8/8/90
Thought is approximate.
"In this dream you say goodbye to everyone."
There are old records we play in our
heads that we've long ago dismissed as
incredible. Yet sometimes (less and less
often) we listen to them not really
believing anything but the words themselves.
Even the scratches on that old record are
part of what we still listen to although
the story itself has long ago ceased to
have any plausability.
8/10/90
You won't value the sanity
within until you've faced the
insanity outside. You won't
find the sanity outside until
you've faced the insanity within.
8/11/90
More than anything else, reading
makes it possible to freely
imagine what it
might feel like to be other than
who you are at this moment.
This feeling, in turn, leads to
another- that everything about your
own life you have selected-
summarized in Toni's maxim "You
create your own reality."
All present experience is overlaid
with memories. Reading is also
the best way (other than psychoanalyzing)
to become aware of this.
*
Who couldn't do with some "Irises in Sun" right now? See Topher Tune's Times...Christy Church
*
Toni, Nada, Gary and me having lunch on the boardwalk at Brighton Beach seen through the eyes of Katie Degentesh seen through the eyes of our Daumier Gary Sullivan
Distribution Automatique
Tuesday, September 9
The cycle of provoking, feeling hurt, and counterprovoking. "Dialectics." Stop it.
Jordan - 9:39 AM
Thanks, Jordan
.
If only we could listen.
Jordan - 9:39 AM
Thanks, Jordan
.
If only we could listen.
10/10/94
Each has one's own accusation to distance themselves from the other.
Freedom implies freedom from capture
but our inner worlds are largely
based on allegories of capture.
I compared the image of the
hunter and the hunted to
the anthropological allegorical
image of the raw and the
cooked. This image puts the situation
at a comfortable distance. We yearn for
the pristine qualities of the raw
while succumbing to the charms of
the cooked. But realistically- and
far more to the point experientially-
we tend to live our lives out in
imagery of the hunters and the hunted,
the search and the prize, the priceless
and the worthless. For us,
the "stakes" actually determine
the type of energy and interpretative
principles we apply to our
experience both in subjective and
objective evaluations.
Maybe luck is like love. You've
got to go all the way to find
it.
You do to keep it.
10/17/94
If there's no specific content
in my contact, sometimes the
attempted connection ricochets off the
other person, leaving inside an
empty line of thought going nowhere.
A kind of forgetting: "You didn't
remember." As in not remembering
someone on their birthday. Once
you started looking for it, it took
exactly ten minutes to find it-
Kafka's "Investigations of a Dog."
What is lack of wit if it isn't
a moment of indecision, when the
other moves into the zone of
embarassment to counter you?
10/20/94
Sitting alone thinking this to himself:
10/24
Thinking that thought of the bridge
Is a bridge- a bridge to sun and an unimaginable
Lightness, quietness and calm. Who was it
We had pretended to be, floating out there
Amid the flotsom and jetsom of yellow beams
By not moving in its peripheral shadows, in its
Warm, wordless, wit, its inviting gestures
Silence blanketing an empty silence in a bed of silent pauses
Over the edge of the building across the street
The yellow comes- the birds grace this with monosyllabic whistles.
What gives permission except silence itself?
It encloses itself inside time's body, it
Nestles within the rhythms of the traffic noises too
And that's all. It is certainly not the profusion of elements
That charms, not the exceptional accomplishments.
It is the fact of grace within the enlarged accompaniment
Of selves. Who else would have hidden it thus.
This territory, which remains mysterious,
Abides and engenders so much else. We tumble,
That's all, down the Shaman's tunnel,
Alongside a myriad of animals and forms.
They continue, as does their interaction. There
Is an exchange, and then something is streaming
Alongside all of it as it falls and stampedes itself.
All manner of things stream along this way through
Time's tunnel. This is how they listen:
They listen by abiding.
Things can stop and start again. Barks
And whistles dont' seem like very much,
But also enter in the equation. Notes
from a piano, probably going by in car radio-
Each has one's own accusation to distance themselves from the other.
Freedom implies freedom from capture
but our inner worlds are largely
based on allegories of capture.
I compared the image of the
hunter and the hunted to
the anthropological allegorical
image of the raw and the
cooked. This image puts the situation
at a comfortable distance. We yearn for
the pristine qualities of the raw
while succumbing to the charms of
the cooked. But realistically- and
far more to the point experientially-
we tend to live our lives out in
imagery of the hunters and the hunted,
the search and the prize, the priceless
and the worthless. For us,
the "stakes" actually determine
the type of energy and interpretative
principles we apply to our
experience both in subjective and
objective evaluations.
Maybe luck is like love. You've
got to go all the way to find
it.
You do to keep it.
10/17/94
If there's no specific content
in my contact, sometimes the
attempted connection ricochets off the
other person, leaving inside an
empty line of thought going nowhere.
A kind of forgetting: "You didn't
remember." As in not remembering
someone on their birthday. Once
you started looking for it, it took
exactly ten minutes to find it-
Kafka's "Investigations of a Dog."
What is lack of wit if it isn't
a moment of indecision, when the
other moves into the zone of
embarassment to counter you?
10/20/94
Sitting alone thinking this to himself:
10/24
Thinking that thought of the bridge
Is a bridge- a bridge to sun and an unimaginable
Lightness, quietness and calm. Who was it
We had pretended to be, floating out there
Amid the flotsom and jetsom of yellow beams
By not moving in its peripheral shadows, in its
Warm, wordless, wit, its inviting gestures
Silence blanketing an empty silence in a bed of silent pauses
Over the edge of the building across the street
The yellow comes- the birds grace this with monosyllabic whistles.
What gives permission except silence itself?
It encloses itself inside time's body, it
Nestles within the rhythms of the traffic noises too
And that's all. It is certainly not the profusion of elements
That charms, not the exceptional accomplishments.
It is the fact of grace within the enlarged accompaniment
Of selves. Who else would have hidden it thus.
This territory, which remains mysterious,
Abides and engenders so much else. We tumble,
That's all, down the Shaman's tunnel,
Alongside a myriad of animals and forms.
They continue, as does their interaction. There
Is an exchange, and then something is streaming
Alongside all of it as it falls and stampedes itself.
All manner of things stream along this way through
Time's tunnel. This is how they listen:
They listen by abiding.
Things can stop and start again. Barks
And whistles dont' seem like very much,
But also enter in the equation. Notes
from a piano, probably going by in car radio-
Monday, September 8
5/24/76
It wasn't only my notebook that was
smaller it was your voice that got
inside my head. You explained it in
many breaths. And no matter how complicated,
how many languages were being spoken
here at once I would try to make
myself understood by adding
something remembered from yours. Could
be the sum total of your present thoughts
added to this. Something about intelligence
being wide. Some people are uptight about
this. I wonder why. I still have the feeling
of not having learned anything. Maybe
my pauses are too long or my terminology's
hesitant...maybe I should add three
dots. I know I was getting to something.
Dimly remember something being said very
lightly in the laundry room or laughs
about other forgotten objects R doesn't
want to throw away. The you- problem.
There's also plenty of room for the
hieroglyphs and intricate speculations.
Inevitably I will share in all your
catastrophes: your births, your intense
disappointments- there would be many
but how will they be timed in relation to
my silences, my needs, my
excited anticipation of your
perfectly timed movement
towards me, or away from me- two
sets of hands, two mouths just about to
speak excitedly of the same thing at the
same time, and/or then wanting to
touch.
Maybe I was one of the people you did
not think of tonight. The tones didn't fit.
I didn't want to go out of the house. And that
is the whole story for tonight. There will
always be a long pause. Always that moment
when you go- uh, now what with an anxious,
sinking feeling. The next breath will have
to be deeper, the next moment contain more.
If it's difficult, and sometimes it is
difficult, that single, best, intensest
moment will not be enough to forestall
the next impossible period of waiting.
I know how pleased you are that I
wanted to work so hard at finding a
way to let it be known I mentioned
your name, that I thought of you in
particular. I am thinking about whether
this will be placed before, during or
after the interview, I mean, before
during after the conversation, sort of as
an an addendum, a parting
comment- or maybe as as something
I casually mention before we
get down to real talk. Somehow I
finally find a way to mention dull
orange brown but I'm not sure she'll
remember that. I also try to find a
way into the labyrinth to find even
more dangerous ways of getting lost.
I starve, I feel [like a blank tarantula,]
the ensemble image was really mine,
they are *my* prime numbers, your
words are powerful because they don't exist
yet [Parmigianino I am thinking of now
but that reference is too specific-]
What do I make of my hesitations? How
long to make the jumps? You seem to
react to them as if they were decisions.
No, you react so strongly it is a change of
rhythm for me.
You hated the song so I felt for an
object, a shoe. A list of things to do.
A film, a diary, photographs. A
diagram to cover the bare walls.
Empty down there. Not so funny.
I don't remember them that well. Full of
shit about something specific. Vadim's
wives, the soldier reciting in *Weekend*,
the doctor, now the butcher cracking an
egg in her ass. Somewhere at the
deepest part of that dream I would be
attracted to his wife, the wives of Windsor.
Must be funny. Deneuve, she's like Daneuve,
in a way, not sarcastic like her in a Bunuel film,
and not really able to vanish
as gradually as she thinks. Dressed like a
New Yorker she makes mannikins, could
be fifty New Yorkers.
50 New Yorkers on vacation.
Sex is unclear. Not forthcoming.
Not coming. You get it around but
nothing's clear. Vexed New Yorkers. Color-
go to the store and choose.
All in front of the window: something
left out.
Acting-12 moments of ambiguity,
one after the other, quickly, not
so important to understand. I
pass the exam and wait for the grade.
It gets mixed up. It's disorganized,
disorganizing. You know that one
happened. That time we had together.
What's better than that? Oh, which
one was happening. Sorry
about that: I remember nothing,
I remember nothing.
He passed the exam. Disorganized.
A song, arbitrary, the merchant,
Ireland. Carcasses, caucasians,
skeleton, choice.
Image hides meaning
and there was nothing left
may hope to be both laughter
your mind unknown in this room
She immediately stripped and wanted
to make love...broken bottles...I
had no choice. I'm
still undressing. *Sleeping in words
*rewrite
sentences, orgasms. Transmission of
messages, permutations of conceived
sentences, permuations of actuality.
Choice, not chance, reminded. you to
bring whatever it was along or lose it.
No matter
how absent minded you get, even falling
asleep you will still see the incommensurate
stars fading into a light blue
morning. Even that is distinguishable
but partly indistinguishable from
what I was trying to say, a
feeling of hands on the back
of my neck. Someone said he
walks around like he wishes he had
eyes in the back of his head. Close
up the stars are violent. Far away
they are cold. Time to go to the
concert. Clowns. Clarinets. It gets
hot and stillo and stuffy there. I'm
high on mushrooms, not hungry. Where
to move?
[It gets funnelled down] to a
series of stills, one always of rain,
the other of what really happened
shile we were listening to the
music last night. Set sail, they
are ready now (still noticing).
It's the nineteen-seventies and
there's no image for that. An
unintentional still- the sunrise,
bets, tracks, beach, food.
She stretches, limps a few
steps, stretches again, yawns,
thinks about a film and slowly runs
it backwards in her head. She opens
the refrigerator and looks for something
to eat.
The continuing rhythm changes
and is interchangeable with the meaning of
any word I choose to represent my
emotion at just that moment.
The suspense is boring,
the even means nothing. Only the
accidents are interesting (flat,
unintensional). The same
elusive decisions- a path of sparrows
spinning idly, wildly.
It wasn't only my notebook that was
smaller it was your voice that got
inside my head. You explained it in
many breaths. And no matter how complicated,
how many languages were being spoken
here at once I would try to make
myself understood by adding
something remembered from yours. Could
be the sum total of your present thoughts
added to this. Something about intelligence
being wide. Some people are uptight about
this. I wonder why. I still have the feeling
of not having learned anything. Maybe
my pauses are too long or my terminology's
hesitant...maybe I should add three
dots. I know I was getting to something.
Dimly remember something being said very
lightly in the laundry room or laughs
about other forgotten objects R doesn't
want to throw away. The you- problem.
There's also plenty of room for the
hieroglyphs and intricate speculations.
Inevitably I will share in all your
catastrophes: your births, your intense
disappointments- there would be many
but how will they be timed in relation to
my silences, my needs, my
excited anticipation of your
perfectly timed movement
towards me, or away from me- two
sets of hands, two mouths just about to
speak excitedly of the same thing at the
same time, and/or then wanting to
touch.
Maybe I was one of the people you did
not think of tonight. The tones didn't fit.
I didn't want to go out of the house. And that
is the whole story for tonight. There will
always be a long pause. Always that moment
when you go- uh, now what with an anxious,
sinking feeling. The next breath will have
to be deeper, the next moment contain more.
If it's difficult, and sometimes it is
difficult, that single, best, intensest
moment will not be enough to forestall
the next impossible period of waiting.
I know how pleased you are that I
wanted to work so hard at finding a
way to let it be known I mentioned
your name, that I thought of you in
particular. I am thinking about whether
this will be placed before, during or
after the interview, I mean, before
during after the conversation, sort of as
an an addendum, a parting
comment- or maybe as as something
I casually mention before we
get down to real talk. Somehow I
finally find a way to mention dull
orange brown but I'm not sure she'll
remember that. I also try to find a
way into the labyrinth to find even
more dangerous ways of getting lost.
I starve, I feel [like a blank tarantula,]
the ensemble image was really mine,
they are *my* prime numbers, your
words are powerful because they don't exist
yet [Parmigianino I am thinking of now
but that reference is too specific-]
What do I make of my hesitations? How
long to make the jumps? You seem to
react to them as if they were decisions.
No, you react so strongly it is a change of
rhythm for me.
You hated the song so I felt for an
object, a shoe. A list of things to do.
A film, a diary, photographs. A
diagram to cover the bare walls.
Empty down there. Not so funny.
I don't remember them that well. Full of
shit about something specific. Vadim's
wives, the soldier reciting in *Weekend*,
the doctor, now the butcher cracking an
egg in her ass. Somewhere at the
deepest part of that dream I would be
attracted to his wife, the wives of Windsor.
Must be funny. Deneuve, she's like Daneuve,
in a way, not sarcastic like her in a Bunuel film,
and not really able to vanish
as gradually as she thinks. Dressed like a
New Yorker she makes mannikins, could
be fifty New Yorkers.
50 New Yorkers on vacation.
Sex is unclear. Not forthcoming.
Not coming. You get it around but
nothing's clear. Vexed New Yorkers. Color-
go to the store and choose.
All in front of the window: something
left out.
Acting-12 moments of ambiguity,
one after the other, quickly, not
so important to understand. I
pass the exam and wait for the grade.
It gets mixed up. It's disorganized,
disorganizing. You know that one
happened. That time we had together.
What's better than that? Oh, which
one was happening. Sorry
about that: I remember nothing,
I remember nothing.
He passed the exam. Disorganized.
A song, arbitrary, the merchant,
Ireland. Carcasses, caucasians,
skeleton, choice.
Image hides meaning
and there was nothing left
may hope to be both laughter
your mind unknown in this room
She immediately stripped and wanted
to make love...broken bottles...I
had no choice. I'm
still undressing. *Sleeping in words
*rewrite
sentences, orgasms. Transmission of
messages, permutations of conceived
sentences, permuations of actuality.
Choice, not chance, reminded. you to
bring whatever it was along or lose it.
No matter
how absent minded you get, even falling
asleep you will still see the incommensurate
stars fading into a light blue
morning. Even that is distinguishable
but partly indistinguishable from
what I was trying to say, a
feeling of hands on the back
of my neck. Someone said he
walks around like he wishes he had
eyes in the back of his head. Close
up the stars are violent. Far away
they are cold. Time to go to the
concert. Clowns. Clarinets. It gets
hot and stillo and stuffy there. I'm
high on mushrooms, not hungry. Where
to move?
[It gets funnelled down] to a
series of stills, one always of rain,
the other of what really happened
shile we were listening to the
music last night. Set sail, they
are ready now (still noticing).
It's the nineteen-seventies and
there's no image for that. An
unintentional still- the sunrise,
bets, tracks, beach, food.
