|wood s lot january 16 - 31, 2008|
It might be that we are all tattooed savages since Sophocles. But there is more to Art than the straightness of lines and the perfection of surfaces. Plasticity of style is not as large as the entire idea.... We have too many things and not enough forms.
If it recedes one day, leaving behind its works and signs on the shores of our civilization, the structuralist invasion might become a question for the historian of ideas, or perhaps even an object. But the historian would be deceived if he came to this pass: by the very act of considering the structuralist invasion as an object he would forget its meaning and would forget that what is at stake, first of all, is an adventure of vision, a conversion of the way of putting questions to any object posed before us, to historical objects-his own-in particular. And, unexpectedly among these, the literary object.Full text download available here
louie, louieI have nothing left to translate
Exploring contemplative awareness in daily life, drawing from and with much discussion of the writings of Thomas Merton, aka "Father Louie".
Grossman, seventy-one, the foremost English translator of Spanish-language literature, has reimagined the Latin American canon for readers of English, who perhaps, like she, have ventured to Latin America only via the page. She has escorted high-caliber writers to glory with her acclaimed translations. Some of those authors are alive, with names like Carlos Fuentes, Gabriel García Márquez, Mario Vargas Llosa, and Álvaro Mutis. Others, like Miguel de Cervantes, are long deceased. Any writer writing in Spanish today wants Grossman as their translator. And in an American publishing industry eager to conceal from book buyers the fact that a translated book is in fact a translation, she is also one of the few translators who get cover credit.
Over the years, Barthelme's antic break with the traditional tactful manner of the classic New Yorker story, where every stick of furniture and motivation was neatly, firmly in place, would expand into an entire wing of the magazine's house style. His mastery of incongruity and curveball allusions helped liberate the whiz brains in the office and scramble the genetic code of the magazine's humor and fiction irregulars(...)
There is much that is admirable in the way that slum dwellers struggle against overwhelming adversity, but admiration must be tempered by the realization that they do not struggle because they choose to, out of principle, or in the service of high social or political ideals, but because of their desperation at the brutal limits of survival. It is a mistake—and a grave disservice to them—to imagine that their ingenuity, resourcefulness, and capacities for self-organization can in any way serve as models for our present global society. To believe so would be to endorse the dog-eat-dog ethics that rule their lives and, all too often, those occupying society’s more economically advantaged classes. To believe so would be to endorse the most cynical and degraded vision of the human future imaginable, a throw-back to the barbarous 19th century perversion of believing in ideas such as ‘the survival of the fittest’ and ‘the nobility of poverty,’ which justified the blatant exploitation of many by a few.via Bryan Finoki at Subtopia
Today everything exists to end in a photograph.
I'd like to ask what it means to end in a photograph, and what kind of end the photograph presents. For that matter, I'd like to interrogate the different ways of being a photograph. Will literature, too, end in a photograph or come to a photo finish? Does this end perhaps open up the form a photograph can take, complicating the truism that photography is thanatography? Might photography's end be a proliferation rather than a singular event?(...)
Familiar though his name may be to us, the storyteller in his living immediacy is by no means a present force. He has already become something remote from us and something that is getting even more distant. To present someone like Leskov as a storyteller does not mean bringing him closer to us but, rather, increasing our distance from him. Viewed from a certain distance, the great, simple outlines which define the storyteller stand out in him, or rather, they become visible in him, just as in a rock a human head or an animal's body may appear to an observer at the proper distance and angle of vision. This distance and this angle of vision are prescribed for us by an experience which we may have almost every day. It teaches us that the art of storytelling is coming to an end. Less and less frequently do we encounter people with the ability to tell a tale properly. More and more often there is embarrassment all around when the wish to hear a story is expressed. It is as if something that seemed inalienable to us, the securest among our possessions, were taken from us: the ability to exchange experiences.
Adam Fieled: Hand in hand with the intellectual rigor of your poems is a deep sense of suffering, an awareness of futility and fragility. One might see in your work a “poetics of suffering”. Just as the Buddha said “all life is suffering”, do you feel that, in some sense, all poetry must be “suffering” (or “a suffering”) too?Mipoesias - the Interview Issue
via Nick Piombino
"If I'm serious, and I am, the desert has driven me crazy. Not that I mind"
Edward Abbey's Road
In one of his most famous books, the 1968 non-fiction chronicle "Desert Solitaire," Abbey dubbed the desert "a world of light. The air seems not clear like glass, but colored, a transparent, tinted medium, golden toward the sun, smoke-blue in the shadows. The colors come, it appears, not simply from the background, but are actually present in the air itself -- a vigintillion microscopic particles of dust reflecting the sky, the sand, the iron hills."
