Melanie reviews:
" When is a Woody Allen movie not a Woody Allen movie? When it¹s Anything Else. No, no, see that¹s the name of the movie...Anything Else. Coincidentally, that¹s what it¹s also being marketed as...as in, anything else but a Woody Allen movie. It¹s quite a horror, really, that DreamWorks SKG has opted to treat writer-director-actor Allen as an afterthought in his own film, and has instead decided to reach out to a whole new, younger [for Allen] audience by building the ad campaign around twentysomething actors Jason Biggs and Christina Ricci. Allen, the winner of three Academy Awards (for writing and directing Annie Hall [1977] as well as scripting Hannah and Her Sisters [1986]), besides being the most nominated writer in Academy history (thirteen Best Original Screenplay nods) should be accorded a little more respect, especially since Anything Else is the best movie he¹s helmed in years, maybe since the deceptively silly musical Everyone Says I Love You in 1996, or 1994¹s backstage/gangster romp Bullets Over Broadway before that.
As reported in an internet posting, Anything Else is like that scene toward the end of Annie Hall, in which Allen, as Alvy Singer, watches two gorgeous actors, male and female, rehearse a scene in a play he has written based on his on-again, off-again relationship with Annie. That¹s exactly how much of Anything Else plays: a younger version of Annie Hall, only this time the characters seem even more screwed up; at the very least, their neuroses are not made out to be all cute and cuddly. The main character is a nebbish comedy writer named Jerry Falk, played by up and coming actor Jason Biggs (age 25, previously known for the American Pie movies, as well as a stint on Broadway as The Graduate¹s Benjamin Braddock--the Dustin Hoffman role, get the picture). Falk is at a cross roads, both personally and professionally, when he meets, in the form of Allen, a sixty year old teacher trying to break into the wonderful world of comedy. Allen¹s David Dobel encourages Falk to get rid of the dead weight in his life, like his creepy agent (Danny DeVito), and most especially, Falk¹s live-in girlfriend, a ridiculously needy headcase played by Christina Ricci...but more on her in a bit.
The central relationship in the film is the one between Falk and Dobel, and Woody Allen has created something special in the doing. Dobel genuinely likes Falk and wants to form a writing team with him and move to California (for a sure thing tv gig), but Dobel sees that Falk is hopelessly stuck in a cycle of self-defeat, so he must first prod the young man to take a good look at the world he¹s chosen for himself. The trick is that--and don¹t think Allen isn¹t aware of this--as good as Dobel is for Falk, he¹s also a liability. Instinctively, Dobel knows this, but he¹s starting to feel the wear and tear of age, not to mention his own emotional shortcomings, and he needs Falk with his promise of youth and vitality if he (Dobel) ever hopes to break free of his own rut. At the same time, however, Dobel is still capable of putting Falk¹s needs ahead of his own and really wants to see his new friend prosper.
Woody Allen has often used other performers as the mouthpiece for his particular brand of high strung, self deprecating schtick. Mia Farrow did it--splendidly--in The Purple Rose of Cairo (1985), and John Cusack had his turn in Bullets Over Broadway. Not bad. Kenneth Branagh, however, struck out in Celebrity (1998). Now it¹s Biggs¹ turn and he¹s quite a smart choice for the role. Allen has drawn a nice performance from the perfectly cast Biggs, and one can imagine the young star developing even more as an actor under Allen¹s future direction. These two belong together. Allen, for the most part, plays the straight man here, which is not to say he doesn¹t earn a few laughs. After all, his character is a bit of a survivalist nut, and Allen knows how to milk the gag; just the idea of this by now overly familiar scrawny shrub of a man toting an arsenal is worth a chuckle or two...sometimes, on the other hand, it¹s just scary, which also seems to be Allen¹s point. Anyway, the scenes of Biggs and Allen bonding, especially while trekking through the park, are touching and even a little sad in a slice of life kind of way. Give Allen credit for deft underplaying, as well as some of the most breathtaking shots of Central Park, in all its lush glory, ever committed to film (courtesy, as well, of cinematographer Darius Khondji).
Now, about Christina Ricci and the terminally helpless Amanda. Ricci, with her ever so dry delivery, was a marvellous child actress, especially in her role as Wednesday in the two Addams Family movies. As an adult, in things like The Opposite of Sex, she tries way too hard to impress as a cynical, dangerous, tough chick and generally annoys, but in this film Allen taps into something great about this actress, and the two of them create a memorable, albeit disturbed, character. Christina Ricci has an unusual presence. She¹s short and physically awkward besides having a head that seems almost too large and too round for her petite frame; moreover, she has big brown saucer-eyes and a cute little mouth. Even at age 22 (now 23) she is not unlike a Munchkin from The Wizard of Oz. The beauty part is that emotionally unstable Amanda has men falling all over her--at least for awhile--because of her waifish, little girl lost aura, especially those wide brown eyes that penetrate the soul. The full thrust of her propensity for terror doesn¹t surface until much later, and by then her partners are in too deep to make a clean break. Ricci is certainly effective casting, (she¹s also impeccably lit, like a real old time movie star) but the performance itself borders on brilliance. Even so, it¹s unlikely this actress will ever get the acclaim she deserves for bringing this unpleasant character to life. She¹s too believably self absorbed to inspire much goodwill. But what fun Ricci has playing her! Just look at how this woman¹s loose and limber body language is at odds with her repeated pangs of emotional discomfort. Notice, too, the ease with which Allen¹s words, with their irregular cadence, tumble out of Ricci¹s mouth. (The drawback of Allen¹s otherwise wining battle of the sexes/office comedy The Curse of the Jade Scorpion [2001]--think His Girl Friday, or The Desk Set--was that previous Oscar winning actress Helen Hunt seemed to have a hard time getting her mouth around Allen¹s words, and the carefully scripted putdowns often fell flat; one longs to see what a truly gifted comic like Lisa Kudrow, with her not of this planet timing, could do with the Hunt role, but I digress).
Ricci¹s Amanda can¹t seem to help herself, she just goes along from one blunder to the next, blithely unaware of her own power to annihilate those who love her. It¹s just her nature, and once her flighty, immature mother, grandly played by the great Stockard Channing, shows up needing a place to stay (she also brings along a piano), all the pieces begin to fall in place. Of course, Woody Allen has often been accused of being a misogynist, but in this movie he seems more genuinely confused by, rather than contemptuous of, women. It¹s this confusion, the process of sorting it all out that prompts Allen to write such interesting parts for actresses. That the women aren¹t always likable, I now see, is beside the point. Allen is very much fascinated by women (their contradictions, their allure and hold over men), and particularly in this case, he¹s making a concerted effort to unravel what he sees as a great mystery, even though it¹s not always pretty. That¹s just a guess, an observation. Most male writers and directors aren¹t as interested in fully exploring their obsessions. Likewise, many male writers and directors are content to create female roles that aren¹t nearly as challenging (for actresses, that is) or multi-dimensional, especially, god forbid, not in romantic comedies (in which more and more, all thought goes into a laborious set-up, and character development only exists to serve the plot).
It¹s a shame that DreamWorks has elected to market Anything Else as a generic romantic comedy, when what it really is, is a sometimes painful character study (or studies), a meditation on relationships, and not just the male-female kind, but also male bonding and mother-daughter stuff. Still, for all its observational flair, Anything Else is happily full of Woody Allen¹s stock-in-trade one liners (but no spoilers here); it¹s only upon repeat viewings that Allen¹s genius for structure and compassion for human beings in general truly comes to light. I very much enjoyed this movie. I took something with me from the experience, and it¹s hard to explain, what, exactly without giving away all the movie¹s surprises. Suffice to say, there¹s something truly special at work here, but it takes patience...and any longtime Allen fan knows as much. Early word on Anything Else was very encouraging though many of the subsequent reviews have been polite, if unenthusiastic...too bad. Those critics who continually compare Allen¹s recent output to his 1970¹s-1980¹s heyday are missing the point. Allen is our most disciplined filmmaker. He writes and directs at least one picture a year and generally does so without a lot of fuss, and because he typically works within a modest budget, his movies (with name-brand actors often taking reduced salaries) aren¹t much of a financial risk. It doesn¹t matter to Allen, nor should it, that he has yet to top, say, Hannah and Her Sisters. He¹s an artist, and once he¹s done with one project, he¹s ready to move on to the next. He doesn¹t need to fret and keep looking over his shoulder. A finished film just is what it is; if one doesn¹t hit, maybe the next one will. It¹s unrealistic to expect anything more. Allen is trapped by neither failure nor success. His desire is to keep moving, to keep working, and Hollywood could use more of that sort of professionalism, a throwback, if you will, to the old studio system of yesteryear. Yes, there really is something to be said for workman-like precision.
The early grosses are in, and it appears DreamWorks¹ marketing gamble has backfired. The opening weekend figures for Anything Else are less than any of the three previous movies Allen has done for the same studio, starting with 2000¹s Small Time Crooks, Allen¹s biggest moneymaker in a decade (worth watching for Elaine May¹s priceless performance). Woody Allen has a loyal, though steadily shrinking, following--and that¹s who the movie should have been aimed at all along. For those who are interested, both 2001¹s The Curse of the Jade Scorpion and 2002¹s Hollywood Ending offer nifty plot construction. Scorpion is a wild yarn about a female efficiency expert and a male insurance investigator who are unwittingly roped into a burglary scheme; Hollywood Ending features Allen as a down on his luck movie director trying to keep a case of hysterical blindness under wraps. Going back to the 1990¹s, Manhattan Murder Mystery (1993), Bullets Over Broadway, and Everyone Says I Love You are worth a look, but skip 1997¹s too mean-for-it¹s-own good Deconstructing Harry (Allen¹s last nominated screenplay).
In the past decade, Allen has made movies for Tri-Star, Miramax, Fine Line, and DreamWorks. His deal with the latter runs out with the release of Anything Else. His next picture is for Fox Searchlight. Hopefully they won¹t drop the ball. The project is off to an interesting start. Allen usually has specific actors in mind when he writes a script, and in the case of the upcoming venture, he was set to cast Robert Downey, Jr. and Winona Ryder (who appeared in Celebrity). Unfortunately, the insurance premiums for those two often troubled performers were too high for Allen¹s budget so he appears to have settled on Will Ferrell, a former Saturday Night Live cast member, and Chloe Sevigny, a one time supporting actress nominee (Boys Don¹t Cry, 1999) and oft photographed fashion show junkie, I mean...groupie. "
Listening to: Jennifer Batten's Tribal Rage (not a
good name; actually it's progressive rock instrumental
music, with some excellent guitar chops--).
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
They have tried to tell us that causality
is meaning--that the skeleton is the body.
"Myth is the twilight-speech of an old man
to a boy. ...Myth is the facts of the mind
made manifest in a fiction of matter. The
speech of an elder in the twilight of his
life is not his history but his legacy; he
speaks not to describe matter but to demon-
strate meaning. He talks of his past for
purposes of his future. This purpose is the
prejudice of his memory. He remembers that
which has been according to what could and
should be, and by this measure sifts the accu-
mulation of his memory: he rejects the irrelevant
event, elaborates the significant detail,
combines separate incidents of similar principle.
Out of physical processes he creates a metaphys-
ical processional. He transposes the chronology
of his knowledge into a hierarchy of meanings.
From the material of his experience he plots,
in retrospect, the adventure for the mind which
is the myth." --Maya Deren, The Divine
Horsemen (1951)
The Bulldozer is our sacred cow.
"Deaf is the heart to which the Lares call from
the desolate floors in vain." --Zanoni
How can community exist without a sense
of place?
"In the past two years, 500 export assembly factories have shut down in Mexico, throwing 218,000 workers on to the street. Their crime was the $1.26-an-hour base wage they were paid by companies such as Alcoa Fujikura to produce auto parts for export to the US. Those wages are now "too high" in the global economy. Never mind that the Alcoa workers in Acuna live in makeshift cardboard huts that lack potable water. Never mind that many of the workers in nearby Piedras Negras were selling their blood plasma twice a week to Baxter International for $30 in order to survive. Those same auto parts are now being made in Honduras by workers earning 59 cents an hour, in Nicaragua for 40 cents an hour and in China for 27 cents an hour." (via Wood_s Hole)
"Kabul is a glimpse of Dresden post-1945,
with contours of rubble rather than streets,
where people live in collapsed buildings,
like earthquake victims waiting for rescue.
They have no light and heat; their apocalyptic
fires burn through the night. Hardly a wall
stands that does not bear the pock-marks of
almost every calibre of weapon. Cars lie
upended at roundabouts. Power poles built for
a modern fleet of trolley buses are twisted
like paperclips. The buses are stacked on top
of each other, reminiscent of the pyramids of
machines erected by the Khmer Rouge to mark
Year Zero. " --the Guardian (via Robotwisdom)
is meaning--that the skeleton is the body.
"Myth is the twilight-speech of an old man
to a boy. ...Myth is the facts of the mind
made manifest in a fiction of matter. The
speech of an elder in the twilight of his
life is not his history but his legacy; he
speaks not to describe matter but to demon-
strate meaning. He talks of his past for
purposes of his future. This purpose is the
prejudice of his memory. He remembers that
which has been according to what could and
should be, and by this measure sifts the accu-
mulation of his memory: he rejects the irrelevant
event, elaborates the significant detail,
combines separate incidents of similar principle.
Out of physical processes he creates a metaphys-
ical processional. He transposes the chronology
of his knowledge into a hierarchy of meanings.
From the material of his experience he plots,
in retrospect, the adventure for the mind which
is the myth." --Maya Deren, The Divine
Horsemen (1951)
The Bulldozer is our sacred cow.
"Deaf is the heart to which the Lares call from
the desolate floors in vain." --Zanoni
How can community exist without a sense
of place?
"In the past two years, 500 export assembly factories have shut down in Mexico, throwing 218,000 workers on to the street. Their crime was the $1.26-an-hour base wage they were paid by companies such as Alcoa Fujikura to produce auto parts for export to the US. Those wages are now "too high" in the global economy. Never mind that the Alcoa workers in Acuna live in makeshift cardboard huts that lack potable water. Never mind that many of the workers in nearby Piedras Negras were selling their blood plasma twice a week to Baxter International for $30 in order to survive. Those same auto parts are now being made in Honduras by workers earning 59 cents an hour, in Nicaragua for 40 cents an hour and in China for 27 cents an hour." (via Wood_s Hole)
"Kabul is a glimpse of Dresden post-1945,
with contours of rubble rather than streets,
where people live in collapsed buildings,
like earthquake victims waiting for rescue.
They have no light and heat; their apocalyptic
fires burn through the night. Hardly a wall
stands that does not bear the pock-marks of
almost every calibre of weapon. Cars lie
upended at roundabouts. Power poles built for
a modern fleet of trolley buses are twisted
like paperclips. The buses are stacked on top
of each other, reminiscent of the pyramids of
machines erected by the Khmer Rouge to mark
Year Zero. " --the Guardian (via Robotwisdom)
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Melanie asked me a very good question,
viz.: Were there any precursors to
"Rashomon"? My first thought was the
play within a play from "Hamlet", which
reflects the main action in parabolic
fashion, but they do not occupy positions
of equivalence. Likewise in Don Quixote,
what Quixote & Sancho Panza experience of
the same events is dramatically different
--but the author unequivocally takes the
side of the realistic interpretation.
Durrell, of course, with his "Alexandrian
Quartet"--but that was after. I think you
must look to Browning's verse novel The
Ring and the Book for a story that is
told in different ways by different char-
acters.
Those who insist on fitting every
experience into a coherent worldview, end
up learning only what can be paraphrased.
Which is like being unable to read poetry
(even in your own language) except in
translation--.
Description, though, itself is
a genre of poetry. --Bad poetry.
It is the magician's privilege to disbelieve
in magic.