She stretches, limps a few
steps, stretches again, yawns,
thinks about a film and slowly runs
it backwards in her head. She opens
the refrigerator and looks for something
to eat.
The continuing rhythm changes
and is interchangeable with the meaning of
any word I choose to represent my
emotion at just that moment.
The suspense is boring,
the even means nothing. Only the
accidents are interesting (flat,
unintensional). The same
elusive decisions- a path of sparrows
spinning idly, wildly.
Sunday, September 7
1/5/77
It's compelling. Why I am drawn
to a "cold, rejecting woman" situation-
is it the dark lady? The one who
must be bad or good, who I must
hate or love to an extreme. I keep
thinking of X looking through the window at
me. She was angry with me- not then, but
for awhile and then she was angry with her mother.
Now work: it's hard to do the 853's
because our schedules do not allow
us enough time with the children-
to get the information.
Probably a mother transference
to the page and to the telephone
Sometimes I go a little further
than I need to with the idea
and this is a plus for writing
I know I really want them to
"call collect" sometimes-
1/9
2 things today-0
1) The Liz W class-
bars-mirrors
2) Gloria B- whose friends are
Puerto Rican- and goes to discos to dance
(has done Ballet- wants to do
jazz)
a play- a dream- a fantasy-
Le Masochiste Extatique-
the play-
1/16
A weekend of "lessons." the murder,
the zen-meditation, Jeannette- "you
would never leave. I think it was the
dog that got to you. Friends are
able to part." Mike and Cheska- Hoboken.
The cardboard sculptures.
What is happening when I feel
"desperately alone?"
The powers of this notebook now. I
write these kinds of thoughts
briefly.
The envelope on the top of the speaker.
Plan, Practice Solitude, Don't Cling,
Choose, Go By What I Perceive
Not deciding the other person is all
good or bad when I cling.
The center of the envelope is Practice Solitude
Tne art of solitude- How to stop being a
people junkie- People who need people
are the luckiest people in the world-
It's compelling. Why I am drawn
to a "cold, rejecting woman" situation-
is it the dark lady? The one who
must be bad or good, who I must
hate or love to an extreme. I keep
thinking of X looking through the window at
me. She was angry with me- not then, but
for awhile and then she was angry with her mother.
Now work: it's hard to do the 853's
because our schedules do not allow
us enough time with the children-
to get the information.
Probably a mother transference
to the page and to the telephone
Sometimes I go a little further
than I need to with the idea
and this is a plus for writing
I know I really want them to
"call collect" sometimes-
1/9
2 things today-0
1) The Liz W class-
bars-mirrors
2) Gloria B- whose friends are
Puerto Rican- and goes to discos to dance
(has done Ballet- wants to do
jazz)
a play- a dream- a fantasy-
Le Masochiste Extatique-
the play-
1/16
A weekend of "lessons." the murder,
the zen-meditation, Jeannette- "you
would never leave. I think it was the
dog that got to you. Friends are
able to part." Mike and Cheska- Hoboken.
The cardboard sculptures.
What is happening when I feel
"desperately alone?"
The powers of this notebook now. I
write these kinds of thoughts
briefly.
The envelope on the top of the speaker.
Plan, Practice Solitude, Don't Cling,
Choose, Go By What I Perceive
Not deciding the other person is all
good or bad when I cling.
The center of the envelope is Practice Solitude
Tne art of solitude- How to stop being a
people junkie- People who need people
are the luckiest people in the world-
Saturday, September 6
7/9/76
XZ would first have to write the letter.
After all, he's been reading the same
one (ones) over and over and all
responses had come to a halt. Actually,
he's up against the wall and he can't
write. In another way it might be
possible to construct a (must it be funny?)
series of actions that the player would
do over and over- any series could
provide him with an infinite set of
manifestations. At this impulse he would
have to dissolve all the bifurcations.
That's ridiculous, he would think, there
has to be some realistic connection.
In other words it would
be possible to constuct a code
that would be interesting to
understand...have an effect of
suggestion...would plant some
savvy idea in your brain. After
this XZ would go straight, cut
his hair the whole thing, take apart
his ego factor by factor.
In fact- there had to be
some room left for this- the
whole thing could be planned
around some mysterious absence.
The letter, for instance, what was
that? As dense YZ (he calls
himself that for short) would say,
as dense as you could imagine it.
This would also include a
precise and durable enclosure.
One you could go back to. In
French, for example , just eluding
your comprehension. No, XYZ,
would consider that kind of analysis
was dispensable anyway. You always
have to get rid of things, leave
yourself empty, ready for nothing
to happen. Nothing really explodes.
The loudest things are the quietest
anyway. At least, you've got to be
sure of that...You would
have to think of things. Everything
would have to end.
It would all dissolve because
it would be sure of its...what?
Where would it stop short? How
would it explain itself. Of course it
would all connect, it would always have
one lovely touch of paranoia. That would
tickle you. So you bring in a name,
a letter. It could go anywhere, and
anyway it would be saved, it would
conclude with an address. Now there's
someplace for it to go. The
drone, drones
SZ, SZ, SZ,
or
XYZ, XZ, X7
then, by dropping one line he
becomes X7. That, plus the
address in the whole code.
Can you translate that for
me? Formalize it into a code.
XZ doesn't want to be that specific.
-Nonsense, he says. There's no
need to be so arbitrary. The
argument can run on like this for
days.
Winning, you're back up against
the wall. You are in violation and
I know you are a trickster, you'll
do anything.
XZ knows full well what will
keep me from getting there. He knows the
real meaning of silence.
Are you still gritting your
teeth he asks me?
I'm sure XYZ want to see this
more organized. He's left all the
drawers open.
-Why 6, he keeps muttering to
himself, why 6.
That's only a twist. I understand.
I undersand. Only a twist so you
could go on from there.
Is that what they're all doing?
That why they're all making sounds
like that. XZ can see all the way
to the stars. The other way to say it
would be to say it backwards. You understand
that. That leaves everything more open,
more dangerous. You know where to proceed.
You know where to leave all the
scary reminders.
XYZ seems to like this fear. He
likes working it dangerous, even in
unbalanced situations.
In this way he compares himself
to ZC who also writes. She
would have absolutely no trouble
with your code but she also sees
*you* as beautiful. And even more
beautiful once abandoned. Poor
poor lost boy. He's so cute like
that...
XZ would first have to write the letter.
After all, he's been reading the same
one (ones) over and over and all
responses had come to a halt. Actually,
he's up against the wall and he can't
write. In another way it might be
possible to construct a (must it be funny?)
series of actions that the player would
do over and over- any series could
provide him with an infinite set of
manifestations. At this impulse he would
have to dissolve all the bifurcations.
That's ridiculous, he would think, there
has to be some realistic connection.
In other words it would
be possible to constuct a code
that would be interesting to
understand...have an effect of
suggestion...would plant some
savvy idea in your brain. After
this XZ would go straight, cut
his hair the whole thing, take apart
his ego factor by factor.
In fact- there had to be
some room left for this- the
whole thing could be planned
around some mysterious absence.
The letter, for instance, what was
that? As dense YZ (he calls
himself that for short) would say,
as dense as you could imagine it.
This would also include a
precise and durable enclosure.
One you could go back to. In
French, for example , just eluding
your comprehension. No, XYZ,
would consider that kind of analysis
was dispensable anyway. You always
have to get rid of things, leave
yourself empty, ready for nothing
to happen. Nothing really explodes.
The loudest things are the quietest
anyway. At least, you've got to be
sure of that...You would
have to think of things. Everything
would have to end.
It would all dissolve because
it would be sure of its...what?
Where would it stop short? How
would it explain itself. Of course it
would all connect, it would always have
one lovely touch of paranoia. That would
tickle you. So you bring in a name,
a letter. It could go anywhere, and
anyway it would be saved, it would
conclude with an address. Now there's
someplace for it to go. The
drone, drones
SZ, SZ, SZ,
or
XYZ, XZ, X7
then, by dropping one line he
becomes X7. That, plus the
address in the whole code.
Can you translate that for
me? Formalize it into a code.
XZ doesn't want to be that specific.
-Nonsense, he says. There's no
need to be so arbitrary. The
argument can run on like this for
days.
Winning, you're back up against
the wall. You are in violation and
I know you are a trickster, you'll
do anything.
XZ knows full well what will
keep me from getting there. He knows the
real meaning of silence.
Are you still gritting your
teeth he asks me?
I'm sure XYZ want to see this
more organized. He's left all the
drawers open.
-Why 6, he keeps muttering to
himself, why 6.
That's only a twist. I understand.
I undersand. Only a twist so you
could go on from there.
Is that what they're all doing?
That why they're all making sounds
like that. XZ can see all the way
to the stars. The other way to say it
would be to say it backwards. You understand
that. That leaves everything more open,
more dangerous. You know where to proceed.
You know where to leave all the
scary reminders.
XYZ seems to like this fear. He
likes working it dangerous, even in
unbalanced situations.
In this way he compares himself
to ZC who also writes. She
would have absolutely no trouble
with your code but she also sees
*you* as beautiful. And even more
beautiful once abandoned. Poor
poor lost boy. He's so cute like
that...
Friday, September 5
6/18/76
Juxtaposition of being alone. Awakening
to think about the phone and hurt
feelings. To remember. Vision of an
intellectual romance, of a supreme
fiction. Repressed wishes. Endless
possibilities of connection, disconnection.
The feelings before, etc. Dangerous
impulses.What is expected. Also,
notes,- H, J.
Too intellectual. As simple as
dreaming. Leave your mind alone,
yr emotion alone. To keep. What may
be inserted at any time. The connection
and its possibilities. P's opposites,
poles, distractions, vanishing. Consider
a noun. Or being alone,
overeating, lead back.In town. Could
have anything in this context leaving
it open to extend indefinitely backwards,
forwards or still by adding,
subtracting or dividing, keeping,
owning, pronouncing, notes on the
keyboard of the imagination, imagine
taking away or taking apart, conceptually
or by expropriation in touching others
words silently, you ask me
questions I understand, which is
why you go on expecting me not to
stop hesitating in order to heal by
listening and constructing, inventing
every time the new structure of the
sentence, finally leaving me empty
and nude, just sitting here and
leaning back, reassembling, reordering
my positions, my body language,
my narcissism, anxiety and world
view, itself a reference to other
sentences: the turn of the century,
the screw, existence of the letter,
the telephone, telegraph, automobile,
Edison's deafness. Finnigan's Wake
[here, I am out of breath, 6/26]
That would be a. List. Why someone bumped
into periods and clauses, jangled
in the. Text.
Juxtaposition of being alone. Awakening
to think about the phone and hurt
feelings. To remember. Vision of an
intellectual romance, of a supreme
fiction. Repressed wishes. Endless
possibilities of connection, disconnection.
The feelings before, etc. Dangerous
impulses.What is expected. Also,
notes,- H, J.
Too intellectual. As simple as
dreaming. Leave your mind alone,
yr emotion alone. To keep. What may
be inserted at any time. The connection
and its possibilities. P's opposites,
poles, distractions, vanishing. Consider
a noun. Or being alone,
overeating, lead back.In town. Could
have anything in this context leaving
it open to extend indefinitely backwards,
forwards or still by adding,
subtracting or dividing, keeping,
owning, pronouncing, notes on the
keyboard of the imagination, imagine
taking away or taking apart, conceptually
or by expropriation in touching others
words silently, you ask me
questions I understand, which is
why you go on expecting me not to
stop hesitating in order to heal by
listening and constructing, inventing
every time the new structure of the
sentence, finally leaving me empty
and nude, just sitting here and
leaning back, reassembling, reordering
my positions, my body language,
my narcissism, anxiety and world
view, itself a reference to other
sentences: the turn of the century,
the screw, existence of the letter,
the telephone, telegraph, automobile,
Edison's deafness. Finnigan's Wake
[here, I am out of breath, 6/26]
That would be a. List. Why someone bumped
into periods and clauses, jangled
in the. Text.
May 8, 1976
Every time I write the date I speak
your name [there is no ambiguity about
which year it is.] The words before are
symbols for the very specific fact that this
year is separate, specific. When I forgot
how to write I could read almost any
sign before or after. Does this
shuttling avoid emotions that are
subsequent to an absence of the
corresponding words- the disclosure of a
secret message behind the words that
contains everything? I hold back the
response, and loaded with
language, I can change the pitch.
Where do I get the colors from, then, the
form of the things described. Does everything
have to remain previous to the disclosure,
restraining myself before I write the
symbol that corresponds to the object?
Reverie and confusion. When the world
seems to be conspiring for me I feel
it is conspiring against me. Also, I
see in this a desire for freedom. Love
believes very strongly in its opposite. The
this in us most strongly bound wants
to get bound in order to get the strength
to break free. The relativity of my
feelings in relation to yours make
this whole game seem ridiculous.
After all that struggle I only
found out that the feelings existed
only for themselves. Only for themselves!
And the ambiguity never changes. It is
our only real surprise.
Every time I write the date I speak
your name [there is no ambiguity about
which year it is.] The words before are
symbols for the very specific fact that this
year is separate, specific. When I forgot
how to write I could read almost any
sign before or after. Does this
shuttling avoid emotions that are
subsequent to an absence of the
corresponding words- the disclosure of a
secret message behind the words that
contains everything? I hold back the
response, and loaded with
language, I can change the pitch.
Where do I get the colors from, then, the
form of the things described. Does everything
have to remain previous to the disclosure,
restraining myself before I write the
symbol that corresponds to the object?
Reverie and confusion. When the world
seems to be conspiring for me I feel
it is conspiring against me. Also, I
see in this a desire for freedom. Love
believes very strongly in its opposite. The
this in us most strongly bound wants
to get bound in order to get the strength
to break free. The relativity of my
feelings in relation to yours make
this whole game seem ridiculous.
After all that struggle I only
found out that the feelings existed
only for themselves. Only for themselves!
And the ambiguity never changes. It is
our only real surprise.
Thursday, September 4
The Desert Island Bookshelf Company Presents
Another list of books Nick would take with him to a desert island
(actually this IS a desert island- every inch of it! A very wet desert island.)
Theresa Hak Kyung Cha "Dictee"
"A Book of Correspondances for Jack Spicer" edited by David Levi Strauss and Benjamin Hollander
The Notebooks of Samuel Butler
Ernesto Livon Grosman, editor "The XUL Reader, An Anthology of Argentine Poetry, 1980-1996
Alan Sondheim "Disorders of the Real"
Anselm Berrigan "Zero Star Hotel"
Michel Foucault "Fearless Speech"
Chet Baker "As Though I Had Wings" the lost memoir
Theodore Adorno "The Culture Industry"
John Ashbery "Wakefulness"
Robert Sheckley "Draconian New York"
Robert Fitterman "Metropolis 1-15"
Jack Spicer "After Lorca"
Rachel Levitsky "Under the Sun"
E.M.Cioran "A Short History of Decay"
Jackson MacLow "Twenties"
Stephen-Paul Martin "Fear and Philosophy"
Cydney Chadwick "Inside The Hours"
Patrick Durgin "Sorter"
WRD Fairbairn "Psychoanalytic Studies of the Personality"
John D. Sutherland, "Faibairn's Journey into the Interior"
David Markson, "Reader's Block"
Tom Raworth, "Collected Poems"
Henry David Thoreau "Civil Disobediance" (extremely important on desert islands, by the way)
Whitman, Poems
Christian Bok, "Eunoia"
Daniel Davidson, "Culture"
Patrick Durgin, "Color Music"
Michel de Certeau, "Hetroogies, Discourse on the Other"
Michel de Certeau, "The Practice of Everyday Life"
Barrett Watten, "The Turn to Language and the 60's," Critical Inquiry, Fall 2002, Volume 29, Number 1
Ernesto Livon Grosman, "The XUL Reader, An Anthology of Argentine Poetry, 1980-1996
The Notebooks of Samuel Butler
Drew Gardner, "Sugar Pill"
Claudette Sartiliot, "Citation and Modernity: Derrida, Joyce, Brecht"
Another list of books Nick would take with him to a desert island
(actually this IS a desert island- every inch of it! A very wet desert island.)
