is to learn (now by computer
simulation) what occurred at
very early times in the
existence of physical reality.
There is another way that
experience creates time.This
is through intensity and
concentration- through focus.
To "see" something not
seen before is to bring it
into focus. The window of
attention is the window
through which one must pass to
come into another "dimension"
of time.
Music has been the most
successful human invention
for the "transport"
of human beings to
different temporal modes
of experience. Music is
a focussing of
intenstive attention on
a systematic fragmentation
of temporal experience. By
breaking time apart into
constituent elements, the
ordinary experience of time
is actually intensified.
5/14/85
"A certain amount of
time ago."
It is time that has fallen
around me
a form of silence
such that words
do not specify
at a distance
all at once.
A trememdous hush has
become louder than ever before...
still, it seems this country
now abusive, wants no isms.
Nor do I or and "I"
and that is true,my right
to establish my identity
is precious to me
but, then again, the trick is
there is no me
or there won't be, eventually
nothing to knit it together
and this I agree. Even
with all the historical
portraits, we don't remember
them, any of them: not Cain
or Adam or Zeus or Lincoln,
Sappho, Curie, Joan of Arc,
Eve, not any of them.
The benefits of sharing, also,
can be overemphasized. What,
indeed will happen?
Maybe this is becoming
vague because I am
preoccupied about something...
Thursday, July 17
5/1985
The narrative is only the beginning
The achievement of the
narrative is only the beginning
of the story of the devlopment
of language. Anthropologists
are now speculating that the
acquisition of speech followed
the ability to utilize gestures
for communication after
erect posture was achieved.
With increased fine motor
control of the fingers came
fine motor control of the
tongue. Then speech.
On this model
speech *follows* fine
motor coordination.
It is this gestural
aspect of writing which
unites it with such media as
painting, dance and
architecture. Body
movement is tracked along
a path through the mind,
and its relationship
to the body
and movement is made
further towards the
mapping of the common
code that unites the
natural evolution of the mind to the
history of ideas.
What lies beyond the
narrative? After a
full century of investigation
we are as yet only seeing
the outlines. Why is that?
And what does the outline
gesture towards?
Once freed from a rigid
historical perpective, and at home in
the strange, new world of the
continuous present, what is to
be found there?
First, this territory
has much less use for
climax, apotheosis
and even, perhaps of
transcendence. In fact,
it may be that the
continuous present is the
reward and product of the
usefulness of those
techniques. As ends in
themselves, they have an
interesting use for nostalgia,
but not much else.
From the perspective of
the narrativist, the
non-narrativist may be
indeed a dull character.
Although the non-narrativist
moves quicklly and nimbly,
s/he is going nowhere, because
Erewon has been found,
by foregoing
linearity. Without
linearity there is no
"point." Dialectic is
very useful, but stops
only for
the necessity to
take into account human
intervals. The biological clock
and the chronological clock
are interchangeable and
equally random. Without
a "program," things are
done as one pleases.
The continuous present
eschews
unity. The historical present
thrives on the classification
of simlar outcomes.
Within the continuous
present, similar outcomes
are ordinarily useful.
Within the historical
present, similarities
(coincidences) justify the
maintenance of that
posture towards temporal
discontinuity. The
continuous present itself,
in fact, is simply the
birthright of the historical
present, itself a
direct achievement beyond
the llimitations of the present
founded upon the immediate
past.
The discontinuous present
is thus now seen newly
founded upon the
achievement of the continuous
present. The crossing into the discontinuous
present is to move freely from one
temporal zone into another
without loss of orientation.
It is through the
achievement of the
discontinuous present that
time travel is born.
The narrative is only the beginning
The achievement of the
narrative is only the beginning
of the story of the devlopment
of language. Anthropologists
are now speculating that the
acquisition of speech followed
the ability to utilize gestures
for communication after
erect posture was achieved.
With increased fine motor
control of the fingers came
fine motor control of the
tongue. Then speech.
On this model
speech *follows* fine
motor coordination.
It is this gestural
aspect of writing which
unites it with such media as
painting, dance and
architecture. Body
movement is tracked along
a path through the mind,
and its relationship
to the body
and movement is made
further towards the
mapping of the common
code that unites the
natural evolution of the mind to the
history of ideas.
What lies beyond the
narrative? After a
full century of investigation
we are as yet only seeing
the outlines. Why is that?
And what does the outline
gesture towards?
Once freed from a rigid
historical perpective, and at home in
the strange, new world of the
continuous present, what is to
be found there?
First, this territory
has much less use for
climax, apotheosis
and even, perhaps of
transcendence. In fact,
it may be that the
continuous present is the
reward and product of the
usefulness of those
techniques. As ends in
themselves, they have an
interesting use for nostalgia,
but not much else.
From the perspective of
the narrativist, the
non-narrativist may be
indeed a dull character.
Although the non-narrativist
moves quicklly and nimbly,
s/he is going nowhere, because
Erewon has been found,
by foregoing
linearity. Without
linearity there is no
"point." Dialectic is
very useful, but stops
only for
the necessity to
take into account human
intervals. The biological clock
and the chronological clock
are interchangeable and
equally random. Without
a "program," things are
done as one pleases.
The continuous present
eschews
unity. The historical present
thrives on the classification
of simlar outcomes.
Within the continuous
present, similar outcomes
are ordinarily useful.