Science, wishing to disesteem marvels, says
they are worthless if untrue & then proceeds
to prove their impossibility. But science
holds sway among the people solely by virtue
of its marvels & its promises.
viz.: Were there any precursors to
"Rashomon"? My first thought was the
play within a play from "Hamlet", which
reflects the main action in parabolic
fashion, but they do not occupy positions
of equivalence. Likewise in Don Quixote,
what Quixote & Sancho Panza experience of
the same events is dramatically different
--but the author unequivocally takes the
side of the realistic interpretation.
Durrell, of course, with his "Alexandrian
Quartet"--but that was after. I think you
must look to Browning's verse novel The
Ring and the Book for a story that is
told in different ways by different char-
acters.
Those who insist on fitting every
experience into a coherent worldview, end
up learning only what can be paraphrased.
Which is like being unable to read poetry
(even in your own language) except in
translation--.
Description, though, itself is
a genre of poetry. --Bad poetry.
It is the magician's privilege to disbelieve
in magic.
Science, wishing to disesteem marvels, says
they are worthless if untrue & then proceeds
to prove their impossibility. But science
holds sway among the people solely by virtue
of its marvels & its promises.
Monday, September 22, 2003
"poetry should be at least as well written as Pirates of the Caribbean" --Oh Wait
"those mountains are a military secret." --Rubber Hose
My Lunatick heart...
"those mountains are a military secret." --Rubber Hose
My Lunatick heart...
"THIS IS WAR
There is no one
to show these poems to
Do not call a friend to witness
what you must do alone
These are my ashes
I do not intend to save you any work
by keeping silent
You are not yet as strong as I am
You believe me
but I do not believe you
This is war
You are here to be destroyed"
--Leonard Cohen The Energy of Slaves
Customer brings a huge tub of books; also
seven roaches, of which i successfully kill
five.
Wesley Clark's blog. Hm...maybe someday, the
candidate-blogger who gets the most hits,
will win.
An urban legend about Klingon.
First new Kraftwerk album in 17 years. (via plastic)
[Not a sign of the Apocalypse--i think.]
[[What about a new film by Jodorowsky?? Grr--
wonder if they still make LSD sugar cubes?]]
There is no one
to show these poems to
Do not call a friend to witness
what you must do alone
These are my ashes
I do not intend to save you any work
by keeping silent
You are not yet as strong as I am
You believe me
but I do not believe you
This is war
You are here to be destroyed"
--Leonard Cohen The Energy of Slaves
Customer brings a huge tub of books; also
seven roaches, of which i successfully kill
five.
Wesley Clark's blog. Hm...maybe someday, the
candidate-blogger who gets the most hits,
will win.
An urban legend about Klingon.
First new Kraftwerk album in 17 years. (via plastic)
[Not a sign of the Apocalypse--i think.]
[[What about a new film by Jodorowsky?? Grr--
wonder if they still make LSD sugar cubes?]]
"As I Was Passing
As I was passing near the jail
I met a man, but hurried by.
His face was ghastly, grimly pale.
He had a gun. I wondered why
He had. A gun? I wondered...why,
His face was ghastly! Grimly pale,
I met a man, but hurried by,
As I was passing near the jail."
--J A Lindon in: Howard W Bergerson,
Palindromes and Anagrams (1973)
"Doppelganger
I.
Entering the lonely house with my wife
I saw him for the first time
Peering furtively from behind a bush--
Blackness that moved,
A shape amid the shadows,
A momentary glimpse of gleaming eyes
Revealed in the ragged moon.
A closer look (he seemed to turn) might have
Put him to flight forever--
I dared not
(For reasons that I failed to understand),
Though I knew I should act at once.
II.
I puzzled over it, hiding alone,
Watching the woman as she neared the gate.
He came, and I saw him crouching
Night after night.
Night after night
He came, and I saw him crouching,
Watching the woman as she neared the gate.
III.
I puzzled over it, hiding alone--
Though I knew I should act at once,
For reasons that I failed to understand
I dared not
Put him to flight forever.
IV.
A closer look (he seemed to turn) might have
Revealed in the ragged moon
A momentary glimpse of gleaming eyes,
A shape amid the shadows,
Blackness that moved.
V.
Peering furtively from behind a bush,
I saw him, for the first time,
Entering the lonely house with my wife."
--ibid
As I was passing near the jail
I met a man, but hurried by.
His face was ghastly, grimly pale.
He had a gun. I wondered why
He had. A gun? I wondered...why,
His face was ghastly! Grimly pale,
I met a man, but hurried by,
As I was passing near the jail."
--J A Lindon in: Howard W Bergerson,
Palindromes and Anagrams (1973)
"Doppelganger
I.
Entering the lonely house with my wife
I saw him for the first time
Peering furtively from behind a bush--
Blackness that moved,
A shape amid the shadows,
A momentary glimpse of gleaming eyes
Revealed in the ragged moon.
A closer look (he seemed to turn) might have
Put him to flight forever--
I dared not
(For reasons that I failed to understand),
Though I knew I should act at once.
II.
I puzzled over it, hiding alone,
Watching the woman as she neared the gate.
He came, and I saw him crouching
Night after night.
Night after night
He came, and I saw him crouching,
Watching the woman as she neared the gate.
III.
I puzzled over it, hiding alone--
Though I knew I should act at once,
For reasons that I failed to understand
I dared not
Put him to flight forever.
IV.
A closer look (he seemed to turn) might have
Revealed in the ragged moon
A momentary glimpse of gleaming eyes,
A shape amid the shadows,
Blackness that moved.
V.
Peering furtively from behind a bush,
I saw him, for the first time,
Entering the lonely house with my wife."
--ibid
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Sign #2 of the Apocalypse: a Porsche SUV.
"Like scraps of memory, sheets of newsprint
used to bowl through the magicians' colony
in the silent midnight wind." --Salman Rushdie,
Midnight's Children
"I stopped believing in Santa Claus when my mother
took me to see him in a department store and he
asked me for my autograph." --Shirley Temple
"...the divine mystery is the only arch-principle..."
--The Sworn Book of Honourius (ca. 14c), ed.
Daniel Driscoll, 1977
I keep struggling against the false belief that to be
something not yet defined is to be useless.
Modern poets are in love with intellectualized
sensuality because it seems to give them a method
that cannot err...
"If there is veneration, even a dog's tooth emits
light." --Tibetan saying, quoted in A. David-Neel's
Magic and Mystery in Tibet (1929)
The great romance of my life has been with the
idea of freedom.
"All men desire the good"--is a statement about
the structure of belief, not about desire.
Statement to read at the next Discussion Group
meeting: "The way to get the most out of discourse
is not to challenge each other's assertions
reflexively & indiscriminately, but to take time
to imagine what the world would be like if they
were true."
"Like scraps of memory, sheets of newsprint
used to bowl through the magicians' colony
in the silent midnight wind." --Salman Rushdie,
Midnight's Children
"I stopped believing in Santa Claus when my mother
took me to see him in a department store and he
asked me for my autograph." --Shirley Temple
"...the divine mystery is the only arch-principle..."
--The Sworn Book of Honourius (ca. 14c), ed.
Daniel Driscoll, 1977
I keep struggling against the false belief that to be
something not yet defined is to be useless.
Modern poets are in love with intellectualized
sensuality because it seems to give them a method
that cannot err...
"If there is veneration, even a dog's tooth emits
light." --Tibetan saying, quoted in A. David-Neel's
Magic and Mystery in Tibet (1929)
The great romance of my life has been with the
idea of freedom.
"All men desire the good"--is a statement about
the structure of belief, not about desire.
Statement to read at the next Discussion Group
meeting: "The way to get the most out of discourse
is not to challenge each other's assertions
reflexively & indiscriminately, but to take time
to imagine what the world would be like if they
were true."
Friday, September 19, 2003
Pirate-gangsta glossary. (via Boing Boing)
"...I am learning Lojban. I think the language has
great mind-expanding potential. It takes me to a
psychescape somewhere betwixt the Greek Isles and
Guangdong...Esperanto takes me to a psychescape
somewhere betwixt Transylvania and Cuba."
--Viktoro 9
An obsolete syllabic alphabet for Tagalog. (via
Viktoro 9)
I thought i'd lost them, but here they are: Herman
Miller's pages--where conlangs, microtonal music,
&, er...small furred animals...meet.
"...I am learning Lojban. I think the language has
great mind-expanding potential. It takes me to a
psychescape somewhere betwixt the Greek Isles and
Guangdong...Esperanto takes me to a psychescape
somewhere betwixt Transylvania and Cuba."
--Viktoro 9
An obsolete syllabic alphabet for Tagalog. (via
Viktoro 9)
I thought i'd lost them, but here they are: Herman
Miller's pages--where conlangs, microtonal music,
&, er...small furred animals...meet.
What happened to irony was simple. Kitsch
became the signifier of authenticity. --A
position which has no opposite, because it
is itself nonsensical.
Summer's finally over. I was starting to
think of Pollution Level Orange as good--.
Misreading. I saw a title "How to Sleep At
Will" as: "How to Sleep At WWIII".
"Pulling Down the Statue of Dubya"
No one anymore
Will admit they once clamored
For the bombs to fall
For our rights to be rolled back
For the poisons anew
To seep into our water
And air they all now
Are saying they were afraid
Of their fierce neighbors
Slavering to turn them in
And the radio
Talk show hosts they were afraid
Of the name traitor
Which today they hasten to
Claim as their fairest secret.
09 19 03
became the signifier of authenticity. --A
position which has no opposite, because it
is itself nonsensical.
Summer's finally over. I was starting to
think of Pollution Level Orange as good--.
Misreading. I saw a title "How to Sleep At
Will" as: "How to Sleep At WWIII".
"Pulling Down the Statue of Dubya"
No one anymore
Will admit they once clamored
For the bombs to fall
For our rights to be rolled back
For the poisons anew
To seep into our water
And air they all now
Are saying they were afraid
Of their fierce neighbors
Slavering to turn them in
And the radio
Talk show hosts they were afraid
Of the name traitor
Which today they hasten to
Claim as their fairest secret.
09 19 03
In almost every age, it is best to hide a new truth in
some form which the professionals will ignore.
Luciferian pride. Poetry is a canyon through which once
flowed all the news, knowledge, dreams & prophecies
of humanity; now there's only a lyric trickle at the
bottom--& nothing you write is going to change it
back.
I image a brawl in which ten million poets fight to the
death for access to the last reader of poetry. (Who then
peruses the tattered page & asks: "But what does it
mean?")
The equivocal relation between poets & musicians--
as if apples were worth a million dollars, & oranges
considered not even worth picking up off the ground.
Intuition is direct perception of context. Theory
& Practice, Intuition & Experience: dialectical opposites.
Theory & Intuition are Contraries.
Cats may not laugh, but i think they possess a sense
of irony. The cat who, from the doorway of an open
garage, watches the rain come down--is surely savoring
the contrast with her own dry state.
from Erich Fromm, The Anatomy of Human Destructive-
ness (footnote):
"The term 'necrophilous', to denote a character trait rather than
a perverse act in the traditional sense, was used by the Spanish
philosopher Miguel de Unamuno in 1936 on the occasion of a
speech by the nationalist general Millan Astray at the University
of Salamanca, where Unamuno was rector at the beginning of
the Spanish Civil War. The general's favorite motto was 'Viva
la muerte!' (Long live Death) and one of his followers shouted
it from the back of the hall. When the general had finished his
speech, Unamuno rose and said: 'Just now I heard a necrophilous
and senseless cry: "Long live Death!" And I, who have spent my
life shaping paradoxes which have aroused the uncomprehending
anger of others, I must tell you, as an expert authority, that this
outlandish paradox is repellant to me. General Millan Astray is
a cripple. Let it be said without any slighting undertone. He is a
war invalid. So was Cervantes. Unfortunately there are many
cripples in Spain just now. And soon there will be even more of
them if God does not come to our aid. It pains me to think that
General Millan Astray should dictate the pattern of mass psychology.
A cripple who lacks the spiritual greatness of Cervantes is wont
to seek ominous relief in causing mutilation around him.' At this
Millan Astray was unable to restrain himself any longer. 'Abajo la
inteligencia!' (Down with intelligence) he shouted. 'Long live Death!"
There was a clamor of support for this remark from the Falangists.
But Unamuno went on: 'This is the temple of the intellect. And I
am its high priest. It is you who profane its sacred precincts. You
will win, because you have more than enough brute force. But
you will not convince. For to convince you need to persuade.
And in order to persuade you would need what you lack: Reason
and Right in the struggle. I consider it futile to exhort you to
think of Spain. I have done.' (Unamuno remained under house
arrest until his death a few months later.)"
[Nowadays, of course, such embarassments are no longer
possible--those who disagree are not even allowed within
sight of the Potus.]
some form which the professionals will ignore.
Luciferian pride. Poetry is a canyon through which once
flowed all the news, knowledge, dreams & prophecies
of humanity; now there's only a lyric trickle at the
bottom--& nothing you write is going to change it
back.
I image a brawl in which ten million poets fight to the
death for access to the last reader of poetry. (Who then
peruses the tattered page & asks: "But what does it
mean?")
The equivocal relation between poets & musicians--
as if apples were worth a million dollars, & oranges
considered not even worth picking up off the ground.
Intuition is direct perception of context. Theory
& Practice, Intuition & Experience: dialectical opposites.
Theory & Intuition are Contraries.
Cats may not laugh, but i think they possess a sense
of irony. The cat who, from the doorway of an open
garage, watches the rain come down--is surely savoring
the contrast with her own dry state.
from Erich Fromm, The Anatomy of Human Destructive-
ness (footnote):
"The term 'necrophilous', to denote a character trait rather than
a perverse act in the traditional sense, was used by the Spanish
philosopher Miguel de Unamuno in 1936 on the occasion of a
speech by the nationalist general Millan Astray at the University
of Salamanca, where Unamuno was rector at the beginning of
the Spanish Civil War. The general's favorite motto was 'Viva
la muerte!' (Long live Death) and one of his followers shouted
it from the back of the hall. When the general had finished his
speech, Unamuno rose and said: 'Just now I heard a necrophilous
and senseless cry: "Long live Death!" And I, who have spent my
life shaping paradoxes which have aroused the uncomprehending
anger of others, I must tell you, as an expert authority, that this
outlandish paradox is repellant to me. General Millan Astray is
a cripple. Let it be said without any slighting undertone. He is a
war invalid. So was Cervantes. Unfortunately there are many
cripples in Spain just now. And soon there will be even more of
them if God does not come to our aid. It pains me to think that
General Millan Astray should dictate the pattern of mass psychology.
A cripple who lacks the spiritual greatness of Cervantes is wont
to seek ominous relief in causing mutilation around him.' At this
Millan Astray was unable to restrain himself any longer. 'Abajo la
inteligencia!' (Down with intelligence) he shouted. 'Long live Death!"
There was a clamor of support for this remark from the Falangists.
But Unamuno went on: 'This is the temple of the intellect. And I
am its high priest. It is you who profane its sacred precincts. You
will win, because you have more than enough brute force. But
you will not convince. For to convince you need to persuade.
And in order to persuade you would need what you lack: Reason
and Right in the struggle. I consider it futile to exhort you to
think of Spain. I have done.' (Unamuno remained under house
arrest until his death a few months later.)"
[Nowadays, of course, such embarassments are no longer
possible--those who disagree are not even allowed within
sight of the Potus.]
Thursday, September 18, 2003
Listening to: Hossein Omoumi- Persian Classical Music
Lest one of my previous comments be misconstrued,
i am not at all in favor of Forced Sterilization. But i
think it would be a dandy idea to have gumball
machines full of RU-486 on every street corner
in the world.
"In the world few people act from principle; present
feelings, and early habits, are the grand springs: but
how would the former be deadened, and the latter
rendered iron corroding fetters, if the world were shown
to young people just as it is; when no knowledge of
mankind or their own hearts, slowly obtained by experience,
rendered them forbearing?" --Mary Wollstonecraft, A
Vindication of the Rights of Women (1792)
...my first ever Esperanto palindrome: Oj! ululu lune,
sori el amo. Dido, male, iros en ulululujo. Which
means: 'Oh! howl moonly, to soar out of love. Dodo, on
the contrary, will go into howlpersonreceptacle.'
