These are those superimposed, they’re bigger.
Those, these, and them.
These tease them.
Those superimpose those.
They’re there to show them.
They may be simplified versions of them.
They may also be simplified versions of those.
Those are these withdrawn, they’re smaller.
They’re smaller because of this.
This is that with these.
Those are these without them or those.
Those, these, they, that, and this modify them.
They’re both with and beside that.
Besides those are these.
This is what these are.
They’re those with this.
There they are.
With them is this.
This is them with that.
Those are not this.
This is that.
All of this is that.
These are not them.
They are those.
They are this.
That isn’t this beside them.
These are those.
They’re both bigger and smaller.
None of those are these.
These are that.
That is this.
This is these and those.
That hasn’t touched this.
That is that.
Those are those.
With these those are this.
They are them.
These are those with them.
That isn’t this but those are that.
That is confusing.
It isn’t this.
These are not this.
This is them.
There isn’t this without that.
This is theirs.
They take this to them.
There they take it.
That isn’t ours.
It’s theirs.
They’re there for theirs.
We’re here for this.
This is theirs.
Those aren’t seen by them.
They know this.
There is where they are.
This is what used to be that.
Those are these with that.
That’s theirs.
They’re there.
These and those are thus.
Without us they’re them.
Talking to them leads to this.
They don’t do this.
To do this you need that.
You don’t need those.
Those are theirs.
They’re them seeking those.
That isn’t that.
This isn’t that.
Those are this.
They are these not them.
This and that are those and these.
These are clothes for them.
Those are not.
Those clothes are these.
The clothes that are theirs are those.
Their clothes are those there.
Where do those come in?
They wear those clothes.
They are worn.
Their clothes are those wore worn.
These are there worn clothes.
Those are the less worn ones.
These are not.
Those clothes are theirs.
These aren’t theirs.
Those and this is theirs.
That is this not theirs.
Theirs are these.
These clothes are their clothes.
Not those.
Worn clothes aren’t wore out.
We’re not wearing them.
They’re wearing those.
We’re wearing these.
Those are worn and we’re wearing them.
We’re wearing their worn clothes where?
Not there.
These clothes were worn once without those.
These aren’t worn though.
They’re those that are worn.
Isn’t that there theirs?
They’re ours, but they’re worn.
These are theirs.
Not this.
They don’t know this.
Knowing that they wear this isn’t that.
This is them wearing that and this.
This isn’t worn.
That isn’t this.
They know that.
They’re wearing it.
We’re worrying, why?
These worries aren’t ours.
Those are ours.
These worries are ours.
Those are there’s.
We have ours.
These are ours.
Ours are these.
We share them, but they are ours.
These are our worries.
The clothes carry them.
They are theirs and we are ours.
We are among that, but we aren’t it.
It is this.
Why’re we worrying, what, with all of this around us?
Who knows?
Who’s to say?
There’s this or that anyway.
Worries bother me.
Worries can be this.
These are my worries.
It started before they came.
That’s how it was.
But it isn’t that simple.
None of this was here before they arrived.
The worries wore me out.
They weren’t the end of me.
They were the beginning.
If they saw this they’d know.
They don’t see it.
That’s how they are.
They’re there to magnify and retract.
This is here.
The next minute it’s there.
That’s how it works.
There isn’t a minute that passes.
That’s all they know.
And they know it.
They use and feed off it.
They’re there for it.
Time isn’t there for them.
That’s when they’re at their best.
Time is a test for them.
We don’t test them though.
The tests look like this.
There are many words in them.
Many of their words in this.
The words aren’t these though.
When spoken they may be heard.
Hearing it like those clothes.
The clothes that they wore.
They’re there still, see.
This is a word like those.
Those cloth words in this.
The word is the cloth.
See how it works?
It worked like this.
Those manufacture clothes.
They may be needed someday.
They work best when needs are worn.
Their needs are met with meat.
They eat meat like we see words.
Give them meat and see.
This used to be meat like those.
They aren’t put in mouths though.
These words were in a mouth once.
This is the mouth where the meat goes.
This meat goes in and words come out.
They come out meaty.
There’s no depth to words like these.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Continuation of "This"
most listened at present
and as soon as we find a new needle the world is mine.
What I'm Listening To
Lucas, I like this idea.
Why didn't we do this sooner?
Dr. Dog, Easy Beat
Machine Drum, Bidnezz
Radical Fashion, Odori
Yellow Fever, The Culver City EP
Antony and The Johnsons, I am a Bird Now
... new ...
from Ron's blog:
"Jeff Hilson’s new anthology, The Reality Street Book of Sonnets, is flat out the best book of its kind I have ever seen. It is easily – too easily, alas – the finest collection of contemporary sonnets ever put together. And it’s one of those books – not unlike Donald Allen’s anthology, The New American Poetry, or Jerry Rothenberg’s first ventures into the field, with Shaking the Pumpkin & Revolution of the Word, that make you realize that just how important and powerful a truly good anthologist can be."
Monday, September 29, 2008
... work in process ...
Keeping Chickens at Home
Rule no. 56: write stuff that people want to read and share.
The signs written about post-development are too writerly.
It’s sleep paralysis.
Sleep paralysis by description.
An episode that has turned into something more than a little suffering.
The disorder in brochures:
things your giant flag, composed of the hottest car in the world,
will be down for.
Will a Jedi go car shopping?
It’s a fucking fantasy junction inside the Ferrari factory.
Did you know that all engines run on cars?
No, but
that is a bowl
of delicious cereal.
... new ...
GO AND SEE WHAT IS GOING ON OVER AT ANNE BOYER'S BLOG (TELL YOUR FRIENDS):
My picks, as usual, from Ron's Blog:
Radical Vernacular:
Lorine Niedecker and the Poetics of Place
Talking with Tao Lin
John Ashbery’s “The Virgin King”
Is Bob Dylan a poet?
Lyn Hejinian: two talks
Ten books
that turned K. Silem Mohammad
onto poetry
Tuesday at Writers House in Philly:
Ben Lerner
Galway / café / wine / time / Shore / more
Sunday, September 28, 2008
A work in progress...
Let's find out who came up with stupid fucking idea of imprinting dates stamps on photos.
Designs may be conceived by artists, others by engineers, and still others by panderers to the tasteless.
That trumpet stock of horizontal tradition has bellowed through the ages waking artists calling on them by name to take note and plan the day.
The sun guides straightway shining rays on drab dial awakening with tones of superfluous functionality inspired.
Pestering moons pull daytime eyes upward with equivocal attraction to galaxies, yet these eyes, vacant and impressionistic, stare at sun peering through little more than calmed blindness.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Gaming
I have been trying to own the fire cape on my Gamedish for a week and a half. I've made it to the final battle (Tztok-Jad Level 702) six times in a row now!!!