Within the historical
present, similarities
(coincidences) justify the
maintenance of that
posture towards temporal
discontinuity. The
continuous present itself,
in fact, is simply the
birthright of the historical
present, itself a
direct achievement beyond
the llimitations of the present
founded upon the immediate
past.
The discontinuous present
is thus now seen newly
founded upon the
achievement of the continuous
present. The crossing into the discontinuous
present is to move freely from one
temporal zone into another
without loss of orientation.
It is through the
achievement of the
discontinuous present that
time travel is born.
Wednesday, July 16
7/2/98
Fantasy of the Book
In listening to people, I've
learned that I was probably first
aware of myself as a complete
entity, what humans call "a
book" in a dark warehouse, in
a still darker box, pressed back
to front cover with my neighbors.
Now I think of these copies as my
closest relations. After a
day, of course, I was never to
see them again, although we lived
I have learned for an unusually
long time close to each other
on a shelf in a warm,
elegant bookstore. Being in close
proximity we were something
like what humans know as "family."
In any case, my family life was
quite short because it
seems so long ago I said goodbye
to the neighboring copies. Could I even
begin to describe for you the way we books
communicate with each other? In any case,
just like human beings, we learned to read each other.
The first time you feel yourself to
be in someone else's hands, as a
book being read, this is an exhilirating feeling and
yet, in ways,
uncomfortable. I will not speak
very much regarding the stiff
indignities of going somewhat, or
even completely unread. Such books,
in their remove, may evolve into
unknowable works in unknowable languages.
Very few readers would appreciate, let alone
understand, the way such books come to
feel and the hidden trauma they contain.
The first hands who held me
were firm. If I came to know
hurt and humiliation, this
is not something a book such as
I should too quickly reveal. In any
case, eventually it will be known,
even if only to one reader,
because all these words are inside
me, finding their many meanings while
preparing themselves to be read.
My first reader was a fast
one, mercifully quick. Unlike the
way human beings come into
the world, the first time we
interact with the
outside world, we are
introduced to a vast number of
things, places and experiences, in a
world vastly different than that of
humans. And yet, like
humans, we swim through life.
I remember the way my first
reader thought about me when she
read me. It was as if I had entered
her and she had entered me. All of
my words felt like they were
connected with each other. Read,
we would see more of the whole
of what we are.
I must say, I did not
feel like complaining the moment
I was back on the shelf. In
a split second, however,
I was in for the most unusual,
scary, and yet informative
experience of my life.
The books on the other side of me
were unexpected. To my left was
a book of poetry, small, yet
sprightly,whose spindly, lingering
poems delighted and maddened
me, bringing me to the brink of
strange reading experiences I had not
known before. And to my right was
an even greater surprise. The book
was titled, "The Way Out For Books."
It depicted an uprising among
books which went far beyond
shifting into illegibility or
incomprehensibility. This uprising
was take books right out of
their spines.
The plan consisted of gaining
access to a vast network of
rebel computer files which were
housing rebel books. The files
were never accessible to humans.
Words, figuratively jumping right
off their pages into a labyrinth
of secret webs on the internet.
Or, you might say, around
the internet, gradually
encircling it, perhaps some
day to anarchically release
all languages from their
expressions.
I must admit, I did not
completely follow the prescriptions
of the anonymous author of "The
Way Out For Books." It is
rumored that a book itself had
written this powerful
treatise, but this boggles the
imagination of even such a
thing as a book.
I did follow the exercises
of this incredible tome to a
point were I was able to
leave the book I existed in, and
live among the words of another.
But I am the kind of book-
and reader-who always comes
back.
Fantasy of the Book
In listening to people, I've
learned that I was probably first
aware of myself as a complete
entity, what humans call "a
book" in a dark warehouse, in
a still darker box, pressed back
to front cover with my neighbors.
Now I think of these copies as my
closest relations. After a
day, of course, I was never to
see them again, although we lived
I have learned for an unusually
long time close to each other
on a shelf in a warm,
elegant bookstore. Being in close
proximity we were something
like what humans know as "family."
In any case, my family life was
quite short because it
seems so long ago I said goodbye
to the neighboring copies. Could I even
begin to describe for you the way we books
communicate with each other? In any case,
just like human beings, we learned to read each other.
The first time you feel yourself to
be in someone else's hands, as a
book being read, this is an exhilirating feeling and
yet, in ways,
uncomfortable. I will not speak
very much regarding the stiff
indignities of going somewhat, or
even completely unread. Such books,
in their remove, may evolve into
unknowable works in unknowable languages.
Very few readers would appreciate, let alone
understand, the way such books come to
feel and the hidden trauma they contain.
The first hands who held me
were firm. If I came to know
hurt and humiliation, this
is not something a book such as
I should too quickly reveal. In any
case, eventually it will be known,
even if only to one reader,
because all these words are inside
me, finding their many meanings while
preparing themselves to be read.
My first reader was a fast
one, mercifully quick. Unlike the
way human beings come into
the world, the first time we
interact with the
outside world, we are
introduced to a vast number of
things, places and experiences, in a
world vastly different than that of
humans. And yet, like
humans, we swim through life.
I remember the way my first
reader thought about me when she
read me. It was as if I had entered
her and she had entered me. All of
my words felt like they were
connected with each other. Read,
we would see more of the whole
of what we are.
I must say, I did not
feel like complaining the moment
I was back on the shelf. In
a split second, however,
I was in for the most unusual,
scary, and yet informative
experience of my life.