Police Car, Poet, SnowChina
I like to think
Artful Dodge 44/45Festival of WasteMaking Introductions - Don Mee Choi and Yi Yon-ju
In Minima Moralia, Adorno offers the following. I have come to accept the darkness of its vision and the light of its insistence, and now offer it to you.The subjugation of life to the process of production imposes as a humiliation on everyone something of the isolation and solitude that we are tempted to regard as resulting from our own superior choice. It is as old a component of bourgeois ideology that each individual, in his particular interest, considers himself better than all others, as that he values the others, as the community of all customers, more highly than himself. Since the demise of the old bourgeois class, both ideas have led an afterlife in the minds of intellectuals, who are at once the last enemies of the bourgeois and the last bourgeois. In still permitting themselves to think at all in the face of the naked reproduction of existence, they act as a privileged group; in letting matters rest there, they declare the nullity of their privilege. Private existence, in striving to resemble one worthy of man, betrays the latter, since any resemblance is withdrawn from general realization, which yet more than ever before has need of independent thought. There is no way out of this entanglement. The only responsible course is to deny oneself the ideological misuse of one’s own existence, and for the rest to conduct oneself in private as modestly, unobtrusively and unpretentiously as is required, no longer by good upbringing, but by the shame of still having the air to breathe in hell.
In Virtue's Cause once more exert his Rage,
London: A Poem
Preface to Frantz Fanon’s “Wretched of the Earth”Our precious sets of values begin to moult; on closer scrutiny you won't see one that isn't stained with blood.
You know well enough that we are exploiters. You know too that we have laid hands on first the gold and metals, then the petroleum of the ‘new continents’, and that we have brought them back to the old countries. This was not without excellent results, as witness our palaces, our cathedrals and our great industrial cities; and then when there was the threat of a slump, the colonial markets were there to soften the blow or to divert it. Crammed with riches, Europe accorded the human status de jure to its inhabitants. With us, to be a man is to be an accomplice of colonialism, since all of us without exception have profited by colonial exploitation.
A Prayer for the Traveler
churchyard of the Penitente Miranda
How to Grow CloudsFables and Understories
A fun, occasionally loose translation of Karel Capek's Bajky a podpovídky (1946), a posthumous collection of the author's short pieces, mostly drawn from the newspaper Lidové noviny.
Cabinet of Curiosities Ashley VanDoorn ........ Long flutes & fruits Dried As their tree Beans Little Red or Black In their Cods with what flower & seed Can be Gotten the flowers Laid Between paper leaves In a Book Dried..." can unlock progressively the ebony half of four sets of external doors which fold out vertically and the two cloaked in semi-precious stones which fan horizontally into frames to form additional latched showcases, embellished with oak, agate, onyx, enamel, miniature portraits that taken down and turned upside down turn into grinning skulls. "How divine," fanning myself, "to first enter the estate, enter the frontispiece, enter the chamber depicted on the overleaf, enter the cabinet, enter the drawer, enter the box, enter, finally, the object held out for inspection¡ " Now-exposed do these recesses vault and tier you? On the margins of the charted are you contained, extended?Two Poems
Even in winter -- maybe especially in winter -- the community garden yields a rich crop of images. The going is tough between the little, fenced-in plots: boot-pocked snow, frozen slick and solid on the surface, collapses under my weight, and my gyroscope is in overdrive. The tangled remnants of plants, both cultivated and wild, weave through and overtop lopsided walls of wood and wire. I stop to rewind my scarf. I am a refugee in an abandoned shantytown.