This follows several failed attempts to get to Jad. The first was within five waves and another was within 2.X
Hopefully lucky #7 will be the attempt in which I will wear the cape once and for all.
Here are the waves I've had to go through:
1. 22
2. 22 + 22
3. 45
4. 45 + 22
5. 45 + 22 + 22
6. 45 + 45
7. 90
8. 90 + 22
9. 90 + 22 + 22
10. 90 + 45
11. 90 + 45 + 22
12. 90 + 45 + 22 + 22
13. 90 + 45 + 45
14. 90 + 90
15. 180
16. 180 + 22
17. 180 + 22 + 22
18. 180 + 45
19. 180 + 45 + 22
20. 180 + 45 + 22 + 22
21. 180 + 45 + 45
22. 180 + 90
23. 180 + 90 + 22
24. 180 + 90 + 22 + 22
25. 180 + 90 + 45
26. 180 + 90 + 45 + 22
27. 180 + 90 + 45 + 22 + 22
28. 180 + 90 + 45 + 45
29. 180 + 90 + 90
30. 180 + 180
31. 360
32. 360 + 22
33. 360 + 22 + 22
34. 360 + 45
35. 360 + 45 + 22
36. 360 + 45 + 22 + 22
37. 360 + 45 + 45
38. 360 + 90
39. 360 + 90 + 22
40. 360 + 90 + 22 + 22
41. 360 + 90 + 45
42. 360 + 90 + 45 + 22
43. 360 + 90 + 45 + 22 + 22
44. 360 + 90 + 45 + 45
45. 360 + 90 + 90
45. 360 + 180
46. 360 + 180 + 22
47. 360 + 180 + 22 + 22
48. 360 + 180 + 45
49. 360 + 180 + 45 + 22
50. 360 + 180 + 45 + 22 +22
51. 360 + 180 + 45 + 45
52. 360 + 180 + 90
53. 360 + 180 + 90 + 22
54. 360 + 180 + 90 + 22
55. 360 + 180 + 90 + 22 + 22
56. 360 + 180 + 90 + 45
57. 360 + 180 + 90 + 45 + 22
58. 360 + 180 + 90 + 45 + 22 + 22
59. 360 + 180 + 90 + 45 + 45
60. 360 + 180 + 90 + 90
61. 360 + 180 + 180
62. 360 + 360
>>>>>>>63.702 Tztok-Jad <<<<<<< ( + 108 (*4) fire cape level)
Friday, September 26, 2008
Charles Bernstein is still kicking ass and taking names
Poetry Bailout Will Restore Confidence of Readers by Charles Bernstein via Harpers.
I know, I know, it's gimmicky and absurd, but there's something there.
"After his commission for an official presidential portrait was revoked, artist Jonathan Yeo decided to create a montage of [George] Bush using shots from porn magazines."
George W. Bush, 2008
Additionally, "A collage of Paris Hilton has gone on show at a gallery in New York... And it's [also] made entirely from porn magazines."
Paris, 2008
"Jonathan Yeo's portrait of Hilton was bought by the artist Damien Hirst ahead of Thursday's show opening, said Lazarides Gallery spokeswoman Elizabeth Barrett, who didn't know the sale price."
-It's not going to save this piece from being what it is, but here's an example of Yeo's other work.
Dennis Hopper, 2007
Note: Yeo has painted portraits of Tony Blair, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Rupert Murdoch and Prince Philip.
... new ...
The Museum of Umbrella Covers
My name is a mythological name.
Oh yeah, I'm going to give $25,000 to celebrate the special bond between fathers and sons.
People can do things using their hands.
Thank you, Julie.
The Spanish illusion:
“Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me.”
Like a poem by Dylan Thomas
titled Schopenhauer’s Infinite Colorized Brain.
See you on the flipside
or elephants dream in French:
those are nostalgic photos
from The Idiot.
This is a guide to accepting, living
with, laughing at and dying from everything.
... r.i.p. ... from UBU web ...
Mauricio Kagel: 1931-2008 UbuWeb mourns the loss of the great composer, filmmaker and artist. You can hear his music here and view his films here. He will be missed.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
... my picks of Ron's blog ...
The
now has
a Canadian portal
Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror
33 years later
Nietzsche on the value of reading slowly
Why some writers should retire,
Mr Updike
The books of Oscar Wilde
... TOMORROW AT BOOK ZOO ... GO!!!!!!!!!!!! ...
KAT STEELE: PERMACULTURE TALK - FRIDAY 9.26.08 - 7:30
 | Kat will review the basic concepts of permacutlure and explore the permaculture Design Process, natural patterns and ethics. Learn to use permaculture practically in your home, garden, land or community. Also discussed: zonation, sectors, edge, stacking, succession, P.A.T.O., P.O.D., core model and pattern recognition. Urban Permaculture Guild Website |
A work in anti progress
Find a genet
and stuff it
in the mud.
Drown it
till smoke
rises through
the stalk
of fritillaries
to the base
where your
mind seems
not only
at ease,
resounding
as it may
seem in
holes or
untouched
places, but
in that light-
hearted laugh
remembered
from a
youth or
that first
touch
upon your
breast sending
radio waves
to your shorts.
Then tell me.
Tell me then
if I am wrong
in thinking
that all around
us buzzing
is a fate
or precondition
to worship
moments like
these, specifically
those moments
still to come.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
My Tat
I was in love
once more but something
changed; I could no
longer read it on
paper. I needed more.
I got this tattooed
on my body three years
ago. I have no regrets
but that it wasn’t
completed sooner.
My tattoo says:
"I was in love
once more but something
changed; I could no
longer read it on
paper. I needed more.
I got this tattooed
on my body three years
ago. I have no regrets
but that it wasn’t
completed sooner."
... if someone asked what my dream reading would be: this would essentially be it ...from Ron's Blog...
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Jipety Jarvis
Once cut, spent roses may
be placed onto rectangle tables.
The type found in
parks and rescue
missions are good examples.
Allergies may develop, so consider
swallowing diamond tablet
pills such as Benadryl. Relax
as the medicine takes
effect. Sit in an armchair.
If you are in the company
of Jipety Jarvis, please
know that he is to phone
the nurses' station for pills.
His seven wonders are as follows:
The map used to sever the shape
of clean-shaven middle
aged men whose pock marks
bleed when razored. His barn
babies speak Steven languages.
Jipety used to hide behind a bulldozer
to drink. His bartender was a slender
elbowless bear who often played
a harpsichord made
from dried wallet leather.
The drinks this bear served were
bitter and straight. When a bouncer
or father named man or kind or this
was faced with a choice between
their pious life in the company of such
associates as us and a roadlife
of the carnie, they will often
consult the bear before making
a decision. Such was the case
with Jipety Jarvis.
... bernstein's weblog ...
