1.3.18 Woo Hoo
Just decided: change names Stinky and Pinky to Sketch and Fetch. For a bit. Gonna work them over. To add dimension. I dont want to limit those two – things deflect into notes on violence, especially gun violence, as an image feed. Gun violence very big politics here. I want to use Sketch and Fetch as symptoms of Stinky & Pinky and vice a veer, as crash/scratch test dummies. I mean out in the farm-ecology of fiction. Wondering if I have the chops.
Early spindrifts are oft bleeding self conscious, calling them all triggerfish, and the crap that comes up like doody want to tremor in mist of Penny Dreadful and shake and jiggle instruments under red sheet of Chinese Dragon, drawing monsters turbid love mischief thwart and crane, fortuitous murderers, without staunch boundary too decided between mythic yens so it can bubble up with dew. In different keys or something.
New entry for tru con, falls into discussion about madness again, admission about madness, that it became a goal, that I actually believed was true as a door to understanding! As a tricksters apprentice. First time I’ve made that admission. Its pretty dense. And self serving. I love when the trickster and the psychos start squaring off like its physics.
New piece body of h8, is more fiction-y, fluid, its image jumps sluice a bit more ducks in a row I wanna say for some reason, less defensive, more poetic piece. That said both are on the “Madness” Beat somehow 4 Tinkle Report this week. Who knew.
Going through some post New Years crash. Typical. Having coffee this morning with Lowell. Brother Lowell. In dining hall at Yado. Discussion turns to beauty of falling into chaos, what draws us there, that feeling of being out of constraints and a mind slipping into havoc, how at outset is a dalliance with weightlessness.
Got my first gig translating from French to English, a short piece by François Regnault for Lacan Ink – We’ll see if they accept it?!
Zizek is one of Lacan’s protoges. Lacan was married to Georges Bataille’s ex-wife the actress Sylvie Maklès. Sylvie had a daughter with Bataille. Later she also had a daughter with Lacan. Judith Lacan. Who recently passed. The piece was about her. Colette was Georges Bataille’s paramour after Sylvie moved on to Lacan. La Philosophe en Viva La France un petit milieu.
Its late afternoon. They are starting up outside. Theatre district me. When the show starts its gonna get very loud.
Meanwhile I am listening to Shane MacGowan and his partner Victoria on the radio. Its a recording of a radio show from Ireland called Sunday with Miriam. I found it on Shane’s site.
It makes me slow down to listen to it. Listen to the articulation in his thoughts that proceed with dilatory candor, a kind of dragging it out again, dogged unshrinkable delicacy of unsinkable ministration.
Personally, I have to let go of the wooly bully wooly bully to swim out to where he is talking and breathe, just breathe, breathe evenly, say it outloud, breathe. Take the backspin down, be considerate, scrupulous even, at the refrain. This takes a conscious effort on my part.
Frankenstein pops up, rubs his gifts against a wall. Arms flat out. Frankenstein is a perfume. A breakwall from my past. I smile. And munch on crackers that are made with corn flour and powdered beats. We are opening a bottle tonight that Sunil the Wonderful gave me. Toasting all our survivals. Right round right round.
Added poem by Wallace Stevens called Thunder by the Musician to Fabalot.
Discipline between two freedoms. Isnt that lovely!!
Last night had a dream – moving van took everybody home to meet my room. The room itself was cloaked in a white sheet, draped down from ceiling like a circus canopy. And full of fish. Long-finned swimming in place fishes, iridescent, silvery, dappled in rainbow. Vibratile finns, funneling like wings, all floating in place.
Woke thinking “sweet” mornings little grace. My ferociously fond fish bowl of hungry rarefied ghosts who by treasure and pleasure and measure, beauty & intensity of their raw & the cooked, draw me out like Captain Hook, for blood in heaven.
Lovely dream for the approaching New Year. SO grateful to Elizabeth – am busy next semester. Four classes, First one online. Setting up for Screenflow app.
I wish I had more character, that I was a stronger person in the present tense. Not so killed by beauty’s madness lost in rocks, mmmm rock repelling, where theatre crosses into time, not so anxious and beguiled (and stinky) with excavation methods.