The reason our criticism is generally more interesting
& better written than our poetry (admit it, in any
journal you read the reviews first!), is simple. Criticism
has to be about real books & personalities, & their
puzzling or clashing contexts. But the poetry is mostly
about other poems: usually one's own, that the hapless
reader has never seen!
"We are black within and sealed from light." -Michael
McClure, "For Artaud"
Watching TV for story-hunger is like getting a tapeworm
for companionship.
'...a time comes when you stop reading the articles...just the
ads...they tell the whole story...' --Céline, North (1960)
"Political science" will not exist until it is understood that
Government is something that just doesn't work above a
certain size. I am reminded of an article once written by
Asimov, on the subject of those giant versions of familiar
animals, so beloved of hack science fiction. He starts with
a mouse & makes it weigh a ton, then analyzes each of the
systems of that mouse's body & shows how in order not
to die at once it must be modified; & before he's done the
result is not a one-ton mouse, but something much like an
elephant... Yeah, & we go on using mouse scale
words for elephant scale realities. A tiny example:
the personalization of the war, as if it were against one
super-villain, a Saddam the size of a mountain, instead of
against millions of human beings just like ourselves...
Ah, but listening is on the way out. In the future there
will only be "sending a message" (i.e. pulling the trigger)
& "receiving a message" (catching the bullet).
A corporation is not so much a machine for making money,
as a device for diffusing responsibility.
Lest one of my previous comments be misconstrued,
i am not at all in favor of Forced Sterilization. But i
think it would be a dandy idea to have gumball
machines full of RU-486 on every street corner
in the world.
"In the world few people act from principle; present
feelings, and early habits, are the grand springs: but
how would the former be deadened, and the latter
rendered iron corroding fetters, if the world were shown
to young people just as it is; when no knowledge of
mankind or their own hearts, slowly obtained by experience,
rendered them forbearing?" --Mary Wollstonecraft, A
Vindication of the Rights of Women (1792)
...my first ever Esperanto palindrome: Oj! ululu lune,
sori el amo. Dido, male, iros en ulululujo. Which
means: 'Oh! howl moonly, to soar out of love. Dodo, on
the contrary, will go into howlpersonreceptacle.'
The reason our criticism is generally more interesting
& better written than our poetry (admit it, in any
journal you read the reviews first!), is simple. Criticism
has to be about real books & personalities, & their
puzzling or clashing contexts. But the poetry is mostly
about other poems: usually one's own, that the hapless
reader has never seen!
"We are black within and sealed from light." -Michael
McClure, "For Artaud"
Watching TV for story-hunger is like getting a tapeworm
for companionship.
'...a time comes when you stop reading the articles...just the
ads...they tell the whole story...' --Céline, North (1960)
"Political science" will not exist until it is understood that
Government is something that just doesn't work above a
certain size. I am reminded of an article once written by
Asimov, on the subject of those giant versions of familiar
animals, so beloved of hack science fiction. He starts with
a mouse & makes it weigh a ton, then analyzes each of the
systems of that mouse's body & shows how in order not
to die at once it must be modified; & before he's done the
result is not a one-ton mouse, but something much like an
elephant... Yeah, & we go on using mouse scale
words for elephant scale realities. A tiny example:
the personalization of the war, as if it were against one
super-villain, a Saddam the size of a mountain, instead of
against millions of human beings just like ourselves...
Ah, but listening is on the way out. In the future there
will only be "sending a message" (i.e. pulling the trigger)
& "receiving a message" (catching the bullet).
A corporation is not so much a machine for making money,
as a device for diffusing responsibility.
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
'Schubert heard Beethoven's Fifth Symphony perhaps
four times in his entire life. Which of us today has not heard
it at least twenty?' Jerome Deschusses, The Eighth Night
of Creation (1978) [Well, in France, anyway--.]
Worms eat the page before they eat the page's poet.
'...the future, which--even more than the oceans--serves
us as a universal garbage dump.' --ibid
Edison, Tesla. Like it's any use to be more than 5 years
"ahead of your time"...!
Some rights which could be usefully abridged: the Right to Pollute,
the Right to Have Children You Can't Take Care Of, the Right to
Make Things Nobody Needs. And of course--the Right to Take
More Than Your Share.
--It'll never happen. We'd push the button first.
When one is joyless, justice becomes much harder to perceive,
even as a direction.
Scurrying through my library of poets, like a rat in a
warehouse full of small appliances.
The moral solitude of believing that compulsory schooling
is as great an evil as slavery--a hundred years before anyone
else does...
M P Shiel (in "The Bride") gives his definition of Love:
"It was a lunacy, its name was Legion, it was possession
by the furies; it was a spasm in the throat, and a sickness of
the limbs, and a yearning of the eye-whites, and a fire in the
marrow; it was catalepsy, trance, apocalypse; it was high as
the galaxy, it was addicted to the gutter; it was Vesuvius, borealis,
the sunset; it was the rainbow in the cesspool, St John plus
Heliogabalus, Beatrice plus Messalina; it was a transfiguration,
and a leprosy, and a metempsychosis, and a neurosis; it was
the dance of the maenads, and the bite of the tarantula, and
baptism in a sun..."
four times in his entire life. Which of us today has not heard
it at least twenty?' Jerome Deschusses, The Eighth Night
of Creation (1978) [Well, in France, anyway--.]
Worms eat the page before they eat the page's poet.
'...the future, which--even more than the oceans--serves
us as a universal garbage dump.' --ibid
Edison, Tesla. Like it's any use to be more than 5 years
"ahead of your time"...!
Some rights which could be usefully abridged: the Right to Pollute,
the Right to Have Children You Can't Take Care Of, the Right to
Make Things Nobody Needs. And of course--the Right to Take
More Than Your Share.
--It'll never happen. We'd push the button first.
When one is joyless, justice becomes much harder to perceive,
even as a direction.
Scurrying through my library of poets, like a rat in a
warehouse full of small appliances.
The moral solitude of believing that compulsory schooling
is as great an evil as slavery--a hundred years before anyone
else does...
M P Shiel (in "The Bride") gives his definition of Love:
"It was a lunacy, its name was Legion, it was possession
by the furies; it was a spasm in the throat, and a sickness of
the limbs, and a yearning of the eye-whites, and a fire in the
marrow; it was catalepsy, trance, apocalypse; it was high as
the galaxy, it was addicted to the gutter; it was Vesuvius, borealis,
the sunset; it was the rainbow in the cesspool, St John plus
Heliogabalus, Beatrice plus Messalina; it was a transfiguration,
and a leprosy, and a metempsychosis, and a neurosis; it was
the dance of the maenads, and the bite of the tarantula, and
baptism in a sun..."
from In Place of Chairs:
"VERBOPHOBIA
Got Game?
Make a poem with the following Word List, brought to you by The Lost Lunar Baedeker, by Mina Loy. Then send the poem to Christopher. He will post it. All will happiness be linear. Line ear be merrily, primates. Into the terrific Nirvana, Mina. Ze list:
Declivity, nucleus, extensity, malefic, gesticulated, kohl, scholiums, delectable, crickly, enervating, scuttle, wheedle, aphrodisiac, prismatic, jostling, jibber, cryptonyms, pantomime, sanctity, ferocious, furrowed."
"The Spectral Jihadi"
(to the tune of: Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner)
Osama was the scion
Of a rich Saudi clan
When the jets & tanks of Brezhnev
Furrowed Afghanistan
His enervating leisure
His crickly scholiums
He hastened then to scuttle
For aphrodisiac guns
The volunteers came jostling
Their sanctity to suss
From ev'ry Muslim country
A fighting nucleus
Bin Laden shone among them
Ferocious & well-heeled
When Reagan's trainers got there
They quickly swept the field
Osa-ma the plush jihadi
Delectable their triumph
Over the Soviet line
Declivity & hillock
Saw abandoned soldiers dying
But their loyalty prismatic
Soon cut the wheedle cold
Osama gesticulated
And American targets told
Osa-ma the rogue jihadi
His own agenda's dark
As kohl, & countless cryptonyms
Convey his malefic spark
He's our misbegotten Frankenstein
Of vast extensity
For our acts increase Osama's terror band
Our acts increase Osama's terror band
Bin Laden sent a message
To jibber at us all
In pantomime over & over
We still must watch them fall
The Towers of our innocence
And it didn't help one bit
To drop upon Afghanistan
Lots & lots of shit
Osa-ma the missing jihadi
That ghostly terror mogul
Still flits from place to place
Even two years later
We haven't found a trace
In Syria, in Pakistan, North Korea too
Ubiquitous
He smiles at us
And then his smile dissolves
In
Static
09 15 03
"VERBOPHOBIA
Got Game?
Make a poem with the following Word List, brought to you by The Lost Lunar Baedeker, by Mina Loy. Then send the poem to Christopher. He will post it. All will happiness be linear. Line ear be merrily, primates. Into the terrific Nirvana, Mina. Ze list:
Declivity, nucleus, extensity, malefic, gesticulated, kohl, scholiums, delectable, crickly, enervating, scuttle, wheedle, aphrodisiac, prismatic, jostling, jibber, cryptonyms, pantomime, sanctity, ferocious, furrowed."
"The Spectral Jihadi"
(to the tune of: Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner)
Osama was the scion
Of a rich Saudi clan
When the jets & tanks of Brezhnev
Furrowed Afghanistan
His enervating leisure
His crickly scholiums
He hastened then to scuttle
For aphrodisiac guns
The volunteers came jostling
Their sanctity to suss
From ev'ry Muslim country
A fighting nucleus
Bin Laden shone among them
Ferocious & well-heeled
When Reagan's trainers got there
They quickly swept the field
Osa-ma the plush jihadi
Delectable their triumph
Over the Soviet line
Declivity & hillock
Saw abandoned soldiers dying
But their loyalty prismatic
Soon cut the wheedle cold
Osama gesticulated
And American targets told
Osa-ma the rogue jihadi
His own agenda's dark
As kohl, & countless cryptonyms
Convey his malefic spark
He's our misbegotten Frankenstein
Of vast extensity
For our acts increase Osama's terror band
Our acts increase Osama's terror band
Bin Laden sent a message
To jibber at us all
In pantomime over & over
We still must watch them fall
The Towers of our innocence
And it didn't help one bit
To drop upon Afghanistan
Lots & lots of shit
Osa-ma the missing jihadi
That ghostly terror mogul
Still flits from place to place
Even two years later
We haven't found a trace
In Syria, in Pakistan, North Korea too
Ubiquitous
He smiles at us
And then his smile dissolves
In
Static
09 15 03
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Violence from yang-excess in humans, & the destruction
that occurs in Nature, are disadvantageously lumped
together in every theory of Cosmic Evil. Perhaps that
is why it remains a philosophical "problem" to this
day. But by dividing it into two problems, one for
physics & one for psychology, i think a provisional
answer can be reached. ...It is necessary, however, to
distinguish yang-excess, "egotism", from being used
as a label for every manifestation of the social identity,
or "ego". The latter has different forms according to
one's type. The former is a pattern that results from
being cut-off from access to the unconscious...
'Think about those who haven't long to live, who know
that everything is over and done with, except the time
in which the thought of their end unrolls. Write for
gladiators...' --E M Cioran, The Trouble
With Being Born (1973)
Rabbits are voiceless & odorless. Such is the provenance
of the Meek. Cats are noisy & smelly. Such are carnivores.
As the super-carnivore, Mankind's only concept of
civilization seems to be to make the ultimatte racket & an
inescapable reek.
'The soul is the effect and instrument of a political
anatomy; the soul is the prison of the body.' --The
Foucault Reader
The Sunday New York Times uses up 75,000 trees each time.
'There is no more steely barb than that of the infinite.'
--Baudelaire, Little Poems in Prose
Japan had a patriarchal, yin, culture.
'For questioning is the piety of thought.' --Heidegger,
"The Question Concerning Technology"
A vanishing privilege: to build for oneself.
'There are two gods, who are Ignorance and Forget-
fulness.' --Ruben Dario
Ego is a vessel on the gray sea of Time.
that occurs in Nature, are disadvantageously lumped
together in every theory of Cosmic Evil. Perhaps that
is why it remains a philosophical "problem" to this
day. But by dividing it into two problems, one for
physics & one for psychology, i think a provisional
answer can be reached. ...It is necessary, however, to
distinguish yang-excess, "egotism", from being used
as a label for every manifestation of the social identity,
or "ego". The latter has different forms according to
one's type. The former is a pattern that results from
being cut-off from access to the unconscious...
'Think about those who haven't long to live, who know
that everything is over and done with, except the time
in which the thought of their end unrolls. Write for
gladiators...' --E M Cioran, The Trouble
With Being Born (1973)
Rabbits are voiceless & odorless. Such is the provenance
of the Meek. Cats are noisy & smelly. Such are carnivores.
As the super-carnivore, Mankind's only concept of
civilization seems to be to make the ultimatte racket & an
inescapable reek.
'The soul is the effect and instrument of a political
anatomy; the soul is the prison of the body.' --The
Foucault Reader
The Sunday New York Times uses up 75,000 trees each time.
'There is no more steely barb than that of the infinite.'
--Baudelaire, Little Poems in Prose
Japan had a patriarchal, yin, culture.
'For questioning is the piety of thought.' --Heidegger,
"The Question Concerning Technology"
A vanishing privilege: to build for oneself.
'There are two gods, who are Ignorance and Forget-
fulness.' --Ruben Dario
Ego is a vessel on the gray sea of Time.
Monday, September 15, 2003
Blogger ate my thought.
It was a good one, here
Bearing significance,
From far pavilions come--
Then Blogger scarfed it up.
Something clogged the nozzle
And pop! went the dying bulb:
Blogger stole the zephyr
And left me sheer delusion;
Yes, Blogger ate that great thought.
09 14 03
'Hear me softly:
And learn from me harshly.' --"Thunder, Perfect Intellect"
in: Bently Layton's The Gnostic Scriptures (1987)
Heidegger doesn't answer his questions so much as he
squeezes them till they pop.
"What the music said was that there is a right way for things
to be ordered so that life might not always be just tangle and
drift but have a shape, an aim. It was a powerful argument
against the notion that things just happen." --Charles Frazier,
Cold Mountain (1997)
The first step to Clarity is inner silence (Clarity of Perception).
The second step to Clarity is calling things by their right names
(Clarity of Thought).
The third step is striving for reciprocity, or interpersonal
justice (Clarity of Feeling).
The fourth step is doing what must be done (Clarity of Purpose).
"The science of the music of words has fallen away since men
invoked Mithra by a sequence of pure vowel sounds." --Ezra
Pound
"The Dangerous Gift
Were I to cut my hand
On that sharp knife you gave me
(That dangerous knife, your beauty),
I should know what to do:
Bandage the wound myself
And hide the blood from you.
A murderous knife it is,
As often you have warned me:
For if I looked for pity
Or tried a wheedling note
Either I must restore it
Or turn it on my throat."
--Robert Graves
Prophets. The first prequisite of a prophet is love of
repetition.
"A recent U.S.Dept of Defense report estimated that most
food in the US travels 1300 miles before it is eaten." --Utne
Reader, c. 1989
Not only do i realize i'm just a minor character in a
Dostoevsky novel, i even know what sort. I'm the one who
goes mad so he can spend 2 chapters arguing theology
with the hero.
Happy days are here again. (via Wood_s Lot)
It was a good one, here
Bearing significance,
From far pavilions come--
Then Blogger scarfed it up.
Something clogged the nozzle
And pop! went the dying bulb:
Blogger stole the zephyr
And left me sheer delusion;
Yes, Blogger ate that great thought.
09 14 03
'Hear me softly:
And learn from me harshly.' --"Thunder, Perfect Intellect"
in: Bently Layton's The Gnostic Scriptures (1987)
Heidegger doesn't answer his questions so much as he
squeezes them till they pop.