New at EPC
Canadian Portal
author pages, journals and magazines, presses, author-run centres
& author pages for
# Sina Queyras
# Peter Culley
# Gregory Betts author page
# Colin Smith authr page
# Margaret Christakos author page
with thanks to Donato Mancini
for editing the Canadian portals and pages
————
“Veronica Forrest-Thomson: Larking up Kicks”
A Call for Papers
“[O]ne of the misfortunes of the lack of attention being paid to English poetry of this century is the obscurity of Veronica Forrest-Thomson, a poet who died in 1975 at the age of 27.” So stated Brian Kim-Stefans in July 2001. In 2002, literary critic Suzanne Raitt expressed the hope that Forrest-Thomson’s unknown status would be mitigated by a compilation of her poetry in the nineties and a recent monograph by Alison Mark. This symposium emerges on the heels of another updated version of Forrest-Thomson’s poetry, namely Veronica Forrest-Thomson: Collected Poems (ed. Anthony Barnett, published by Shearsman Books and Allardyce, Barnett, 2008).
Veronica Forrest-Thomson wrote four poetry collections: Identi-kit (1967) Language Games (1971), Cordelia, or 'A poem should not mean, but be' (1974) and On the Periphery (1976). She was also a literary theorist and critic who authored Poetic Artifice: A Theory of Twentieth-Century Poetry (1978). Her work is witty, philosophical, and occasionally, deliberately, badly rhymed. It is also worthy of more consideration.
Christ’s College, Cambridge and the Centre for Modernist Studies at the University of Sussex intend to co-host a day-long symposium dedicated to the work of Veronica Forrest-Thomson. It will be held on January 17th, 2009 at Cambridge, and will involve panels comprised of 15-minute papers and a longer, seminar-style finale of very short close readings of individual Forrest-Thomson poems. Our intent is to foster an informed and comfortable dialogue about Forrest-Thomson, and contemplate ways of approaching her work.
As such, we welcome papers on any facet of Forrest-Thomson’s poetry and criticism. Proposals of no more than 250 words should be sent to both Sara Crangle (S.Crangle@sussex.ac.uk) and Sophie Read (scnr2@cam.ac.uk).
----
Lisa Samuels in conversation on Laura (Riding) Jackson
in three parts
++++
new at Bridge Streen books
*********
The Seminary Coop Blog
+++++++++++++++++
ANDRZEJ SOSNOWSKI
ANDRZEJ SOSNOWSKI
translated from the Polish
by Rod Mengham:
- Shrovetide (11/12 August 1993), Jubilat #4
- Two poems, Jacket #16
- Closer, Words Without Borders
...fragment of a work in process ...
Eleven Sombreros
What are some useful, interesting or bizarre things to do with thirteen minutes?
How do Ouija boards work?
Are we getting lonelier?
Is your father explicitly faking orgasms?
Did I inadvertently commit mail fraud?
I'm thinking of killing my question poem, is that incredulity?
Do I really use Google or Google Earth?
The art of unusual destinations: you better watch your speed. Sing the National Anthem in my next CD. Let us compare mythologies. Let me call you sweetheart and on Sunday I photographed some of the giant oranges that were installed art projects on fiberglass.
Do you know other cranes in Toronto?
Mermaids on parade in Norfolk, VA and frogs in Toledo, OH?
But is it art?
Penguins in Tulsa and even more cows in Buenos Aires?
... old new ...
I don't understand what the deal with Project Runway is...
but okay (I love Nada Gordon and I think she likes it):
from Ron's Blog:
In the double narrative that is Project Runway, Joe was eliminated last week and will not be going on to show his work as one of the final three clothing designers in the show’s competition at Fashion Week in Bryant Park.
From Nada's Blog:
Project Dreamway
Sighted yesterday at JFK Intl. Airport
I've been in NY the past couple days.
Big Mac, Big Mac, Big
Mac index. Mac
Daddy.
Bernie Mac.
Cadillac.
Big ol' pimp.
Monday, September 22, 2008
...IF YOU LIVE IN THE BAY AND YOU DON'T GO HERE, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED ...
Address
Book Zoo
6395 Telegraph Avenue
Oakland, California 94609
Phone
510.654.2665
Email
info@bookzoo.net
Hours
Wednesday 4 - 10PM
Thursday 4 - 10PM
Friday 4 - 10PM
Saturday 12 - 10PM
Sunday 12 - 8PM
and... BY CHANCE!
Call ahead to sell books.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
... links I chose from Silliman's Blog ...
Bob Perelman:
Poetry & Discipline
Reading report:
Anselm Berrigan & D.S. Marriott
Writing vs. Teaching
Does teaching writing
do more harm than good?
Lifting Belly’s Anglo focus
“How I can be more like Robert Creeley”
Sharon Mesmer’s The Virgin Formica
How The Times has viewed Ulysses
o’er the years
Online poetry zines
Hirst breaks art auction record
Hirst’s auction
does not demean arts world
But his unsold works
are quite a few
Hirst’s 19th century predecessor
... fucking jealous ...
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Flarf at Walker Art Center
Target Free Thursday Nights + Rain Taxi Review of Books
present
FREE VERSE: THE FLARF COLLECTIVE
featuring
Nada Gordon
Sharon Mesmer
K. Silem Mohammad
Gary Sullivan
WALKER ART CENTER (Cinema)
Minneapolis, MN
Thursday, September 25, 7:30 pm
Free tickets available at the Bazinet Garden Lobby desk from 6:30 pm
Saturday, September 20, 2008
...nicanor parra...
NOTE ON THE LESSONS OF ANTIPOETRY
1. In antipoetry, it is poetry that is sought, not eloquence.
2. Antipoems should be read in the same order in which they were written.
3. We must read poems with the same hunger we bring to antipoems.
4. Poetry happens--so does antipoetry.
5. The poet speaks to all of us, without discrimination.
6. Often our pleasure in antipoetry is impaired by our curiosity: we attempt to understand and dispute when we shouldn't do either.
7. Read in good faith if you want to partake, and don't ever find your satisfaction in the author's name.
8. Ask your questions openly and listen without argument to the poets' words; don't be impatient with the pronouncements of the elders--they don't make them by accident.
9. Hi to everyone.
(from Antipoems: How to look better & feel great)
Just checking in...
Everyone's doing good work. I hope to be back at the factory soon. Don't forget to wash your hands.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
... Seward ...
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
... ...
I just realized that I put up my poem mentioning Ashbery and I have also been eagerly awaiting Gary Sullivan's essay on Ashbery and I posted a poem of Ashbery's just the other day and I heard a conversation about Ashbery on the way to the grocery store and when I mentioned Joshua Clover to someone they said "oh, that's the guy that Ashbery likes...right?
Safe Verse
Sometimes forgetting who you are is altogether,
Pleases put together the tab on my check.
Ends with putting the bill on fate
Boardwalk song and dance,
Waiter, bring me my trash bag.
The books are balanced!
So the water brings them for us,
Don’t fill the bag,
It doesn’t have to be either...