Benjamin seems to be an exemplary example of somebody whose writings transport into futures, some of which he imagined, others not, and the writings become in his own phrase 're- actualised'. It is this ever-present relevance that means I wrote about him for my PhD, published a book on him some 5 years later, used his ideas to address the very different themes of animation and synthetics chemistry in two more books, translated a volume of his writings and, now, have written a biography.(...)The scrap merchant supreme
Peter Conrad reviews Walter Benjamin's Archive: Images, Texts, Signs, translated by Esther Leslie
Chewing Gum and Chocolates
"Snow Bed" Paul Celan translated by Michael Hamburger Eyes, world-blind, in the fissure of dying: I come, callous growth in my heart I come. Moon-mirror rock-face. Down. (Shine spotted with breath. Blood in streaks. Soul forming clouds, close to the true shape once more. Ten-finger shadow, clamped.) Eyes world-blind, eyes in the fissure of dying, eyes eyes: The snow-bed under us both, the snow-bed. Crystal on Crystal, meshed deep as time, we fall, we fall and lie there and fall. And fall: We were. We are. We are one flesh with the night. In the passages, passages.
abandoned hematite mine
Coups NoirsLow Coups And Haut Coups
A Sad State Of Freedom You waste the attention of your eyes, the glittering labour of your hands, and knead the dough enough for dozens of loaves of which you'll taste not a morsel; you are free to slave for others- you are free to make the rich richer. The moment you're born they plant around you mills that grind lies lies to last you a lifetime. You keep thinking in your great freedom a finger on your temple free to have a free conscience. Your head bent as if half-cut from the nape, your arms long, hanging, your saunter about in your great freedom: you're free with the freedom of being unemployed. You love your country as the nearest, most precious thing to you. But one day, for example, they may endorse it over to America, and you, too, with your great freedom- you have the freedom to become an air-base. You may proclaim that one must live not as a tool, a number or a link but as a human being- then at once they handcuff your wrists. You are free to be arrested, imprisoned and even hanged. There's neither an iron, wooden nor a tulle curtain in your life; there's no need to choose freedom: you are free. But this kind of freedom is a sad affair under the stars. Nazim Hikmet Translated by Taner Baybars
The new tyranny, like other recent ones, depends, to a large degree, on a systematic abuse of language. Together we have to reclaim our hijacked words and reject the tyranny’s nefarious euphemisms; if we do not, we will be left with only the word shame.
A Conversation with Roger Ballen
... the persistence of the secret as the Bush administration's central organizational strategy, despite constant threats of investigation by Congress and the press, might suggest something more at work than the practical logistics of hiding embarrassing facts. Looking at the president's almost reflexive reliance on "confidence" as the yardstick of patriotic commitment—confidence in Donald Rumsfeld, in Alberto Gonzales, in Dick Cheney and his staff—reveals another level of motivation, another modality of patriotism, another political tradition embedded in the secret. For it was in the supreme value of men's "sacred confidence" (from con fides, "with trust") that an early national generation of big-government conservatives asserted themselves, declaring to an often distrustful populace that men's secrets were not only defensible but constituted the very measure of the virtuous man. In the energetic vindications of secret societies that erupted after the Revolution; in the closed doors of the 1787 Constitutional Convention; and in the contractual agreements between men, which constituted the only positive right of citizenship until the twentieth century—the partisans of men's confidence unfolded a vision of the patriotic republic in the intimate spaces between men. To be sure, their audacious claims jarred mightily with the prevailing understandings of secrecy as particularly unmanly and effeminate—cultural notions of the secret that played a pivotal role in uniting revolutionaries in self-consciously manly purpose; it should be no wonder, then, that an emerging anti-federalist opposition would pounce on the delegates to the cloistered Philadelphia convention as debased, fleshy, weak, and womanly, "harpies of power . . . inebriated with the lust of dominion." And indeed, the unmanly, sexually inverting secret echoes in some of Bush's more creative critics, finding in Bush's Skull and Bones Society days the origin of a lifelong effort to obfuscate his alleged schoolboy predilections for homoerotic Satan worship. But for the persistent advocates of disciplined diffidence, the secret did not unman men or even isolate them. It made them, almost incomprehensibly to many, republican men, realizing a manly virtue in the simple and transparent capacity of one man to assess another, to "look into his eyes"—as George W. Bush assessed Vladimir Putin at their first private meeting—and "get a sense of his soul."Common-place - January 2008
Guardians of the Secret
woods boys treed
All Our Wonder UnavengedLethean Lock Mnemonic Key
Governor General’s literary award for poetry.
0 my friends, there is no friend." In addressing you in this way, perhaps I have not yet said anything. Perhaps I have not even addressed myself to you. Not only because the two parts of this sentence, on the one side and on the other side of a comma or a pause, seem incompatible with each other, destined to annihilate themselves in their contradiction, but mainly because I have not yet said anything in my own name. I have contented myself with quoting. Spokesman for another, I have reported his words, which belong to a foreign or perhaps somewhat archaic language. I have, then, signed nothing, booked nothing to my own account.The Politics of Friendship
Christopher Wise - Deconstruction and Zionism
Handwriting as a Form of ProtestAt the innermost circle of the work: the handwritten line.