"What the music said was that there is a right way for things
to be ordered so that life might not always be just tangle and
drift but have a shape, an aim. It was a powerful argument
against the notion that things just happen." --Charles Frazier,
Cold Mountain (1997)
The first step to Clarity is inner silence (Clarity of Perception).
The second step to Clarity is calling things by their right names
(Clarity of Thought).
The third step is striving for reciprocity, or interpersonal
justice (Clarity of Feeling).
The fourth step is doing what must be done (Clarity of Purpose).
"The science of the music of words has fallen away since men
invoked Mithra by a sequence of pure vowel sounds." --Ezra
Pound
"The Dangerous Gift
Were I to cut my hand
On that sharp knife you gave me
(That dangerous knife, your beauty),
I should know what to do:
Bandage the wound myself
And hide the blood from you.
A murderous knife it is,
As often you have warned me:
For if I looked for pity
Or tried a wheedling note
Either I must restore it
Or turn it on my throat."
--Robert Graves
Prophets. The first prequisite of a prophet is love of
repetition.
"A recent U.S.Dept of Defense report estimated that most
food in the US travels 1300 miles before it is eaten." --Utne
Reader, c. 1989
Not only do i realize i'm just a minor character in a
Dostoevsky novel, i even know what sort. I'm the one who
goes mad so he can spend 2 chapters arguing theology
with the hero.
Happy days are here again. (via Wood_s Lot)
Sunday, September 14, 2003
"Not, Father, further do prolong
Our necessary defeat;
Spare us the numbing zero-hour,
The desert-long retreat.
Against your direct light, displayed,
Regardant, absolute,
In person stubborn and oblique
Our maddened set we foot.
These nissen huts if hiding could
Your eye inseeing from
Firm fenders were, but look! to us
Your loosened angers come.
Against your accusations
Though ready wit devise,
Nor magic countersigns prevail
Nor airy sacrifice.
Weaker we are, and strict within
Your organized blockade,
And from our desperate shore the last
Few pallid youngsters fade.
Be not another than our hope;
Expect we routed shall
Upon your peace; with ray disarm,
Illumine, and not kill."
--Auden
--Awhile back i proposed a book written with mismatched halves.
It appears that such has already been written! "Michael Korda...
was working as an editor at Simon & Schuster, and a few years
ago he wrote a memoir of those days, entitled Another Life.
...Harold Robbins...started writing one book to get the advance,
wrote half of it, and put it aside. When he needed the money,
he finished it, but he'd forgotten much of the first part, and so
the second part had an inconsistent plot with mostly different
characters. Asked what to do about it, he said, 'Leave it.' (Korda
is too professional to say which, but I believe it was The Pirate.)"
--Arthur Hlavaty in Derogatory Reference (now Nice Distinctions 3)
Jargons seem to give you a handle on the world--but it's a
handle that's not connected to anything.
"No matter how cynical I get, it's never enough to keep up." --Lily
Tomlin [something i have quoted many times]
Our necessary defeat;
Spare us the numbing zero-hour,
The desert-long retreat.
Against your direct light, displayed,
Regardant, absolute,
In person stubborn and oblique
Our maddened set we foot.
These nissen huts if hiding could
Your eye inseeing from
Firm fenders were, but look! to us
Your loosened angers come.
Against your accusations
Though ready wit devise,
Nor magic countersigns prevail
Nor airy sacrifice.
Weaker we are, and strict within
Your organized blockade,
And from our desperate shore the last
Few pallid youngsters fade.
Be not another than our hope;
Expect we routed shall
Upon your peace; with ray disarm,
Illumine, and not kill."
--Auden
--Awhile back i proposed a book written with mismatched halves.
It appears that such has already been written! "Michael Korda...
was working as an editor at Simon & Schuster, and a few years
ago he wrote a memoir of those days, entitled Another Life.
...Harold Robbins...started writing one book to get the advance,
wrote half of it, and put it aside. When he needed the money,
he finished it, but he'd forgotten much of the first part, and so
the second part had an inconsistent plot with mostly different
characters. Asked what to do about it, he said, 'Leave it.' (Korda
is too professional to say which, but I believe it was The Pirate.)"
--Arthur Hlavaty in Derogatory Reference (now Nice Distinctions 3)
Jargons seem to give you a handle on the world--but it's a
handle that's not connected to anything.
"No matter how cynical I get, it's never enough to keep up." --Lily
Tomlin [something i have quoted many times]
"Poem
I first loved you
second to
your gentleness
like the blind who
divide their lives into
dark and dark I
have you and your gentleness
as a detail in a painting frames that painting
in the often
memory, your face
is surrounded by your eyes
unafraid
of the grays of gentleness
but better than your gentleness
I love your harshness
the harshness
when you talk about that prison capitalism
when you vow never to stop fighting
never
until each woman and man is free
until each woman and man is in the custody
of their gentleness"
--Bill Knott
I first loved you
second to
your gentleness
like the blind who
divide their lives into
dark and dark I
have you and your gentleness
as a detail in a painting frames that painting
in the often
memory, your face
is surrounded by your eyes
unafraid
of the grays of gentleness
but better than your gentleness
I love your harshness
the harshness
when you talk about that prison capitalism
when you vow never to stop fighting
never
until each woman and man is free
until each woman and man is in the custody
of their gentleness"
--Bill Knott
Saturday, September 13, 2003
'If, of all desires, duration were not the hardest
to achieve, it would be difficult to understand
what constitutes the attraction of the crowd of
the blessed.' --Elias Canetti, Crowds and
Power (1960)
" 'Ah, mulligrubs! Golgotha!...' " --Dr Awkward
& Olson in Oslo, Lawrence Levine (1986)
"Terror of Darkness, O thou King of Flames,
That with thy music-footed horse dost strike
The clear light out of crystal, on dark earth;
And hurl'st instructive fire about the world;
Wake, wake the drowsy and enchanted night,
That sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy riddle."
--George Chapman, Bussy d'Ambois
The Three Unholy Muses: Insomnia, Suicide &
Rejection.
"To recognize the mood-evocative power of
perfume in the relations of man and woman,
while ignoring its possibilities in the romance
of man and God, is surely a mistake."
--Herbert Weiner, 9 1/2 Mystics (1969)
The most interesting thing about the pseudo-
sciences is that they are able to exist at
all. This world we suppose so empirically-
bright, is it not rather darkened by
the presence of minds...?
'...At times on the blood's
last spit of land
the foghorn resounds
and the drowned sailor sings...' --Nelly Sachs
Ego + ignorance = folly. So egolessness in the
pursuit of knowledge brings wisdom?
'...a distinction must be made again betwixt
the death of Metals, and their rest or quietness.'
--Basil Valentine
"...let a vague pity blur the formal roses."
--Judith Wright
to achieve, it would be difficult to understand
what constitutes the attraction of the crowd of
the blessed.' --Elias Canetti, Crowds and
Power (1960)
" 'Ah, mulligrubs! Golgotha!...' " --Dr Awkward
& Olson in Oslo, Lawrence Levine (1986)
"Terror of Darkness, O thou King of Flames,
That with thy music-footed horse dost strike
The clear light out of crystal, on dark earth;
And hurl'st instructive fire about the world;
Wake, wake the drowsy and enchanted night,
That sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy riddle."
--George Chapman, Bussy d'Ambois
The Three Unholy Muses: Insomnia, Suicide &
Rejection.
"To recognize the mood-evocative power of
perfume in the relations of man and woman,
while ignoring its possibilities in the romance
of man and God, is surely a mistake."
--Herbert Weiner, 9 1/2 Mystics (1969)
The most interesting thing about the pseudo-
sciences is that they are able to exist at
all. This world we suppose so empirically-
bright, is it not rather darkened by
the presence of minds...?
'...At times on the blood's
last spit of land
the foghorn resounds
and the drowned sailor sings...' --Nelly Sachs
Ego + ignorance = folly. So egolessness in the
pursuit of knowledge brings wisdom?
'...a distinction must be made again betwixt
the death of Metals, and their rest or quietness.'
--Basil Valentine
"...let a vague pity blur the formal roses."
--Judith Wright
Friday, September 12, 2003
"Britney Spears, a pop star, declared
her faith in President Bush: "Honestly,"
she said, "I think we should just trust
our president in every decision that he
makes and we should just support that."
A large silo filled with human excrement
exploded in the Bronx."
--Roger D. Hodge
"Some of the Chief's readers have come through with how to contact those in charge.
First:
Donald H. Rumsfeld
Secretary of Defense
1000 Defense Pentagon
Washington, DC 20301-1000
Paul Wolfowitz
Deputy Secretary of Defense
1010 Defense Pentagon
Washington, DC 20301-1010
(Big thanks to Alan E. Brain)
Next, a way to send comments via the web:
http://www.defenselink.mil/faq/comment.html#Form
(Big thanks to Virgil)"
via Chief Wiggles
"i was listening to an ex-marine turned
army staff sergeant...and an ex-abrahms
tanker turned signal puke...they described
the scene as a long stretch of road
running through the middle of a small
foreign town...fox holes and machine gun
nests littering the road way...snipers
plugged up in windows...the enemy dug in
deep...an assault by ground forces would
prove catastrophic...there were very few
options that would lead to victory over
these circumstances...
the good guys brought in the tanks...lined
them up side by side facing down the
fortified roadway...simultaneously the
tanks fired two rounds down range...the
rounds created enough of a vacuum that the
enemy soldiers were sucked from their
fortifications and into the middle of the
street...where they were gunned down from
a top the turret...or rolled over by tank
tread...
they laughed at this story...they made sound
effects...squashing and womping...and they
thought it was great...i found no humor in
this tale..."
(via Turning Tables)
her faith in President Bush: "Honestly,"
she said, "I think we should just trust
our president in every decision that he
makes and we should just support that."
A large silo filled with human excrement
exploded in the Bronx."
--Roger D. Hodge
"Some of the Chief's readers have come through with how to contact those in charge.
First:
Donald H. Rumsfeld
Secretary of Defense
1000 Defense Pentagon
Washington, DC 20301-1000
Paul Wolfowitz
Deputy Secretary of Defense
1010 Defense Pentagon
Washington, DC 20301-1010
(Big thanks to Alan E. Brain)
Next, a way to send comments via the web:
http://www.defenselink.mil/faq/comment.html#Form
(Big thanks to Virgil)"
via Chief Wiggles
"i was listening to an ex-marine turned
army staff sergeant...and an ex-abrahms
tanker turned signal puke...they described
the scene as a long stretch of road
running through the middle of a small
foreign town...fox holes and machine gun
nests littering the road way...snipers
plugged up in windows...the enemy dug in
deep...an assault by ground forces would
prove catastrophic...there were very few
options that would lead to victory over
these circumstances...
the good guys brought in the tanks...lined
them up side by side facing down the
fortified roadway...simultaneously the
tanks fired two rounds down range...the
rounds created enough of a vacuum that the
enemy soldiers were sucked from their
fortifications and into the middle of the
street...where they were gunned down from
a top the turret...or rolled over by tank
tread...
they laughed at this story...they made sound
effects...squashing and womping...and they
thought it was great...i found no humor in
this tale..."
(via Turning Tables)
One of my favorite Johnny Cash songs:
"ONE PIECE AT A TIME
(Written by W. Kemp)
Well, I left Kentucky back in '49
An' went to Detroit workin' on a 'sembly line
The first year they had me puttin' wheels on cadil- lacs
Every day I'd watch them beauties roll by
And sometimes I'd hang my head and cry
'Cause I always wanted me one that was long and black.
One day I devised myself a plan
That should be the envy of most any man
I'd sneak it out of there in a lunchbox in my hand
Now gettin' caught meant gettin' fired
But I figured I'd have it all by the time I retired
I'd have me a car worth at least a hundred grand.
CHORUS
I'd get it one piece at a time
And it wouldn't cost me a dime
You'll know it's me when I come through your town
I'm gonna ride around in style
I'm gonna drive ever'body wild
'Cause I'll have the only one there is a-round.
So the very next day when I punched in
With my big lunchbox and with help from my friends
I left that day with a lunch box full of gears
Now I never considered myself a thief
But GM wouldn't miss just one little piece
Especially if I strung it out over several years.
The first day I got me a fuel pump
And the next day I got me an engine and a trunk
Then I got me a transmission and all of the chrome
The little things I could get in my big lunchbox
Like nuts, an' bolts, and all four shocks
But the big stuff we snuck out in my buddy's mobile home.
Now up to now my plan went allright
'Til we tried to put it all together one night
And that's when we noticed that something was definitely wrong.
The transmission was a '53
And the motor turned out to be a '73
And when we tried to put in the bolts all the holes were gone.
So we drilled it out so that it would fit
And with a little bit of help with an A-daptor kit
We had that engine runnin' just like a song
Now the headlight' was another sight
We had two on the left and one on the right
But when we pulled out the switch all three of 'em come on.
The back end looked kinda funny too
But we put it together and when we got thru
Well, that's when we noticed that we only had one tail-fin
About that time my wife walked out
And I could see in her eyes that she had her doubts
But she opened the door and said "Honey, take me for a spin."
So we drove up town just to get the tags
And I headed her right on down main drag
I could hear ever'body laughin' for blocks around
But up there at the court house they didn't laugh
'Cause to type it up it took the whole staff
And when they got through the title weighed sixty pounds.
CHORUS
I got it one piece at a time
And it didn't cost me a dime
You'll know it's me when I come through your town
I'm gonna ride around in style
I'm gonna drive ever'body wild
'Cause I'll have the only one there is around.
(Spoken) Ugh! Yow, RED RYDER This is the COTTON MOUTH
In the PYSCHO-BILLY CADILLAC Come on
Huh, This is the COTTON MOUTH
And negatory on the cost of this mow-chine there RED RYDER
You might say I went right up to the factory
And picked it up, it's cheaper that way
Ugh!, what model is it
Well, It's a '49, '50, '51, '52, '53, '54, '55, '56
'57, '58' 59' Automo-bile
(Fade) It's a '60, '61, '62, '63, '64, '65, '66, '67
'68, '69, '70 Automo-bile."
[A traditional American value is Anarchy.]
Molly Ivins is mad. (Sept 9)
"ONE PIECE AT A TIME
(Written by W. Kemp)
Well, I left Kentucky back in '49
An' went to Detroit workin' on a 'sembly line
The first year they had me puttin' wheels on cadil- lacs
Every day I'd watch them beauties roll by
And sometimes I'd hang my head and cry
'Cause I always wanted me one that was long and black.
One day I devised myself a plan
That should be the envy of most any man
I'd sneak it out of there in a lunchbox in my hand
Now gettin' caught meant gettin' fired
But I figured I'd have it all by the time I retired
I'd have me a car worth at least a hundred grand.
CHORUS
I'd get it one piece at a time
And it wouldn't cost me a dime
You'll know it's me when I come through your town
I'm gonna ride around in style
I'm gonna drive ever'body wild
'Cause I'll have the only one there is a-round.
So the very next day when I punched in
With my big lunchbox and with help from my friends
I left that day with a lunch box full of gears
Now I never considered myself a thief
But GM wouldn't miss just one little piece
Especially if I strung it out over several years.
The first day I got me a fuel pump
And the next day I got me an engine and a trunk
Then I got me a transmission and all of the chrome
The little things I could get in my big lunchbox
Like nuts, an' bolts, and all four shocks
But the big stuff we snuck out in my buddy's mobile home.
Now up to now my plan went allright
'Til we tried to put it all together one night
And that's when we noticed that something was definitely wrong.
The transmission was a '53
And the motor turned out to be a '73
And when we tried to put in the bolts all the holes were gone.
So we drilled it out so that it would fit
And with a little bit of help with an A-daptor kit
We had that engine runnin' just like a song
Now the headlight' was another sight
We had two on the left and one on the right
But when we pulled out the switch all three of 'em come on.
The back end looked kinda funny too
But we put it together and when we got thru
Well, that's when we noticed that we only had one tail-fin
About that time my wife walked out
And I could see in her eyes that she had her doubts
But she opened the door and said "Honey, take me for a spin."