Now that we own the place,
Now the sets are owed.
Clocks bruised minutes
Set sets to Ins.
Leaving seconds.
Where’s my watchman
Where is my second hand?
Where is the watchman?
“Ohhhhhh, let’s marry, then talk.
Let’s get married then talk.
Please...PLEASE!”,
She begs as I hate her.
I stare out at the water and wonder,
And I stare at her water wondering:
Have you longed for graphics & laughed?
Have I tilted the table?
I have longed for this game,
I’ve longed for games.
But assuming I’m playing
The game always assumed
The next level,
We’ve done diesel
And the next level is WOW!
It was bigger...
Big fucking cars!
Science project wake up,
Flat metal and easy science juice junk
I’ve taken a liking to sunrise
Taking liking,
Try to kick me out of my home
Doesn’t taste like sleep in films though,
Let the super get word of this...
The super gets off in an alley,
Like a dog licking itself with a tire iron around its neck.
Freedom is just another way to get fucked
Freedom is another word for frat boy,
Poetics is another form of mead
And Pontiacs are another form of poetry we drink.
Mead that we drink.
Forget the end.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Bummer
These words aren’t going anywhere.
November is the stout half sister
Whose brother yesterday
Pointed his pepper spray
And let loose on a hobo.
The mace gave the bum some disease.
Now he smells like Cajun dumpsters,
But like a poem, a transient man
Doesn’t always have to make sense.
Yet when they do, it may be ethereal.
...work in process...
The Register
This trip to the mother
presents a two generation
gulf.
This interview with Annie
discusses finger scanning at
Disney.
This film and book written
by us
has special torture weapons.
All around us.
Details on speeches and exercise.
Carried out last.
Monday, September 15, 2008
...from Ron Silliman's Blog...
Sharon Mesmer
on poetry after theory:
"If the consequence of innovation is that innovative poetry remains mired in debate about debate, then Dworkin’s anthology inspires me to make this radical proposal: that we continue the worthy debate about debate on blogs and in bars, and get back to writing poetry. The tantalizing question that follows is: how do we do that? Is there work being produced now that will create the foundation of what will come next? That’s what this book should be debating, because that’s a debate that leads back to poetry."
------------------------------------------------
Kevin Davies’
The Golden Age of Paraphernalia:
And each category has dozens of subcategories
and each subcategory scores of its own, all
meticulously cross-referenced, linked, so that each square
centimetre of surface everywhere, pole to pole,
from the top of the mightiest Portuguese bell tower to
the intestinal lining of a sea turtle off Ecuador, has
billions of words and images attached, and a special area,
a little rectangle, for you to add your own comments.
It is the great work of a young-adult global
civilization, a metaliterate culture with time on its
prosthetic tentacles, at this point slightly more silicon
than carbon, blinking vulnerably in the light of its own
radiant connectedness.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ted Berrigan’s
"Palmer wryly notes how he is often decried as formalist by the more stringent avant-garde and dismissed as formless by actual formalists. It is a tough position for a poet, and it puts him in the crossfire of just about everyone, since he in some ways can appeal to a larger spectrum of readers."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Michiko Kakutani on David Foster Wallace:
"Mr. Wallace, who died Friday night at his home in Claremont, Calif., at 46, an apparent suicide, belonged to a generation of writers who grew up on the work of Thomas Pynchon, Don DeLillo and Robert Coover, a generation that came of age in the ’60s and ’70s and took discontinuity for granted. But while his own fiction often showcased his mastery of postmodern pyrotechnics — a cold but glittering arsenal of irony, self-consciousness and clever narrative high jinks — he was also capable of creating profoundly human flesh-and-blood characters with three-dimensional emotional lives. In a kind of aesthetic manifesto, he once wrote that irony and ridicule had become “agents of a great despair and stasis in U.S. culture” and mourned the loss of engagement with deep moral issues that animated the work of the great 19th-century novelists."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The war over Rothko:
"He was one of America's most successful and famous artists when, in 1970, he killed himself. His tragic death sparked a bitter legal battle between his daughter, aged 19, and her father's estate. Here, in a rare and moving interview on the eve of the artist's first major show in 20 years, Kate Rothko Prizel remembers the long and bitter court case, his brutal suicide and how she still mourns the loss of her father"
"In 1970, on the cold morning of 25 February, the body of her father, the painter, Mark Rothko, was found in his cavernous Manhattan studio. He had overdosed on barbiturates, and cut an artery in his right arm with a razor blade. He was found in a pool of blood six by eight feet wide, wearing long johns and thick black socks. He left no note. He was 66."
ROTHKO SAYS:
"I am not interested in the relationship between form and colour. The only thing I care about is the expression of man's basic emotions: tragedy, ecstasy, destiny."
...JOHN ASHBERY...
The Burden of the Park
Each is truly a unique piece,
you said, or, perhaps, each
is a truly unique piece.
I sniff the difference.
It’s like dust in an old house,
or the water thereof. Then you come
to an exciting part.
The bandit affianced
to the blind man’s daughter. The mangel-wurzels
that come out of every door, salute the traveller
and are gone. Or the more melting pace of strolling players,
each with a collapsed sweetie on his arm, each
tidy as one’s idea of everything under the sun is tidy.
And the wolverines
return, with their coach, and night,
the black bat night, is blacker than any bat.
Just so you know, this is the falling-off place,
for the water, where damsels stroll and uncles
know a good thing when they see one.
The park is all over.
It isn’t a knee injury, or a postage stamp on Mars.
It is all of the above, and some other things too:
a nameless morning in May fielded by taut observers.
An inner tube on a couch.
Then we floated down the Great Array river, each
on our inner tube, each one a different color.
Mine was lime green, yours was pistachio.
And the current murmured to us mind your back
for another day. Are
you so sure we haven’t passed the goal-posts yet? Won’t
you reconsider? Remount me to my source? Egad,
Trixie, the water can speak! Like a boy
it speaks, and I’m not so sure how little all this is,
how much fuss shouldn’t be made about it. When another boy comes
to the edge of the falls, and calls, for it is late,
won’t we be sorry for not having invented this one,
letting him fall by the wayside? Then, sure enough, waves
of heather recuse the bearers of false witness, they fly like ribbons
on the stiff breeze, telling of us: We once made
some mistake, it seems, and now we are to be judged, except
it isn’t so bad, someone tells me you’ll be let off the hook,
we will all be able to go home, sojourn and smile again, be racked
with insidious giggles like guilt. Meantime, jugglers swarm over
the volcano’s
stiff sides. We believe it to be Land’s End, that it’s
six o’clock, and the razor fish have gone home.
Once, on Mannahatta’s bleak shore,
I trolled for spunkfish, but caught naught, nothing save
a rubber plunger or two. It was awful,
at that time. Now everything is cheerful.
I wonder, does it make a difference?