Thats my new years resolution. Thnk UUU. Please forgive. Heading into Round 2 this site – tons of shit on my lists.
Thinking through Stinky and Pinky as well in Tru Con – suddenly Pinky & Stinky are showing up everywhere. Dreams are finding familiarity as reveal a brute beautiful architecture. Piece so far called Quantum of Wantum. Phrase stolen from Beckett on Proust.
Frankenstein & Whippoorwills. Stinky & Pinky, 2 clowns who are angels in love, & mad at heaven. Its all on the image – Angels come alive on The Image.
The Image. Its a line of magical thinking that falls across all extensions. I follow follow, as an adherent, has its own plottings according to Theme not Character, per se.
Clarice Lispector does this and turns the void into joy that fills the negative with essences plunder. I am exploring that possibility in several pieces.
Do it in Machine Dreams too – though it incurs/occurs 4 a character: Vanna Guta. Who is a video editor, rendering ghosts in the machine, fondly sometimes hysterically in pursuit thereof.
The plot is truly secondary to The License.
Started new Tinkle Review on book called Mythology, Madness & Laughter. About 1/4 done. First draft coming out much better than what really was my first ever Tinkle Review: Philosophy of No. That review splits into two voices. That never quite merge. This seems more to know what its looking for.
Its not a book review. So much as a discussion of terms, moreas what Literary Criticism does – philosophy of literature. Its about the topics. Though how the writing accomplishes what its seeking to do in structural terms remains a bold curiousity. Not so much as a book reviewer critiques.
Literary Crit but of course reading Philosophy books. Well that would just figure. To find my feet, just where they are planted, one works and hopes.
Started new piece of fiction, very early working title Machine Madness. That wont be its final title. It is pretty good thru half of it. Then another aspect of the voice intrudes, starts taking over. Though not entirely. When character baiting refracts into two. Fah. As first draft though really not bad.
Added a fave book am re-reading to Fab a Lot, Clarice Lispector’s Água Viva. After having given a copy to Brendan McCarthy, director of Systems & Materiality over in SOF, at Parsons Newschool. Lovely when I give away a book, I get to see it from another deft perspicuity which enriches its reading anew.
Plan on building a new page called Mad Love: Takes and Shorts. Started a new poem about Moods and Changing Hair Color, not up yet. Dreaming doing a Take of myuglymug reciting, then running that through AE filters, as colors of love. Plan initially is to start out doing kind-of-you-know humorous.obnoxious.artsy shorts.
FACT: 4 was yr when Pure Demure alias The Hide Away aka Boat launched out of Marina – when many of Stinky’s cousins first grew horns thorns, submarine castaway, a hopeless flirt was born – Certain things theatrical, certain scope mechanics – how they live inside this beam now as two prong, as a devils fork collective, in cahoots with beauty and her beasts, like a fourth wall, unsettling along the river for an ocean floor hungry as fish is a dogs mouth mushroom hunting or a whale just below that window of sound spewing gratitude – & all is a sea in song.
Tru Con is growing: Foot & Mouth, The Sorrow of God – that is still dense as blood pudding but has tons of stuff to develop. & Pop Goes Fey –
Whirly Tool is “settling down” off of what was (for me) a really big push to put this site up – Only page still need redesign is Comments. And School for next semester. And new page Mad Love etc.
Behind the actual there’s a gesture. That is its own beauty.
Poem: Ensalivé has pushed through 1) the throw down 2) the sing song 3) first pare back. And now gone through a 2nd Full Write. & she has started another one: My Country is a Slave to Death 2nd draft.
Poetry is complicit, an interloping that meddles with me, a muddle a scuttle wrestle & terror of beauty, lust, fuss, disruption, thwart! work work work.