So we drove up town just to get the tags
And I headed her right on down main drag
I could hear ever'body laughin' for blocks around
But up there at the court house they didn't laugh
'Cause to type it up it took the whole staff
And when they got through the title weighed sixty pounds.
CHORUS
I got it one piece at a time
And it didn't cost me a dime
You'll know it's me when I come through your town
I'm gonna ride around in style
I'm gonna drive ever'body wild
'Cause I'll have the only one there is around.
(Spoken) Ugh! Yow, RED RYDER This is the COTTON MOUTH
In the PYSCHO-BILLY CADILLAC Come on
Huh, This is the COTTON MOUTH
And negatory on the cost of this mow-chine there RED RYDER
You might say I went right up to the factory
And picked it up, it's cheaper that way
Ugh!, what model is it
Well, It's a '49, '50, '51, '52, '53, '54, '55, '56
'57, '58' 59' Automo-bile
(Fade) It's a '60, '61, '62, '63, '64, '65, '66, '67
'68, '69, '70 Automo-bile."
[A traditional American value is Anarchy.]
Molly Ivins is mad. (Sept 9)
Oh well, i can dream, can't i?
"Though ticks must have some language
that they communicate amongst themselves,
they surely have no word for fate." --Jack
Stephens, Triangulation
Imagine if artists never finished their
own works; if everything had to be done
by collaboration...
"Rilke, when he realized what his work was
telling him, interrupted his writing of
poetry, and spent months watching animals
in the zoo, and blind men on the streets,
and years alone. He began to ask less of
life, not more." --Robert Bly, A Little
Book on the Human Shadow (1988)
My sense of play & of the sacred, largely
coincide. This is due to the nature of my
shadow (ESFP). Perhaps fo that reason i
cannot enter into someone else's sense of
the sacred; & my external view falsifies
theirs as much as they would, mine.
"At the turn of the century there may have
been only two dozen men who deserved the
Grandmaster title, so we remember them as
titans. Today there are about 300 GMs, so
all but the very best tend to be obscured
by the pack." --Andy Soltis in Chess
Life 5/90
Where Wittgenstein failed to destroy
Metaphysics, Shirley MacLaine succeeded.
"Women are half of the world's adult
population; they comprise one-third of the
paid labor force, and they actually perform
two-thirds of the world's working hours. For
this, they earn one-tenth of the world's
income, but they own only 1 percent of the
world's property." --from Leavenworth
Jackson's rubberstamp catalog
When Noriega was photographed holding his
jail booking placard, over 12,000 Miamians
bet that number in the next state lottery.
"Though ticks must have some language
that they communicate amongst themselves,
they surely have no word for fate." --Jack
Stephens, Triangulation
Imagine if artists never finished their
own works; if everything had to be done
by collaboration...
"Rilke, when he realized what his work was
telling him, interrupted his writing of
poetry, and spent months watching animals
in the zoo, and blind men on the streets,
and years alone. He began to ask less of
life, not more." --Robert Bly, A Little
Book on the Human Shadow (1988)
My sense of play & of the sacred, largely
coincide. This is due to the nature of my
shadow (ESFP). Perhaps fo that reason i
cannot enter into someone else's sense of
the sacred; & my external view falsifies
theirs as much as they would, mine.
"At the turn of the century there may have
been only two dozen men who deserved the
Grandmaster title, so we remember them as
titans. Today there are about 300 GMs, so
all but the very best tend to be obscured
by the pack." --Andy Soltis in Chess
Life 5/90
Where Wittgenstein failed to destroy
Metaphysics, Shirley MacLaine succeeded.
"Women are half of the world's adult
population; they comprise one-third of the
paid labor force, and they actually perform
two-thirds of the world's working hours. For
this, they earn one-tenth of the world's
income, but they own only 1 percent of the
world's property." --from Leavenworth
Jackson's rubberstamp catalog
When Noriega was photographed holding his
jail booking placard, over 12,000 Miamians
bet that number in the next state lottery.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Listening to: "Gem Tones" by Kadri Gopalnath.
--South Indian saxophone!
"The smouldering sweetness of a dead red rose" --Riley
Another library booksale. Nothing excites me like
the prospect of getting good books for next to nothing
--yet i still feel as if i've been, also, assisting at the
sack of Rome.
'We avenge death with the sacrifice of ourselves' --Adonis
If Art only has meaning in relation to a tribe, what
do deracinated artists create for? Tribe-simulations:
such as, all the artists that came before--or their imaginary
audience to be.
"I am not worried that poems reach relatively few
people. As it is, they go surprisingly far--among strangers,
around the world, even. Farther than the words of a
classroom teacher or the prescriptions of a doctor; if they
are very lucky, farther than a lifetime." --Sylvia Plath
Somebody's written a book to rehabilitate Caligula.
[Later note: Vlad the Impaler, also!]
"They pay no attention at all but wander
freely in and out of danger like sanderlings
feeding on the edge of the ocean as the tide
changes, chasing after each wave as it recedes,
racing before as the wave rushes back." --Marge Piercy
Ideas have no power; indeed, people's receptivity
to ideas depends much on their power-relations. But
ideas are used as the coin of prestige (--not
the only one), & thus a whole mythology has grown
around ideas associated with prestigious names.
--Which is an unintellectual attitude toward the things
of the mind.
Short stories are to novels what watercolor is to oil
painting--by far the more difficult medium.
'I would say that the State consists in the codification
of a whole number of power relations which render
its functioning possible, and that Revolution is a
different type of codification of the same relations.
This implies that there are many different kinds of
revolution...' --Michel Foucault, Power/Knowledge
(interviews)
Surely it was a lover that invented Ghosts.
--South Indian saxophone!
"The smouldering sweetness of a dead red rose" --Riley
Another library booksale. Nothing excites me like
the prospect of getting good books for next to nothing
--yet i still feel as if i've been, also, assisting at the
sack of Rome.
'We avenge death with the sacrifice of ourselves' --Adonis
If Art only has meaning in relation to a tribe, what
do deracinated artists create for? Tribe-simulations:
such as, all the artists that came before--or their imaginary
audience to be.
"I am not worried that poems reach relatively few
people. As it is, they go surprisingly far--among strangers,
around the world, even. Farther than the words of a
classroom teacher or the prescriptions of a doctor; if they
are very lucky, farther than a lifetime." --Sylvia Plath
Somebody's written a book to rehabilitate Caligula.
[Later note: Vlad the Impaler, also!]
"They pay no attention at all but wander
freely in and out of danger like sanderlings
feeding on the edge of the ocean as the tide
changes, chasing after each wave as it recedes,
racing before as the wave rushes back." --Marge Piercy
Ideas have no power; indeed, people's receptivity
to ideas depends much on their power-relations. But
ideas are used as the coin of prestige (--not
the only one), & thus a whole mythology has grown
around ideas associated with prestigious names.
--Which is an unintellectual attitude toward the things
of the mind.
Short stories are to novels what watercolor is to oil
painting--by far the more difficult medium.
'I would say that the State consists in the codification
of a whole number of power relations which render
its functioning possible, and that Revolution is a
different type of codification of the same relations.
This implies that there are many different kinds of
revolution...' --Michel Foucault, Power/Knowledge
(interviews)
Surely it was a lover that invented Ghosts.
"Poem"
A bone fragment yields
In the lab, the ghost of a name.
The days temper their heat.
I continue to meet detours.
A soldier a day dies;
Victorious, all.
The skies darken predictably.
Someone defaces my bumper sticker.
Halliburton cashes in.
The days temper their heat.
I continue to meet detours,
And the new road still is not done.
09 08/11 03
A bone fragment yields
In the lab, the ghost of a name.
The days temper their heat.
I continue to meet detours.
A soldier a day dies;
Victorious, all.
The skies darken predictably.
Someone defaces my bumper sticker.
Halliburton cashes in.
The days temper their heat.
I continue to meet detours,
And the new road still is not done.
09 08/11 03
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
Sketch for a story. The vertical Wall that is the artificial
world everyone lives on, is gradually falling over. Only
a few can actually feel it move; these are said to suffer
from a mental illness called World-Vertigo. When some-
thing slides off, seemingly of its own accord, because
the infinitesimal shifting of the Wall has nudged it into
instability, that catastrophe is attributed to Demons,
& no connection is ever made with the purely subjective
malady of vertigo... [Note: K W Jeter wrote of a
"vertical world" in Farewell Horizontal.]
"Berryman had no further dealings with Time
until 1968, when he was commissioned to write a poem
about the Apollo spacecraft. At that time, Berryman
sat in front of his television and wrote an 18-line poem,
'Apollo 8', in Dream Song style. Although Time
paid him several hundred dollars, the poem was not
printed." --The Life of John Berryman (by Harrenden)
Movies in which the necessity of work does not exist.
Movies in which poverty does not exist. Movies without
the consequences of inertia. Movies without books.
Movies without people who are familiar with what tends
to happen in movies.
If movies were poetry every movie
would have a screenwriter as protagonist & the whole
action would take place in one room.
A song by Mark Chesnutt: "My heart's too broke to pay
attention".
"Sed uos littoribus primis ne insistite: dudum
Vltra fata uocant." ("But don't stop at the first shores you
reach; for some time destiny has been calling you further
on.') --Girolamo Fracastoro, Syphilis (1530)
world everyone lives on, is gradually falling over. Only
a few can actually feel it move; these are said to suffer
from a mental illness called World-Vertigo. When some-
thing slides off, seemingly of its own accord, because
the infinitesimal shifting of the Wall has nudged it into
instability, that catastrophe is attributed to Demons,
& no connection is ever made with the purely subjective
malady of vertigo... [Note: K W Jeter wrote of a
"vertical world" in Farewell Horizontal.]
"Berryman had no further dealings with Time
until 1968, when he was commissioned to write a poem
about the Apollo spacecraft. At that time, Berryman
sat in front of his television and wrote an 18-line poem,
'Apollo 8', in Dream Song style. Although Time
paid him several hundred dollars, the poem was not
printed." --The Life of John Berryman (by Harrenden)
Movies in which the necessity of work does not exist.
Movies in which poverty does not exist. Movies without
the consequences of inertia. Movies without books.
Movies without people who are familiar with what tends
to happen in movies.
If movies were poetry every movie
would have a screenwriter as protagonist & the whole
action would take place in one room.
A song by Mark Chesnutt: "My heart's too broke to pay
attention".
"Sed uos littoribus primis ne insistite: dudum
Vltra fata uocant." ("But don't stop at the first shores you
reach; for some time destiny has been calling you further
on.') --Girolamo Fracastoro, Syphilis (1530)
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
"Triumph of the Will" is a hypnotic, ultimately
wearying montage of parades & flags, flags
& parades, made about as abstractly
beautiful as any such spectacle could be.
Even though nothing is vouchsafed of the
purpose of this vast antlike machine,
it is impossible for anyone schooled in
artistic individualism not to feel the crushing
weight of its threat; the best that can be
said for the movie's maker, is that records
of rare natural cataclysms of a similar
order, would come to be seen as invaluable
information. As a cautionary tale it is
incomplete: no hint of the final Götter-
dämmerung, either, could be inferred from
these purely triumphal images. I count it
an artistic lapse that Riefenstahl could not
or would not show us the rest of the
picture--though there are snapshots
aplenty of piles of corpses, all too
familiar today, to supply the deficit
--if you look for them.
Unfortunately, there are
still a lot of people who seem not to
need to look for them. And
worse than presenting a half-truth
as the whole truth, they do not
scruple to make it as difficult as
possible for some braver camera
person to finish the job. I count
that a graver portion of guilt, than
what is due to Leni Riefenstahl.
wearying montage of parades & flags, flags
& parades, made about as abstractly
beautiful as any such spectacle could be.
Even though nothing is vouchsafed of the
purpose of this vast antlike machine,
it is impossible for anyone schooled in
artistic individualism not to feel the crushing
weight of its threat; the best that can be
said for the movie's maker, is that records
of rare natural cataclysms of a similar
order, would come to be seen as invaluable
information. As a cautionary tale it is
incomplete: no hint of the final Götter-
dämmerung, either, could be inferred from
these purely triumphal images. I count it
an artistic lapse that Riefenstahl could not
or would not show us the rest of the
picture--though there are snapshots
aplenty of piles of corpses, all too
familiar today, to supply the deficit
--if you look for them.
Unfortunately, there are
still a lot of people who seem not to
need to look for them. And
worse than presenting a half-truth
as the whole truth, they do not
scruple to make it as difficult as
possible for some braver camera
person to finish the job. I count
that a graver portion of guilt, than
what is due to Leni Riefenstahl.
At A--- S---'s opening we got to talking about her
former nextdoor neighbor, a young man who'd
"snorted $20,000 worth of coke in one summer",
went mad & had to be locked up (after an indecent
delay). The house is now torn down, but she said
they sneaked in after he was gone & found one whole
room full of dead squirrels laid out in neat rows...
"My hunger is given to me to understand with, not
to understand." --Robert Kelly, Transparent Tree
I was thrilled to discover a simple progression of
fractions converging on the square root of 2, & can now
add to the sum of my knowledge the curious & rare
intelligence that (114243 divided by 80782) squared
on my calculator (9 decimal places) comes out to just
2. Ah, numbers... "a world where there doesn't have
to be justice."
To make my hobby try to be also, my therapy, my
justification, & my livelihood--is asking too much--how
much more generous would artists be toward each
other, if they could just let go of that mocked garland.
Art is the cultural sanction we seek for what we'd be
doing anyway.
Source. Our nonverbal awareness is essentially
animal-like. Therefore it is worth considering that our
"Unconscious" is unique to us as "Language"; somehow
they're the same process; the connecting link is Ego.
As-if Me. As-if Not-Me. But it is nonverbal awareness,
not the unconscious, that is our true source. Religions
based on Trance, religions based on "Stance" (attitude,
dogma, form)...we need a religion based on Dance.
Salam Pax has a book out!
Promo page.
former nextdoor neighbor, a young man who'd
"snorted $20,000 worth of coke in one summer",
went mad & had to be locked up (after an indecent
delay). The house is now torn down, but she said
they sneaked in after he was gone & found one whole
room full of dead squirrels laid out in neat rows...
"My hunger is given to me to understand with, not
to understand." --Robert Kelly, Transparent Tree
I was thrilled to discover a simple progression of
fractions converging on the square root of 2, & can now
add to the sum of my knowledge the curious & rare
intelligence that (114243 divided by 80782) squared
on my calculator (9 decimal places) comes out to just
2. Ah, numbers... "a world where there doesn't have
to be justice."
To make my hobby try to be also, my therapy, my
justification, & my livelihood--is asking too much--how
much more generous would artists be toward each
other, if they could just let go of that mocked garland.
Art is the cultural sanction we seek for what we'd be
doing anyway.
Source. Our nonverbal awareness is essentially
animal-like. Therefore it is worth considering that our
"Unconscious" is unique to us as "Language"; somehow
they're the same process; the connecting link is Ego.
As-if Me. As-if Not-Me. But it is nonverbal awareness,
not the unconscious, that is our true source. Religions
based on Trance, religions based on "Stance" (attitude,
dogma, form)...we need a religion based on Dance.
Salam Pax has a book out!
Promo page.
Monday, September 08, 2003
'I guide without a scripture; I point the way by unseen
means unto my friends and such as observe the precepts
of my teaching, which is not grievous, and is adapted
to the time and conditions.' --from Kitab el-Jilwa
(The Book of Divine Effulgence of the Yezidis) tr Anis
Frayha
A tattoo is a talisman.
"The monster is the root-stock of specification." --Ketjak
To answer my dream, i danced.
Each poetics, like the rules of chess: beyond justification or
argument. And the chaos after playing a game, when for
a moment the rules suspend, & you change sides & set
the pieces up reversed, this is something a poem should
contain as well!
When i say Love, i mean--a perception which changes your
life...feelings are tidal, they come & go; but Love is a Rubicon,
a typhoon which erases every trace of the former shoreline,
so you couldn't figure out where to replace everything if
you wanted to.