Are the sailors waving
from the deck of their distraught ship? We aren’t
envious, though, life being so full of
so many little commotions, it’s up to
whoever to grab his (or hers). The violin slices life up
into manageable hunks, and the fiddler knows not
who he is moving, or cares why people should be so moved;
his mind is on the end, the extraordinary onus of finishing
what’s set out for him. Do you imagine him better off than you?
My feet were numb, I ask him only, how do you carry this
from here to over there?
Is there a flat barge? How many feet does a centipede have?
(Answer in tomorrow’s edition.) I heard the weeping cranes,
telling how time was running out. It was Belgian,
they thought. Nobody burns the midnight oil for this,
yet I think I shall be a scholar some day, all the same.
The hours suit me. And the rubber corsages the girls wear
in and out of class. Sure, I’ll turn out to be a nerd, and have to sit
in the corner, but that’s part of the exciting adventure. I know things
are different and the same. Now if only I could tell you ...
The period of my rest is ended.
I shall negotiate the fall, and then go crying
back to you all. In those years peace came and went, our father’s
car changed
with the seasons, all around us was fighting and the excitement of spring.
Now, funnily enough, it’s over. I shan’t mind the vacant premise
that vexed me once. I know it’s all too true. And the hooligan
ogles a calla lily: Maybe only the fingertips are exciting,
it thinks, disposing of another bushelful of ripe nostalgia.
Maybe it’s too late,
maybe they came today.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
...from Lihn Dinh's Blog...
David Foster Wallace (1962-2008)
One of our best fiction writers is dead:CLAREMONT, Calif. - David Foster Wallace, the author best known for his 1996 novel Infinite Jest, was found dead in his home, according to police. He was 46.
Wallace's wife found her husband had hanged himself when she returned home about 9:30p.m. Friday [...]
.................................................................
From his "Suicide as a Sort of Present," in the collection, Brief Interviews with Hideous Men:
There was once a mother who had a very hard time indeed, emotionally, inside.
As she remembered it, she had always had a hard time, even as a child. She remembered few of her childhood's specifics, but what she could remember were feelings of self-loathing, terror, and despair that seemed to have been with her always.
From an objective perspective, it would not be inaccurate to say that this mother-to-be had had some very heavy psychic shit laid on her as a little girl, and that some of this shit qualified as parental abuse. Her childhood had not been as bad as some, but it had been no picnic. All this, while accurate, would not be to the point.
The point is that, from as early an age as she could recall, this mother-to-be loathed herself. She viewed everything in life with apprehension, as if every occasion or opportunity were some sort of dreadfully important exam for which she had been too lazy or stupid to prepare properly. It felt as if a perfect score on each such exam was necessary in order to avert some shattering punishment.1 She was terrified of everything, and terrified to show it.
The mother-to-be knew perfectly well, from an early age, that this constant horrible pressure she felt was an internal pressure That it was not anyone else's fault. Thus she loathed herself even more. Her expectations of herself were of utter perfection, and each time she fell short of perfection she was filled with an unbearable plunging despair that threatened to shatter her like a cheap mirror.2 These very high expectations applied to every department of the future mother's life, particularly those departments which involved others' approval or disapproval. She was thus, in childhood and adolescence, viewed as bright, attractive, popular, impressive; she was commended and approved. Peers appeared to envy her energy, drive, appearance, intelligence, disposition, and unfailing consideration for the needs and feelings of others3; she had few close friends. Throughout her adolescence, authorities such as teachers, employers, troop leaders, pastors, and F.S.A. Faculty Advisers commented that the young mother-in-waiting 'seem{ed} to have very, very high expectations of {her}self,' and while these comments were often delivered in a spirit of gentle concern or reproof, there was no failing to discern in them that slight unmistakable note of approval--of an authority's detached, objective judgment and decision to approve--and at any rate the future mother felt (for the moment) approved. And felt seen: her standards were high. She took a sort of abject pride in her mercilessness toward herself.4
By the time she was grown up, it would be accurate to say that the mother-to-be was having a very hard interior time of it indeed.
When she became a mother, things became even harder. The mother's expectations of her small child were also, it turned out, impossibly high. And every time the child fell short, her natural inclination was to loathe it. In other words, every time it (the child) threatened to compromise the high standards that were all the mother felt she really had, inside, the mother's instinctive self-loathing tended to project itself outward and downward onto the child itself. This tendency was compounded by the fact that there existed only a very tiny and indistinct separation in the mother's mind between her own identity and that of her small child. The child appeared in a sense to be the mother's own reflection in a diminishing and deeply flawed mirror. Thus every time the child was rude, greedy, foul, dense, selfish, cruel, disobedient, lazy, foolish, willful, or childish, the mother's deepest and most natural inclination was to loathe it.
But she could not loathe it. No good mother can loathe her child or judge it or abuse it or wish it harm in any way. The mother knew this. And her standards for herself as a mother were, as one would expect, extremely high. It was thus that whenever she 'slipped,' 'snapped,' 'lost her patience' and expressed (or even felt) loathing (however brief) for the child, the mother was instantly plunged into such a chasm of self-recrimination and despair that she felt it just could not be borne. Hence the mother was at war. Her expectations were in fundamental conflict. It was a conflict in which she felt her very life was at stake: to fail to overcome her instinctive dissatisfaction with her child would result in a terrible, shattering punishment which she knew she herself would administer, inside. She was determined--desperate--to succeed, to satisfy her expectations of herself as a mother, no matter what it cost.
[...]
So it went, throughout his childhood and adolescence, such that, by the time the child was old enough to apply for various licenses and permits, the mother was almost entirely filled, deep inside, with loathing: loathing for herself, for the delinquent and unhappy child, for a world of impossible expectations and merciless judgment. She could not, of course, express any of this. And so the son — desperate, as are all children, to repay the perfect love we may expect only of mothers — expressed it all for her.
__________________________________________________
1 Her parents, by the way, did not beat her or ever even really discipline her, nor did they pressure her.
2 Her parents had been low-income, physically imperfect, and not very bright--features which the child disliked herself for noting.
3 The phrases lighten up and chill out had not at this time come into currency (nor, in fact, had psychic shit; nor had parental abuse or even objective perspective).
4 In fact, one explanation the soon-to-be mother's own parents gave for their disciplining her so little was that their daughter had seemed so mercilessly to upbraid herself for any shortcoming or transgression that disciplining her would have felt 'a little bit like kicking a dog.'
This is scary
Here are images of the approximately 3,000 American flags in the 911 Memorial Healing Field displayed across the lawns of Tempe Beach Park.
According to the city, the flags are meant to help put "terror and death behind us and remind us of the sacrifice and bravery of a great many Americans".
There were more than 1000 people wearing American flag shirts at the beach park yesterday morning. It was blinding.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
R.I.P. DAVID FOSTER WALLACE
I had problems with Wallace's writing but The Broom of the System was a novel that I always stood behind:
Wallace was a gifted writer and thinker (all disagreements aside). It is truly sad that he left this world in the way he did.