Theresa Hak Kyung Cha "Dictee"
"A Book of Correspondances for Jack Spicer" edited by David Levi Strauss and Benjamin Hollander
The Notebooks of Samuel Butler
Ernesto Livon Grosman, editor "The XUL Reader, An Anthology of Argentine Poetry, 1980-1996
Alan Sondheim "Disorders of the Real"
Anselm Berrigan "Zero Star Hotel"
Michel Foucault "Fearless Speech"
Chet Baker "As Though I Had Wings" the lost memoir
Theodore Adorno "The Culture Industry"
John Ashbery "Wakefulness"
Robert Sheckley "Draconian New York"
Robert Fitterman "Metropolis 1-15"
Jack Spicer "After Lorca"
Rachel Levitsky "Under the Sun"
E.M.Cioran "A Short History of Decay"
Jackson MacLow "Twenties"
Stephen-Paul Martin "Fear and Philosophy"
Cydney Chadwick "Inside The Hours"
Patrick Durgin "Sorter"
WRD Fairbairn "Psychoanalytic Studies of the Personality"
John D. Sutherland, "Faibairn's Journey into the Interior"
David Markson, "Reader's Block"
Tom Raworth, "Collected Poems"
Henry David Thoreau "Civil Disobediance" (extremely important on desert islands, by the way)
Whitman, Poems
Christian Bok, "Eunoia"
Daniel Davidson, "Culture"
Patrick Durgin, "Color Music"
Michel de Certeau, "Hetroogies, Discourse on the Other"
Michel de Certeau, "The Practice of Everyday Life"
Barrett Watten, "The Turn to Language and the 60's," Critical Inquiry, Fall 2002, Volume 29, Number 1
Ernesto Livon Grosman, "The XUL Reader, An Anthology of Argentine Poetry, 1980-1996
The Notebooks of Samuel Butler
Drew Gardner, "Sugar Pill"
Claudette Sartiliot, "Citation and Modernity: Derrida, Joyce, Brecht"
7/26/76
Can it be like any other Monday
When the first words given are silent
And every other word covers its prayers and plans
With syllables of intractable silence?
No design will unravel the core of memories
That run like late night movies between each thought
Dissolving like dreams in the morning.
Monday promises nothing: but, oh, the
afternoon follows you around every
minute, whispers in your ear all its
ineffable yearnings. No going back,
yet so nice to linger gently in
childhood's indecision, the pain a
reminder and a prod, the disappearing
light seems to hold fast.
Caught between yesterday, memory,
and today, desire,
revery is our only protection. It
yields nothing but asks no admission.
Monday is its own movie, each syllable
absorbs stillness, each moment
untranslateable.
Out of the revery, Monday pleases
your children, arms encircling,
voices touching; now the hour regains
its pace and revery has called back its
answers- no specific hour, no day,
no minute- nameless, faceless warmth
of self enclosed in the ocean
of self.
Again you wake and swim thinking
nothing, nothing...this time
a face smiles back and it is your
own and another face, changing,
hiding, looking anxious, afraid,
indifferent, concerned, amazed.
Unless, until...
for Jane
Monday Revery
Words, prayers of silence
thoughts dissolve between thoughts.
Haunted whispers
constant afternoon
the pain a prod
Concentration of childish indecision
7/26/76
7/28
Stay inside the dark, don't go towards the
dark, I mean the light is what was
swallowed up in words. Don't say nothing
is happening: all the dark order of nothing
leading towards the light can never fully
explain this disappearance of desire without
any interruption. At least we speak in
many languages, the feeling of frightening
admixtures doesn't display any amplitude.
I don't exactly know the loudness of the world
and it doesn't have a name.
Nobody knows
exactly what is criminal, nobody but XZ
can tell me exactly how loud my voice is
and he doesn't exactly exist.
Valery, don't tell me now if I am
now confused. I only wanted to go on.
But there I go pleading with you again.
In a way, that laughter was the truth. "That
means..."
The line that began with "that means..."
She said it was "only a conception,
a line made up of words."
I won't any longer have to say
what I mean. A word dissolves into
muscular shadows, the feeling of things
creeping all over you. It never was
exactly over and it never was exactly
begun.
You know exactly how to believe me, X7.
I know you know exactly what I mean.
And you also know it is composed
so much of tension and excitement. You
noticed that. You only wanted a hero,
someone to remember your dream by.
Yes, XZ it is possible to stay here
but now I want to leave, to relax.
The tension is unbearable. I feel
like I am suffocating. Gets harder
and harder. That's how I expand the
tension.
How much of me can I permit you to
have, XZ. How tired will I have to
get. No stars to dissolve into
the geraniums. He says the world
is dry. No one really believes me.
8/2
Translating words from words.
Very cautious- these are psychological things.
Why my voice might be a little louder-
commit yourself to what you are saying.
SO SLOW- SO SLOW BECAUSE
SO CAUTIOUS.
10/14
I had to stop writing because I got
so wrapped up in the play.
How much E's criticism is worth
it? Maybe (like my mother) I equate the
criticism with genuine concern. Taking a critical
attitude. She hates my slowness. So that
the last time I wrote-I wrote about my
my own slowness. But that slowness
came out of a desire to think before
acting. I have a hunch E knows a lot.
But I really hate her critical, grumpy
attitudes. I give so freely, Others
bargain and barter. They conserve,
they hold back. She equates
everything to the way I make love.
I feel sad. I wonder also if it
can work. This is the first time
with E I've totally doubted.
And now I totally doubt what?
Her worth? No. My worth to
her. *What* she discovers or admits
is there. A- "What does C
need you for?" She still talks to me.
She isn't all that interested in talking to
him.
11/27
Ideas noted while assembling book for Slit
Wrist piece
Writing makes me want to talk with someone
Theme: writing and the need for someone
Theme: F
Theme: my psychoanalysis- my assessment of
myself
idea- going in and out of "making up things"
- thinking before you write
write about the book itself- the assembled book
theme- Lillian
[critical thoughts- what for?
do they try to neutralize anxiety?
social conditioning]
I am trying to bracket them
[putting things down or back an impulse
action]
Can it be like any other Monday
When the first words given are silent
And every other word covers its prayers and plans
With syllables of intractable silence?
No design will unravel the core of memories
That run like late night movies between each thought
Dissolving like dreams in the morning.
Monday promises nothing: but, oh, the
afternoon follows you around every
minute, whispers in your ear all its
ineffable yearnings. No going back,
yet so nice to linger gently in
childhood's indecision, the pain a
reminder and a prod, the disappearing
light seems to hold fast.
Caught between yesterday, memory,
and today, desire,
revery is our only protection. It
yields nothing but asks no admission.
Monday is its own movie, each syllable
absorbs stillness, each moment
untranslateable.
Out of the revery, Monday pleases
your children, arms encircling,
voices touching; now the hour regains
its pace and revery has called back its
answers- no specific hour, no day,
no minute- nameless, faceless warmth
of self enclosed in the ocean
of self.
Again you wake and swim thinking
nothing, nothing...this time
a face smiles back and it is your
own and another face, changing,
hiding, looking anxious, afraid,
indifferent, concerned, amazed.
Unless, until...
for Jane
Monday Revery
Words, prayers of silence
thoughts dissolve between thoughts.
Haunted whispers
constant afternoon
the pain a prod
Concentration of childish indecision
7/26/76
7/28
Stay inside the dark, don't go towards the
dark, I mean the light is what was
swallowed up in words. Don't say nothing
is happening: all the dark order of nothing
leading towards the light can never fully
explain this disappearance of desire without
any interruption. At least we speak in
many languages, the feeling of frightening
admixtures doesn't display any amplitude.
I don't exactly know the loudness of the world
and it doesn't have a name.
Nobody knows
exactly what is criminal, nobody but XZ
can tell me exactly how loud my voice is
and he doesn't exactly exist.
Valery, don't tell me now if I am
now confused. I only wanted to go on.
But there I go pleading with you again.
In a way, that laughter was the truth. "That
means..."
The line that began with "that means..."
She said it was "only a conception,
a line made up of words."
I won't any longer have to say
what I mean. A word dissolves into
muscular shadows, the feeling of things
creeping all over you. It never was
exactly over and it never was exactly
begun.
You know exactly how to believe me, X7.
I know you know exactly what I mean.
And you also know it is composed
so much of tension and excitement. You
noticed that. You only wanted a hero,
someone to remember your dream by.
Yes, XZ it is possible to stay here
but now I want to leave, to relax.
The tension is unbearable. I feel
like I am suffocating. Gets harder
and harder. That's how I expand the
tension.
How much of me can I permit you to
have, XZ. How tired will I have to
get. No stars to dissolve into
the geraniums. He says the world
is dry. No one really believes me.
8/2
Translating words from words.
Very cautious- these are psychological things.
Why my voice might be a little louder-
commit yourself to what you are saying.
SO SLOW- SO SLOW BECAUSE
SO CAUTIOUS.
10/14
I had to stop writing because I got
so wrapped up in the play.
How much E's criticism is worth
it? Maybe (like my mother) I equate the
criticism with genuine concern. Taking a critical
attitude. She hates my slowness. So that
the last time I wrote-I wrote about my
my own slowness. But that slowness
came out of a desire to think before
acting. I have a hunch E knows a lot.
But I really hate her critical, grumpy
attitudes. I give so freely, Others
bargain and barter. They conserve,
they hold back. She equates
everything to the way I make love.
I feel sad. I wonder also if it
can work. This is the first time
with E I've totally doubted.
And now I totally doubt what?
Her worth? No. My worth to
her. *What* she discovers or admits
is there. A- "What does C
need you for?" She still talks to me.
She isn't all that interested in talking to
him.
11/27
Ideas noted while assembling book for Slit
Wrist piece
Writing makes me want to talk with someone
Theme: writing and the need for someone
Theme: F
Theme: my psychoanalysis- my assessment of
myself
idea- going in and out of "making up things"
- thinking before you write
write about the book itself- the assembled book
theme- Lillian
[critical thoughts- what for?
do they try to neutralize anxiety?
social conditioning]
I am trying to bracket them
[putting things down or back an impulse
action]
Wednesday, September 3
Feel the fizz, get the buzz, rinse those cares away!!! Shampoo 18 is online now!
(I have loads of great photos of Del Ray Cross- and the other postcard book poets- taken at the Oxygen Bar Postcard Book Reading on August 3, 2003. Hopefully I will be getting some of these photos online soon.)
Cassie Lewis is the publisher of the postcard poet books under the imprint of Cafe Expresso.
(I have loads of great photos of Del Ray Cross- and the other postcard book poets- taken at the Oxygen Bar Postcard Book Reading on August 3, 2003. Hopefully I will be getting some of these photos online soon.)
Cassie Lewis is the publisher of the postcard poet books under the imprint of Cafe Expresso.
December 30, 1975
What are the words inside the words. Rage.
Babbling, speaking and talking-that it
sounds like, you know, always waiting.
A way to pass through this by filling
it with words. I remember what they were
to me. What are they now? Something
moved there, things were gathered. I wrote
no poetry (fear of abandonment) (abandonment)
no poetry. What I see are words inside
words. Rage. It's only one night. I saw
words. No voices. Finally no voices. You
don't have to suffer broken bones to love. Power.
January 15 (1975)
It seems impossible that I wrote in
here only two weeks ago. Tonight I
thought to call someone- P or P-
and say- why does there have to be
news? It's the same as history- why
there has to be history. I don't know
if the above date is exact and I
don't care. I wish there could be an
end to landmarks- to specifying
events. The thing I think is oddest
about me is that I don't care about
remembering things. I *want* to be
out of touch with time. It is possible,
particularly in solitude. In a frenzy
there wouldn't be time enough- and
in a depression, too much time:
I hate the newspaper, journalist
concept of time. I am beginning to
hate the musical concept of time too.
I think I lost the envelopes full of
notes I wrote in offices. Maybe that's
good. There are no years on them so
it doesn't matter. "So tired and depressed"
could sum up most of them. One is
most grateful for statements of
things as they are. "Realities."
The story of a depressed man who
kept track of time. Fuzziness. His
awareness of things, realities, he is
missing- another's voiced articulation
of these things, "realities." The
desire for news a desire for change-
the very deep longing for apolcalypse.
***
Have been without trances for nearly a month
and have no idea how I will pay my bills. I
went to see Les yesterday to task for more
money. He gave me some, enough to pay my rent
for a month. What is left from that will
pay for my food and cigarettes.
I've become used to the trances I don't know
what I'll do without them. I'm used to the
customers who listen to my predictions which are
90 percent accurate.
*****
21 days but these are
doing nothing
teeming with ideas and images
funny
what you see in it
and both the man and the girl
were from Tennessee. They really were.
*****
December 18, 1975
Under a full sky
As empty as you can make it
I feel so good
I could dance
Motionless-nothing
Comes out of nothing
Decorated like as or it
You make it
These are my words for you
And I know exactly what to do
Come closer
No go away, doesn't matter
So pretty- as clear as the
And you are, full moon
Words come at me from Everywhere
I tell you there were so many
I can't remember them
But I remember their opposites
LIke murder or sleep
Instead of waking and love
That person who you are escaping
Language come close to feelings,
I ask you to tell me what to say.
Words tell me what you are, what
do you want of me? Without words,
the boredom of words, with words.
What do they speak about even between
us? It was feelings, they have more
to do with it. Maybe I wanted to sing.
I saw you laugh. Be firm. Know
what was said and felt. Has to have
a solid base. Who were they, what
deals were being made out of needs.
No promises- but I know. And
day after day, minute by minute,
what it was that took us forward
into something. Not noticable
and always a little scary. You
laughed louder than anyone else and
your pleasure felt terrific. It was
great.
We have to invent. We had
to invent shadows and earthquakes
to explain these dark tremors, these
slight variations of balance and
dizziness.
I imagned silence, I played with cars
and airplanes, I stood on a gigantic
skyscraper and thumped on my chest.
King Kong, that's who I was. I just wanted
to hold her, not to hurt her; I felt so
great and powerful.
What are the words inside the words. Rage.
Babbling, speaking and talking-that it
sounds like, you know, always waiting.
A way to pass through this by filling
it with words. I remember what they were
to me. What are they now? Something
moved there, things were gathered. I wrote
no poetry (fear of abandonment) (abandonment)
no poetry. What I see are words inside
words. Rage. It's only one night. I saw
words. No voices. Finally no voices. You
don't have to suffer broken bones to love. Power.
January 15 (1975)
It seems impossible that I wrote in
here only two weeks ago. Tonight I
thought to call someone- P or P-
and say- why does there have to be
news? It's the same as history- why
there has to be history. I don't know
if the above date is exact and I
don't care. I wish there could be an
end to landmarks- to specifying
events. The thing I think is oddest
about me is that I don't care about
remembering things. I *want* to be
out of touch with time. It is possible,
particularly in solitude. In a frenzy
there wouldn't be time enough- and
in a depression, too much time:
I hate the newspaper, journalist
concept of time. I am beginning to
hate the musical concept of time too.
I think I lost the envelopes full of
notes I wrote in offices. Maybe that's
good. There are no years on them so
it doesn't matter. "So tired and depressed"
could sum up most of them. One is
most grateful for statements of
things as they are. "Realities."
The story of a depressed man who
kept track of time. Fuzziness. His
awareness of things, realities, he is
missing- another's voiced articulation
of these things, "realities." The
desire for news a desire for change-
the very deep longing for apolcalypse.
***
Have been without trances for nearly a month
and have no idea how I will pay my bills. I
went to see Les yesterday to task for more
money. He gave me some, enough to pay my rent
for a month. What is left from that will
pay for my food and cigarettes.
I've become used to the trances I don't know
what I'll do without them. I'm used to the
customers who listen to my predictions which are
90 percent accurate.
*****
21 days but these are
doing nothing
teeming with ideas and images
funny
what you see in it
and both the man and the girl
were from Tennessee. They really were.
*****
December 18, 1975
Under a full sky
As empty as you can make it
I feel so good
I could dance
Motionless-nothing
Comes out of nothing
Decorated like as or it
You make it
These are my words for you
And I know exactly what to do
Come closer
No go away, doesn't matter
So pretty- as clear as the
And you are, full moon
Words come at me from Everywhere
I tell you there were so many
I can't remember them
But I remember their opposites
LIke murder or sleep
Instead of waking and love
That person who you are escaping
Language come close to feelings,
I ask you to tell me what to say.