"But it is always something we look on as evil in ourselves
that forces us toward wholeness." --Robert A Johnson, We
(1983)
Strange diverted channels of pride...Refusing to use handholds
while standing on the bus. All through high school i never
used a bookmark; i simply fixed in my mind the number of the
page where i'd left off reading.
means unto my friends and such as observe the precepts
of my teaching, which is not grievous, and is adapted
to the time and conditions.' --from Kitab el-Jilwa
(The Book of Divine Effulgence of the Yezidis) tr Anis
Frayha
A tattoo is a talisman.
"The monster is the root-stock of specification." --Ketjak
To answer my dream, i danced.
Each poetics, like the rules of chess: beyond justification or
argument. And the chaos after playing a game, when for
a moment the rules suspend, & you change sides & set
the pieces up reversed, this is something a poem should
contain as well!
When i say Love, i mean--a perception which changes your
life...feelings are tidal, they come & go; but Love is a Rubicon,
a typhoon which erases every trace of the former shoreline,
so you couldn't figure out where to replace everything if
you wanted to.
"But it is always something we look on as evil in ourselves
that forces us toward wholeness." --Robert A Johnson, We
(1983)
Strange diverted channels of pride...Refusing to use handholds
while standing on the bus. All through high school i never
used a bookmark; i simply fixed in my mind the number of the
page where i'd left off reading.
I'm beginning to think Brian Stefans's "Coda: The
Nineties Tried Your Game, There's Nothing In It"
must be the first great poem of the 21c. (or
second, if you count Eminem's duet with Dido).
It's not of the first water, but something i can
return to again & again with pleasure.
A small article on The Anathemata, with
a link to an Auden essay. (via Language Hat)
Nineties Tried Your Game, There's Nothing In It"
must be the first great poem of the 21c. (or
second, if you count Eminem's duet with Dido).
It's not of the first water, but something i can
return to again & again with pleasure.
A small article on The Anathemata, with
a link to an Auden essay. (via Language Hat)
"Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner
Roland was a warrior
from the Land of the Midnight Sun
With a Thompson gun for hire,
fighting to be done
The deal was made in Denmark
on a dark and stormy day
So he set out for Biafra
to join the bloody fray
Through sixty-six and seven
they fought the Congo war
Fingers on their triggers,
knee-deep in gore
For days and nights they battled
the Bantu to their knees
They killed to earn their living
and to help out the Congolese
Roland the Thompson gunner...
His comrades fought beside him -
Van Owen and the rest
But of all the Thompson gunners
Roland was the best
So the CIA decided
they wanted Roland dead
That son-of-a-bitch Van Owen
blew off Roland's head
Roland the headless Thompson gunner (Time, time, time
For another peaceful war
Norway's bravest son
But time stands still for Roland
'Til he evens up the score)
They can still see his headless body
stalking through the night
In the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson gun
In the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson gun
Roland searched the continent
for the man who'd done him in
He found him in Mombassa
in a barroom drinking gin
Roland aimed his Thompson gun -
he didn't say a word
But he blew Van Owen's body
from there to Johannesburg
Roland the headless Thompson gunner...
The eternal Thompson gunner,
still wandering through the night
Now it's ten years later
but he still keeps up the fight
In Ireland, in Lebanon, in Palestine and Berkeley
Patty Hearst
heard the burst
of Roland's Thompson gun
And bought it"
--Warren Zevon
Listening to: Ancient Voices of Children
Roland was a warrior
from the Land of the Midnight Sun
With a Thompson gun for hire,
fighting to be done
The deal was made in Denmark
on a dark and stormy day
So he set out for Biafra
to join the bloody fray
Through sixty-six and seven
they fought the Congo war
Fingers on their triggers,
knee-deep in gore
For days and nights they battled
the Bantu to their knees
They killed to earn their living
and to help out the Congolese
Roland the Thompson gunner...
His comrades fought beside him -
Van Owen and the rest
But of all the Thompson gunners
Roland was the best
So the CIA decided
they wanted Roland dead
That son-of-a-bitch Van Owen
blew off Roland's head
Roland the headless Thompson gunner (Time, time, time
For another peaceful war
Norway's bravest son
But time stands still for Roland
'Til he evens up the score)
They can still see his headless body
stalking through the night
In the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson gun
In the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson gun
Roland searched the continent
for the man who'd done him in
He found him in Mombassa
in a barroom drinking gin
Roland aimed his Thompson gun -
he didn't say a word
But he blew Van Owen's body
from there to Johannesburg
Roland the headless Thompson gunner...
The eternal Thompson gunner,
still wandering through the night
Now it's ten years later
but he still keeps up the fight
In Ireland, in Lebanon, in Palestine and Berkeley
Patty Hearst
heard the burst
of Roland's Thompson gun
And bought it"
--Warren Zevon
Listening to: Ancient Voices of Children
Sunday, September 07, 2003
"Hills of Home
Name me no name for my disease,
With uninforming breath;
I tell you I am none of these,
But homesick unto death--
Homesick for hills that I had known,
For brooks that I had crossed,
Before I met this flesh and bone
And followed and was lost...
And though they break my heart at last,
Yet name no name of ills.
Say only, 'Here is where he passed,
Seeking again those hills.' "
--Witter Bynner, Oxford Book of American
Verse (1927)
Name me no name for my disease,
With uninforming breath;
I tell you I am none of these,
But homesick unto death--
Homesick for hills that I had known,
For brooks that I had crossed,
Before I met this flesh and bone
And followed and was lost...
And though they break my heart at last,
Yet name no name of ills.
Say only, 'Here is where he passed,
Seeking again those hills.' "
--Witter Bynner, Oxford Book of American
Verse (1927)
Saturday, September 06, 2003
In spite of all the regularity of my habits, i cannot
become rooted in this world. I will always find it
a shock to step outside, a bewilderment to rise,
a lostness to be among people. And i think by
now it has nothing to do with being loved, or not
being loved.
' "the sun that shows itself is not the real sun. '
--Dennis Tedlock's tr of the Popol Vuh
I heard plaster crumbling from the hole above
the door (paper on the carpet amplifies every
bit that falls) & this time, unlike when i hear
it in the night, i was able to see what makes
that sound. It was a four inch roach.
become rooted in this world. I will always find it
a shock to step outside, a bewilderment to rise,
a lostness to be among people. And i think by
now it has nothing to do with being loved, or not
being loved.
' "the sun that shows itself is not the real sun. '
--Dennis Tedlock's tr of the Popol Vuh
I heard plaster crumbling from the hole above
the door (paper on the carpet amplifies every
bit that falls) & this time, unlike when i hear
it in the night, i was able to see what makes
that sound. It was a four inch roach.
Friday, September 05, 2003
I always wanted to write a novel with
palindromic dialogue. [There's a character
in Bruce Sterling's Zeitgeist who speaks
only in palindromes.]
Maybe the Dems needed to be
completely humiliated in order to rediscover
their deepest gumption--but the harm caused
by this belatedness will last for, literally,
generations.
The movies are less like our literature, than our
equivalent of the old oral-epic cycles: where
certain fixed epithets & tropes & the same
handful of characters are endlessly recycled.
The only originality is in the accent in
which these familiar things are newly presented.
We went to a hidden-away concrete burnt-out
shell of a neo-classical small mansion in South
dallas. Turn of the century; sometime crash-pad;
i found a broken piece of plastic that said "Promise"
--a broken promise.
I answered a Serbo-Croatian
mail art with another of the same: "Srpskohrvatski
je tvrdjezik." ('Serbo-Croatian is a hard language.')
"Around our cars graze leisurely the fawns."
--Monier-Williams's tr. of Sakoontala
I can't stand to read poems that are nothing
but a display of sensibility--it gives me
the same feeling as a blank message left on
my answering machine.
"Modern Russians are constantly amazed that
so few Westerners have heard of E. L. Voynich,
the great English novelist." --Gridgeman in
Martin Gardner's Mathematical Games
A poet who writes like his speaking is like
a chess player who only plays against a home
computer.
Fast reading & slow reading is how i solve the
problem of defining prose & poetry. In an
ideal world the former would not exist. If
you wanted to find out something you would go
to a person who knew about it, & stay till you
really understood. And if you wanted words
you would go to poetry.
To be a poet & to be a word-
(& phrase; & book-) hound, is not necessarily
the same thing. And poets who are poets because
they love language may actually be in the
minority at all times, & have more in common
with crossword puzzlers & collectors of old books,
than with people who want to stand up in front
of a crowd & be heard, or who want their name in
histories after they're dead.
palindromic dialogue. [There's a character
in Bruce Sterling's Zeitgeist who speaks
only in palindromes.]
Maybe the Dems needed to be
completely humiliated in order to rediscover
their deepest gumption--but the harm caused
by this belatedness will last for, literally,
generations.
The movies are less like our literature, than our
equivalent of the old oral-epic cycles: where
certain fixed epithets & tropes & the same
handful of characters are endlessly recycled.
The only originality is in the accent in
which these familiar things are newly presented.
We went to a hidden-away concrete burnt-out
shell of a neo-classical small mansion in South
dallas. Turn of the century; sometime crash-pad;
i found a broken piece of plastic that said "Promise"
--a broken promise.
I answered a Serbo-Croatian
mail art with another of the same: "Srpskohrvatski
je tvrdjezik." ('Serbo-Croatian is a hard language.')
"Around our cars graze leisurely the fawns."
--Monier-Williams's tr. of Sakoontala
I can't stand to read poems that are nothing
but a display of sensibility--it gives me
the same feeling as a blank message left on
my answering machine.
"Modern Russians are constantly amazed that
so few Westerners have heard of E. L. Voynich,
the great English novelist." --Gridgeman in
Martin Gardner's Mathematical Games
A poet who writes like his speaking is like
a chess player who only plays against a home
computer.
Fast reading & slow reading is how i solve the
problem of defining prose & poetry. In an
ideal world the former would not exist. If
you wanted to find out something you would go
to a person who knew about it, & stay till you
really understood. And if you wanted words
you would go to poetry.
To be a poet & to be a word-
(& phrase; & book-) hound, is not necessarily
the same thing. And poets who are poets because
they love language may actually be in the
minority at all times, & have more in common
with crossword puzzlers & collectors of old books,
than with people who want to stand up in front
of a crowd & be heard, or who want their name in
histories after they're dead.
[the Silver Age] "The individual, prohibited from
developing his external life, retired more and
more into himself... The majority, however, became
blasé, soured and morbid... Forced carefully to
hide nature, men relapsed into artificial and
unnatural ways. ...a certain vanity attaches to
all the characters of the age in question, and
this was fed by the public declamations... The
uncertainty of existence and possession, the
continual apprehension in which men lived, caused
a restless versatility, a morbid irritability and
hurry, which was always afraid of beginning too
late and eagerly made the most of the moment.
...simple and natural composition was considered
insipid; the aim of language was to be brilliant,
piquant, and interesting. Hence it was dressed up
with abundant tinsel of epigrams, rhetorical
figures, and poetical turns, and indulged in all
manner of borrowed phrases and allusions....
Mannerism supplanted style, and bombastic pathos
took the place of quiet power. ...on the whole,
literature lost the sympathy of the nation at
large; most Emperors even intentionally widened
the chasm between the educated class and the
populace..." --Teuffel (1900)
developing his external life, retired more and
more into himself... The majority, however, became
blasé, soured and morbid... Forced carefully to
hide nature, men relapsed into artificial and
unnatural ways. ...a certain vanity attaches to
all the characters of the age in question, and
this was fed by the public declamations... The
uncertainty of existence and possession, the
continual apprehension in which men lived, caused
a restless versatility, a morbid irritability and
hurry, which was always afraid of beginning too
late and eagerly made the most of the moment.
...simple and natural composition was considered
insipid; the aim of language was to be brilliant,
piquant, and interesting. Hence it was dressed up
with abundant tinsel of epigrams, rhetorical
figures, and poetical turns, and indulged in all
manner of borrowed phrases and allusions....
Mannerism supplanted style, and bombastic pathos
took the place of quiet power. ...on the whole,
literature lost the sympathy of the nation at
large; most Emperors even intentionally widened
the chasm between the educated class and the
populace..." --Teuffel (1900)
Thursday, September 04, 2003
The Price of Repeated Transformations Is a
Zigzag Course & Spells of Confusion.
"At Netanya 1968 Bobby and the Dutch player
Hans Ree discussed the story of how Wilhelm
Steinitz reputedly claimed in his sad, final
days that he could give odds of pawn and move
to God. Fischer said no one could give odds
to the Almighty. Then, according to Ree's
account in a Dutch book, Fischer began to
speculate out loud: 'But with White I should
be able to draw against Him. I play 1.P-K4
and if we have a Ruy, the position would be
balanced, I could never lose.' Fischer became
concerned about what would happen if his
opponent replied 1...P-QB4 and got into an
open variation of the Sicilian. 'No, no,
then I play B-QB4 and I'm better,' he
concluded. 'So, what can He do?' " --July
'88 Chess Life
Zigzag Course & Spells of Confusion.
"At Netanya 1968 Bobby and the Dutch player
Hans Ree discussed the story of how Wilhelm
Steinitz reputedly claimed in his sad, final
days that he could give odds of pawn and move
to God. Fischer said no one could give odds
to the Almighty. Then, according to Ree's
account in a Dutch book, Fischer began to
speculate out loud: 'But with White I should
be able to draw against Him. I play 1.P-K4
and if we have a Ruy, the position would be
balanced, I could never lose.' Fischer became
concerned about what would happen if his
opponent replied 1...P-QB4 and got into an
open variation of the Sicilian. 'No, no,
then I play B-QB4 and I'm better,' he
concluded. 'So, what can He do?' " --July
'88 Chess Life
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
"My life was now so hopeless that I wrote a book."
--Edward Dahlberg, Because I was Flesh
One who has ceased to share the illusions of a
group, is farther removed from them than if
he had died & come back to life. So it is with
me & artists.
The truth in alienation is the losing of the
illusion of homogeneity.
Dostoevski on wheels is unthinkable. --A clue.
Not having to drive is the luxury, instead of
having a car.
I drop in my tracks each night like a drugged
rhinoceros.
The Soviet-American hotline was once
accidentally cut by a Finnish farmer plowing his
field.
We need a word for words that have 16 different
definitions--before we can get anywhere.
Boarding the bus: their anxiety that the system
won't work, anymore than it ever has worked for
them. Versus the truth of those who fly.
I hate injustice, but i don't love justice.
"...as his [Goethe's] first romance he devised
six brothers, each of whom 'wrote' chapters
in a different language. Goethe thereby perfecting
himself in German, English, French, Italian, Latin,
and Judaeo-German (Yiddish)..." --Walter Blumenthal,
Bookmen's Bedlam (1955)
Love, the Daedalus of paradoxes.
I am more certain than ever it is wrong to write
poems just because you think they should be
written. But this is the whole game nowadays.
How rude, then, for me to say: No poetry is
serious poetry unless its aim is to inspire awe.
"I want to be a carpet in a cathouse." --Kenneth
Patchen, The Journal of Albion Moonlight
--Edward Dahlberg, Because I was Flesh
One who has ceased to share the illusions of a
group, is farther removed from them than if
he had died & come back to life. So it is with
me & artists.
The truth in alienation is the losing of the
illusion of homogeneity.
Dostoevski on wheels is unthinkable. --A clue.
Not having to drive is the luxury, instead of
having a car.
I drop in my tracks each night like a drugged
rhinoceros.
The Soviet-American hotline was once
accidentally cut by a Finnish farmer plowing his
field.
We need a word for words that have 16 different
definitions--before we can get anywhere.
Boarding the bus: their anxiety that the system
won't work, anymore than it ever has worked for
them. Versus the truth of those who fly.
I hate injustice, but i don't love justice.