Cover of new version LAURE wd be smoky she is dreaming in shades of grey. Something “in here/out there” as an effort to “see thru it/see it thru” is taking on new shape –
Translating. I look up while translating and think about Baudelaire and his Mum. Baudelaire was in love with Edgar Allen Poe. Bauedelaire’s mum knew a little English, and they translated Edgar Allen Poe together. Laure – I love her. Dreaming up variations of her cosmology in a way I find has much acceptance and relief. Her deep edgy mournful chowder lays near dauntless childhood traumas of mine, always in pursuit of their own. I find fresh candor in her descriptions that eerily reflects the double of death and sex, of holiness and sex, of sorrow and sex, the manner into which I was born. To lay with a mind of a girl who traverses through the wreckage of her youth, grave, intent, yearning. A girl whose figure hides behind flower and shrub – secretly watching boys yank off. She is a perfect monster of sorrow and love. Stubbornness magnified, impotent with grief, and yet like Rimbaud over the top admissions that descend out of the holy replete and surge into questions of dour tragic winsome belief. There is beauty about her I find morbid yet its humor provides shocking ruesome relief.
Started translating Laure by Colette Peignot. Fabulous. Falling into somebody elses beautiful muses that are tragic destructive mournful, privileged, sexually embarked upon, captivated by images, starts right off – coming through The Religion.
Cervantes is a new piece, still in excavation mode, its about his trunk, in the play The Man of la Mancha, his theatrical trunk, is thrown in Prison right along with him by The Inquisition. And me in turn now finding it – as play inside the play – as a state of temptation. (And Prison remorse?)
Mythological Being of Reflection by Markus Gabriel is first chapter in book called Mythology Madness and Laughter. Second and third chapters of book are by Slovoj Zizek.
When first I tumble into a project like this, always ends up first being about me. What draws me here? Cause La Philosophe is all about depth. Its the depths of wildness, of laughter and tears, of demonic inspissation, that among other things, doubles over and over into vertigo, and fell me into quest, as madness.
Fortunately then it becomes about what other people are doing, best as I can figure, perforcing an obligation to what Beckett calls The Auditor, and what lately I am calling the dept. head. Addressing section by section, paragraph by paragraph, slow as I go…
Domain of all Domains = ∞ = ∄
Markus Gabriel’s chapter on Mythology and Reflection tours classic byways of academic philosophy, rocking-horse digs through great philosophers orientations on meaning, and doting chivalrously on the language, punctiliously too, goes in at outer edges of the language – where with great fascination philosophers turn with keen Homeric attempt to define, refine constants, variables, conditions of being & consciousness, and of meaning and the sublime.
Where meaning in terms of being pushes up against the limits of experience and turns into that which is – but isn’t, how for instance an excess of intent corrupts into delicious lies, glowing impossibilities – as opposed to dealing with finite objects.
Gabriel sorts and sifts through an appropriation of mathematical thinking, starting straight off with sets. Also known as domains. Domains/sets are a mathematical tool used to ascribe structure and placement to interacting particulars. Philosophy created maths as a way to describe solids, space and number.
Sets open “emptiness” up to the infinite. As you can have an empty set with infinite brackets – or to put it another way, can have an infinite set that at bottom is empty.
Markus Gabriel runs naive ontic monism – God / the One single true general theory, as a domain of all domains through requirements of set theory, w.r.t. its being representable in theory by a domain of one, a domain of all domains. And shows why in logic (faith leaps, logic requires proof) it doesn’t work.
First inner doublings apparently exist in minds eye a priori, as being and appearance form a double, right off the bat. You and you in the mirror of your thoughts are being and an appearance. Reflection is an appearance. Being is more a quality as a quantity. Consciousness occurs as a double, being in reflection, God occurs as a double, being in reflection, reflection replicates itself within itself, as a continuum. Without completion, except of course death.
Take it from me – one of the lures of death, of nothingness, as a destiny – is the lure of completion (I’m out of here).
And second, the domain of all domains would have to be a set of proper objects, otherwise you are only dealing in reflection, myth is created out of consciousness, out of reflection that replicates itself within itself. Objects are objects because they can be determined (even higher order domains, or an incommensurable).
If its an object it would have to exist, if it exists it would have to be inside the domain of all domains – in standard set theory, you cannot be an object that is the entire thing and a member at same time – thats another bracket, tripping it into an infinity of replicating outer limits, that is vertiginous. A domain of all domains is also a place without completion.