Words tell me what you are, what
do you want of me? Without words,
the boredom of words, with words.
What do they speak about even between
us? It was feelings, they have more
to do with it. Maybe I wanted to sing.
I saw you laugh. Be firm. Know
what was said and felt. Has to have
a solid base. Who were they, what
deals were being made out of needs.
No promises- but I know. And
day after day, minute by minute,
what it was that took us forward
into something. Not noticable
and always a little scary. You
laughed louder than anyone else and
your pleasure felt terrific. It was
great.
We have to invent. We had
to invent shadows and earthquakes
to explain these dark tremors, these
slight variations of balance and
dizziness.
I imagned silence, I played with cars
and airplanes, I stood on a gigantic
skyscraper and thumped on my chest.
King Kong, that's who I was. I just wanted
to hold her, not to hurt her; I felt so
great and powerful.
Ever since Alli Warren drove from Los Angeles to Oakland, in a flash, picking up Kasey Mohammed in Santa Cruz on the way, and arriving at Stephanie Young's reading/party before me (I was 15 minutes away in the Berkeley hills), looking as relaxed as if she had arrived from next door, I have been inordinately fond of her blog title Five Fingers Strong because, among other things, she must have some strong hands to drive like that, and secondly, she's very nice and I think of "five fingers strong" also as a "high five."
So, Alli, if you like "The Ingredient", fine, a blog by you by any name would smell as sweet (enjoy your photos too!), but , I vote for keeping it as Five Fingers Strong.
So, Alli, if you like "The Ingredient", fine, a blog by you by any name would smell as sweet (enjoy your photos too!), but , I vote for keeping it as Five Fingers Strong.
Tuesday, September 2
No desert island for me without: Jim Behrle's chapbooks. "Think of One," and "Red Shift", P. Inman, "A(gains)2 st the odds, Tina Darragh, "My Life," Lyn Hejiniann, "Absence Sensorium, Tom Mandel and Daniel Davidson, "Errata 5uite," Joan Retallack, "Space" by Clark Coolidge, Jerome Sala (selected), books by Elaine Equi.
CorpsePoetics....Eileen Tabios posts on the beautiful poetry of Mei-Mei Bersenbrugge.
*
One of the passing pleasures of blogging. I enjoy glancing at the names of new blogs showing up on New Blogger. A recent one (don't know anything about the blog): "Lilac Phonograph." Kind of like reading the hundreds of new names of bands in the Village Voice every week.
*
One of the passing pleasures of blogging. I enjoy glancing at the names of new blogs showing up on New Blogger. A recent one (don't know anything about the blog): "Lilac Phonograph." Kind of like reading the hundreds of new names of bands in the Village Voice every week.
Construct or not, I like the succession of days, weeks, months and years, the numbers, the dates, all the remembrances and holidays, though I don't like birthdays and in particular, I don't like my own birthday, don't like to even think about it. But I still enjoy birth dates, the whole, foolish progression of astrological signs, the diaspora of generations. I like the dailiness of blogging, the newness and relevance and equality of each and every day, nevertheless within that equivalence an astonishing diversity of moods, themes, clusters, clashes, giggles, sighs, asides apprehensions, mornings, mournings, innovations, improvisations, proddings. welcomings.
Anyway, I just wanted to start Tuesday off with a few more lines from Elizabeth Robinson's "Apprehend",
(Apogee, 2003), read a bit more, maybe listen to some Paul Butterfield, and hit the hay. So, good night, good morning or afternoon, as the case may be!
"The witch herself wears stripes
marking her as a pariah.
How she happened to know
that there are options even in repetition:
starvation breeds resourcefulness.
Yes, she paints one line atop another
until the stripe itself acquires dimension
and curls like a tongue
from the limits of two dimensionality.
She paints one line atop another on her naked form"
Anyway, I just wanted to start Tuesday off with a few more lines from Elizabeth Robinson's "Apprehend",
(Apogee, 2003), read a bit more, maybe listen to some Paul Butterfield, and hit the hay. So, good night, good morning or afternoon, as the case may be!
"The witch herself wears stripes
marking her as a pariah.
How she happened to know
that there are options even in repetition:
starvation breeds resourcefulness.
Yes, she paints one line atop another
until the stripe itself acquires dimension
and curls like a tongue
from the limits of two dimensionality.
She paints one line atop another on her naked form"
Monday, September 1
Chris Lott has been struggling for awhile now whether or not to continue his blog,- Ruminate-. In a recent post, he mentions that bloggers have suddenly become concerned with "essential texts" and provides his own interesting list. I must admit that the moment I read Chris' perception, I had the thought: "This is because blogging is causing these texts to be *less* essential." Is it possible that Chris is surfacing the fact that our blogging activities may be causing our previous poetic practices to become more marginal than ever?
When I became interested in writing theoretical texts, which resulted largely from my study of the critical work of Robert Smithson, I had the feeling that the theoretical work might make the poetic work more accessible. Gradually I realized that my theoretical work was changing what I wanted to write and how I wanted to write. My theoretical essay writing eventually gave way to writing aphorisms which eventually gave way to my creating a form I called "theoretical objects"- a term that Douglas Messerli provided me with.
Now I am finding that my blogging writing, that I had convinced myself would bring new readers to my theoretical objects, is driving me towards still another change in perspective, one that is more collaborative, more open, less constructed, more responsive: the qualities of the typical blog that I enjoy and admire. I may as well adopt as my motto the last line of "The Great Gatsby" which has long preoccupied me: "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." But I would also reverse it and say: "So we look back, longing for origins, borne forward ceaselessly towards the unknown."
Only there is no "past", no "present" no "future." These are constructs, all of which may be morphing into something that is becoming harder and harder to recognize, and even more difficult to adapt to.
So Chris' conflicts about Ruminate may be more relevant and challenging than he thought. As he struggles, the alternatives appear to be becoming less and less relevant. Maybe even less real.
When I became interested in writing theoretical texts, which resulted largely from my study of the critical work of Robert Smithson, I had the feeling that the theoretical work might make the poetic work more accessible. Gradually I realized that my theoretical work was changing what I wanted to write and how I wanted to write. My theoretical essay writing eventually gave way to writing aphorisms which eventually gave way to my creating a form I called "theoretical objects"- a term that Douglas Messerli provided me with.
Now I am finding that my blogging writing, that I had convinced myself would bring new readers to my theoretical objects, is driving me towards still another change in perspective, one that is more collaborative, more open, less constructed, more responsive: the qualities of the typical blog that I enjoy and admire. I may as well adopt as my motto the last line of "The Great Gatsby" which has long preoccupied me: "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." But I would also reverse it and say: "So we look back, longing for origins, borne forward ceaselessly towards the unknown."
Only there is no "past", no "present" no "future." These are constructs, all of which may be morphing into something that is becoming harder and harder to recognize, and even more difficult to adapt to.
So Chris' conflicts about Ruminate may be more relevant and challenging than he thought. As he struggles, the alternatives appear to be becoming less and less relevant. Maybe even less real.
I mentioned earlier I bought five books for six bucks at the Antiquarian Bookshop in Boston.
from "Apprehend" by Elizabeth Robinson (Apogee)
"You, Reader, come closer
and extend your fingers
through the bars of the cage
so I can feel their pleasing tenderness..."
from "Childhood" by Nathalie Sarraute
"The day the mistress gave back our essays, I wait with
the presentiment, but it's more like the certainty, that the
list will begin with my name. The mark written on the paper
is less important...it will probably be an 8 or a 9...
But, to confirm my success, it is absolutely necessary for my
name to be at the head of the list!..."
from "Sesame and Lilies" by John Ruskin
"My friends, I do not know why any of us should talk about
reading. We want some sharper discipline than that of reading; but,
at all events, be assured, we cannot read. No reading is possible for
a people with a mind in this state. No sentence of any great writer
is intelligible to them. It is simply and sternly impossible for the English
public , at this moment, to understand any thoughtful writing- so incapable
has thought become in the insanity of avarice: we ring true still, when
anything strikes home to us; and ...the idea that everything should
"pay" has infected our every purpose so deeply..."
from "Essays, Reviews, etc, etc" by William Makepeace Thackeray
"Arguing for liberty of conscience against any authority, however
great- against Doctor Arnold himself, who seems to me to be the greatest,
wisest, and best of men that has appeared for eighteen hundred years- let us
take a stand at once, and ask, Why should not the day have its literature?
Why should not authors make light sketches? Why should not the public
be amused daily or frequently by kindly fictions? The trivial and familiar
are out of place there; the harmless joker must walk away abashed
from such a presence, as he would be silent and hushed in a cathedral.
But all the world is not make of that angelic stuff..."
"The Double Dream of Spring" by John Ashbery
"I am still completely happy.
My resolve to win further I have
Thrown out, and am charged by the thrill
Of the sun coming up..."
from "Apprehend" by Elizabeth Robinson (Apogee)
"You, Reader, come closer
and extend your fingers
through the bars of the cage
so I can feel their pleasing tenderness..."
from "Childhood" by Nathalie Sarraute
"The day the mistress gave back our essays, I wait with
the presentiment, but it's more like the certainty, that the
list will begin with my name. The mark written on the paper
is less important...it will probably be an 8 or a 9...
But, to confirm my success, it is absolutely necessary for my
name to be at the head of the list!..."
from "Sesame and Lilies" by John Ruskin
"My friends, I do not know why any of us should talk about
reading. We want some sharper discipline than that of reading; but,
at all events, be assured, we cannot read. No reading is possible for
a people with a mind in this state. No sentence of any great writer
is intelligible to them. It is simply and sternly impossible for the English
public , at this moment, to understand any thoughtful writing- so incapable
has thought become in the insanity of avarice: we ring true still, when
anything strikes home to us; and ...the idea that everything should
"pay" has infected our every purpose so deeply..."
from "Essays, Reviews, etc, etc" by William Makepeace Thackeray
"Arguing for liberty of conscience against any authority, however
great- against Doctor Arnold himself, who seems to me to be the greatest,
wisest, and best of men that has appeared for eighteen hundred years- let us
take a stand at once, and ask, Why should not the day have its literature?
Why should not authors make light sketches? Why should not the public
be amused daily or frequently by kindly fictions? The trivial and familiar
are out of place there; the harmless joker must walk away abashed
from such a presence, as he would be silent and hushed in a cathedral.
But all the world is not make of that angelic stuff..."
"The Double Dream of Spring" by John Ashbery
"I am still completely happy.
My resolve to win further I have
Thrown out, and am charged by the thrill
Of the sun coming up..."
Sunday, August 31
Performing Objects Stationed In The Sub World by Carla Harryman
opens in San Francisco on September 10th
A performance collaboration
written by Carla Harryman
Designed by Amy Trachtenberg and directed by Jim Cave
with music by Erling Wold
Click here for dates, times and an advance review by guess who?
Performing Objects Stationed In The Sub World
opens in San Francisco on September 10th
A performance collaboration
written by Carla Harryman
Designed by Amy Trachtenberg and directed by Jim Cave
with music by Erling Wold
Click here for dates, times and an advance review by guess who?
Performing Objects Stationed In The Sub World
This weekend I am visiting Toni's sister and brother-in-law in Arlington, Mass. Way back when I audblogged some of their son's electronic music and today he is off to college in Boston- Emerson- evidently a good place to focus on music composition and theater. Some years back, my favorite antiquarian bookstore in the world, Arlington Books moved to Boston so I haven't been there in years. Bob and Beryl kindly brought me there today and for a little over six bucks I bought what I might consider some pretty good desert island material. By the way, my top choices for desert island reading would be: V.imp (Nada Gordon), Swoon (Nada Gordon and Gary Sullivan),"How to Proceed in the Arts" (Gary Sullivan), Jordan Davis' "Million Poems", three books in manuscript I have by Stephanie Young, the works of Walter Benjamin (in translation), the works of William Hazlitt, the works of Paul Celan (in translation), "Trilce" (Cesar Vallejo, in translation), the works of Rainer Maria Rilke (in translation), the collected Wallace Stevens, Charles Bernstein's "Islets/Irritations", Ashbery's "Tennis Court Oath" , "Desire" by David Bromige, "Wobbling" by Bruce Andrews, and "Moving" and "Studying Hunger" by Bernadette Mayer, as well as "The L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Book", Kathleen Fraser's selected, Ann Lauterbach's selected, one of Alan Davies' books and one of Michael Gottlieb's and one of Ray DiPalma's. Carla Harryman's "Under The Bridge", Barrett Watten's selected, Ron Silliman's collection of essays including "The Chinese Notebook", Ron Silliman's Ketjak, a book of Douglas Messerli's, a book of Lynn Dreyer's, a book by Lyn Hejinian, one by Kit Robinson, one of Leslie Scalapino's, a book by Keith Waldrop and one by Rosemarie Waldrop. I'd also include both Sun and Moon Gertrude Stein Awards anthologies and probably several books of aphorisms, including the Oxford Press selection. And because I have not yet read them, but I'm confident I will be fascinated, I would bring all the books published by Tougher Disguises Press, though I don't yet have them, and all my copies of Kenning, including the CD and several issues of Chain. I would probably also bring a book of Rotella's collages and maybe some other books of collages, including my own: "Free Fall" (unpublished).This is a big box, but I brought a bigger one to Rapallo when I went there for a year in 1968 (I wound up suffering through all the books of Virginia Woolf in the English language library there). I would also toss in the five books I bought today at Antiquarian Books of Boston,( Old South Meeting House, Washington/Milk Streets, 1-617-292-4700.)
I will do a list of desert island CD's and movies another time.
I bought: (lovely, just like its author): "Apprehend" by Elizabeth Robinson (Apogee, 2003)-winner of the Fence modern poet's series. By the way, if you are in Berkeley or near it and ER has any more of her backyard poetry readings, my advice is GO.
"Childhood" by Nathalie Sarraute (Braziller, 1984)
"Sesame and Lilies" three lectures by John Ruskin, Thomas Crowell, originally published 1871, surely a more recent reprint
"Essays, Reviews" by Willliam Makepeace Thackeray, 1909, leatherbound small edition
"The Double Dream of Spring" by John Ashbery, Ecco Press, 1976
(I'll post a few quotes later)
I will do a list of desert island CD's and movies another time.
I bought: (lovely, just like its author): "Apprehend" by Elizabeth Robinson (Apogee, 2003)-winner of the Fence modern poet's series. By the way, if you are in Berkeley or near it and ER has any more of her backyard poetry readings, my advice is GO.
"Childhood" by Nathalie Sarraute (Braziller, 1984)
"Sesame and Lilies" three lectures by John Ruskin, Thomas Crowell, originally published 1871, surely a more recent reprint
"Essays, Reviews" by Willliam Makepeace Thackeray, 1909, leatherbound small edition
"The Double Dream of Spring" by John Ashbery, Ecco Press, 1976
(I'll post a few quotes later)
"He tried to make her understand. "This was an exceptional case. It wasn't just a question of somebody being killed. Do you realize that the past, starting from yesterday, has actually been abolished? If it survives anywhere, it's in a few solid objects with no words attached to them, like that lump of glass there. Already we know almost literally nothing about the Revolution and the years before the Revolution. Every record has been destroyed or falsified, every book has been rewritten, every picture has been repainted, every statue and street and building has been renamed, every date has been altered. And that process is ontinuing day by day and minute by minute. History has been stopped. Nothing exists except an endless present in which the Party is always right. I *know*, of course, that the past is falsified but it would never be possible for me to prove it, even when I did the falsification myself. After the thing is done, no evidence ever remains. The only evidence is inside my own mind, and I don't know with any certainty that any other human being shares my memories. Just in that one instance, in my whole life, I did posess actual concrete evidence *after* the event- years after it.
"And what good was that?"
"It was no good, because I threw it away a few minutes later. But if the same thing happened today, I should keep it."
"Well I wouldn't!" said Julia. "I"m quite ready to take risks, but only for something worth while, not for bits of old newspaper. What could you have done with it even if you had kept it?"
"Not much, perhaps. But it was evidence. It might have planted a few doubts here and there, supposing that I'd dare to show it to anybody. I don't imagine that we can alter anything in our own lifetime. But one can imagine little knots of resistance sprining up here and there- small groups of people banding themselves together, and gradually growing and even leaving a few records behind, so that the next generation can carry on where we leave off."