"...as his [Goethe's] first romance he devised
six brothers, each of whom 'wrote' chapters
in a different language. Goethe thereby perfecting
himself in German, English, French, Italian, Latin,
and Judaeo-German (Yiddish)..." --Walter Blumenthal,
Bookmen's Bedlam (1955)
Love, the Daedalus of paradoxes.
I am more certain than ever it is wrong to write
poems just because you think they should be
written. But this is the whole game nowadays.
How rude, then, for me to say: No poetry is
serious poetry unless its aim is to inspire awe.
"I want to be a carpet in a cathouse." --Kenneth
Patchen, The Journal of Albion Moonlight
People i have six or more albums by: Frank Sinatra,
Nina Simone, Messiaen, Tori Amos, Patti Smith, The
Ventures, & Throbbing Gristle.
A new "Mauberley" for the 1990's, with just the right mix of elegy & sarcasm. (pdf, via Free Space
Comics)
For a desert island, i'd have to have the eye-readable OED
(it could double as most of my furniture, too).
I have become so leery (& weary) of "poetics" in prose
that the only book i can think of is Gilbert Highet's Poets
in a Landscape (1957)--one of my favorite books--a
close exploration of seven Roman poets, in relation to
their lives & the places they lived in (with cute Rolleiflex
tourist-fotos, too). This is a terrific read even if you have
no Latin & are only vaguely familiar with these poets in
translation. I wish this kind of book were available
for all my favorite writers. I think that no one understands
a writer unless they have tried to imagine the way he
or she lived; & where.
"DC 9/11: Time of Crisis"
Flick empyrion
For that scaly mazuma.
Soot of a gerund.
From the rust-colored mesa,
Somber olive vacuole.
09 02 03
Listening to: Lycia- Estrella.
Nina Simone, Messiaen, Tori Amos, Patti Smith, The
Ventures, & Throbbing Gristle.
A new "Mauberley" for the 1990's, with just the right mix of elegy & sarcasm. (pdf, via Free Space
Comics)
For a desert island, i'd have to have the eye-readable OED
(it could double as most of my furniture, too).
I have become so leery (& weary) of "poetics" in prose
that the only book i can think of is Gilbert Highet's Poets
in a Landscape (1957)--one of my favorite books--a
close exploration of seven Roman poets, in relation to
their lives & the places they lived in (with cute Rolleiflex
tourist-fotos, too). This is a terrific read even if you have
no Latin & are only vaguely familiar with these poets in
translation. I wish this kind of book were available
for all my favorite writers. I think that no one understands
a writer unless they have tried to imagine the way he
or she lived; & where.
"DC 9/11: Time of Crisis"
Flick empyrion
For that scaly mazuma.
Soot of a gerund.
From the rust-colored mesa,
Somber olive vacuole.
09 02 03
Listening to: Lycia- Estrella.
[In the museum for a different opening] i wandered into the
"Images of Mexico" exhibit & found half a dozen unballyhooed
paintings by Frida Kahlo. One, a self portrait with a chihuahua,
is just about the scariest painting i've ever seen. ...a
subtle & powerful statement about her attitude toward dying
(& living) that is hard to put into words, but unmistakeable...
[:} What use could Stoicism be as a philosophy to one
who lives in perpetual pain?
The Gnomic is a mood, but Justice itself is either a passion or
a desperate pretense. A passion--to remain cool-headed.
The world lacks, not so much truth, as moral courage. No one
has a long enough life to learn all the truths we've accumulated
in books already--& who tries for even a day to practice them?
Team sports is not only the religion of [Sensing-Perceiving types],
it is also the form their politics & sexuality take. This accounts for
90% of what happens on earth at any given moment; most of
the rest, is other types resisting this fact.
Mathematical proof that Ticketmaster is evil. (via Metafilter)
"Images of Mexico" exhibit & found half a dozen unballyhooed
paintings by Frida Kahlo. One, a self portrait with a chihuahua,
is just about the scariest painting i've ever seen. ...a
subtle & powerful statement about her attitude toward dying
(& living) that is hard to put into words, but unmistakeable...
[:} What use could Stoicism be as a philosophy to one
who lives in perpetual pain?
The Gnomic is a mood, but Justice itself is either a passion or
a desperate pretense. A passion--to remain cool-headed.
The world lacks, not so much truth, as moral courage. No one
has a long enough life to learn all the truths we've accumulated
in books already--& who tries for even a day to practice them?
Team sports is not only the religion of [Sensing-Perceiving types],
it is also the form their politics & sexuality take. This accounts for
90% of what happens on earth at any given moment; most of
the rest, is other types resisting this fact.
Mathematical proof that Ticketmaster is evil. (via Metafilter)
I was reading near the end of Anais Nin's Collages
(1964), when i realized she was describing Djuna Barnes
after her retreat in New York City ("Judith Sands"). It was
such a beautifully subtle evocation that i wanted to write
in the name for those who wouldn't get it.
On the next page someone had done
that for me.
Every day however, i think: Why not now?
(When i know why not now)--
it's not really a question--.....it's an insect in the shape
of a leaf.
It's only when my ego's attenuated to a few rags that
i can call every form of fear by its true name.
Too often i do "good deeds" for the singing of a lie
inside me: that this changes the person i am. I should
do them only out of an understanding of causality.
I must know by now, nothing ever changed me without
great pain--& i continue to regret it till long afterwards.
Doubt is a maggot in the bottom of the ricebowl.
(1964), when i realized she was describing Djuna Barnes
after her retreat in New York City ("Judith Sands"). It was
such a beautifully subtle evocation that i wanted to write
in the name for those who wouldn't get it.
On the next page someone had done
that for me.
Every day however, i think: Why not now?
(When i know why not now)--
it's not really a question--.....it's an insect in the shape
of a leaf.
It's only when my ego's attenuated to a few rags that
i can call every form of fear by its true name.
Too often i do "good deeds" for the singing of a lie
inside me: that this changes the person i am. I should
do them only out of an understanding of causality.
I must know by now, nothing ever changed me without
great pain--& i continue to regret it till long afterwards.
Doubt is a maggot in the bottom of the ricebowl.
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
'The Mute Griffins
They pass across the sky at noon,
the summer noon,
through seas ablaze with searing light--
the golden barbed and golden scaled
lions of flight.
The birds of story, treasure griffins,
unglossal griffins,
are gazers of the solar zone
who proudly bear a vulture head
of diamond stone.
These birds are voiceless, proudly mute,
despairing mute,
and if they make a sound they sway
and fall to earth a shadowy brown,
a sparrow gray.
And there they pass the sky at noon,
the summer noon,
in black of pride through seas of light--
the golden barbed and golden scaled
lions of flight.'
--Ady
"O Java Tide"
The chilly waters of the night
are not the night.
The ratchet of my anti-theft
device scrapes in a silent car;
the lone drive's left.
The frigid margins of the dream
are not the dream.
I venture onto foreign soil
in search of rapture & to spring
a hoar gargoyle.
I trail no saving string.
The frozen surface of my life
is not my life.
They pass across the sky at noon,
the summer noon,
through seas ablaze with searing light--
the golden barbed and golden scaled
lions of flight.
The birds of story, treasure griffins,
unglossal griffins,
are gazers of the solar zone
who proudly bear a vulture head
of diamond stone.
These birds are voiceless, proudly mute,
despairing mute,
and if they make a sound they sway
and fall to earth a shadowy brown,
a sparrow gray.
And there they pass the sky at noon,
the summer noon,
in black of pride through seas of light--
the golden barbed and golden scaled
lions of flight.'
--Ady
"O Java Tide"
The chilly waters of the night
are not the night.
The ratchet of my anti-theft
device scrapes in a silent car;
the lone drive's left.
The frigid margins of the dream
are not the dream.
I venture onto foreign soil
in search of rapture & to spring
a hoar gargoyle.
I trail no saving string.
The frozen surface of my life
is not my life.
I write & have always written for one reason & one
reason only: not to be at the mercy of my feelings.
To pretend this is a way of manufacturing unique
artifacts for public consumption, is a stupidity i am
often guilty of.
"...the whole of Albertus's considerable output was
intended by the author to be a commentary on
Aristotle..." --Best & Brightman (eds.), intro to
Albertus Magnus's The Boke of Secretes
(16c tr), 1973
My allergies make me a mandarin.
The riddler, not the Riddle, yields; a dawnflush to
the gray marble sings like life.
The place ideas about art come from, is not where
the art does.
The only thing long experience does to a true
artist, is turn irrational insecurity into rational
humility. Failure isn't any farther away, it just
has a changed countenance.
Many more people are literate than are capable
of telling good writing from bad.
Art & careerism are like human-powered airplanes
& commercial jetliners--they hardly even share
the same sky.
Is there any trick but patience?
"I consider ego something to be starved into
submission," i was saying to someone the other
day; but i said it with pride of tyranny in my
voice.
To put up with picayune effects from good intentions
is admitting a symbolic victory is better than none.
But a symbolic victory could have been had even
without those efforts. Truth is sacrificed in
order not to believe in magic.
" 'We must be clear that, when it comes to atoms,
language can be used only as in poetry...' " Bohr
quoted in Heisenberg's Physics and Beyond
reason only: not to be at the mercy of my feelings.
To pretend this is a way of manufacturing unique
artifacts for public consumption, is a stupidity i am
often guilty of.
"...the whole of Albertus's considerable output was
intended by the author to be a commentary on
Aristotle..." --Best & Brightman (eds.), intro to
Albertus Magnus's The Boke of Secretes
(16c tr), 1973
My allergies make me a mandarin.
The riddler, not the Riddle, yields; a dawnflush to
the gray marble sings like life.
The place ideas about art come from, is not where
the art does.
The only thing long experience does to a true
artist, is turn irrational insecurity into rational
humility. Failure isn't any farther away, it just
has a changed countenance.
Many more people are literate than are capable
of telling good writing from bad.
Art & careerism are like human-powered airplanes
& commercial jetliners--they hardly even share
the same sky.
Is there any trick but patience?
"I consider ego something to be starved into
submission," i was saying to someone the other
day; but i said it with pride of tyranny in my
voice.
To put up with picayune effects from good intentions
is admitting a symbolic victory is better than none.
But a symbolic victory could have been had even
without those efforts. Truth is sacrificed in
order not to believe in magic.
" 'We must be clear that, when it comes to atoms,
language can be used only as in poetry...' " Bohr
quoted in Heisenberg's Physics and Beyond
head for making coins of conceptuality; they all have
heads & tails: i don't know how to make any other kind
(or it isn't a coin)--.
" 'Oh no!' said Holland, 'The species is not at all intent
on destroying itself. It's intent on being something
which happens inevitably to entail its destruction,
that's all.' " --Paul Bowles, Let It Come Down (1952)
Reason is a chainsaw but only hands can build.
"For, if the Grand Architect had acted a human part,
he would have ranged the stars into some beautiful
and elegant order, as we see in the vaulted roofs
of palaces; whereas, we scarce find among such an
infinite multitude of stars any figure either square,
triangular, or rectilinear; so great a difference is
there betwixt the spirit of man, and the spirit of
the universe." --Francis Bacon, On the Dignity
and Advancement of Learning IV, iv.
Freedom is not a feeling. (A terrible truth for our
times)
"Robert Frost liked very much to play [tennis], they
say, but he hated to lose. In fact he would get so
upset and grumpy when he lost that those who
looked out for him arranged that no one could play
him who did not agree beforehand to dump the
match." --Galway Kinnell, Walking Down the
Stairs (interviews)
[So much for free verse being tennis
without a net!]
'Tower of Night
Moonwan and whitely intumescent
in anxious silence of a summer night
the tower
peers out and waits for sanguine tidings
of flame and ruin and fright.
A monody of silence strangles
the bells and hymns within this voiceless shrine,
and the Lord's
tower arises, stares, and trembles
beneath an awesome sign.
Mysterious swimmers of the heavens,
the misty moon clouds move and drift on high,
the tower
salutes the moon orb, this all-knowing
omnibus of the sky.
The moon has seen unnumbered towers
it never hurries and is never late,
it glances
in calm upon this little planet
and its unfolding fate.
This sentinel of our salvation
may gleam with blood beneath tomorrow's moon
as once more
we hear proclaimed the ancient motto,
to victory or ruin.
The tower may confess tomorrow
a dedication to the claw and fang,
and the bells
these iron cubs in spellbound languor,
will ominously clang.
The lonely moon will rumble onward,
so will this vacant and unpeopled earth,
and above
a moonwhite ruin of fallen towers
the peace will come to birth.'
--Endre Ady
Moonwan and whitely intumescent
in anxious silence of a summer night
the tower
peers out and waits for sanguine tidings
of flame and ruin and fright.
A monody of silence strangles
the bells and hymns within this voiceless shrine,
and the Lord's
tower arises, stares, and trembles
beneath an awesome sign.
Mysterious swimmers of the heavens,
the misty moon clouds move and drift on high,
the tower
salutes the moon orb, this all-knowing
omnibus of the sky.
The moon has seen unnumbered towers
it never hurries and is never late,
it glances
in calm upon this little planet
and its unfolding fate.
This sentinel of our salvation
may gleam with blood beneath tomorrow's moon
as once more
we hear proclaimed the ancient motto,
to victory or ruin.
The tower may confess tomorrow
a dedication to the claw and fang,
and the bells
these iron cubs in spellbound languor,
will ominously clang.
The lonely moon will rumble onward,
so will this vacant and unpeopled earth,
and above
a moonwhite ruin of fallen towers
the peace will come to birth.'
--Endre Ady
"The Alternate Martians"
On the dusty plateau a
Startlingly covariant link.
Viroid trawlnet it's easy
To lose chrome of your hermitage.
Caress where ivorine shade goes
To Civet House.
09 03 03
Mathematical proof that Barney is evil. (via Robot Wisdom)
On the dusty plateau a
Startlingly covariant link.
Viroid trawlnet it's easy
To lose chrome of your hermitage.
Caress where ivorine shade goes
To Civet House.
09 03 03
Mathematical proof that Barney is evil. (via Robot Wisdom)
"No azure-hued tahalia now..." --from Epiphanius Wilson's
renditions of Moorish Ballads
In a recent poll on the American public's knowledge of
science, 21% thought the sun went around the earth.
[1988]
'It is a very great safeguard to learn by heart instead
of writing. It is impossible for what is written not to
be disclosed. That is the reason why I have never
written anything about these things, and why there
is not and will not be any written work of Plato's
own. What are now called his are the work of a
Socrates embellished and modernized.' --2nd letter
of Plato
The chief illusion of art is the same as the chief
illusion of the City: that it has everything you
need. (& can't find elsewhere--)
In antiquity, the only Halloween
funhouses were the Mysteries. Today, the only
Mysteries are Halloween funhouses--.
"I am sick of the invisible world and all its efforts
to be visible" --Spicer
The Metaphor of the Unconscious as one, is a
reflection of the metaphor of the conscious as
one. Both are half-truths of immense utility.
"The long poem testifies reliably for period style."
--Harvey Gross
renditions of Moorish Ballads
In a recent poll on the American public's knowledge of
science, 21% thought the sun went around the earth.
[1988]
'It is a very great safeguard to learn by heart instead
of writing. It is impossible for what is written not to
be disclosed. That is the reason why I have never
written anything about these things, and why there
is not and will not be any written work of Plato's
own. What are now called his are the work of a
Socrates embellished and modernized.' --2nd letter
of Plato
The chief illusion of art is the same as the chief
illusion of the City: that it has everything you
need. (& can't find elsewhere--)
In antiquity, the only Halloween
funhouses were the Mysteries. Today, the only
Mysteries are Halloween funhouses--.
"I am sick of the invisible world and all its efforts
to be visible" --Spicer
The Metaphor of the Unconscious as one, is a
reflection of the metaphor of the conscious as
one. Both are half-truths of immense utility.
"The long poem testifies reliably for period style."
--Harvey Gross
Monday, September 01, 2003
'...ritual is permissable only to the extent
that it is genuine as a kiss.' --Wittgenstein
The Epic as a colossal statue.