...the rest is on (for a while at least)...
GUIDELINES: MADISON,CONNECTICUT
∆
Be the grid long
in & time result any
in any yr.
& most
travel requires gathering isolation food
trine months at time.
Slow cropping people
in donation perplex
but u r not following the subject.
T
o
r
e
d
u
c
e that risk in an pliable format
by the cross
be a seriously basic blood.
∆
Those who are prepared will have many grocery stores.
Their large crowds are keys to the virus.
To reduce templates
and prepare
and update
and assume
There will not be common people providing essential business.
∆
Grocery stores with disruptive slide show stations
for residents of the event
will be spread out
face-to-face
to install a new telephone system, which may improve
a reverse 911 future.
More information comes from those who have been
the police in the town of MADISON, CONNECTICUT.
∆
∆
ü For the
ü of the
ü into the
ü in the
ü of a we all
ü and to the
ü an and to
ü make to their like the
ü new any
ü to it.
ü Have in the
ü and will come again.
ü No one can say
ü when.
∆
varies widespread annual 40% community effective population months
decrease available most normal profound public cancelled disruption
food and
the question
the personal risk
the possible
the event
the strikes
a list of things in order to minimize cash flow
MADISON, CONNECTICUT
make a list
you incapacitated scale
∆∆∆
...JOHN ASHBERY ART...(TAKEN FROM CHARLES BERNSTEIN'S WEBLOG!)
"Chutes and Ladders I (for Joe Brainard)," 2008
11 collages from the Tibor de Nagy show are now
on-line at the The New York Times,
along with an essay on the work (based on an interview with Asbhery) by Holland Cotter.
“Apres un Reve” (c. 1977)
Friday, September 12, 2008
Step Across The Border (For the Day)
Step Across The Border, the 1990 whimsical and provocative documentary starring Fred Firth and a variety of musicians, has no narrative, or narrator. The images blend with the music, and vise versa, creating a narrative all their own.
This 35mm documentary was filmed between 1988 and 1990 in Japan, Italy, France, Germany, England, the United States and Switzerland, and shows Frith (an English-born multi-instrumentalist, composer, and improvisor) rehearsing, performing, giving interviews, and relaxing. Other musicians featured include René Lussier, Iva Bittová, Tom Cora, Tim Hodgkinson, Bob Ostertag and John Zorn.
Kept in the dark too long, faith
Will find a way to scream
Funny words in ears.
In the tradition of
Screaming, hold hands in front
Of your teeth.
Scream for the future, because
It was future that screamed all
That is laid before us!
Not at all like lying on a bed
Or a sofa bed for resting.
Not laid flat like a map.
Maps are too flat, in that
They aren’t round. Rather,
More like a globe wrapped in maps.
For fun a globe may be flipped
Or spun in as much
As its axis permits.
However a map may only be
Flipped to the rotation
Of a clock’s motion.
Map wrapping serves solely for
The purpose of decoration,
That tradition of paper packaging.
If you’re fortunate enough
To afford maps, purchase many
And wrap your globes up in them.
I just finished:
Time Gobbler...
Reevaluation will take place. There is no hiatus but much more contemplation will be implemented. Who knows the speed of Language...
Thursday, September 11, 2008
...TOMORROW...
Geyser!,
a new play by Kevin Killian & Wayne Smith
Friday, September 12, 7:30 p.m
Please arrive early; all seats $10 as a benefit for Small Press Traffic.
Please join us for refreshments prior to the event.
We hope to see you here!
The small town of Geyser, Oregon was once the setting for a television series that attempted to combine elements of family drama and science education. The show was in its second season in 1978 when a tragedy on set caused it to shut down midseason, and now that it’s been released on DVD, Geyser! has found new fans to join the tiny cult audience it’s known since its untimely cancellation—and they’re all flocking to Oregon this summer, as the brave little town welcomes back members of the original cast and the worldwide fan club at a Geyser! festival. But the town has secrets. Mayor Constance Strode, struggling with her own family drama, tries to promote tourism while fending off the attentions of Bobo, leader of a radical clown collective on the outskirts of town. Screen actor Dennis Quaid, who first sprang to national attention as the young hero of Geyser! returns to the scene of the series with the bewildering knowledge that all of his female recent co-stars, from Reese Witherspoon to Ellen Barkin, have been swept away to sea. Rival TV talk show hosts Rick Penny and Kitty Potter return to wring every scrap of drama and nostalgia to the airwaves, while Marjorie Cantrell, the first lady of the American theater and star of the lamented TV show, Geyser!, emerges from a 30 year retirement in grand Sunset Boulevard fashion with her loyal butler, Crimmins. As excited fans gather from round the world, the hot water coursing through the deep underground caverns below them gurgles, groans and steams to the surface. It’s all in a town—and a show—called Geyser!
Kevin Killian is a poet, novelist, critic and playwright whose recent work includes “Kiki: The Proof Is in the Pudding,” a retrospective exhibition at Ratio 3, a book of reviews Selected Amazon Reviews (2006), a collection of poetry, Argento Series (2001), two novels, Shy (1989) and Arctic Summer (1997), a book of memoirs, Bedrooms Have Windows (1989), and two books of stories, Little Men (1996) and I Cry Like a Baby (2001). He has also edited a collection of short stories by the late Sam D’Allesandro, The Wild Creatures (2005). For the San Francisco Poets Theater Killian has written over thirty plays, including Stone Marmalade (1996, with Leslie Scalapino) and Often (2001, with Barbara Guest).
Wayne Smith is a visual and sound artist who lives and works in San Francisco. He collaborated with Berlin-based artist D-L Alvarez on a sound and video installation shown at the Derek Eller Gallery, New York, in April 2007. New work will be shown at 2nd Floor Projects, San Francisco, in November 2008. Recording as Aero Mic’d, he has released four CDS, the latest being “I Think You’re Great.” In August 2008, joined by Cliff Hengst and Scott Hewicker, Aero Mic’d performed at the Schindler House in Los Angeles as part of the “sound.” series, organized by SASSAS (The Society for the Activation of Social Space through Art and Sound).
Kevin Killian’s plays are annual favorites here at SPT—Geyser! is an experience you won’t want
to miss!
Ivan Chtcheglov!
“We are bored in the city, there is no longer any Temple of the Sun. Between the legs of the women walking by, the Dadaists imagined a monkey wrench and the surrealists a crystal cup. That’s lost.” |
...if you don't get this somehow you will die!...
The Alphabet
by Ron Silliman
The Alphabet is a remarkable and notorious literary achievement, decades in the making, one continually debated, discussed, and imitated since fragments first appeared in the 1970s. Consisting of twenty-six smaller books, one for each letter of the alphabet, it employs language in ways that are startling and innovative. Over the course of the three decades during which it has appeared—in journals, magazines, and as stand-alone volumes—its influence has been wide-ranging, both on practicing poets and on critics who have had to contend with the way it has changed the direction of American poetry.