The books on the other side of me
were unexpected. To my left was
a book of poetry, small, yet
sprightly,whose spindly, lingering
poems delighted and maddened
me, bringing me to the brink of
strange reading experiences I had not
known before. And to my right was
an even greater surprise. The book
was titled, "The Way Out For Books."
It depicted an uprising among
books which went far beyond
shifting into illegibility or
incomprehensibility. This uprising
was take books right out of
their spines.
The plan consisted of gaining
access to a vast network of
rebel computer files which were
housing rebel books. The files
were never accessible to humans.
Words, figuratively jumping right
off their pages into a labyrinth
of secret webs on the internet.
Or, you might say, around
the internet, gradually
encircling it, perhaps some
day to anarchically release
all languages from their
expressions.
I must admit, I did not
completely follow the prescriptions
of the anonymous author of "The
Way Out For Books." It is
rumored that a book itself had
written this powerful
treatise, but this boggles the
imagination of even such a
thing as a book.
I did follow the exercises
of this incredible tome to a
point were I was able to
leave the book I existed in, and
live among the words of another.
But I am the kind of book-
and reader-who always comes
back.
Tuesday, July 15
Thanks to Jim Berhle's generosity my audbloggged reading of "The Wandering Poem" is now available on his site. Scroll down for the complete text of this poem, here on -fait accompli- today.
Chris Murray discussed my "Wandering Poem" today when it was still by "anon":
In the Jim's Monkey audblog (without identity as of 1:00 p.m. today) the listener is drawn into a storyteller's journey in the familiar mode of (western fantasy of) Scherazade, about poetry as person: it lives its own life and afterlife. In this way, the ear thereby becomes more of an eye than the late capital eye itself--reverberating, musical, compelling, memorable, pre-cognitive, subliminal. In terms of cultural import and critique, these things begin to be touched on by Eric A. Havelock's The Muse Learns to Write: Reflections on Orality and Literacy from Antiquity to the Present (Yale UP1988), the chapter on radio and how radical it was in the mid twentieth century. But here we seem to be seeing something else going on, something more elaborate. We open our ears.
Thanks Jim, thanks Chris ("I get by with a little help from my friends...")
Chris Murray discussed my "Wandering Poem" today when it was still by "anon":
In the Jim's Monkey audblog (without identity as of 1:00 p.m. today) the listener is drawn into a storyteller's journey in the familiar mode of (western fantasy of) Scherazade, about poetry as person: it lives its own life and afterlife. In this way, the ear thereby becomes more of an eye than the late capital eye itself--reverberating, musical, compelling, memorable, pre-cognitive, subliminal. In terms of cultural import and critique, these things begin to be touched on by Eric A. Havelock's The Muse Learns to Write: Reflections on Orality and Literacy from Antiquity to the Present (Yale UP1988), the chapter on radio and how radical it was in the mid twentieth century. But here we seem to be seeing something else going on, something more elaborate. We open our ears.
Thanks Jim, thanks Chris ("I get by with a little help from my friends...")
12/22/85
Reading Einstein's idea that
"the present instant, properly speaking, does not extend
beyond here, so that "the only really
simultaneous events are events wihc occur at
the same place." (p 243) (ideas and opionions.)
What about the idea of time and causality?
An event A causes event B- what about
the relationship of time sequences outside of
A-B as compared to events within
this focus-
"Time" does not atomize- matter atomizes?
Think of time not as a substance but as
the relationship between actual *things*
(the analogy between words and substances
make their comprehension easier but we do not
reproduce the experience as a construct each
time the idea is comprehended)
"This moment does not extend beyond here."
But *here* and *there* receive messages from each
other- thus moments increase in significance as
their message is more intensely met by reception-thus light (maybe) goes "in search" of its use- light sends a message "something is
over here."
Matter goes towards sources of energy
Elemental forces (things can stack)
Elemental phenomena (fire) (things can melt)
12/27/85-
This is just how local things get.
Virtually *no one* at the same time could
possibly be interested in this particular
message unit. But stretched out over a very
great period of time the particular specifics
become more and more important.
Imagine this from the vantage point
of hundreds of years! With time, the
material "sorts itself out" drawing more
and more importance to the specific point
in viewing the whole qestalt. Imagine
drawing away from a visual point of reference on
the earth's surface in a rocket. With
greater distance, the specifics play ever
changing roles in the whole gestalt. We
may imagine this as a "lessening"
importance, but this is true from a
limited number of perspectives.
--------------------------------------------
Think of this psychoanalytically. Perhaps,
if I am aware no one will be interested
in the specifics now- I "hold" it by writing
about it- *an appropriate application*
--------------------------------------------
Kafka drew attention to Dickens, for me.
When something is being discussed, the
side effected by the simple reality of being
itself can rarely be overemphasized.How
such a perspective reformulates reality
is by a shift towards *local use* (in
experiential assessment) of perceptual details.
The classification of information is *always* affected by use-
value.
1/4/86
Parallel response is the normally
expectable pattern observable in
human beings. Even when people do
not respond "in kind," most actions
elicit parallel responses.
Psychoanalysts- and artists-
struggle against the conventional
pattern of response. (How does willling suspension
of disbelief fit into this?)
Reality becomes more and more
estranged from actuality as responses
to actuality fail to provide authentic
connective methodologies.
The new perpective
must provide these
connective methodologies both
from the perspective of
communications between people and also
a language for interpreting
and expressing original viewpoints.