"I'm not interested in the next generation, dear. I'm interested in *us*.
"You're only a rebel from the waist downwards," he told her.
She thought this brilliantly witty and flung her arms around him in delight."
George Orwell, *1984*
"And what good was that?"
"It was no good, because I threw it away a few minutes later. But if the same thing happened today, I should keep it."
"Well I wouldn't!" said Julia. "I"m quite ready to take risks, but only for something worth while, not for bits of old newspaper. What could you have done with it even if you had kept it?"
"Not much, perhaps. But it was evidence. It might have planted a few doubts here and there, supposing that I'd dare to show it to anybody. I don't imagine that we can alter anything in our own lifetime. But one can imagine little knots of resistance sprining up here and there- small groups of people banding themselves together, and gradually growing and even leaving a few records behind, so that the next generation can carry on where we leave off."
"I'm not interested in the next generation, dear. I'm interested in *us*.
"You're only a rebel from the waist downwards," he told her.
She thought this brilliantly witty and flung her arms around him in delight."
George Orwell, *1984*
Saturday, August 30
"The thing he was about to do was open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, sincere there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced labor camp.,,In small clumsy letters he wrote:
April 4th, 1984.
He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this *was* 1984. It must be round that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.
For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak word *doublethink.* For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him, or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have fogotten what it was that he had originally intended to stay....The seconds were ticking by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music, and a slight boozness of the gin.
Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down...
*April 4th, 1984. Last night at the fllicks. All war films. One very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused by shots of a huge fat man trying to swim away with a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the helicopter gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea around him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter when he sank, then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a helicopter hovering over it...then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb among in them terrific flash and the boat went all to watchwood. then there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there a lot of applause from the party seats..."
George Orwell, *1984* (Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1949)
April 4th, 1984.
He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this *was* 1984. It must be round that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.
For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak word *doublethink.* For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him, or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have fogotten what it was that he had originally intended to stay....The seconds were ticking by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music, and a slight boozness of the gin.
Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down...
*April 4th, 1984. Last night at the fllicks. All war films. One very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused by shots of a huge fat man trying to swim away with a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the helicopter gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea around him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter when he sank, then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a helicopter hovering over it...then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb among in them terrific flash and the boat went all to watchwood. then there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there a lot of applause from the party seats..."
George Orwell, *1984* (Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1949)
"We looked at each other in the same way then
But I can't remember where or when...
Some things that happen for the first time
Seem to be happening again.."
Kasey S. Mohammed has written a fiery epitaph/manifesto/anti-manifesto for The New Brutalism-see "North To Nothingness" (8/30/03)
The New Brutalism is dead! Long live The New Brutalism!
But I can't remember where or when...
Some things that happen for the first time
Seem to be happening again.."
Kasey S. Mohammed has written a fiery epitaph/manifesto/anti-manifesto for The New Brutalism-see "North To Nothingness" (8/30/03)
The New Brutalism is dead! Long live The New Brutalism!
Friday, August 29
Friday,August 29, 2003
today, from The Brutal Kittens...James Meetze
It's looking as if Tougher Disguises will be invading New York on November 6th to host a reading in the Boog City series for non-New York presses.
Line-up so far:
Noah Eli Gordon
Cynthia Sailers
James Meetze
today, from The Brutal Kittens...James Meetze
It's looking as if Tougher Disguises will be invading New York on November 6th to host a reading in the Boog City series for non-New York presses.
Line-up so far:
Noah Eli Gordon
Cynthia Sailers
James Meetze
Today, in a statement on the SUNY/Buff poetics list, K. Silem Mohammed puts his recent BBC interview on Flarf in perspective. He is at pains to tell us the interview was brief, that he read a few lines of a poem, only to go on to explain to the interviewer that Flarf consists of intentionally bad poetry, throwing the interviewer onto a (stock) "flabbergasted" question: But Is It Art?. (Kasey said yes).In a funny aside, Kasey reveals that the most charming thing about the interview was the interviewer's pronunciation of the word "Flarf" (appparently in a brogue). I loved this statement of Kasey's because of what it says, first, about his legendary kindness (he introduces his discussion of the interview wth the phrase "lest anyone build it up too much"), and second, related, what it might imply about the meaning of that so-hard-to-pin down term , the "New Brutalism" (perhaps the only possible way [highly ironicized] of putting out a subliminal call for caring and kindness while still retaining some modicum of imperative brattiness?)
So, get to know some New Brutalists, and the work, and see for yourself...
So, get to know some New Brutalists, and the work, and see for yourself...
1/23/94
Concerto for specific idea and
series of background thoughts.
1.
1/25/94 (12:05 a.m.)
Is it lack of love or lack of feeling
or pure exhaustion
that leaves me reeling?
1/27/94
How we press our hands and
faces against the glass divide
that separates us from this world.
With laughter, with sorrow, with
unending faith and learning, with acts
of unimaginable devotion or cruelty
we work to wring some kind of
reaction out of an essentially
unresponsive universe. Well,
perhaps this is unfair- the
universe can be very responsive-
for very brief periods of time,
but soon enough it will return
to its routine business of creation
and destruction, not significantly
influenced by my tiny contribution
one way or another, again, for
very long. So this longing to be
so much a part of things, to
join with others passionately in
a spirited exchange, eventually gives
way to the cycle of recognizing
each of our individual alonenesses.
True, we celebrated our common
victories and mourned together
our common sufferings. Still we had to
struggle, sometimes repeatedly, to remain
focussed on our common interests
and challenges.
*
It was hard because
no sooner have we declared
our sincerity in our
determination to participate
and be finally elected to the
select circle of those who have
won renown, either permanent or
evanescent, we realized,
like Aurelius, that it is all
evenescent. After
a quiet moment of serious
reflection we usually laugh. That
is, if we're lucky.
*
How good it is to stop sometimes,
especially when you can remember
that soon it will be followed by
another beginning.
*
Then it is endings we decry! In
every one of our sadnesses, we
are rehearsing the keenest one,
reliving all of them.
*
Things are neither as far, nor as
close, as we think they are.
Concerto for specific idea and
series of background thoughts.
1.
1/25/94 (12:05 a.m.)
Is it lack of love or lack of feeling
or pure exhaustion
that leaves me reeling?
1/27/94
How we press our hands and
faces against the glass divide
that separates us from this world.
With laughter, with sorrow, with
unending faith and learning, with acts
of unimaginable devotion or cruelty
we work to wring some kind of
reaction out of an essentially
unresponsive universe. Well,
perhaps this is unfair- the
universe can be very responsive-
for very brief periods of time,
but soon enough it will return
to its routine business of creation
and destruction, not significantly
influenced by my tiny contribution
one way or another, again, for
very long. So this longing to be
so much a part of things, to
join with others passionately in
a spirited exchange, eventually gives
way to the cycle of recognizing
each of our individual alonenesses.
True, we celebrated our common
victories and mourned together
our common sufferings. Still we had to
struggle, sometimes repeatedly, to remain
focussed on our common interests
and challenges.
*
It was hard because
no sooner have we declared
our sincerity in our
determination to participate
and be finally elected to the
select circle of those who have
won renown, either permanent or
evanescent, we realized,
like Aurelius, that it is all
evenescent. After
a quiet moment of serious
reflection we usually laugh. That
is, if we're lucky.
*
How good it is to stop sometimes,
especially when you can remember
that soon it will be followed by
another beginning.
*
Then it is endings we decry! In
every one of our sadnesses, we
are rehearsing the keenest one,
reliving all of them.
*
Things are neither as far, nor as
close, as we think they are.
'What a fine comedy this world would
be if one did not play a part in it."
Diderot, Letters to Sophie Vollard
"The bounded is loathed by its
possessor. The same dull round, even
of a universe, would soon become a
mill with complicated wheels."
Blake- 'There is no natural religion', 1788
"Everything which I have created as a poet
has had its origin in a frame of mnd and
a situation in life; I never wrote because I
had, as they say, found a good subject."
Henrik Ibsen
6/18/94
Robert Motherwell:
"The problem of the artist is to wait
until reality speaks to him. [...] To
do nothing until a work, an image,
a clear structure begins to unfold
its meaning."
Odilon Redon, 1898
his works "*inspire* and are not
meant to be defined. They determine
nothing. They place us, as does music,
in the ambiguous realm of the
undetermined. They are a kind of
metaphor."
Still the idea intrigues me of writing
a work in which I can discuss ideas
and still obtain the forward momentum
and charm of immediacy in a
piece of poetry or fiction- this
"H.C." and "T.C," idea is not yet
it- but when I wrote it I had an
image of a "work inside a work"
which would capture the feeling of
what I am imagining about this-
like *Explications.*
"Part of the surprise of modern art is
to strip away from painting the
costumes, the masquerades, the status
symbols of church and state and
poltics-hence, its so-called
abstraction, which is actually a
humanly felt universalism.
Motherwell
"To be a master of a language is
to be a master of emphasis. What is
emhasized is at once the form and
the content."
7/2/94
Poetry-99% silence and 1% whispering.
I imagine a poetry tha would make
most of what has been written unitl now
sound like screaming, or at least shouting
be if one did not play a part in it."
Diderot, Letters to Sophie Vollard
"The bounded is loathed by its
possessor. The same dull round, even
of a universe, would soon become a
mill with complicated wheels."
Blake- 'There is no natural religion', 1788
"Everything which I have created as a poet
has had its origin in a frame of mnd and
a situation in life; I never wrote because I
had, as they say, found a good subject."
Henrik Ibsen
6/18/94
Robert Motherwell:
"The problem of the artist is to wait
until reality speaks to him. [...] To
do nothing until a work, an image,
a clear structure begins to unfold
its meaning."
Odilon Redon, 1898
his works "*inspire* and are not
meant to be defined. They determine
nothing. They place us, as does music,
in the ambiguous realm of the
undetermined. They are a kind of
metaphor."
Still the idea intrigues me of writing
a work in which I can discuss ideas
and still obtain the forward momentum
and charm of immediacy in a
piece of poetry or fiction- this
"H.C." and "T.C," idea is not yet
it- but when I wrote it I had an
image of a "work inside a work"
which would capture the feeling of
what I am imagining about this-
like *Explications.*
"Part of the surprise of modern art is
to strip away from painting the
costumes, the masquerades, the status
symbols of church and state and
poltics-hence, its so-called
abstraction, which is actually a
humanly felt universalism.
Motherwell
"To be a master of a language is
to be a master of emphasis. What is
emhasized is at once the form and
the content."
7/2/94
Poetry-99% silence and 1% whispering.
I imagine a poetry tha would make
most of what has been written unitl now
sound like screaming, or at least shouting
Thursday, August 28
Thanks to Mikarrhea...Michaela Cooper for mentioning -fait accompli- and welcome to Blogland! It appears she has the requisite sense of humor to survive in this strange new world.
Here are a few more of my favorite aphorisms:
"There is hardly any grief that an
hour's reading will not dissipate."
Montesquieu, -Mes Pensees- 1722-55
"To be happy, we must not be too concerned with others."
Albert Camus, -The Fall-, 1956
"There is a certain distance at which
each person we know is naturally
placed from us. It varies with each,
and we must not attempt to alter
it. We may clasp him who is close,
and we are not to pull closer to him who
is more remote."
Mark Rutherford, -More Pages from a Journal-, 1910
"What a fine comedy this world would
be if one did not play a part in it."
Diderot, -Letters to Sophie Vollard-
"if only we could treat ourselves
as we treat other men, looking at their
withdrawn faces and crediting them with
some mysterious, irresistable power. Instead,
we know all our own thoughts, our misgivings,
and we are reduced to hoping for some
unconscious force to surge up from our
inmost being and act with a subtlety all its own."
Cesare Pavese-This Business of Living: Diaries-1935-1950
Here are a few more of my favorite aphorisms:
"There is hardly any grief that an
hour's reading will not dissipate."
Montesquieu, -Mes Pensees- 1722-55
"To be happy, we must not be too concerned with others."
Albert Camus, -The Fall-, 1956
"There is a certain distance at which
each person we know is naturally
placed from us. It varies with each,
and we must not attempt to alter
it. We may clasp him who is close,
and we are not to pull closer to him who
is more remote."
Mark Rutherford, -More Pages from a Journal-, 1910
"What a fine comedy this world would
be if one did not play a part in it."
Diderot, -Letters to Sophie Vollard-
"if only we could treat ourselves
as we treat other men, looking at their
withdrawn faces and crediting them with
some mysterious, irresistable power. Instead,
we know all our own thoughts, our misgivings,
and we are reduced to hoping for some
unconscious force to surge up from our
inmost being and act with a subtlety all its own."
Cesare Pavese-This Business of Living: Diaries-1935-1950
8/1/99 Amsterdam
Homo Sapiens Non Urinat In Ventum
8/10/99
inching
anticipation
foresight foretaste forethought forewarning
preconception premonition prescience
presentiment
prolepsis
8/12
Almost immediately, "The
Music Lesson" transposed itself
from a narrative into a series
of brief episodes in the
form of a series of aphorisms.
The first of which is: don't
expect the student to be in
any hurry for the lesson.
Perhaps if he or she rushed to
it we might expect them to be
too eager, too accomodating.
The teacher wants good students, not
necessarily compliant ones.
8/16/99
What makes change so
difficult? I've a mind to
smooth out some rough edges,
but there is always this
resistance. My behavior- or
the connection between how I
take action and how I am
feeling, it's this equation I
would like to adjust. Part of
this, I see is related to the
unpredictability of the external
conditions at any given moment.
I overreact, or rigidly react
to these external conditions as
if they were human, that is,
purposeful. This is, of course, the
theme of "Zen In The Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance" as I
remember. I ought to rereread
this book.
As I understand, and develop, what
I enjoy reading, I better understand
what I want to write. I remember
Fielding once suggesting that
the difficulty I have is not so
much with how I react to people
but how I respond to how
they respond to me. So
this is where neutrality
to outcomes comes in.
The automatic reaction
to disappointment, for
example, is to feel
frustrated. My reaction frequently
contains the need to reveal,
and often even to
sustain this frustration.
Maybe part of this urge is
to examine the feelings- and,
if it's a wound, to sort
of pick at the scab, or
press the bruise. But another
side of this is to take
offence- to be displeased and
to express the displeasure.
Getting better is feeling
better, feeling better is having
more, having more is having
more to give.
Wincing- why so much?
Asking for something, asking for
support; "something hurt me- help me."
Memories imply a break
with what took place in
the past. But there was no
break. Day after day, every day
since the first you have been
who you are. To remember you
need only look at what you
are doing at any given moment.
Probably you were doing something
very similar to what you are
doing right now back then.
Maybe a few details have changed,
something you used to do into
a different version of what you
were doing back then.
Misunderstandings can only
come from unmet needs.
Each understanding is like a
rung on the ladder. Yet
every day you have to find
the impetus to climb the
ladder again. First the
ladder- and then the
climbing. Then seeing
something-then more ladders,
more climbing.
So- how to manage this
annoyance- disappointment
thing better. This is what I was
studying with stoicism and
Seneca. These annoyance-
disappointment spells have
actually wasted an awful lot
of time in my life.
8/17/99
I just understood that sometimes
I interpret some unfortunate
experience as if it were a reflection of my
destiny and therefore- somehow- as
a reflection on my self-worth or value.
An example. this year, in the
school I work in there was a
considerable amount of construction
work. This bothered my hearing because
of a hearing condition I have
called tinnitus. Once I speculated
that a very loud construction
project which took place
right next to another school
I worked in over 10 years ago
caused my problem. When they drove
in the foundation it sounded like
explosions. A year later
the ear noises started. So
these misfortunes get grouped
under bad luck surrounding
construction nearby me. Then,
when there is a much quieter
construction project right
acorss from me in Amsterdam,
it all gets clustered
under "bad luck I get
around construction projects."
And somehow this bad luck
is deserved. The fact
that it feels deserved depresses
me. But, in actuality, the
amount of focus I give
something is chosen by me,
not the external environment.
This is Seneca's message.
Yesterday I tried to push through
this. I am very interested in
mastering this and it seems like
an extremely valuable project.