Ron Silliman, a founder of the language poetry movement in the 1960s and one of its most dedicated and acclaimed practitioners, has deployed in The Alphabet the full range of formal and linguistic experiments for which he is known.
The Alphabet is a work of American ethnography, a cultural collage of artifacts, moments, episodes, and voices—historical and private—that capture the dizzying evolution of America's social, cultural, and literary consciousness.
Ron Silliman is the author or editor of twenty-six books of poetry or criticism, among them The Age of Huts (compleat), Tjanting, ABC, Demo to Ink, Paradise, ®, What, Woundwood, and the memoir Under Albany. He edited the landmark poetry anthology In the American Tree, and he has received a Pew Fellowship in the Arts, two Fellowships from the National Endowment of the Arts, and three arts commission grants from the state arts councils of California and Pennsylvania. His widely read Silliman's Blog, a daily journal devoted to contemporary poetry and poetics, has become a major force in online literary criticism.
September 11th remembered...
September 11 - Ansett Australia, one of the oldest airlines in the world and the second-largest in Australia goes under administration with KordaMentha due to major financial struggles.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
As a result of the watching of this movie and the (ongoing) reading of this book I will be working on my biggest project yet. God save the Queen!
In a dream last night I left on my counter for over an hour a dozen eggs. One egg cracked. I watched a baby sparrow come out. I was wierded out.
I asked my friend, "Should I bother cooking the remaining eleven eggs?". In his experience one live bird indicates twelve live eggs. I knew there wasn't going to be omelets.
No more birds appeared. The one grew at a rapid pace, moving from egg carton to counter, flopping. It twitched, plopped, then sat still. I gave it mouth to mouth once. The bird ended stove top in a frying pan. No burner was on. There was butter in the pan. The bird was the size of a pigeon covered in butter.
WALLACE STEVENS!
This is where the serpent lives, the bodiless. His head is air. Beneath his tip at night Eyes open and fix on us in every sky.
Or is this another wriggling out of the egg, Another image at the end of the cave, Another bodiless for the body's slough?
This is where the serpent lives. This is his nest, These fields, these hills, these tinted distances, And the pines above and along and beside the sea.
This is form gulping after formlessness, Skin flashing to wished-for disappearances And the serpent body flashing without the skin.
This is the height emerging and its base These lights may finally attain a pole In the midmost midnight and find the serpent there,
In another nest, the master of the maze Of body and air and forms and images, Relentlessly in possession of happiness.
This is his poison: that we should disbelieve Even that. His meditations in the ferns, When he moved so slightly to make sure of sun,
Made us no less as sure. We saw in his head, Black beaded on the rock, the flecked animal, The moving grass, the Indian in his glade.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
...Silver Jew DVD...
DVD
Silver Jew (52:00 feature)
Silver Jew Trailer
Annotated Slideshow
"I'm Getting Back Into Getting Back Into You" video
"Let's Not And Say We Did" video
To be released on September 23, 2008
...something that I wholly agree with on the issue of Theory vs. "realism"...
"This tendency to relegate theory to a leisurely time when "reality" wasn't really a problem (but did such a time ever exist, even before September 11, 2001?), and to call for more urgent issues to be raised today than just theoretical ones, is where old-style liberals or even Marxists and neoconservative watchdogs do collide, or converge. They both agree that theory is perilous today, or at best just patently useless, much as the West German federal police and the East German political police agreed Michel Foucault was dangerous or useless enough to deserve being arrested twice during his visit to the two sides of Berlin in 1978--as he liked to recall, comparing police stupidity and zeal on both sides of the Berlin Wall in terms not really favorable to the "good cops" of the "free world." This is exactly the kind of consensus that should be tirelessly questioned and disrupted until it no longer holds, today no less than thirty years ago. For in fact, if one takes a closer, more rigorous look, it is easy to see that theory and activism do converge today..."
(from French Theory: How Foucault, Derrida, Deleuze, & Co. Transformed The Intellectual Life of the United States by Francois Cusset (translated by Jeff Fort))
One can follow the argument from here. This is really a response (via quotation) about postmodernism or Theory as simply being a "game."
Monday, September 8, 2008
Alway
How could you. Who told you to do this. Where were you last last night. You weren’t with him were you. What did I say about that. How many of those do you have. Did you get them from him. Does he know you have these.
How could you(./?) Who told you to do this(./?) Where were you last night(./?) You (./?)
(W/w)eren’t with him were you(./?) What did I say about that(./?) How many of those do(./?)
(Y/y)ou have(./?) Did you get them from him(./?) Does he know you have them(./?)
Al(l )ways
Al(l )ways
Al(l)ways
A(ll) ways
A(III) ways
A(IV) ways
When will the fruit be fresh enough to eat I ask you
I like my fruit fresh as a new computer
Vermin seek not my fruit for I catch them in my mouth as they fall
I chew them faster than any processing speed
Your fastest chips are no match for me I tell you
When will the wheat be mature enough to harvest I beg you
I like my wheat in sugar like a motherboard manufacturer
Wasps beware; my hunger is greater than your parasitic appetite
I harvest and digest more than you can chew in a fiscal year.
Your mechanical arms stand no chance against my sickle I profess
When will my nuts be dug up I must know
I prefer them salted as the sand used in your chips
Stand clear squirrels for I will chew you and the nut if I must
I belly pocket nuts just as the waves slap to and fro
Your natural selection includes me and I am hungry I confess!
on postmodernism and THEORY:
"Suppose you are an intellectual impostor with nothing to say, but with strong ambitions to succeed in academic life, collect a coterie of reverent disciples and have students around the world anoint your pages with respectful yellow highlighter. What kind of literary style would you cultivate? Not a lucid one, surely, for clarity would expose your lack of content."
-Richard Dawkins
"Scientists, being held responsible for what they say, have not found postmodernism useful."
-E.O. Wilson
"Every self-respecting literary theorist had to sport an epistemology that season, it seems, and without one he felt naked, so he had come to me for an epistemology to wear--it was the very next fashion, he was sure, and he wanted the dernier cri in epistemologies. It didn't matter to him that it be sound, or defensible, or (as one might as well say) true; it just had to be new and different and stylish. Accessorize, my good fellow, or be overlooked at the party."
-Daniel Dennett
"Postmodernism is among other things a sick joke at the expense of revolutionary avant-gardism."
-Terry Eagleton
My Word Forward
Look for words forwardly
Pull all towards two words
Take back words backwards
Give in to words inwards
Cowards speak in cow words
Swords say the “S” word
Outwardly spit out words
In other words look upward
Reword your rewards
Be playful with word play
Give your words an award
Afterward look after words
Look inside a word’s inwardness
Word the word with wordliness
Look up to words downwardly
On words look onward
Sunday, September 7, 2008
I am trying not to be so uptight but I just don't get this stuff. I at least got all the way through it...