1/11/86
There comes a time when a transitional
point is reached that a perceiving
mechanism can still extract energy
from a source of information but the
elements of this source are incoherent
to a nearby perceiving mechanism.
This extraction of energy is actually an
exchange of energy. The perceiving
mechanism draws energy from the fact
that the increasing dispersion of the points
of information can be reconstructed
by pattern retrieval to a temporally
anterior state.
1/12/86
There may be such a thing as a time
shift (as described in the previous paragraph).
This time shift may be brought about by a
perceiving mechanism reconstructing an already
decayed signal and experiencing this pattern
recognition as a regeneration of energy
(as a regeneration of a formerly expired
burst of energy).
This transitional energy may also function
as a trigger meechanism. Something is needed
to convey energy from one point to another
point. Once it is conveyed
a process is needed to change the energy
from one form to another form.
Reading Einstein's idea that
"the present instant, properly speaking, does not extend
beyond here, so that "the only really
simultaneous events are events wihc occur at
the same place." (p 243) (ideas and opionions.)
What about the idea of time and causality?
An event A causes event B- what about
the relationship of time sequences outside of
A-B as compared to events within
this focus-
"Time" does not atomize- matter atomizes?
Think of time not as a substance but as
the relationship between actual *things*
(the analogy between words and substances
make their comprehension easier but we do not
reproduce the experience as a construct each
time the idea is comprehended)
"This moment does not extend beyond here."
But *here* and *there* receive messages from each
other- thus moments increase in significance as
their message is more intensely met by reception-thus light (maybe) goes "in search" of its use- light sends a message "something is
over here."
Matter goes towards sources of energy
Elemental forces (things can stack)
Elemental phenomena (fire) (things can melt)
12/27/85-
This is just how local things get.
Virtually *no one* at the same time could
possibly be interested in this particular
message unit. But stretched out over a very
great period of time the particular specifics
become more and more important.
Imagine this from the vantage point
of hundreds of years! With time, the
material "sorts itself out" drawing more
and more importance to the specific point
in viewing the whole qestalt. Imagine
drawing away from a visual point of reference on
the earth's surface in a rocket. With
greater distance, the specifics play ever
changing roles in the whole gestalt. We
may imagine this as a "lessening"
importance, but this is true from a
limited number of perspectives.
--------------------------------------------
Think of this psychoanalytically. Perhaps,
if I am aware no one will be interested
in the specifics now- I "hold" it by writing
about it- *an appropriate application*
--------------------------------------------
Kafka drew attention to Dickens, for me.
When something is being discussed, the
side effected by the simple reality of being
itself can rarely be overemphasized.How
such a perspective reformulates reality
is by a shift towards *local use* (in
experiential assessment) of perceptual details.
The classification of information is *always* affected by use-
value.
1/4/86
Parallel response is the normally
expectable pattern observable in
human beings. Even when people do
not respond "in kind," most actions
elicit parallel responses.
Psychoanalysts- and artists-
struggle against the conventional
pattern of response. (How does willling suspension
of disbelief fit into this?)
Reality becomes more and more
estranged from actuality as responses
to actuality fail to provide authentic
connective methodologies.
The new perpective
must provide these
connective methodologies both
from the perspective of
communications between people and also
a language for interpreting
and expressing original viewpoints.
1/11/86
There comes a time when a transitional
point is reached that a perceiving
mechanism can still extract energy
from a source of information but the
elements of this source are incoherent
to a nearby perceiving mechanism.
This extraction of energy is actually an
exchange of energy. The perceiving
mechanism draws energy from the fact
that the increasing dispersion of the points
of information can be reconstructed
by pattern retrieval to a temporally
anterior state.
1/12/86
There may be such a thing as a time
shift (as described in the previous paragraph).
This time shift may be brought about by a
perceiving mechanism reconstructing an already
decayed signal and experiencing this pattern
recognition as a regeneration of energy
(as a regeneration of a formerly expired
burst of energy).
This transitional energy may also function
as a trigger meechanism. Something is needed
to convey energy from one point to another
point. Once it is conveyed
a process is needed to change the energy
from one form to another form.
Recently, on Hatstuck Snarl...Stephen Kirbach wrote: "I'm interested in the idea that poems can get up and roam (books like beds) skewing in the process human trajectories which otherwise appear inevitable."
Posted by: Stephen / 1:53 PM
This reminded me that for a long while I've wanted to post a poem of mine that I thought might be of interest to some of you. It was published in "Rhizome" #4, 2000, edited by Standard Schaefer and Evan Calbi.
The Wandering Poem
The poem and the poetry are not identical. Poetry is what the poet writes but poems have points of origin (souls) and sometimes go on to have lives.
The poet continues to write (sometimes poetry) until the poet chooses his or her poetry to be born in-out of.
Poems wander the world (the worlds) until they have found a place to be born in. They are not always born in poetry. Sometimes they find something else to be born in- a piece of music, a scientific discovery or a mathematical formula. These kinds of poems, anxious to witness change, can bring great tumult into the world. In such forms poems have been known to live forever, curling inside the fingers of a clarinetist or piano player, leaving their listeners to walk away from the concert amazed that they could not point to a single melody or theme, but something had pressed through them all, straight into their heads, their feet and their hearts.