*
I realized, listening to
Debussy the last few days-
but it also applies to the
Beethoven I've been listening
to: to create according to
very basic kinds of
steps, and gradually to allow
the feelings to overtake me,
and then watch what happens
next. This often involves
considerable waiting. All through
the years I've noticed there are
times I do not write. Many
years ago I might have
gotten upset about these
periods. At times I
can even shed the mantle
of "writer." Why wear
this interest so loudly like a
uniform? It is more interesting
to change identities sometimes,
like costumes. We all do
this naturally, to some
extent, in everyday life.
At a job or professional
activity we have to don this
mantle or we
will not be able to accomplish
very much. Often this
question is one of setting limits
with other people. If we
fail to set these limits,
we will be unable to
manage our activities vis-a
vis other people.
Even the Beethoven- simple steps,
one progressing naturally from
the previous one and the next one.
But, compared with Debussy,
Beethoven is very forceably
moving forward with each step
and sequence of steps. These
middle quartets glide easily
between moods- but there
are rarely the "complete
silences" I hear in Debussy.
The more smoothly one can
change the masks, the quicker
can things move forward. The
times of waiting are clothes-
changing periods. Or sometimes,
with me, it is a stubborn
refusal to don any mask at
all.
In a mirage, I can
don any costume at will.
It may seem so, but I
am not dressing hurriedly.
No, because I am thinking
about what I want to wear.
I knew where my hatred of
uniforms comes from. It
comes from my father.
Since he was a soldier,
an officer, he wore a
uniform every day. I
think he loved them so
much, that when he retired
the only activity he could
enjoy was managing the
uniforms for students
in an army training
program [ROTC, at City College of New York,
in the early 60's].
What is the impatience ever
about? It is about equating
procedures with rigid uniforms,
unconsciously. But certainly
because I've dwelled so long
in a horror of uniforms, that
I can certainly detect the
rigid aspects of "uniform"
behavior- particularly of
importance to me in writing,
but I also detect it frequently
in other areas of being.
Homo Sapiens Non Urinat In Ventum
8/10/99
inching
anticipation
foresight foretaste forethought forewarning
preconception premonition prescience
presentiment
prolepsis
8/12
Almost immediately, "The
Music Lesson" transposed itself
from a narrative into a series
of brief episodes in the
form of a series of aphorisms.
The first of which is: don't
expect the student to be in
any hurry for the lesson.
Perhaps if he or she rushed to
it we might expect them to be
too eager, too accomodating.
The teacher wants good students, not
necessarily compliant ones.
8/16/99
What makes change so
difficult? I've a mind to
smooth out some rough edges,
but there is always this
resistance. My behavior- or
the connection between how I
take action and how I am
feeling, it's this equation I
would like to adjust. Part of
this, I see is related to the
unpredictability of the external
conditions at any given moment.
I overreact, or rigidly react
to these external conditions as
if they were human, that is,
purposeful. This is, of course, the
theme of "Zen In The Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance" as I
remember. I ought to rereread
this book.
As I understand, and develop, what
I enjoy reading, I better understand
what I want to write. I remember
Fielding once suggesting that
the difficulty I have is not so
much with how I react to people
but how I respond to how
they respond to me. So
this is where neutrality
to outcomes comes in.
The automatic reaction
to disappointment, for
example, is to feel
frustrated. My reaction frequently
contains the need to reveal,
and often even to
sustain this frustration.
Maybe part of this urge is
to examine the feelings- and,
if it's a wound, to sort
of pick at the scab, or
press the bruise. But another
side of this is to take
offence- to be displeased and
to express the displeasure.
Getting better is feeling
better, feeling better is having
more, having more is having
more to give.
Wincing- why so much?
Asking for something, asking for
support; "something hurt me- help me."
Memories imply a break
with what took place in
the past. But there was no
break. Day after day, every day
since the first you have been
who you are. To remember you
need only look at what you
are doing at any given moment.
Probably you were doing something
very similar to what you are
doing right now back then.
Maybe a few details have changed,
something you used to do into
a different version of what you
were doing back then.
Misunderstandings can only
come from unmet needs.
Each understanding is like a
rung on the ladder. Yet
every day you have to find
the impetus to climb the
ladder again. First the
ladder- and then the
climbing. Then seeing
something-then more ladders,
more climbing.
So- how to manage this
annoyance- disappointment
thing better. This is what I was
studying with stoicism and
Seneca. These annoyance-
disappointment spells have
actually wasted an awful lot
of time in my life.
8/17/99
I just understood that sometimes
I interpret some unfortunate
experience as if it were a reflection of my
destiny and therefore- somehow- as
a reflection on my self-worth or value.
An example. this year, in the
school I work in there was a
considerable amount of construction
work. This bothered my hearing because
of a hearing condition I have
called tinnitus. Once I speculated
that a very loud construction
project which took place
right next to another school
I worked in over 10 years ago
caused my problem. When they drove
in the foundation it sounded like
explosions. A year later
the ear noises started. So
these misfortunes get grouped
under bad luck surrounding
construction nearby me. Then,
when there is a much quieter
construction project right
acorss from me in Amsterdam,
it all gets clustered
under "bad luck I get
around construction projects."
And somehow this bad luck
is deserved. The fact
that it feels deserved depresses
me. But, in actuality, the
amount of focus I give
something is chosen by me,
not the external environment.
This is Seneca's message.
Yesterday I tried to push through
this. I am very interested in
mastering this and it seems like
an extremely valuable project.
*
I realized, listening to
Debussy the last few days-
but it also applies to the
Beethoven I've been listening
to: to create according to
very basic kinds of
steps, and gradually to allow
the feelings to overtake me,
and then watch what happens
next. This often involves
considerable waiting. All through
the years I've noticed there are
times I do not write. Many
years ago I might have
gotten upset about these
periods. At times I
can even shed the mantle
of "writer." Why wear
this interest so loudly like a
uniform? It is more interesting
to change identities sometimes,
like costumes. We all do
this naturally, to some
extent, in everyday life.
At a job or professional
activity we have to don this
mantle or we
will not be able to accomplish
very much. Often this
question is one of setting limits
with other people. If we
fail to set these limits,
we will be unable to
manage our activities vis-a
vis other people.
Even the Beethoven- simple steps,
one progressing naturally from
the previous one and the next one.
But, compared with Debussy,
Beethoven is very forceably
moving forward with each step
and sequence of steps. These
middle quartets glide easily
between moods- but there
are rarely the "complete
silences" I hear in Debussy.
The more smoothly one can
change the masks, the quicker
can things move forward. The
times of waiting are clothes-
changing periods. Or sometimes,
with me, it is a stubborn
refusal to don any mask at
all.
In a mirage, I can
don any costume at will.
It may seem so, but I
am not dressing hurriedly.
No, because I am thinking
about what I want to wear.
I knew where my hatred of
uniforms comes from. It
comes from my father.
Since he was a soldier,
an officer, he wore a
uniform every day. I
think he loved them so
much, that when he retired
the only activity he could
enjoy was managing the
uniforms for students
in an army training
program [ROTC, at City College of New York,
in the early 60's].
What is the impatience ever
about? It is about equating
procedures with rigid uniforms,
unconsciously. But certainly
because I've dwelled so long
in a horror of uniforms, that
I can certainly detect the
rigid aspects of "uniform"
behavior- particularly of
importance to me in writing,
but I also detect it frequently
in other areas of being.
Wednesday, August 27
8/3/94
Dreams/Transitions
Not sure if or when I fell asleep, I
began to dream
In a classroom, a different kind of
classroom: what did I come here to learn?
People friendly, I reach out
Wondering-faces
Is there certainty? For fear?
Unrevealed-and people show themselves,
can't help it
Better be exact- take measure
In between time- to get started
Then someone starts crying
I hold hands-wringing hands-hiding them
Unfortunate-make jokes-they can't
explain or understand
I insist on the possibility of racial harmony
Very slow nodding of heads-shaking of heads
I start to run but something holds my feet
Color-bombed out buildings- furniture in a vacant lot
Stripes-laughter-throw down partially smoked cigarettes
They scramble for them- to smoke
To be continued-
On the telephone-
Can't you remember?
Slowly shaking my head
Don't try to tell me
Unfortunate victims
II
Boundary line between sleeping and waking state
And I try to explain it
come back to get hurt
Tears-explanations
Loud noises again- I can't sleep!
Listen to me
Clouds passing-months passing
-opinions-papers-calls
Try to remember
Don't have to be exact
Or abrupt or so awake
Now think it over
Can't remember
Went out-took something-looking-
sunny-nobody there
In between
Pretend you're there-close your eyes-now look
Blue-white and blue-what do you see
Nothing-I see darkness-maybe nothing
Wait-stairs-or a street
Just something- I feel it- what
Love that there is just something invisible
Or not invisible
Uncovered and not moving
Held and not shaking
Once you talk the darkness disappears
Maybe it would be too embarassing
To specify
Artificially imposed waiting
At the side of
In the valley of
You could be just drying your hands
Or changing your clothes
And something occurs to you
At the moment the most alive
You have been in years- maybe ever
And that long discussion where the words
poured over you
Like water and a smile that lasts
III
I was trying to say something, to connect
Listened to but something interfered
In between a dancing play of lights
Pretend you're awake in order to move
Pretend you're speaking out loud when this is only thought
Coming and going through the mind like waves
Washing the shore and then disappearing
Too soft or too loud
Couldn't hear it quite as it was fading
Watching instead the trees slightly moving
Again reading-
Later eating together and watching t.v.-
Dozing off-
Asleep again
But don't break the chain
Don't mind it if you enter
But please don't raise your voice-
The voice- is what listens
Not the- sun or moon-
And-listening to music
Slowly take off your clothes-
Soft and holding darkness
Short and long-
Waiting
This is not out loud
Wordless thinking with words
Disappearing without a trace
IV
To speak out loud is not to be heard
Daylight world of empty sound
Coming close but of no part
Seeming, leaving
Too much to be anything
Scratching, biting but not tasting
Clear but meaningless
Remembered but not comprehended
Positioned but not situated
Exact-without a home
Unlearned yet rehearsed forever
Nightmare without release
Solitude without embrace
Command lacking nuance
Full but uncontained
Nearby but unreachable
Let the said remain unspken
An unheard sound as soft as skin
Surrounds the mind with kindness and water
Dreams/Transitions
Not sure if or when I fell asleep, I
began to dream
In a classroom, a different kind of
classroom: what did I come here to learn?
People friendly, I reach out
Wondering-faces
Is there certainty? For fear?
Unrevealed-and people show themselves,
can't help it
Better be exact- take measure
In between time- to get started
Then someone starts crying
I hold hands-wringing hands-hiding them
Unfortunate-make jokes-they can't
explain or understand
I insist on the possibility of racial harmony
Very slow nodding of heads-shaking of heads
I start to run but something holds my feet
Color-bombed out buildings- furniture in a vacant lot
Stripes-laughter-throw down partially smoked cigarettes
They scramble for them- to smoke
To be continued-
On the telephone-
Can't you remember?
Slowly shaking my head
Don't try to tell me
Unfortunate victims
II
Boundary line between sleeping and waking state
And I try to explain it
come back to get hurt
Tears-explanations
Loud noises again- I can't sleep!
Listen to me
Clouds passing-months passing
-opinions-papers-calls
Try to remember
Don't have to be exact
Or abrupt or so awake
Now think it over
Can't remember
Went out-took something-looking-
sunny-nobody there
In between
Pretend you're there-close your eyes-now look
Blue-white and blue-what do you see
Nothing-I see darkness-maybe nothing
Wait-stairs-or a street
Just something- I feel it- what
Love that there is just something invisible
Or not invisible
Uncovered and not moving
Held and not shaking
Once you talk the darkness disappears
Maybe it would be too embarassing
To specify
Artificially imposed waiting
At the side of
In the valley of
You could be just drying your hands
Or changing your clothes
And something occurs to you
At the moment the most alive
You have been in years- maybe ever
And that long discussion where the words
poured over you
Like water and a smile that lasts
III
I was trying to say something, to connect
Listened to but something interfered
In between a dancing play of lights
Pretend you're awake in order to move
Pretend you're speaking out loud when this is only thought
Coming and going through the mind like waves
Washing the shore and then disappearing
Too soft or too loud
Couldn't hear it quite as it was fading
Watching instead the trees slightly moving
Again reading-
Later eating together and watching t.v.-
Dozing off-
Asleep again
But don't break the chain
Don't mind it if you enter
But please don't raise your voice-
The voice- is what listens
Not the- sun or moon-
And-listening to music
Slowly take off your clothes-
Soft and holding darkness
Short and long-
Waiting
This is not out loud
Wordless thinking with words
Disappearing without a trace
IV
To speak out loud is not to be heard
Daylight world of empty sound
Coming close but of no part
Seeming, leaving
Too much to be anything
Scratching, biting but not tasting
Clear but meaningless
Remembered but not comprehended
Positioned but not situated
Exact-without a home
Unlearned yet rehearsed forever
Nightmare without release
Solitude without embrace
Command lacking nuance
Full but uncontained
Nearby but unreachable
Let the said remain unspken
An unheard sound as soft as skin
Surrounds the mind with kindness and water
Tuesday, August 26
"In everything there is an unexplored
element because we are prone by habit
to use our eyes only in combination
with the memory of what others before us
have thought about the thing we are looking at.
The most insignificant thing contains some
little unknown element. We must find it."
Maupassant, Preface to Pierre et Jean, 1887
element because we are prone by habit
to use our eyes only in combination
with the memory of what others before us
have thought about the thing we are looking at.
The most insignificant thing contains some
little unknown element. We must find it."
Maupassant, Preface to Pierre et Jean, 1887
Afterglow
"Spoke, spoke.
Was, was."
Paul Celan
The real is impenetrable.
Every day we accept the given reports.
Sun, gray skies, rain.
In back of the house the metal swing is rusting.
The day is so hot nothing moves.
Even time doesn't move.
Escape the official remarks and expressions.
Into what? Green? Or eyes?
Words don't welcome, but they are warm,
Warmer than voices. The whole extent.
The whole object or memory.
Continuance.
Contrivance: echoes.
Universe: all bare.
Wonders: caring.
Hands.
6/4/93
"Spoke, spoke.
Was, was."
Paul Celan
The real is impenetrable.
Every day we accept the given reports.
Sun, gray skies, rain.
In back of the house the metal swing is rusting.
The day is so hot nothing moves.
Even time doesn't move.
Escape the official remarks and expressions.
Into what? Green? Or eyes?
Words don't welcome, but they are warm,
Warmer than voices. The whole extent.
The whole object or memory.
Continuance.
Contrivance: echoes.
Universe: all bare.
Wonders: caring.
Hands.
6/4/93
Thanks, Jordan, so kind of you to welcome me back, and to mention today's posting on -fait accompli-. By the way, the "notes" below from 1994 were notes to imaginary poems. I wrote another piece like this called "Explications."
Hopefully, I will be seeing you soon, Jordan.
Hopefully, I will be seeing you soon, Jordan.
8/3/94
Notes to the Poems
"Choosing"
1. The idea of choosing at first
seems of paramount importance, but
soon we see a subtle kind of fatalism
emerging. This is hidden at first by
irony and later by intentional
clowning. Someone or something is
being ridiculed in this wild concatenation
of dates and times.
2. Phrases like "thirsty fortune"
and "fallen fables" have an
ambiguous pallor. They are meant
to confuse the initial direction
of the poem.
3. "A cloudy day." The poet's
memories of a cloudy day suggest
an unmentionable or perhaps a
partially forgotten loss.
4."Garlands." The poet has
occasion to refer to a particular
frieze observed during
a visit to Naples on a holiday.
5. "Satisfactions in loving."
A mood of calm and transcendent
satisfaction adds an enigmatic tone
to this elegaic fragment.
6. "November." Winter suggests final
sequences in most cases, but here perhaps
we may infer a more mystical allusion.
Things have come apart, yes, but what
is suggested is that meaning can be
inferred by the way the parts imply a
puzzle in the manner that their reconstruction
has already been suggested. In fact,
reconstruction may have already
taken place if we examine the "fault
lines." Why this particular month, for
example and not "December" or "January."
First, is it a beginning also, in the fact
that winter has just begun?
7. Again and again the poet
is obssessed with fragments. A
majestic beauty is found in these
"poor pathetic pieces" which have
arranged themselves mysteriously on
"times narrow strip of sand."