CORNEL WEST ON BARACK OBAMA...
AMY GOODMAN: When you say, Professor West, a critical supporter of Obama, what do you mean? Where do you think he hasn’t come out strong enough?
CORNEL WEST: Well, I’m in his camp, but I’m just — I put pressure — I think that he’s got to be more bold. I think that he’s got to be more courageous, in terms of highlighting issues of the poor, issues of working people, the legacies of white supremacy that are still very, very real. And I know he’s got to be a politician about this, on the one hand, because he’s got a larger constituency, but you know and I know we’re looking for statesmen. And I think my dear Brother Obama has a potential to be a great statesman, but he’s in process. And we’re putting — we’re pushing and hoping that he enacts this kind of statesmanship, which has to do so much with bold unflinching honesty and candor regarding the levels of injustice in our society.
PICTURES FROM THE DE YOUNG! FROM CLAYTON BANES'S BLOG....
| CHRISTIAN BÖK & K. SILEM MOHAMMAD |
| THE DE YOUNG POETRY SERIES |
| SAN FRANCISCO 5 SEP 08 |
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Line
Give me a line plea—Ah, there we go.
I want straight lines________________
Straighter! ________________________
How straight can one line be?
This one is straight forward.
This line used to confuse me,
But it doesn’t now.
Lines should be straight.
Lines shouldn’t confuse.
Single file is the best
Way to go now a days.
This should be meaningful.
Lines concise.
Think about words you use.
Make a single file line and
Don’t end lines with and.
Drop me a line and
I’ll get back to you.
Don’t end lines with you.
Also, don’t end lines with if.
It may work, if and only if
Cutting in line is upon frowned. :(
Please this don’t do.
The line most important in stanza:
Again, be precise.
Don’t bother with punctuation
If it doesn’t affect the line?
Use inappropriate punctuation,
I was once in line. It was longer than it should have been, and the line stretched around the block to a point where it could have ended.
That line was too long.
I apologize.
I’ll get back in line.
Some might say a line is a line.
Others may disagree.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
from Joshua Clover's Blog!
September 05, 2008
impracticalities are possibilities
You will have read some version of the claim: By not voting, you are simply giving more weight to the votes of those who do bother to vote....In practical terms, you are voting for whoever happens to win.
Perhaps this is so. Of course, by the same logic, by not fighting, you are simply giving more weight to the violence of those who do bother to fight. Moreover, by not shopping, you are giving simply more weight to the purchases of those who do bother to shop. By not laboring, you are simply giving more weight to the value of those who do bother to labor. So we can dispense with the doctrine of pacifism. Boycotts should be avoided at all costs. General strikes should be mocked at every turn. And so forth.
In short: you are free to make any choice except the choice not to participate. Yes, who could disagree? In practical terms, that is exactly the logic everywhere on offer.
READING YOU MISSED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
DODIE BELLAMY SAID "People always say Kasey is the Shakespeare of Flarf," AND THIS IS SOMETHING THAT I AGREE WITH (not just that people say it but the fact that Kasey is the Shakespeare of Flarf). THAT MAKES NADA GORDON CERVANTES AND GARY IS MONTAIGNE...
CHRISTIAN BOK IS THE SOUNDING BOARD OF ELECTRONIC TEXTUAL MADNESS. HIS READING/SINGING/SCREAMING/AURIA WAS...
GOD VS. GODZILLA
PREPARE YOURSELF:
CHRISTIAN BOK:
1. And Sometimes (0:32)2. Valuvëula (1:16)3. from Motorized Razors (2:24)4. Ubu Hubbub (0:46)5. Bök performs Kurt Schwitters' "Ursonate" (18:36) and, something that those in attendance will never forget:
I Am Finally Happy
Gratification armament
Vicarious living will bliss
Polysyllabically knotting longing
Knock knocking, hedonic cheer
Apparatus desire musing
Hobbyist horse choices
Camouflaging contentment
Spice fruition preference
Birth sanctity of mirth
Erotic cabinet enjoyment
Sensuality treat sexual
Diversion in heat
Celebration strongly
Scented meat reaction
In dining room delight
Disport cyber theater
Contorting fancy holdings
River chamber indulgence
Epicurean anatomy building
Every city delicacy shrugs
Joyous ale pure like hope
Like filled filed ecstasy
Delete luxury point
Prince bidding devotion
Passing snowy Siberian facility
With aimlessness please
Pleasure peer pressure
Please the target audience
Rocking chair hillbilly relish
Reach target rocketing
EMMANUEL LEVINAS!
"And yet modern sensibility wrestles with problems that indicate…the abandonment of this concern with transcendence. As if it had the certainty that the idea of the limit could not apply to the existence of what is…and as if modern sensibility perceived in being a defect still more profound."
Goya For The Day
"Always lines, never forms! But where do they find these lines in nature? I can only see luminous or obscure masses, planes that advance or planes that recede, reliefs or background. My eye never catches lines or details."
Friday, September 5, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
A lesson in verb selection (For The Day)
From the "Oxford Dictionary of Phrasal Verbs"
Do not choose boring verbs like “choose”. Use “select”. Don’t select to use “choose” if you have a choice. If, for alliteration purposes, “select” doesn’t flow, opt for “opted”. Example: “The girl chose not to select ‘choose’ but opted for ‘select’.”
Let loose any excuse for beating regularity senseless with emphasis on gimmicky rest assurance ploys not predicated by situational means to the exception. Moreover topographical Grammatik incidence, whether sensual, coincidental, accentual, glottal or otherwise are likely hand-me-down bromidic verbs.
Verbal Do’s and Don’ts
Don’t use:
can, rub, whither, wait, are, run, bring, sat, squash, sold, hoist, proven, tell, infer, distancing, cry, cum, depend, fly, arise, think, should, happen, stick, strike, or speak
Do use:
haggle, bother, steer, camp, etch, indicate, toast, outnumber, groom, reel, abbreviate, pardon, insist, scissored, fathered, or select
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Air is stock
Cry
See cons
Eels
From us the enormous changes that were [and are] taking place in the English language and the diversity of its dialects.
Consider language as THIS thing not used.
A mask can be removed.
Now
Cunt
In
You
The
fair
Monday, September 1, 2008
LISA ROBERTSON!
(from The Men)
I've touched the men who stopped
My tongue, I've touched the men
In the free breeze foreignly. But this
Immaculate equal
Grows as I speak
And their two styles flossy.
And their two
Styles flossy.
And hence experience
Analogy.
Butonly in relation
To the men
And my own eyes.
In this rough verse
Unavoidably the men
All bordered with sky blue
Stand alone
And my little bed also
Bearing nothing more.
I have only the reticence of intimacy.
(reading:
The Men (14:54)
)