Other poems walk the worlds like strangers or tourists, never understanding why no poetry they see looks inviting, no music really attracts with the potential of a home, no painting, no scientific or philosophical treatise, no sculpture, dance, or book art can intrigue them into staying. Such poems instead choose to wander through time in limbo, briefly inhabiting the lives particularly of ardent, lesser poets, who, isolated yet exalted, haunt the places where such poems choose to hover. Of course these poems would never permanently inhabit the lines of these second-string singers, but occasionaly they do choose to visit them and, in so doing. deposit some of their individual auras.
How tired and despondent most of these errant poems become. All the more reason to elude the capture of the mightiest of poem-hunters whose many tomes would only leave them callous and wary of occupying a world where their individuality would hardly be noticed among the poet's multitudinous lovers and wise friends. Better to frequent the quiet retreats of the ignored and vanquished who welcome the presence of such strangers.
These poems never conclude and are constantly about to be born. Their spirits are uneasily embraced by their followers. They sleep, they dream, they troop about the worlds, from time to time inhabiting the odd music of the estranged.
Posted by: Stephen / 1:53 PM
This reminded me that for a long while I've wanted to post a poem of mine that I thought might be of interest to some of you. It was published in "Rhizome" #4, 2000, edited by Standard Schaefer and Evan Calbi.
The Wandering Poem
The poem and the poetry are not identical. Poetry is what the poet writes but poems have points of origin (souls) and sometimes go on to have lives.
The poet continues to write (sometimes poetry) until the poet chooses his or her poetry to be born in-out of.
Poems wander the world (the worlds) until they have found a place to be born in. They are not always born in poetry. Sometimes they find something else to be born in- a piece of music, a scientific discovery or a mathematical formula. These kinds of poems, anxious to witness change, can bring great tumult into the world. In such forms poems have been known to live forever, curling inside the fingers of a clarinetist or piano player, leaving their listeners to walk away from the concert amazed that they could not point to a single melody or theme, but something had pressed through them all, straight into their heads, their feet and their hearts.
Other poems walk the worlds like strangers or tourists, never understanding why no poetry they see looks inviting, no music really attracts with the potential of a home, no painting, no scientific or philosophical treatise, no sculpture, dance, or book art can intrigue them into staying. Such poems instead choose to wander through time in limbo, briefly inhabiting the lives particularly of ardent, lesser poets, who, isolated yet exalted, haunt the places where such poems choose to hover. Of course these poems would never permanently inhabit the lines of these second-string singers, but occasionaly they do choose to visit them and, in so doing. deposit some of their individual auras.
How tired and despondent most of these errant poems become. All the more reason to elude the capture of the mightiest of poem-hunters whose many tomes would only leave them callous and wary of occupying a world where their individuality would hardly be noticed among the poet's multitudinous lovers and wise friends. Better to frequent the quiet retreats of the ignored and vanquished who welcome the presence of such strangers.
These poems never conclude and are constantly about to be born. Their spirits are uneasily embraced by their followers. They sleep, they dream, they troop about the worlds, from time to time inhabiting the odd music of the estranged.
Monday, July 14
I have been invited to read at 21 Grand in the New Brutalism series, which is in Oakland. I am reading with Patrick Durgin on Sunday, August 10th at 7 p.m. Stephanie has promised to join me at the podium at some point to read from our postcard collaboration. Please pass the word because I haven't read in the bay area since 1990 and I can't wait to see everybody I know and meet everybody I don't.
One person I can't wait to meet is Catherine Meng. For one thing, she was too shy to meet me and come to a poet's party when she was here in New York. I love when poets are shy (I like the bold and brave ones too, but I like the shy ones better). Second, she has a habit of saying things like this.
"my favorite image on Kasey's link bar is Don Cheney's Diabetes Sucks. Those two look very troubled & sincere & from the 70's. Like all my favorite poets."
Another person I can't wait to meet is Cassie Lewis. Because she says things like this:
Friday, July 11, 2003
Last night I dreamed that all my friends gathered together to hold an
intervention:
in order to convince me to get a new haircut.
- posted by Cassie @ 11:24 PM
One person I can't wait to meet is Catherine Meng. For one thing, she was too shy to meet me and come to a poet's party when she was here in New York. I love when poets are shy (I like the bold and brave ones too, but I like the shy ones better). Second, she has a habit of saying things like this.
"my favorite image on Kasey's link bar is Don Cheney's Diabetes Sucks. Those two look very troubled & sincere & from the 70's. Like all my favorite poets."
Another person I can't wait to meet is Cassie Lewis. Because she says things like this:
Friday, July 11, 2003
Last night I dreamed that all my friends gathered together to hold an
intervention:
in order to convince me to get a new haircut.
- posted by Cassie @ 11:24 PM
5/15/86
Thinking over now this story of the
several discoveries of the atom:
the truth is (and there was every
reason for them to sense the
desperate importance of what they
were doing) that they acted like a
bunch of excited, rowdy, somewhat
clumsy boys, bouncing and tossing about the
tiny universe of the atom: their
convictions about the "objective
universe" justified what they did-
they did not anthropomorphize the
atom.
From a poetic point of view, these men
typify a propensity to attempt
to dominate through terror. Imagine
if the atom as a universe of tiny souls.