"Things, places, meanings,
hopes, sorrows, joys" are dropped,
picked up again and rearranged by
experience and are forgotten and
remembered again with each interpretation
and reinterpretation. Something is
rediscovered but we are never
quite certain what it is because
just as we recognize its shape on
"time's horizon" again it disappears
"in a cycle of sunsets and days."
8. "Questions." With this rapturous
outburst on the subject of questions
is the poet casting doubt on the
possibility of certainty or the
certainty of possibility? We cannot
be sure if what is being said is
meant to b e serious or if the
poet is secretly ridiculing the
subject under scrutiny. This can
be partly determined by a repeated
reference to "hope." It is difficult
to imagine sarcasm where hope is being
invoked.
9. "Secrets." In
many of this poet's lines the
subject of secrets implies a constant
displacement of meanings. There is
a voluptuous shape to secrets in
poems which isn't quotable. If the
quotation suggests particular times
and places is a secret being finally
divulged? What is sometimes meant by
suggestions of divergence and
an aura of secrecy are wishes
on the part of the poet to conceal
certain vulnerabilities and
embarassments. On the other hand,
the very existence of the poem
implies revelation.
10. "You didn't contact us and
I don't understand. How can
friends be loved and no longer be
friends?" This line,
which seems perfectly clear is
broken off from the main body of
the poem and appears like an
"exclamation out of nowhere." Then
the poet reminds us tht poems
themselves appear as such exclamations.
11. "Secondary." The poet needs
a jumping off place and doesn't
want that place to be the
concept of the whole because then
the direction would be oblivion.
This is the meaning of "secondary"
because here the poet is seeking
a "secondary" not a primary
place to start out from. This is
not a move towards secrecy but
it does reveal a wish for
embeddedness. The fact of
a current occasion for this is seen not only
as a potential triviality but
actually as an impossibility. Suggestion
must lead to further suggestion, not
"lines."
8/22/94
Now I remember what water
means- it means to remember
there is enough of everything, or
even more: it overflows, it continues.
Ths Shaman needs to know only
one thing. When to be still and
quiet.
Just because the dead don't keep
in touch, it doesn't mean they don't think about us.
Publishers are sleepwalkers.
8/25/94
The irritant takes time away from movement
But is counter-movement
Can't find the cotton swab
*
Because it's there (as a
reason for selecting a particular piece)
But first: findings as compared to "public documents"
things you notice-things you find
(relevance to others- is a developing
public language)
The art of it- at a certain
vantage point- everything (each
piece) seems applicable and
relevant (somewhere)
RM
"Make no mistake- abstract art is
a form of mysticism"
Trust to the guiding and influencing hand
(father figure)
"Oh do not ask what is it
Let us go and make our visit."
(TS ELiot)
(Simply) trying to find a
situation in which everything
is relevant
boundaries- overflowing and also creating
Only certain feelings will allow the
gates of beauty to open
fuzzy area of exactitude
later: 12:02 (8/26)
The collages are like people.
At first they seem strange-certain
facets stand out. They are not
yet recognizable. Certain kinds
of music is like this- particularly
that of Chopin and Debussy (for
me-obviously, other composers for
others). After awhile, the collages
become more recognizable and
only *then* the liking comes. At
first there is no liking, but
only strangeness. So I would
say not "make it new" but
"make it strange."
Notes to the Poems
"Choosing"
1. The idea of choosing at first
seems of paramount importance, but
soon we see a subtle kind of fatalism
emerging. This is hidden at first by
irony and later by intentional
clowning. Someone or something is
being ridiculed in this wild concatenation
of dates and times.
2. Phrases like "thirsty fortune"
and "fallen fables" have an
ambiguous pallor. They are meant
to confuse the initial direction
of the poem.
3. "A cloudy day." The poet's
memories of a cloudy day suggest
an unmentionable or perhaps a
partially forgotten loss.
4."Garlands." The poet has
occasion to refer to a particular
frieze observed during
a visit to Naples on a holiday.
5. "Satisfactions in loving."
A mood of calm and transcendent
satisfaction adds an enigmatic tone
to this elegaic fragment.
6. "November." Winter suggests final
sequences in most cases, but here perhaps
we may infer a more mystical allusion.
Things have come apart, yes, but what
is suggested is that meaning can be
inferred by the way the parts imply a
puzzle in the manner that their reconstruction
has already been suggested. In fact,
reconstruction may have already
taken place if we examine the "fault
lines." Why this particular month, for
example and not "December" or "January."
First, is it a beginning also, in the fact
that winter has just begun?
7. Again and again the poet
is obssessed with fragments. A
majestic beauty is found in these
"poor pathetic pieces" which have
arranged themselves mysteriously on
"times narrow strip of sand."
"Things, places, meanings,
hopes, sorrows, joys" are dropped,
picked up again and rearranged by
experience and are forgotten and
remembered again with each interpretation
and reinterpretation. Something is
rediscovered but we are never
quite certain what it is because
just as we recognize its shape on
"time's horizon" again it disappears
"in a cycle of sunsets and days."
8. "Questions." With this rapturous
outburst on the subject of questions
is the poet casting doubt on the
possibility of certainty or the
certainty of possibility? We cannot
be sure if what is being said is
meant to b e serious or if the
poet is secretly ridiculing the
subject under scrutiny. This can
be partly determined by a repeated
reference to "hope." It is difficult
to imagine sarcasm where hope is being
invoked.
9. "Secrets." In
many of this poet's lines the
subject of secrets implies a constant
displacement of meanings. There is
a voluptuous shape to secrets in
poems which isn't quotable. If the
quotation suggests particular times
and places is a secret being finally
divulged? What is sometimes meant by
suggestions of divergence and
an aura of secrecy are wishes
on the part of the poet to conceal
certain vulnerabilities and
embarassments. On the other hand,
the very existence of the poem
implies revelation.
10. "You didn't contact us and
I don't understand. How can
friends be loved and no longer be
friends?" This line,
which seems perfectly clear is
broken off from the main body of
the poem and appears like an
"exclamation out of nowhere." Then
the poet reminds us tht poems
themselves appear as such exclamations.
11. "Secondary." The poet needs
a jumping off place and doesn't
want that place to be the
concept of the whole because then
the direction would be oblivion.
This is the meaning of "secondary"
because here the poet is seeking
a "secondary" not a primary
place to start out from. This is
not a move towards secrecy but
it does reveal a wish for
embeddedness. The fact of
a current occasion for this is seen not only
as a potential triviality but
actually as an impossibility. Suggestion
must lead to further suggestion, not
"lines."
8/22/94
Now I remember what water
means- it means to remember
there is enough of everything, or
even more: it overflows, it continues.
Ths Shaman needs to know only
one thing. When to be still and
quiet.
Just because the dead don't keep
in touch, it doesn't mean they don't think about us.
Publishers are sleepwalkers.
8/25/94
The irritant takes time away from movement
But is counter-movement
Can't find the cotton swab
*
Because it's there (as a
reason for selecting a particular piece)
But first: findings as compared to "public documents"
things you notice-things you find
(relevance to others- is a developing
public language)
The art of it- at a certain
vantage point- everything (each
piece) seems applicable and
relevant (somewhere)
RM
"Make no mistake- abstract art is
a form of mysticism"
Trust to the guiding and influencing hand
(father figure)
"Oh do not ask what is it
Let us go and make our visit."
(TS ELiot)
(Simply) trying to find a
situation in which everything
is relevant
boundaries- overflowing and also creating
Only certain feelings will allow the
gates of beauty to open
fuzzy area of exactitude
later: 12:02 (8/26)
The collages are like people.
At first they seem strange-certain
facets stand out. They are not
yet recognizable. Certain kinds
of music is like this- particularly
that of Chopin and Debussy (for
me-obviously, other composers for
others). After awhile, the collages
become more recognizable and
only *then* the liking comes. At
first there is no liking, but
only strangeness. So I would
say not "make it new" but
"make it strange."
Sunday, August 24
SDPG...Dead Letter Game...Bill Marsh posted this:
"No ideas but in blogs."
Go, Bill! (Marsh, that is)
ok - you too, WCW
"No ideas but in blogs."
Go, Bill! (Marsh, that is)
ok - you too, WCW
12/24/93
Mutual attraction
magnetic poles
male/female
positive negative
(earlier: In the Shadows of English
for the automatic
speaking piece) This kind of recitation
borrows some of the words from ideas
felt seismographically from waves of
effect stemming partly from the future.
The automaticity puts the intentions
in the direction of releasing energies
more for the purpose of investigation than for
directing them. Bernard Witte
quotes Walter Benjamin that the
writing of prose is done in sections:the
musical, the achitectonic and the textural.
That this sequence can be more
efficiently done in writing
rather than in speaking is due
in part to social rituals.
These rituals make certain very
powerful expectatations known to
those who exchange words. Words
re-enacted from a written text
follow the patterns of expectation inherent in
the act of making rules, laws
and prohibitions. When people
gather for scientific or
therapeutic purposes, for example,
the statements on the whole are
consciously directed towards the
unfolding of ideas in
a highly ordered, coherent
fashion.
*
The sense of English being espoused
is not only the language but the
subject of English.
We should learn to to combine
as much for our differences as our
samenesses.
Mutual attraction
magnetic poles
male/female
positive negative
(earlier: In the Shadows of English
for the automatic
speaking piece) This kind of recitation
borrows some of the words from ideas
felt seismographically from waves of
effect stemming partly from the future.
The automaticity puts the intentions
in the direction of releasing energies
more for the purpose of investigation than for
directing them. Bernard Witte
quotes Walter Benjamin that the
writing of prose is done in sections:the
musical, the achitectonic and the textural.
That this sequence can be more
efficiently done in writing
rather than in speaking is due
in part to social rituals.
These rituals make certain very
powerful expectatations known to
those who exchange words. Words
re-enacted from a written text
follow the patterns of expectation inherent in
the act of making rules, laws
and prohibitions. When people
gather for scientific or
therapeutic purposes, for example,
the statements on the whole are
consciously directed towards the
unfolding of ideas in
a highly ordered, coherent
fashion.
*
The sense of English being espoused
is not only the language but the
subject of English.
We should learn to to combine
as much for our differences as our
samenesses.
8/12/93
"It is a metaphysical truth that
all nature would begin
to lament if it were endowed with
language."
Walter Benjamin
"On Language as Such and in the
Language of Man" 9p. 329- Reflections)
8/14/93
A fictional interview.
8/15/93
Nothing you read gets you any closer
to what you want to think about in
terms of content. You read in order to
provoke in yourself a kind of momentum
towards obtaining thought in a certain
key or intensity. In a reverse algebra,
the intensity then corresponds to the
range of repressed priorities that are otherwise
hidden so they may grow undisturbed by
the swirl of surrounding external impingements. That
the reading itself is every bit as absorbing
nonetheless only serves to bring home
the fact that what attunes us is
equal in importance to what we are
led to by means of an intensified awareness.
8/17/93
Loose shelves
Senior officials
"It is a metaphysical truth that
all nature would begin
to lament if it were endowed with
language."
Walter Benjamin
"On Language as Such and in the
Language of Man" 9p. 329- Reflections)
8/14/93
A fictional interview.
8/15/93
Nothing you read gets you any closer
to what you want to think about in
terms of content. You read in order to
provoke in yourself a kind of momentum
towards obtaining thought in a certain
key or intensity. In a reverse algebra,
the intensity then corresponds to the
range of repressed priorities that are otherwise
hidden so they may grow undisturbed by
the swirl of surrounding external impingements. That
the reading itself is every bit as absorbing
nonetheless only serves to bring home
the fact that what attunes us is
equal in importance to what we are
led to by means of an intensified awareness.
8/17/93
Loose shelves
Senior officials
In November, 1967 I hitchhiked across the country heading for San Francisco and Berkeley. I carried at least two record albums with me. One was Dylan's "Blonde on Blonde." The other was some Youngbloods albums. After a couple of weeks in Berkeley went to Amoeba in Haight-Ashbury, an enormous record and cd store and I bought, among other things, "Earth Music" by the Youngbloods. Toni's teased me -after I had replaced Billie Holiday with -The Youngbloods- about the awful rock music. But today, walking in Central Park, she asked me what a Tim Hardin song was doing on there, a song she's always loved.
I haven't been able to get this song out of my head for weeks...
"If I listened long enough to you
I'd find a way to believe that it's all true
Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried
Still I'd love to find a reason to believe
If I gave you time to change my mind
I'd find a way to leave all the past behind
Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried
Still I'd love to find a reason to believe
Someone like you makes it hard to live
Without somebody else
Someone like you makes it easy to give
Never thinking of myself"
(repeat from top)
(from "Reason to Believe"
Tim Hardin)
(repeat from top)
I haven't been able to get this song out of my head for weeks...
"If I listened long enough to you
I'd find a way to believe that it's all true
Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried
Still I'd love to find a reason to believe
If I gave you time to change my mind
I'd find a way to leave all the past behind
Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried
Still I'd love to find a reason to believe
Someone like you makes it hard to live
Without somebody else
Someone like you makes it easy to give
Never thinking of myself"
(repeat from top)
(from "Reason to Believe"
Tim Hardin)
(repeat from top)
Friday, August 22
Toni and I will miss you too, .Jean. By the way, I've been thinking of Bernadette and tried to find her book *Studying Hunger* in Moe's and Serendipity without success. "Studying hunger I had to stop. I had to stop and begin again slowly."
It's too hard to say goodbye to all you beautiful bay area people and the beautiful bay area itself so, not goodbye, but au revoir! (Hopefully, I'll soon be able to post the lovely photo Nikki Schrager took of us out here).
It's too hard to say goodbye to all you beautiful bay area people and the beautiful bay area itself so, not goodbye, but au revoir! (Hopefully, I'll soon be able to post the lovely photo Nikki Schrager took of us out here).
from ululations... Nada Gordon
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
SILK FLOWERS (for Nick)
Give to gold its weight
Regent of dewy night, Fawn-
spotted cooling stream
Unite, impel, di-
late th' effulgent whole he
sparkling daughters crown'd
of stern Eluding
mortal sight, He fades; he dis-
appears And silence
lulls the sky we court
nor sings nor many-tinted
rays concoct, refine,
And hymn, concentrick
orbs struggling to impair bless'd
quaffing nectar Rob'd
Till twitter moving
lancer of the golden keen
by green-hair'd Ocean's
gem-bespangled shore
charm'd Gocul's od'rous cleft head
sandal-breathing flow'r
attesting secret
deeds, skirts, robes, charm, form, and stain
load the tortoise bore
#
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
SILK FLOWERS (for Nick)
Give to gold its weight
Regent of dewy night, Fawn-
spotted cooling stream
Unite, impel, di-
late th' effulgent whole he
sparkling daughters crown'd
of stern Eluding
mortal sight, He fades; he dis-
appears And silence
lulls the sky we court
nor sings nor many-tinted
rays concoct, refine,
And hymn, concentrick
orbs struggling to impair bless'd
quaffing nectar Rob'd
Till twitter moving
lancer of the golden keen
by green-hair'd Ocean's
gem-bespangled shore
charm'd Gocul's od'rous cleft head
sandal-breathing flow'r
attesting secret
deeds, skirts, robes, charm, form, and stain
load the tortoise bore
#
Thursday, August 21
The first reading in Stephanie Young's apartment reading series featured David Hess and Catherine Meng. The evening, to say the least, was an immense treat for bloggers! Alli Warren drove all the way from Los Angeles, picking up Kasey S. Mohammed on the way. Catherine and David each read with completely contrasting but utterly engrossing sorts of quiet intensity. Catherine Meng's reading matched the clarity and precision of her poetic style. This isn't to say her work isn't without paradox, enigma and poetic reverie but like her co-reader David Hess, when wit informs the whole, a reading becomes more than the poetry plus the poet. David read serious poems and funny poems and explained why he was drinking so much water. He had used a tube of moisterizer this morning instead of his toothpaste, wondering all the while why the toothpaste looked so thin! To my delight, David also read a poem that referred to *fait accompli*! A five minute break seemed to stretch into 15 and there were lots of people to meet and greet. Bloggers James Meetze and Tanya Brolaski were there as were Cynthia Sailers, Stephen Vincent (here's a scoop: SV may start a blog soon!) and Cassie Lewis. Cassie Lewis graciously gave me three more Postcard books, and now I have the whole stunningly lovely collection. My postcard book with Stephanie is now in the editing stage and hopefully will be available in October or thereabouts.