Caroline Bergvall reviews Fiona Templeton's Cells of Release
For six weeks, in 1995, the poet and performer Fiona Templeton locked herself up in the lugubrious corridors of the abandoned Eastern Penitentiary of Philadelphia to write. Why would she do this? Why would one do this? But this she did, “over six weeks”, writing by hand with an indelible marker, no return no edit, “I wrote without the possibility of erasure”, on one long string of paper, “where a spool of paper ran out, I sewed on the next one”, guiding it through one prison cell per day, and for as long as it would take to work through the thirty-eight cells that make up this one corridor of the dreadful panopticon. Once the project completed, she summarised it in this way: “written onsite / a continuous line / a cell a day”. To work for weeks within the walls of an abandoned prison, everyday, alone, certainly demonstrates mental stamina and an engagement with materials and ideas at a physical as much as at a discursive level. But what kind of claim on textual practice is Templeton making through the long hours of her writing body?.(...)
I have written at length in another context about the significance of the many ‘ink blots’ that are spilled across the work of Roland Barthes. I will not, therefore, reopen that particular ink quest in detail here, but I do want briefly to address why such apparent trivialities matter. Immediately after telling Jean-Louis de Rambures that discussing writing habits is usually seen as ‘futile’, Barthes makes a comment that explicitly links the topic in question to the work that he had begun in Mythologies:Writing TechnologiesWhen a great many people agree that a problem is insignificant, that usually means it is not. Insignificance is the true locus of significance. This should never be forgotten. That is why it seems so important to me to ask a writer about his writing habits, putting things on the most material level, I would even say the most minimal level possible. This is an anti-mythological action: it contributes to the overturning of that old myth which continues to present language as the instrument of thought, inwardness, passion, or whatever, and consequently presents writing as a simple instrumental practice.A caustic resistance to the idealist, pre-Saussurean understanding of language leaves its mark upon many of Barthes’ writings, of course. What texts like ‘An Almost Obsessive Relation to Writing Instruments’ and ‘Variations sur l’écriture’ add, however, is the proposition that attending to the materials and the material act of inscription contributes to the wider inking-out of the idyll of idealism. There is no head that is filled before the emptying movement of the hand. As one who shares Barthes’ almost obsessive relation to writing instruments and his related contempt for idealism, I have high hopes that Writing Technologies will continue his ‘anti-mythological action’ by ‘putting things on the most material level possible’ whenever writing is at hand.
The Morning of Life
There was a time when discussion of canons was angry but simple in the manner of Dr. Leavis: should Milton be dislodged, or Shelley saved from demotion to the apocrypha? These arguments were keenly, even passionately conducted, but beneath them was a general agreement that getting the canon right was a social issue, though determined by aes- thetic argument; it was rarely or never suggested that the entire canon, whatever its members, should be decanonized. The debate turned on such matters as Milton's grand style or Shelley's reprehensible vague- ness. It was more or less silently abandoned when such considerations had come to seem chimerical, the real questions being whether the no- tion of canon wasn't a wicked myth, designed to justify the oppression of minorities--a political propaganda weapon now at last revealed as such and, as the word goes, "demystiSed." Questions of literary value were for the most part set aside as without relevance or even derided as demonstrable nonsense.(...)
The relationship between rationalisation and the excesses of political power is evident. And we should not need to wait for bureaucracy or concentration camps to recognize the existence of such relations. But the problem is: what to do with such an evi- dent fact ?
Geisha in Winter
His reputation rests today partly in the hands of the so-called Language poets, who find in Zukofsky’s brilliant subversions of syntax, word games and indeterminacy (his poem, after all, is called “A,” not “The”) an augury of their own methods. But “A” is not about anything as simple as “language” or “life”: it is a poem about working on “A” — about the daily elations and impediments of an artist who sought, over the course of decades, to make something really hard really good. Since it takes its own composition as the measure of living, it is a more personal poem, and often a more moving one, than either of its main models, Pound’s “Cantos” or William Carlos Williams’s “Paterson.”