' "...I would [rather] watch over madmen, than
have to put up with fools. The only trouble, really,
is that there are so many madmen who are also
fools..." ' --Miguel de Unamuno y Jugo, Abel
Sanchez and Other Stories
By distributing its effectual parts among the
arts & sciences, magic has been gerrymandered
out of existence.
"Even the subconscious is not patient enough for
poetry." --Jack Spicer, After Lorca
In a culture that celebrates the apotheosis of
trivia, poetry is the one thing that doesn't matter.
All ambitions are silly, but poetic ambitions are
sillier than most. Poetry itself should teach that
small is beautiful, that the unimportant can be
infinitely precious. As such, it's a metaphor for
human life...
"The tick, to use Uexkuell's example, has no need
for any grasp of spatial order and her imagined
place in it: she has only to sit on a grass-stalk,
for up to eighteen years, until the scent of
butyric acid (what we call butyric acid) impels
her to land on a passing mammal, suck blood, drop
to earth and lay her eggs." --Stephen Clark, From
Athens to Jerusalem
that it is genuine as a kiss.' --Wittgenstein
The Epic as a colossal statue.
' "...I would [rather] watch over madmen, than
have to put up with fools. The only trouble, really,
is that there are so many madmen who are also
fools..." ' --Miguel de Unamuno y Jugo, Abel
Sanchez and Other Stories
By distributing its effectual parts among the
arts & sciences, magic has been gerrymandered
out of existence.
"Even the subconscious is not patient enough for
poetry." --Jack Spicer, After Lorca
In a culture that celebrates the apotheosis of
trivia, poetry is the one thing that doesn't matter.
All ambitions are silly, but poetic ambitions are
sillier than most. Poetry itself should teach that
small is beautiful, that the unimportant can be
infinitely precious. As such, it's a metaphor for
human life...
"The tick, to use Uexkuell's example, has no need
for any grasp of spatial order and her imagined
place in it: she has only to sit on a grass-stalk,
for up to eighteen years, until the scent of
butyric acid (what we call butyric acid) impels
her to land on a passing mammal, suck blood, drop
to earth and lay her eggs." --Stephen Clark, From
Athens to Jerusalem
The London Review of Books notices slang in the
Buffyverse. (via Momus) More.
A million reasons are no better than one
reason, but a million excuses delude better
than one. Hence, politics.
"Every time we defecate we lose 100,000
million microbes." --Desmond Morris, Intimate
Behavior (1971)
A painter should be no smarter than his fingers.
"Most readers, we have discovered, dislike
computer verse with intensity that borders on
moral censure." --introduction to Against
Infinity, Ernest Robson & Jet Wimp
People lack freedom to the precise degree that
they avoid self-criticism.
'...a cosmos where ice and fire are in eternal
conflict, and [a cosmos] in a hollow globe
surrounded by an infinite expanse of rock. Hitler
was asked to decide between them. His answer gives
food for thought: "Our conception of the world
need not be coherent. They may both be right." '
--The Morning of the Magicians
Art must be a wilderness howling among the voices.
"Desperately I strapped a dildo around my waist."
--Kathy Acker, Don Quixote
Only the colors move.
Buffyverse. (via Momus) More.
A million reasons are no better than one
reason, but a million excuses delude better
than one. Hence, politics.
"Every time we defecate we lose 100,000
million microbes." --Desmond Morris, Intimate
Behavior (1971)
A painter should be no smarter than his fingers.
"Most readers, we have discovered, dislike
computer verse with intensity that borders on
moral censure." --introduction to Against
Infinity, Ernest Robson & Jet Wimp
People lack freedom to the precise degree that
they avoid self-criticism.
'...a cosmos where ice and fire are in eternal
conflict, and [a cosmos] in a hollow globe
surrounded by an infinite expanse of rock. Hitler
was asked to decide between them. His answer gives
food for thought: "Our conception of the world
need not be coherent. They may both be right." '
--The Morning of the Magicians
Art must be a wilderness howling among the voices.
"Desperately I strapped a dildo around my waist."
--Kathy Acker, Don Quixote
Only the colors move.
" 'Poor, foolish boy! Politeness is the name
Politely given to equivocation.
'Twas not a tree from which this comment came;
But an old stump with fungus vegetation
Encrusted thick. It was this old stump's aim,
And, as it deemed, beneficent vocation,
To extract out of the toadstools it evolved
A system that all other systems solved."
--Owen Meredith, Glenaveril (1885)
"Self-Questioning
To-day I saw a chipmunk stealthily
Sitting upon a slender branch;
How steadily he gazed at me--
As tho 'twere deed in no wise staunch!
Madly I hurled a stone--and down he fell. . . .
Limp little body, am I then
So void of hell? . . . Since you can't tell,
We'll think we're masterfull again!"
--Hyman Segal, The Book of Pain-Struggle
(1911)
"...It would be a pity if any future historian
were to have to write words like these: 'By
the middle of the twentieth century the higher
institutions of learning had lost all influence
over public opinion in the United States. But
the mission of raising the tone of democracy,
which they had proven themselves so lamentably
unfitted to exert, was assumed with rare
enthusiasm and prosecuted with extraordinary
skill and success by a new educational power;
and for the clarification of their human sym-
pathies and elevation of their human preferences,
the people at large acquired the habit of
resorting exclusively to the guidance of certain
private literary adventures, commonly designated
in the market by the affectionate name of ten-
cent magazines...' " --William James in
Memories and Studies
[--Well, almost.]
Buffalo Daughter has a new album!
Politely given to equivocation.
'Twas not a tree from which this comment came;
But an old stump with fungus vegetation
Encrusted thick. It was this old stump's aim,
And, as it deemed, beneficent vocation,
To extract out of the toadstools it evolved
A system that all other systems solved."
--Owen Meredith, Glenaveril (1885)
"Self-Questioning
To-day I saw a chipmunk stealthily
Sitting upon a slender branch;
How steadily he gazed at me--
As tho 'twere deed in no wise staunch!
Madly I hurled a stone--and down he fell. . . .
Limp little body, am I then
So void of hell? . . . Since you can't tell,
We'll think we're masterfull again!"
--Hyman Segal, The Book of Pain-Struggle
(1911)
"...It would be a pity if any future historian
were to have to write words like these: 'By
the middle of the twentieth century the higher
institutions of learning had lost all influence
over public opinion in the United States. But
the mission of raising the tone of democracy,
which they had proven themselves so lamentably
unfitted to exert, was assumed with rare
enthusiasm and prosecuted with extraordinary
skill and success by a new educational power;
and for the clarification of their human sym-
pathies and elevation of their human preferences,
the people at large acquired the habit of
resorting exclusively to the guidance of certain
private literary adventures, commonly designated
in the market by the affectionate name of ten-
cent magazines...' " --William James in
Memories and Studies
[--Well, almost.]
Buffalo Daughter has a new album!
'Song
All of autumn, rose,
Is this single one of your petals
Falling.
Girl, all of sorrow
Is this single drop
Of your blood.'
--Selected Writings of Juan Ramón Jiménez
tr H R Hays (1957)
When two cultures meet, they can choose to
mix or try to remain separate... It is
instructive to compare New Mexico & Arizona,
Brazil & Argentina, in this light.
Just because you wake up earlier doesn't
give you any sort of moral superiority.
So, neither does intelligence.
It behooves a barbarian to speak in
particulars, to collect shards, and to sleep
uneasy. A barbarian with ambitions beyond
that is himself a shard, a freak, and a
disturbing dream-episode.
Fusion is explosion made conspiracy.
If art is proto-mindscience, we are all
of us mad scientists, for attempting to prove
what we already know, and disdaining results
that contradict it.
Turned up while googling for "theocrat".
Listening to: "Twin Peaks" soundtrack.
All of autumn, rose,
Is this single one of your petals
Falling.
Girl, all of sorrow
Is this single drop
Of your blood.'
--Selected Writings of Juan Ramón Jiménez
tr H R Hays (1957)
When two cultures meet, they can choose to
mix or try to remain separate... It is
instructive to compare New Mexico & Arizona,
Brazil & Argentina, in this light.
Just because you wake up earlier doesn't
give you any sort of moral superiority.
So, neither does intelligence.
It behooves a barbarian to speak in
particulars, to collect shards, and to sleep
uneasy. A barbarian with ambitions beyond
that is himself a shard, a freak, and a
disturbing dream-episode.
Fusion is explosion made conspiracy.
If art is proto-mindscience, we are all
of us mad scientists, for attempting to prove
what we already know, and disdaining results
that contradict it.
Turned up while googling for "theocrat".
Listening to: "Twin Peaks" soundtrack.
I don't know if he was familiar with Pessoa, but in his
early book License to Carry a Gun, Andrei
Codrescu writes different kinds of poems under several
pseudonyms--including that of a Black Militant.
"Radiant Silhouette IV
Frenzy softens the air.
The hardly used desire was posted on the outer panel
of the blackboard sky. Beneath rows of illustrated
fragments, someone whispers and someone listens,
and no one agrees on how many were in the bed between
one and one equals all the hours you have known or
imagined knowing another.
The inside of the walls got sticky, and tiny spots of
pink paper floated toward the rain spattered clouds.
I followed feathers down flagpoles
I stood on trains,
sat across from
and beside
I traced the little wigs of a tarnished button,
and started eating the perfumed crumbs
left out for the leper of milk
I licked peeling canisters
until rain trickled out of
my mouth and pockets
I counted the insect vowels missing from the slag heap
I inserted a strip of imitation fur into the Book of Neon
After he tied her on the bed, she handcuffed him to the stove.
Dark aquamarine light slipped off the rounded edges of the
upturned venetian blinds, dropping into mirrors fastened
at the corners.
An old movie flickered on the outer border of their gnawed platform."
--John Yau in: The Open Boat ed Hongo (1993)
A manifesto by Mark Amerika.
early book License to Carry a Gun, Andrei
Codrescu writes different kinds of poems under several
pseudonyms--including that of a Black Militant.
"Radiant Silhouette IV
Frenzy softens the air.
The hardly used desire was posted on the outer panel
of the blackboard sky. Beneath rows of illustrated
fragments, someone whispers and someone listens,
and no one agrees on how many were in the bed between
one and one equals all the hours you have known or
imagined knowing another.
The inside of the walls got sticky, and tiny spots of
pink paper floated toward the rain spattered clouds.
I followed feathers down flagpoles
I stood on trains,
sat across from
and beside
I traced the little wigs of a tarnished button,
and started eating the perfumed crumbs
left out for the leper of milk
I licked peeling canisters
until rain trickled out of
my mouth and pockets
I counted the insect vowels missing from the slag heap
I inserted a strip of imitation fur into the Book of Neon
After he tied her on the bed, she handcuffed him to the stove.
Dark aquamarine light slipped off the rounded edges of the
upturned venetian blinds, dropping into mirrors fastened
at the corners.
An old movie flickered on the outer border of their gnawed platform."
--John Yau in: The Open Boat ed Hongo (1993)
A manifesto by Mark Amerika.
Shia Pundit.
How would you feel if you were a baker and had
to throw away fresh bread every day because
no one could smell it?
What is a leader? A person standing at the point
of maximum illusion. They have the least freedom
but the greatest sense of power... Nobody tells
the truth to a leader.
Speech is only the latest language.
Story is older than speech.
The only storytellers we listen to anymore, are
either professional liars or people who believe
words can describe reality.
Science is the political expression of method, and
arose with the modern state (17c.). It was inevitable
that, having chosen to perceive reality in terms
of its largest gestalts, and in generalizable relations
about groups, exclusively, scientists should have
gone on to become a collectivized institution which
serves the state in its oppression of individual
humans, just as science must ignore particularities
in order to attain certainty; not "Knowledge is power"
but "certain knowledge is Power-thinking applied
to things"...
In me the bricoleur wars with the enginer. Try to
utilize this as a dialectic. Sketch an outline, decide
on certain elements to choose from among,
then improvise.
"During the siege, concerts were held even as the
city was being shelled. Paintings from the Hermitage
were moved to the Ural Mountains for safekeeping,
but locals still flocked to the museum, where guides
pointed to empty frames and described the art they
once contained." --Craig Neff, in Sept/Ocr '03 Texas
Journey
"At a bookshop, we found...the familiar black-and-yellow-
covered for Dummies series; the word used for
dummies in the Russian version translates to teapots."
--ibid
How would you feel if you were a baker and had
to throw away fresh bread every day because
no one could smell it?
What is a leader? A person standing at the point
of maximum illusion. They have the least freedom
but the greatest sense of power... Nobody tells
the truth to a leader.
Speech is only the latest language.
Story is older than speech.
The only storytellers we listen to anymore, are
either professional liars or people who believe
words can describe reality.
Science is the political expression of method, and
arose with the modern state (17c.). It was inevitable
that, having chosen to perceive reality in terms
of its largest gestalts, and in generalizable relations
about groups, exclusively, scientists should have
gone on to become a collectivized institution which
serves the state in its oppression of individual
humans, just as science must ignore particularities
in order to attain certainty; not "Knowledge is power"
but "certain knowledge is Power-thinking applied
to things"...
In me the bricoleur wars with the enginer. Try to
utilize this as a dialectic. Sketch an outline, decide
on certain elements to choose from among,
then improvise.
"During the siege, concerts were held even as the
city was being shelled. Paintings from the Hermitage
were moved to the Ural Mountains for safekeeping,
but locals still flocked to the museum, where guides
pointed to empty frames and described the art they
once contained." --Craig Neff, in Sept/Ocr '03 Texas
Journey
"At a bookshop, we found...the familiar black-and-yellow-
covered for Dummies series; the word used for
dummies in the Russian version translates to teapots."
--ibid
Sunday, August 31, 2003
Beyond Us and Them
Beyond Rational and Irrational
Beyond I and not-I
Beyond Same and Different
"The Arm Twisted And Turned With Lightning
Imperativeness As If To Reach The Point
Of The Borders Of The Days That Touch
Each Other On The Rim Of The Precision-Discipline."
--Sun Ra
Improvisation depends on having to invent
as little as possible.
''The Seventh Rose
The first rose is of granite
The second rose is of red wine
The third rose is of lark's feathers
The fourth rose is of rust
The fifth rose is of yearning
The sixth rose is of tin
But the seventh
The most delicate
The believng rose
The rose of night
The sisterly rose--
Only after your death
Will it grow out of your coffin.'
--Yvan Goll, ibid
The last war. The last war will be fought between
robots trying to sell something, & humans who just want
to be left alone.
The only separable form & content is in lying.
But even so: this is a true representation of an inner
contradiction...
'With every dawn you return to be changed
From the wings of night's theater
Are you elf Holy Infanta?
In your dark strangeness?
With what weapon do captives approach you?
Will you step out of a revolving door
Out of a sunken castle? Out of a storm
Or a street full of tormenting detours?
What blaze touseled your locks?
What god whispered the password to you?
You sing in Tuscan you smell of burning
You come back to me confused bewildered
With the mask of a smile and--only half hidden--
Under the purple of your cloak an angel's wing'
--Yvan Goll, Selected Poems (1981) tr
Schulte & Bullock
I have the hatred of injustice of the true poet, &
the love of gewgaws of the false poet--in equal
measure. I am obviously predestined for no ordinary
disappointment.
robots trying to sell something, & humans who just want
to be left alone.
The only separable form & content is in lying.
But even so: this is a true representation of an inner
contradiction...
'With every dawn you return to be changed
From the wings of night's theater
Are you elf Holy Infanta?
In your dark strangeness?
With what weapon do captives approach you?
Will you step out of a revolving door
Out of a sunken castle? Out of a storm
Or a street full of tormenting detours?
What blaze touseled your locks?
What god whispered the password to you?
You sing in Tuscan you smell of burning
You come back to me confused bewildered
With the mask of a smile and--only half hidden--
Under the purple of your cloak an angel's wing'
--Yvan Goll, Selected Poems (1981) tr
Schulte & Bullock
I have the hatred of injustice of the true poet, &
the love of gewgaws of the false poet--in equal
measure. I am obviously predestined for no ordinary
disappointment.