David has two more readings in the Bay area this weekend so check the blogs for more information! Kasey and Noah Eli Gordon read at 21Grand on Sunday. Cassie Lewis and Mei-Mei Bersenbrugge are also reading this weekend. Toni and I will be back in New York this weekend and we will surely be missing our Bay area friends who have shown us such amazing California-style hospitality in every single case. Last night everyone was saying to me "Are you still here?" My answer: You may have to get used to it. We will be back soon- and again and again. We love it! Wow!
David has two more readings in the Bay area this weekend so check the blogs for more information! Kasey and Noah Eli Gordon read at 21Grand on Sunday. Cassie Lewis and Mei-Mei Bersenbrugge are also reading this weekend. Toni and I will be back in New York this weekend and we will surely be missing our Bay area friends who have shown us such amazing California-style hospitality in every single case. Last night everyone was saying to me "Are you still here?" My answer: You may have to get used to it. We will be back soon- and again and again. We love it! Wow!
Wednesday, August 20
Over the past few days Nada Gordon posted the following:
Interesting that Nick and Jean assumed that my "My Dilemma" poem with its constant refrain of "no one loves me" was necessarily a personal expression.
( 7:23 AM )
Before all my friends start sending me emails to cheer me up: I am not sad. NOT sad.
( 7:22 AM ) Nada
If I think about crying I come to the conclusion that it's an attention getting device. I mean it gets MY attention. Yesterday, for instance, I woke up and felt like crying before a thought even entered my head. No memory of what I'd dreamt...
(Aphorisms from "Voices" by Antonio Porchia translated by W.S. Merwin.)
Here's a little bouquet of them for you, Nada:
"We tear life out of life to use it for looking at itself."
"More grievous than tears is the sight of them"
"Nothing ends without breaking because everything is endless."
"I have come one step away from everything. And here I stay, far from everything, one step away."
"There are sufferings that have lost their memory and do not remember why they are suffering."
"I have loved for the sake of what I loved, and what I loved I would not go back to loving."
"Only the wound speaks its own word."
"The grieving for everyone and about everything has grown and become a grieving for myself, to myself. And it is still growing."
"I will help you to approach if you approach, and to keep away if you keep away."
"I believe that the soul consists of its sufferings. For the soul that cures its own sufferings dies."
"To wound the heart is to create it."
"Every time I wake I understand how easy is it is to be nothing."
"Among the superficial, if you are not one of them, one of them has to lead you by the hand."
"They are like me, I tell myself. And in that way I defend myself against them. And in that way I defend myself against myself."
"I stop wanting what I am looking for, looking for it."
"Sometimes I think that evil is everything, and that good is only a beautiful desire for evil."
"My 'I' has gone farther and farther away from me. Today it is my farthest 'you.'"
"Do not speak of your misfortunes harshly to anyone, because everyone is partly to blame."
"I am yesterday, today. And tomorrow? In tomorrow I was."
"I can wait for you no longer. Because you have arrived."
Interesting that Nick and Jean assumed that my "My Dilemma" poem with its constant refrain of "no one loves me" was necessarily a personal expression.
( 7:23 AM )
Before all my friends start sending me emails to cheer me up: I am not sad. NOT sad.
( 7:22 AM ) Nada
If I think about crying I come to the conclusion that it's an attention getting device. I mean it gets MY attention. Yesterday, for instance, I woke up and felt like crying before a thought even entered my head. No memory of what I'd dreamt...
(Aphorisms from "Voices" by Antonio Porchia translated by W.S. Merwin.)
Here's a little bouquet of them for you, Nada:
"We tear life out of life to use it for looking at itself."
"More grievous than tears is the sight of them"
"Nothing ends without breaking because everything is endless."
"I have come one step away from everything. And here I stay, far from everything, one step away."
"There are sufferings that have lost their memory and do not remember why they are suffering."
"I have loved for the sake of what I loved, and what I loved I would not go back to loving."
"Only the wound speaks its own word."
"The grieving for everyone and about everything has grown and become a grieving for myself, to myself. And it is still growing."
"I will help you to approach if you approach, and to keep away if you keep away."
"I believe that the soul consists of its sufferings. For the soul that cures its own sufferings dies."
"To wound the heart is to create it."
"Every time I wake I understand how easy is it is to be nothing."
"Among the superficial, if you are not one of them, one of them has to lead you by the hand."
"They are like me, I tell myself. And in that way I defend myself against them. And in that way I defend myself against myself."
"I stop wanting what I am looking for, looking for it."
"Sometimes I think that evil is everything, and that good is only a beautiful desire for evil."
"My 'I' has gone farther and farther away from me. Today it is my farthest 'you.'"
"Do not speak of your misfortunes harshly to anyone, because everyone is partly to blame."
"I am yesterday, today. And tomorrow? In tomorrow I was."
"I can wait for you no longer. Because you have arrived."
Tuesday, August 19
Thanks, Johanna (Rutabaga) for quoting from my discussion of Carla Harryman's upcoming play at the LAB opening on September 10th,"Performing Objects Stationed in the Sub World."
Monday, August 18
When I found out Carla Harryman planned to be in the Bay area the same time as me, she also told me she would be rehearsing a play here, and maybe the only time we could hang out would be at my reading at 21 Grand. Ok, I had to plead a little bit, but indeed Toni and I got to see and hear about 35 or 40 minutes of a rehearsal of "Performing Objects Stationed in the Sub World." Author Carla Harryman created the play in collaboration with director Jim Cave, visual artist Amy Trachtenberg, and composer Erling Wold. Principal actors include Ken Berry, Annie Kunjappy, Walonda J. Lewis, and Roham Shaikhani. Patrick Durgin and Taylor Brady will play the Poet's Chorus. The play will open on Wednesday, September 10th, which will be a Gala Preview and Season Opening Celebration of the 20th Anniversary of The LAB; it will continue on Thursday and Friday, September 12th and 13 Thursdays-Saturdays-September 18th-20th and September 25th-27th, 8pm. Cost: $20 for the Gala Preview, $10-$20 sliding scale admission for subsequent performances. At The LAB, 2948 16th Street@Capp, San Francisco. Info and res: (415) 864-8855 or go to www.thelab.org.
A busy -and lovely- morning up here in the Berkeley hills visiting with a herd of goats caused Toni and I to leave only an hour and half to get across the Bay bridge which was barely enough on a beautiful Saturday in August. We lucked out with an all night parking spot right near where we had to get to the LAB and to later visit our friend the artist Leonie Guyer. We knocked on the door and Carla came to get us. At just the point when Toni and I sat down, Ken Berry broke into song in his gorgeous, strong, resonant tenor voice, in face, a charming thing concerning little objects. I thought to myself: sounds like Carla! Full disclosure: I admit I've long been a partisan of Carla's writing. "Under The Bridge" (1980) was formative for me, an essential moment in my piecing together a structural, linguistic and emotive map of the contours of contemporary prose poetry. She has always been a pioneer in the evolution of transformational combining of formal structures in all genres of writing, yes, but more interesting, the connections and connotations not only seem true but ring true. The play. it seemed clear to me, is out to put us ringside of as many emotive and ontological soundings as are contained in experience, often in their raw form, or nascent form, and keep us there. Yes, things clash, they have to. As we listen, we can understand why, and appreciate that transformations occur constantly, and learn to enjoy that process, not have to back away from it so much or repress it. This play, and so much of Carla's work, is unafraid to reveal how much we take pleasure in the way sides of reality clash against each other, like wave forms, how the storms and resolutions may appear arbitrary, but are yet necessary. Things on a page won't stay put any more than they do in life; categories leap out at each other and dance with each other on their own, they won't passively remain in place they way we expect them to, any more than the erotic aspect of experience will give way to our moral and philosophical demands, custorms and expectations exactly the way we order it to. This play will use the interrelationships between sense experiences, will produce synaesthesias at the very nexus point where sound becomes meaning and meaning returns to its componant sounds. Carla shows us how we never stop reading, just as we can never stop hearing (though we can permit ourselves to stop listening), that reading and writing themselves are a metaphor for the way we make noise and life makes noise, we and life constantly fighting and celebrating each other. If we haven't understood, we will yet understand, the stream of life's repetitive clashings in sound and meaning is constant, and there is reassurance in that, and laughter too! Annie Kunjappy's acting and movement was discussed so interestingly at one point I was tempted to recommend that at least one discussion with the director be worked into the play itself! Jim Cave has such interesting things to say and oh, this is not all typical Mamet- like understatement at all. At one point, Ken picks up a huge barrel of various objects and drops them on the stage. Objects, as in Carla's poetry, are not subordinated to any other category of experience.They are right out in front as characters on the stage just the way they are in life. What is evoked? Berg and Bartok at least, but also Ernst and Duchamp and Beckett and Strindberg combined with Schwitters, Webern, Stein and Sofia Gubaidulina.
"Carla Harryman (writer/co-director)is the author of eleven books of prose, plays and poetry. Recent books include two experimental novels, *Gardener of Stars*(Berkeley, CA, Atelos, 2001) and *The Words:after Carl Sandburg's Rootabaga Stories and Jean-Paul Sartre* (Berkeley, CA, O Bookss, 1999); a book-length play, *Memory Play* (Berkeley, CA, O Books, 1994); and a volume of selected writings *There Never Was A Rose Without A Thorn*(San Francisco, CA, City LIghts,1995). In 1996, she moved from San Francisco to the Detroit area. In the late 1970's she co-founded San Francisco Bay Area Poet's Theater. In May 1994, Harryman and the LAB staged a collaborative production of *Memory Play* with director Phillip Horvitz,and performance and visual artist John Woodall.She was the librettist and dramaturg fortwo San Francisco productions(1995, 2000) of Erling Wuld's *A Little Girl Dreams of Taking the Veil*, a chamber opera based on Max Ernst's collage novel. Harryman is on the faculty of Wayne State University in Detroit where she teaches Literature, Creative Writing and Women's Studies."
visual artist Amy Trachtenberg's work in theater includes costume and set design for new opera, dance and theater productions such as *A Little Girl Dreams of Taking The Veil* by composer Erling Wold, adapted from Max Ernst; *The Breasts of Teresias* by Poulenc and Apollinaire; Bartok's *Bluebeard's Castle*; *The Butterfly* with Darvag Iranian Theater Company; *Goya's L.A.* by Leslie Scalapino; and costumes for ODC Dance Company. Her numerous collaborations with poets appear in over 20 publications, including an image-text collaboration with Norma Cole in ZAZZYVA's 10th Anniversary issue. Trachtenberg's paintings are in public and private collections of embassies, banks and corporations in Houston, Paris, Heidelberg, New York and San Francisco.
"Jim Cave (co-director/lighting designer) has worked in all aspects of theater in the Bay Area for the past twenty-five years. Focusing on the development of new theater, multi-disciplinary, and site-specific performances, JIm Cave has directed and designed plays, dance, opera, new music theater, and even a flea circus (for San Francisco's Exploratorium) and has directed a number of critically acclaimed productions."
A busy -and lovely- morning up here in the Berkeley hills visiting with a herd of goats caused Toni and I to leave only an hour and half to get across the Bay bridge which was barely enough on a beautiful Saturday in August. We lucked out with an all night parking spot right near where we had to get to the LAB and to later visit our friend the artist Leonie Guyer. We knocked on the door and Carla came to get us. At just the point when Toni and I sat down, Ken Berry broke into song in his gorgeous, strong, resonant tenor voice, in face, a charming thing concerning little objects. I thought to myself: sounds like Carla! Full disclosure: I admit I've long been a partisan of Carla's writing. "Under The Bridge" (1980) was formative for me, an essential moment in my piecing together a structural, linguistic and emotive map of the contours of contemporary prose poetry. She has always been a pioneer in the evolution of transformational combining of formal structures in all genres of writing, yes, but more interesting, the connections and connotations not only seem true but ring true. The play. it seemed clear to me, is out to put us ringside of as many emotive and ontological soundings as are contained in experience, often in their raw form, or nascent form, and keep us there. Yes, things clash, they have to. As we listen, we can understand why, and appreciate that transformations occur constantly, and learn to enjoy that process, not have to back away from it so much or repress it. This play, and so much of Carla's work, is unafraid to reveal how much we take pleasure in the way sides of reality clash against each other, like wave forms, how the storms and resolutions may appear arbitrary, but are yet necessary. Things on a page won't stay put any more than they do in life; categories leap out at each other and dance with each other on their own, they won't passively remain in place they way we expect them to, any more than the erotic aspect of experience will give way to our moral and philosophical demands, custorms and expectations exactly the way we order it to. This play will use the interrelationships between sense experiences, will produce synaesthesias at the very nexus point where sound becomes meaning and meaning returns to its componant sounds. Carla shows us how we never stop reading, just as we can never stop hearing (though we can permit ourselves to stop listening), that reading and writing themselves are a metaphor for the way we make noise and life makes noise, we and life constantly fighting and celebrating each other. If we haven't understood, we will yet understand, the stream of life's repetitive clashings in sound and meaning is constant, and there is reassurance in that, and laughter too! Annie Kunjappy's acting and movement was discussed so interestingly at one point I was tempted to recommend that at least one discussion with the director be worked into the play itself! Jim Cave has such interesting things to say and oh, this is not all typical Mamet- like understatement at all. At one point, Ken picks up a huge barrel of various objects and drops them on the stage. Objects, as in Carla's poetry, are not subordinated to any other category of experience.They are right out in front as characters on the stage just the way they are in life. What is evoked? Berg and Bartok at least, but also Ernst and Duchamp and Beckett and Strindberg combined with Schwitters, Webern, Stein and Sofia Gubaidulina.
"Carla Harryman (writer/co-director)is the author of eleven books of prose, plays and poetry. Recent books include two experimental novels, *Gardener of Stars*(Berkeley, CA, Atelos, 2001) and *The Words:after Carl Sandburg's Rootabaga Stories and Jean-Paul Sartre* (Berkeley, CA, O Bookss, 1999); a book-length play, *Memory Play* (Berkeley, CA, O Books, 1994); and a volume of selected writings *There Never Was A Rose Without A Thorn*(San Francisco, CA, City LIghts,1995). In 1996, she moved from San Francisco to the Detroit area. In the late 1970's she co-founded San Francisco Bay Area Poet's Theater. In May 1994, Harryman and the LAB staged a collaborative production of *Memory Play* with director Phillip Horvitz,and performance and visual artist John Woodall.She was the librettist and dramaturg fortwo San Francisco productions(1995, 2000) of Erling Wuld's *A Little Girl Dreams of Taking the Veil*, a chamber opera based on Max Ernst's collage novel. Harryman is on the faculty of Wayne State University in Detroit where she teaches Literature, Creative Writing and Women's Studies."
visual artist Amy Trachtenberg's work in theater includes costume and set design for new opera, dance and theater productions such as *A Little Girl Dreams of Taking The Veil* by composer Erling Wold, adapted from Max Ernst; *The Breasts of Teresias* by Poulenc and Apollinaire; Bartok's *Bluebeard's Castle*; *The Butterfly* with Darvag Iranian Theater Company; *Goya's L.A.* by Leslie Scalapino; and costumes for ODC Dance Company. Her numerous collaborations with poets appear in over 20 publications, including an image-text collaboration with Norma Cole in ZAZZYVA's 10th Anniversary issue. Trachtenberg's paintings are in public and private collections of embassies, banks and corporations in Houston, Paris, Heidelberg, New York and San Francisco.
"Jim Cave (co-director/lighting designer) has worked in all aspects of theater in the Bay Area for the past twenty-five years. Focusing on the development of new theater, multi-disciplinary, and site-specific performances, JIm Cave has directed and designed plays, dance, opera, new music theater, and even a flea circus (for San Francisco's Exploratorium) and has directed a number of critically acclaimed productions."
Sunday, August 17
I like *Blue Kangeroo* but I am going to miss Nightjar 2
"What's new on Blue Kangeroo?"
I like that.
"What's new on Blue Kangeroo?"
I like that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)