The first thing I did was make a mistake. I thought I had understood capitalism, but what I had done was assume an attitude -- melancholy sadness -- toward it. This attitude is not correct. Fortunately your letter came, at that instant. "Dear Rupert, I love you every day. You are the world, which is life. I love you I adore you I am crazy about you. Love, Marta." Reading between the lines, I understood your critique of my attitude toward capitalism. Always mindful that the critic must "studiare da un punto di vista formalistico e semiologico il rapporto fra lingua di un testo e codificazione di un -- " But here a big thumb smudges the text -- the thumb of capitalism, which we are all under. Darkness falls. My neighbor continues to commit suicide, once a fortnight. I have this suicides geared into my schedule because my role is to save him; once I was late and he spent two days unconscious on the floor. But now that I have understood that I have not understood capitalism, perhaps a less equivocal position toward it can be "hammered out." My daughter demands more Mr. Bubble for her bath. The shrimp boats lower their nets. A book called Humorists of the 18th Century is published.(...)Donald Barthelme's barthelmismo
Knees knocked last week from sea to shining sea as the shape-shifting monster of economic reality cut a swathe of destruction through the markets and financial ranks. The exact nature of this giant beast still remained largely concealed in a fog of accounting gambits, policy blusters, and reporting dodges, but a few intrepid scouts who glimpsed the behemoth up close said it looked like Godzilla with Herbert Hoover's face.
The biopolitical diagram is the space in which the reproduction of organised life (social, political) in all its dimensions is controlled, captured, and exploited – this has to do with the circulation of money, police presence, the normalisation of life forms, the exploitation of productivity, repression, the reining in of subjectivities. In the face of this, there is what I call a "political diagonal", in other words the relation that one has with these power relations, and which one cannot but have. The problem is to know what side you are on: on the side of the power of life that resists, or on the side of its biopolitical exploitation. What is at stake in the city often takes shape in the struggle to re-appropriate a set of services essential to living: housing; water, gas and electricity supply; telephone services; access to knowledge and so on.(...)
Text messages ... carry a tactile quality. Like the photograph, the text message is a kind of pointing, saying 'I am here' or 'look at this'. Texting is also an accumulation of light touches – presses on a keypad rather than the click of a camera shutter. Even more, text messages often arrive with a tactile sensation, a vibration that acts like a tap on the shoulder. (...)Interview With Andrew Wilson
Everyday words about everyday lives
The Moat, Sissinghurst
I wish that a narration were possible. For the moment it is not possible. I dream of managing one day not to recount this legacy, this past experience, this history, but at least to give a narration of it among other possible narrations. But in order to get there, I would have to undertake a kind of work, I would have to set out on an adventure that up till now I have not been capable of. To invent, to invent a language, to invent modes of anamnesis ... For me, it is this adventure that interests me the most in a certain way, but which still today seems practically inaccessible.(...)
There is a tendency in recent scholarship, it seems to me, to proceed from what we might call a vulgar historicism, as if to want to promulgate a certain imperative that thinkers from the same place and time be of and about the same core cultural patterns, as if working towards a singular and coherent frame that is guaranteed by the historical predicament of their writing.
Assent 19gesshom Assent 25 Tom Hibbard the trees’ secret message indecipherable winds cannot legally be claimed I’m not sure I know why perfected stars shine you can’t alter what I am you have forged the name of the judge of letters your telescope showing sleepy half moons glistening off wavelets in the lagoon’s cooling breeze overstated news making me miss the cove of hope the dainty litigation that breaks rude pots lit palely by a well-trained chorale
The Miracle Of The Birds
otoliths / lulu
...who has shown this in a most vital and convincing way if not Beckett, whose strange creatures spend their time decoding things, they make non-codable flows pass. Social processes can't capture flows except in relation to codes which operate on them, and which are simultaneously a detachment of a flow and a subtraction of chains or codes, and the madman makes flows pass on it, flows from which it is no longer possible to detach anything; there are no more codes, there is a chain of decoded flows, but one can't cut into it. There is a sort of deluge or failure of the body, maybe that's it, after all, the body-without-organs, when on the body, or from the body flows enter and exit by way of poles, flows on which one can no longer carry out any subtraction because there are no longer any codes from which to detach anything. (...)
Beyond Time Reviewed by Bent SørensenTrouble With TimeBeyond Time
His poetics, never disembodied or vapidly spiritual, suggests the tactile quality of language. Words caress you or may be caressed as bodies do and are. Words are therefore all we have and all we are, but they are never enough: “I’d film words like Godard, if I could, chant like Coltrane, if need be paint a sign like Kline,” Gibbons states. The poems bear this out in their flow of sounds and images referred to, described, alluded to, suggested, created anew.(...)