Might they not take ours anyway they
could if we tried to take theirs? As
scientists we force ourselves not to think
this way- we dissect art and dig,
we quantize, pulverize, analyze-
we do anything to break
apart what is on the surface if
we want to get *inside* something, to
know its secrets. Primitive people,more
accustomed to the *real*dangers that
lurk in the unknown, know how to
protect themselves. We have to learn
to do this again. But we cannot deny
that this must be done in accord with the
true potential of our intellects-
Perhaps there are other ways to
appreciate what lies at the heart of matter
besides the attempt to isolate and
overpower the ultimate constituants. Again,
if we imagined the atom to be a
living thing - which it might very well
be in some very profound sense of
*living*- in the most basic sense of
existence- it would come as no surprise
that if we blow it apart, its going to hurt
us back.
6/5/86
Always two thoughts at once. I think
there's a way to "catch up" by a gentle
rocking movement from and toward
(which, at last, amounts to the same
as other ways, thatis, going backwards
and forwards, past and present.) Which
isanother way of saying "evoke it"
which is another way of saying "wait and don't wait"
which is another way of saying "learn to
recognize voices."
I'm imagining standing over
a vague spot which represents another
vaguer spot in the imagination. See?
Somewhere in the middle there's only one
way out, but that way, built as it is
*inside* the middle of a sentence gets us
to discover sense to the side of what is
happening (and a type of
perseveration, a power play, a skip and
a jump to call a hop(e) something else.
To repeat- which is a way, etc.
Slides down
to revealing) (parenthetically grace, an
epicurean singularity, a s(i)mile.)
Yet but,
ready to return, or just alight, decibels,
or decimals, the anger just subsiding,
another wave).
If it's a choice, see the
past as a sliding trombone, tones disappearing
as part of an harmonic, years seen
constantly against the future's persistent dream,
wakening again alongside momentary signs.
Even when you've listened, you've
listened in a certain tone of voice,
dissolving the point of a decision, forgetting
an instance on a stair.
*
The marketplace's single rule:
giving a higher price raises attention to
the product- a low price also raises
attention- the attenion of "easy"
acquisition. Stupidity consists of the
misconstrual of such ease of acquisition."
But, then again, "taste" or "intelligence"
often consists in hypnotic attention to the
"highest price,"
"the highest value," "the unique" "the
authentic," "the work of genius." Either
way the prize goes to the highest bidder
or the quickest. The once? the now?
*
So anger is simply a change in register-
lyric chirping in basso
proclamations.
*
6/8/86- Disputes (poem) minor and major
Least and most "innocent"=
"child like"- six- lack of "innocence"-
produces an infant=innocence
6/8/86
I again came to the thought that
there are types of time- and that
the emphasis with understanding time
has been with quantity- and a tremendous
amount about time has been understood
in those terms. But a greater
understanding of types of time mjay help
us to again approach some major
questions, like death, which is the one
I am now thinking of. One immediate
question arises- is Death a total
absence of time? What is the connection
of death- and life, for that matter,
with time? this is (essentially) a legitimate
question for poetics. I was thinking
yesterday that to write poetry-
to make any kind of art, is the
simplest access there is to the world
of shifting (tidal?) temporal
states. With a little bit of a shove
from somewhere- practically anywhere
the artist may certifiably be permitted to
gain entrance to the larger universe
of the ancient,
yet ever available- and coveted-
glimpses of the Beyond.Where is it,
and what is it? It can't be pinned
down that way, yet, as episodic
as these glimpses remain,
as accumulation of human experiences
in this realm has led to certain-
let us say, "healthy" suspicions.
Always knowing we cannot be sure,
we venture to say some things may
be so. And, over time, we can take
note of who said them and who
else said them.
Time, in its
ceaseless flowing, its changefulness and
its gatherings, threatens to constantly
overflow events past all familiar significance,
and no one could have ever known this
better than the inhabitants of the
twentieth century.
Things wait, they gather and explode-
how can it be that in the same quantity
of time a human being is born and dies-
Thinking over now this story of the
several discoveries of the atom:
the truth is (and there was every
reason for them to sense the
desperate importance of what they
were doing) that they acted like a
bunch of excited, rowdy, somewhat
clumsy boys, bouncing and tossing about the
tiny universe of the atom: their
convictions about the "objective
universe" justified what they did-
they did not anthropomorphize the
atom.
From a poetic point of view, these men
typify a propensity to attempt
to dominate through terror. Imagine
if the atom as a universe of tiny souls.
Might they not take ours anyway they
could if we tried to take theirs? As
scientists we force ourselves not to think
this way- we dissect art and dig,
we quantize, pulverize, analyze-
we do anything to break
apart what is on the surface if
we want to get *inside* something, to
know its secrets. Primitive people,more
accustomed to the *real*dangers that
lurk in the unknown, know how to
protect themselves. We have to learn
to do this again. But we cannot deny
that this must be done in accord with the
true potential of our intellects-
Perhaps there are other ways to
appreciate what lies at the heart of matter
besides the attempt to isolate and
overpower the ultimate constituants. Again,
if we imagined the atom to be a
living thing - which it might very well
be in some very profound sense of
*living*- in the most basic sense of
existence- it would come as no surprise
that if we blow it apart, its going to hurt
us back.
6/5/86
Always two thoughts at once. I think
there's a way to "catch up" by a gentle
rocking movement from and toward
(which, at last, amounts to the same
as other ways, thatis, going backwards
and forwards, past and present.) Which
isanother way of saying "evoke it"
which is another way of saying "wait and don't wait"
which is another way of saying "learn to
recognize voices."
I'm imagining standing over
a vague spot which represents another
vaguer spot in the imagination. See?