Apocalyptic Landscape3 poems
1930s-40s in Color
Studio introduces established and new poets, translators, and writers to a large, on-line, global readership. Studio is supported collaboratively by Faculty of Education, University of British Columbia, Faculty of Education, Faculty of Arts, and Department of English, York University.
The First Time
Security, Territory, Population
...a collection of essays by photographers about the times they didn't use their camera. This collection is a series of photographs not taken with a camera, but, instead, lived and remembered.
Stealing glances...for those of us who are not suffering from the blasé attitude, who are very conscious of the reality of the people we encounter, why do we look away embarrassed or scared, rather than gently, politely, in good conscience?
That walking among others should present itself as a dilemma is pathetic. Perhaps it is because we are primarily a culture of drivers, not pedestrians. Even if we do not drive, still we share the streets with many who do, who do not occupy the sidewalks with pleasure but rather are wishing there was less space to travel between the restaurant and their parked car. "Urbanity and automobiles are antithetical in many ways," writes Rebecca Solnit in Wanderlust, a history of walking. "A city of drivers is only a dysfunctional suburb of people shuttling from private interior to private interior." This is also true in a city of transit users - we rush to the streetcar stop, take a seat, look through whatever newspaper is lying closest. Walking is no longer, as Solnit points out, "a state in which the mind, the body, and the world are aligned." As a result, we are jarred by our encounters. Eye contact is an irritation. It disrupts the work of getting somewhere.
Herman A. "Germany" Schaefer
via The Atlantic Community
The most interesting issue sociologically is not the fact of progressive religious decline among the European population, but the fact that this decline is interpreted through the lenses of the secularization paradigm and is therefore accompanied by a "secularist" self-understanding that interprets the decline as "normal" and "progressive", that is, as a quasi-normative consequence of being a "modern" and "enlightened" European. It is this "secular" identity shared by European elites and ordinary people alike, that paradoxically turns "religion" and the barely submerged Christian European identity into a thorny and perplexing issue when it comes to delimiting the external geographic boundaries and to defining the internal cultural identity of a European Union in the process of being constituted.
Wisconsin Historical Images
Bush and Cheney's views and actions seem quite breathtakingly dangerous. There have likely been absolute monarchs whose lawmaking was more procedurally constrained than that of the present administration.
Beware of thinkers whose minds function only when they are fueled by a quotation.
How do you make yourself a body without organs?
You have to keep enough of the organism for it to reform each dawn; and you have to keep small supplies of signifiance and subjectification, if only to turn them against their own systems when the circumstances demand it, when things, persons, even situations, force you to; and you have to keep small rations of subjectivity in sufficient quantity to enable you to respond to the dominant reality. Mimic the strata. You don't reach the BwO, and its plane of consistency, by wildly destratifying.(...)
capitalism and schizophrenia
Translation by Brian Massumi
searchable OCRed pdf
Foreword by Brian Massumi
There is too much to say, yes, about the time I was given, along with so many others of my "generation," to share with Deleuze; about the good fortune I had of thinking thanks to him, by thinking of him. Since the beginning, all of his books (but first of all Nietzsche, Difference and Repetition, The Logic of Sense) have been for me not only, of course, provocations to think, but, each time, the unsettling, very unsettling experience - so unsettling - of a proximity or a near total affinity in the "theses" - if one may say this - through too evident distances in what I would call, for want of anything better, "gesture," "strategy," "manner": of writing, of speaking, perhaps of reading. As regards the "theses" (but the word doesn't fit) and particularly the thesis concerning a difference that is not reducible to dialectical opposition, a difference "more profound" than a contradiction (Difference and Repetition), a difference in the joyfully repeated affirmation ("yes, yes"), the taking into account of the simulacrum, Deleuze remains no doubt, despite so many dissimilarities, the one to whom I have always considered myself closest among all of this "generation." I never felt the slightest "objection" arise in me, not even a virtual one, against any of his discourse, even if I did on occasion happen to grumble against this or that proposition in Anti-Oedipus(I told him about it one day when we were coming back together by car from Nanterre University, after a thesis defense on Spinoza) or perhaps against the idea that philosophy consists in "creating" concepts. One day, I would like to explain how such an agreement on philosophical "content" never excludes all these differences that still today I don't know how to name or situate. (Deleuze had accepted the idea of publishing, one day, a long improvised conversation between us on this subject and then we had to wait, to wait too long.) I only know that these differences left room for nothing but friendship between us. To my knowledge, no shadow, no sign has ever indicated the contrary. Such a thing is so rare in the milieu that was ours that I wish to make note of it here at this moment.