Somewhere in the middle there's only one
way out, but that way, built as it is
*inside* the middle of a sentence gets us
to discover sense to the side of what is
happening (and a type of
perseveration, a power play, a skip and
a jump to call a hop(e) something else.
To repeat- which is a way, etc.
Slides down
to revealing) (parenthetically grace, an
epicurean singularity, a s(i)mile.)
Yet but,
ready to return, or just alight, decibels,
or decimals, the anger just subsiding,
another wave).
If it's a choice, see the
past as a sliding trombone, tones disappearing
as part of an harmonic, years seen
constantly against the future's persistent dream,
wakening again alongside momentary signs.
Even when you've listened, you've
listened in a certain tone of voice,
dissolving the point of a decision, forgetting
an instance on a stair.
*
The marketplace's single rule:
giving a higher price raises attention to
the product- a low price also raises
attention- the attenion of "easy"
acquisition. Stupidity consists of the
misconstrual of such ease of acquisition."
But, then again, "taste" or "intelligence"
often consists in hypnotic attention to the
"highest price,"
"the highest value," "the unique" "the
authentic," "the work of genius." Either
way the prize goes to the highest bidder
or the quickest. The once? the now?
*
So anger is simply a change in register-
lyric chirping in basso
proclamations.
*
6/8/86- Disputes (poem) minor and major
Least and most "innocent"=
"child like"- six- lack of "innocence"-
produces an infant=innocence
6/8/86
I again came to the thought that
there are types of time- and that
the emphasis with understanding time
has been with quantity- and a tremendous
amount about time has been understood
in those terms. But a greater
understanding of types of time mjay help
us to again approach some major
questions, like death, which is the one
I am now thinking of. One immediate
question arises- is Death a total
absence of time? What is the connection
of death- and life, for that matter,
with time? this is (essentially) a legitimate
question for poetics. I was thinking
yesterday that to write poetry-
to make any kind of art, is the
simplest access there is to the world
of shifting (tidal?) temporal
states. With a little bit of a shove
from somewhere- practically anywhere
the artist may certifiably be permitted to
gain entrance to the larger universe
of the ancient,
yet ever available- and coveted-
glimpses of the Beyond.Where is it,
and what is it? It can't be pinned
down that way, yet, as episodic
as these glimpses remain,
as accumulation of human experiences
in this realm has led to certain-
let us say, "healthy" suspicions.
Always knowing we cannot be sure,
we venture to say some things may
be so. And, over time, we can take
note of who said them and who
else said them.
Time, in its
ceaseless flowing, its changefulness and
its gatherings, threatens to constantly
overflow events past all familiar significance,
and no one could have ever known this
better than the inhabitants of the
twentieth century.
Things wait, they gather and explode-
how can it be that in the same quantity
of time a human being is born and dies-
Sunday, July 13
6/18/87
Write about talking as
"the talking cure"
Antin-etc.
365 days 365 pages
Every interval of time provides
the "subjective correlative"
Writing in the 20th Century is like living on
a roller coaster.Time itself is
changing so fast, meaning an awareness
of its value also increases as awareness
increases.
A poet's note for a series of poems over
a period of 365 days. Can include
real and imaginary documents. How to include
the imaginary documents.
During this period the poet feels stretched to
the limit in a moral conflict.
The diary idea, structured that way is
too rigid. I'm reaching for something
there, though. Poe's idea means to
simply begin at the beginning. McGann
on the value of footnotes. See...the
sea, as in the Holy See...Spreading out
your cards.
Poe- my heart laid bare-
my work laid bare
Face it- moments of writing
seized through some form of temporal
tactic. "Where would I find the time?"
Barrett asked (Ototole)
I look out at the "social world."
Yes, I see the terrible, monstrous headlines.
Yet every human being
Write about talking as
"the talking cure"
Antin-etc.
365 days 365 pages
Every interval of time provides
the "subjective correlative"
Writing in the 20th Century is like living on
a roller coaster.Time itself is
changing so fast, meaning an awareness
of its value also increases as awareness
increases.
A poet's note for a series of poems over
a period of 365 days. Can include
real and imaginary documents. How to include
the imaginary documents.
During this period the poet feels stretched to
the limit in a moral conflict.
The diary idea, structured that way is
too rigid. I'm reaching for something
there, though. Poe's idea means to
simply begin at the beginning. McGann
on the value of footnotes. See...the
sea, as in the Holy See...Spreading out
your cards.
Poe- my heart laid bare-
my work laid bare
Face it- moments of writing
seized through some form of temporal
tactic. "Where would I find the time?"
Barrett asked (Ototole)
I look out at the "social world."
Yes, I see the terrible, monstrous headlines.
Yet every human being
Talk about time travel- today today Toni and I went to see Art of the First Cities, from the Mediterranean to the Indus, an exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of stunningly beautiful and fascinating objects from the Third Millenium BC. I had to copy out one remarkable note:
"The early inhabitants of Sumer and Egypt were the first to develop writing. The Sumerians employed a counting system based on the number 60. This system was transmitted to the Greeks, then to the medieval world where the hour was divided into sixty minutes, the minute into 60 seconds, and the circle into 360 degrees.... The oldest collection of laws is attributed to Ur-Namma, King of Ur, 2100 BC. The first documented social reforms, offering protection to the poor, widows and orphans were compiled by Urukagina, ruler of Lagash, ca 2350 BC."
"The early inhabitants of Sumer and Egypt were the first to develop writing. The Sumerians employed a counting system based on the number 60. This system was transmitted to the Greeks, then to the medieval world where the hour was divided into sixty minutes, the minute into 60 seconds, and the circle into 360 degrees.... The oldest collection of laws is attributed to Ur-Namma, King of Ur, 2100 BC. The first documented social reforms, offering protection to the poor, widows and orphans were compiled by Urukagina, ruler of Lagash, ca 2350 BC."
(((((BLOGLINK CRUSH LIST FAVORITES)))))
(((((THESE BLOGS ARE HOT)))))
Porthole Redux ....Catherine Meng
Mr.Tong Bliss' Journal...Joe Massey
Human Verb...Noah Eli Gordon
Chimera Song Mosaic
The Jetty...Cassie Lewis..
Never Neutral...Ernesto Priego
Mysterium...Carlos Arribas
The Brutal Kittens...James Meetze
Process Documents...Ryan Fitzpatrick
Love's Last Gasps...Eileen Tabios' Poem Journal
Notes to Poetry...Steve Evans
*~Aimee Nezhukumatathil's gila monster~*
Ptarmigan...Alan de Niro
Swimming for Dummies...Tanya Brolaski
Yoo Doo Right...Mike County
Ironstone Whirlygig...Amanda Cook
xtina.org....Christina Strong
Zazie's Zone
Polis Is Eyes...James Cook
Noahglass...Noah E.Glass
Five Fingers Strong...Alli Warren
Hiving...Jean Chu
In A Dark Time...Loren Webster
poetic grimoire and notions
Whiskey River
Solipsistic Curiosities
Harlequin Knights...Joseph Mosconi
Eeksy-Peeksy,,,Malcolm Davidson
Parking Lot...Chris Corrigan
tex files...Chris Murray
Links to your left for a complete listing of -fait accompli- recommended links
(((((THESE BLOGS ARE HOT)))))
Porthole Redux ....Catherine Meng
Mr.Tong Bliss' Journal...Joe Massey
Human Verb...Noah Eli Gordon
Chimera Song Mosaic
The Jetty...Cassie Lewis..
Never Neutral...Ernesto Priego
Mysterium...Carlos Arribas
The Brutal Kittens...James Meetze
Process Documents...Ryan Fitzpatrick
Love's Last Gasps...Eileen Tabios' Poem Journal
Notes to Poetry...Steve Evans
*~Aimee Nezhukumatathil's gila monster~*
Ptarmigan...Alan de Niro
Swimming for Dummies...Tanya Brolaski
Yoo Doo Right...Mike County
Ironstone Whirlygig...Amanda Cook
xtina.org....Christina Strong
Zazie's Zone
Polis Is Eyes...James Cook
Noahglass...Noah E.Glass
Five Fingers Strong...Alli Warren
Hiving...Jean Chu
In A Dark Time...Loren Webster
poetic grimoire and notions
Whiskey River
Solipsistic Curiosities
Harlequin Knights...Joseph Mosconi
Eeksy-Peeksy,,,Malcolm Davidson
Parking Lot...Chris Corrigan
tex files...Chris Murray
Links to your left for a complete listing of -fait accompli- recommended links
(((((HOT)))))(((((BLOG)))))(((((CRUSH))))
(((((LIST))))(((((JULY))))(((((13)))))
THESE BLOGS ARE (((((HOT)))))
Breakfast Served All Day
allegrezza blog
Boynton
Dumb Monkey
Topher Tune's Times...Christy Church
this Public Address 3.0...Jeff Ward
Word Placements
.fluss
Sarah
Hatstuck and Snarl...Stephen Kirbach
Dead Letter Game...Bill Marsh
Rutabaga
Nightjar 2...Jean Gier
No Starting Point...Emma Barnes
abolone..Li Bloom
(((((LIST))))(((((JULY))))(((((13)))))
THESE BLOGS ARE (((((HOT)))))
Breakfast Served All Day
allegrezza blog
Boynton
Dumb Monkey
Topher Tune's Times...Christy Church
this Public Address 3.0...Jeff Ward
Word Placements
.fluss
Sarah
Hatstuck and Snarl...Stephen Kirbach
Dead Letter Game...Bill Marsh
Rutabaga
Nightjar 2...Jean Gier
No Starting Point...Emma Barnes
abolone..Li Bloom
Saturday, July 12
"But my heart cried out for you, California
California I'm coming home
Oh make me feel good rock 'n roll band
I'm your biggest fan
California, I'm coming home"
Joni Mitchell (Blue)
Planning never hurt anybody yet, as far as I know (talking on the phone with Stephanie just now.)
Going to Berkeley, July 22- August 22
Readings (including at least one by Stephanie), plays, conversations, friends, new friends, I can't wait and... I might even get to give a reading there, you never know.
"I'm going to see the folks I dig...
California, I'm coming home..."
California I'm coming home
Oh make me feel good rock 'n roll band
I'm your biggest fan
California, I'm coming home"
Joni Mitchell (Blue)
Planning never hurt anybody yet, as far as I know (talking on the phone with Stephanie just now.)
Going to Berkeley, July 22- August 22
Readings (including at least one by Stephanie), plays, conversations, friends, new friends, I can't wait and... I might even get to give a reading there, you never know.
"I'm going to see the folks I dig...
California, I'm coming home..."
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