To RooseveltPoems By Ruben Dario
Winter is good - his Hoar Delights Italic flavor yield To Intellects inebriate With Summer, or the World - Generic as a Quarry And hearty - as a Rose - Invited with Asperity But welcome when he goes - Emily Dickinson
via the pageOrientation Weekend August Kleinzahler At the Hotel Oblivion, Airport Drive Mezzanine, Conference Center B PowerPoint presentation no. 1 Career Enhancement Strategy Mary-Ray’s pink ice service trembles In the aftershock of some astral seizure So remote and faint Only the weevil’s foreleg dares say Yes, yes, yes, it’s true Next up Team Building Exercises Woof, woof
Listening to a murder mystery
As I started to write The Book of Questions, I got the impression that the culture I had relied on so far was violently cracking up. At any rate, I felt that it was no longer able to channel the anxieties I was harbouring. I no longer belonged - and foresaw that I would have to ground my writing in this not-belonging. Ragged phrases, shards of dialogues slowly surfaced - but as if from an anterior memory. Without knowing it, I was listening to a book rejecting all books and which I obviously did not master. I was interrogating this book even as I was writing it, expecting that it would create itself through the interrogation itself. But was it one book or were there innumerable books inside the book, from which its form, its ruptures, come? In a way I had to track the book beyond its ruptures, to where it has no longer any belonging or place or resemblance, where therefore it escapes all categories and traditions.
Four Poems"roaming in a body bag of Cartesian illusions"
Laura (Riding) Jackson
Rational Meaning: Toward a New Foundation of WordsThat He another day awoke to find himself speaking a strange language, in which everything was known and clear-as if all difficulties of the intelligence were difficulties of language alone: in this language He had but to speak to discover, as, for instance, the word for horse here not only stood for horse but also made plain the quality of horseliness, what it was.The publication of Rational Meaning: A New Foundation for the Definition of Words brings to completion one of the most aesthetically and philosophically singular projects of twentieth-century American poetry. No North American or European poet of this century has created a body of work that reflects more deeply on the inherent conflicts between truth telling and the inevitable artifice of poetry than Laura (Riding) Jackson. This conflict ultimately led, in 1941, to Riding's renunciation of poetry; it is also the basis of this long summa contra poetica, which she wrote with her husband, Schuyler Jackson, over a forty-year period starting around 1948.
The Failure of Poetry, The Promise of Language
People are beginning to accumulate significant quantities of personal digital material, material that may be meaningful over the course of their lifetimes, and in some cases, beyond . Decreasing storage costs coupled with greater sophistication in consumers’ abilities to create, record, obtain, and share new media has resulted in what we might think of as digital belongings, a mix of artifacts one has created and gathered oneself, institutional records, and published media. To a greater extent than ever before, these digital belongings form the rich backdrop of a person’s life – the photos, correspondence, financial records, video recordings, the documents they read and write, their creative work, the published work they own, and much more – that come into existence in digital form and mostly stay that way.via The Ten Thousand Year Blog
A culture with a procedural and instrumental outlook on reality, equipped with the capacity to create the illusion of control over the limits of the world, and with a grotesque wealth, can have very little in the way of a ground for faith. The double bind here is, of course, that this sort of culture is in great need of faith but its need cannot be fulfilled because it is this sort of culture. The instrumentalist/procedural culture cannot emerge with real truthfulness towards others because the organic conditions are missing. Control and procedure seem to eliminate contingency and contingency is the ground of spirituality. For the status quo, for the way the culture flows from day to day, being truthful to the conditions of others doesn't matter primarily. What matters is acquisition in the instrumentalist sense and this requires others and the world as instruments.(...)
The Poet's Corner
I've come to call the condition that affects these poems "metrical incipience." This unfortunate and rarely-diagnosed affliction has been around creative writing classrooms for quite a while, and I've been noticing the symptoms for years in student poems as I make the rounds of poetry-writing classrooms as a visiting writer. (...)