Perforcing its double, that it is somewhere that is nowhere, opening it up to the void, exposing an unending bottom, that forsakes of nothingness, and an infinite top as that leap, that hurtle, after transcendence. Either of whose completion cannot be pinned down, in logic –
Philosophy of Revelation
Next journey Markus takes us on is through what has been uncovered about the nature of reflection, and how reflection is preconditioned by an “uncanny principle” (Schelling), of it being greater than itself.
STOP READING HERE. the rest is still all “tumbling dice.”
Recursiveness is very big in thoughts on thoughts, in terms of systems (computers) as well as sorrows (death).
Thoughts hit up against what hurts/asserts as an absolute negative and then philosophy vies desperately to find a cut between what is of it and what is not, except that all it is is language and suddenly words start turning loops, seemingly impossible to adequately domain, to set absolute –
And instead stumbles into revelation, with romantic defiance. Drilling down through depths of phenomenological hell, like a laughing dialectical phantom with an out to lunch sign.
These certain areas of phenomenology blew like wheat in fields of grey hopeless mourning, of sunless shine on sorrows of loves being rained on broken and forlorn, with me (gasp gasp) grasping for wood and instead blew in constructive/desconstructive castles in air & hair reverential – this girls heart complicit with the Almighty (grump) right there at the Pump.
Trauma of God
God is an uncanny revelation. The unity of being vs neurotic consciousness. Next to this I put a star. And of course here I am grumbling manifestly about explosions of sorrow and desire, as thoughts benighted by love, got eclipsed, as though pulled out of the square by a hair, from the suffocating reign of time, in a series of vivid wicked near breathless breakthroughs.
Breaking throughs, from what had been a very idealistic and yet repressive dogma. And how it happens as revelation. As though falling through a hinge that is suddenly searching (increasingly desperate) for unity – among rebel throws! Here it comes:
Beauty as Nihilism.
The delicious contempt of a nihilistic virtue, as an opening into the void, a transcendence based on yearning for something truer than true, for higher and higher and higher ground. Gabriel describes (in stark philosophical terms) as a denial of appearances, isnt that lovely – winding out into a dismantling of the (great) beyond.
notes working on
Sealed off in an encounter with reflection, know that feeling. Here is Gabriel “… sealed off from world, eternally caught up in an unfulfilled desire to encounter the world” he describes as an internalizing of the world, since Descartes. I read philosophy because it helps disentangle madness from the turbulence of its seductions. Being a victual of The Seal is definitely one of them. He calls it reversionary where “soul mysteriously regresses back to origin(s)…” And there where I see sacrificial ecstasy of medieval Mary’s eyes yearning towards heaven over horror of everybody (from plagues) dying, and that religious mood of reification as complicity.
The uncanny stranger. I distinctly remember when pressing my luck in hopeless love, incurring violently at times a sudden new capability for visions, and what a relief at knowing I was seeing more than I’d ever previously been allowed to admit I saw, before. Like one night suddenly shooting at baskets and you hit 3 out of 4, just because you can feel where the sweet spot is. (Does not last.)
But the stranger thing was, however I would try, there was no where to put these things without blanket denial – except there from which it seemed to spring – in delicious tumults of magic & horror that occurred for me inside a blessed jar of desire – whose virtues I dare not trust. However could not resist, as found they made me feel drunk with life.
Admit! Have always lived in something I call The Jar. A jar of glorious contempt. Was born into it. Cropped up young.
As a rejection of the impotence of time, in favor of magic, religion and magic have that foolish side to them. My little foolish ship in a floating away jar.
That a side has always, always lived raging behind a precious seal of contempt.
What a horror I became when the madness broke out. Treading deliciously on other people I was in love with to kick the bottle, make it crash. To break my ship out of its suffocating feudality.
And it worked like spirit arising out of lamp, it really did at first, as if an awareness was being stumbled into that never knew I had –
Disenchantment of disenchantment
Gabriel refers to something of nihilism being a disenchantment of disenchantment, my new fave the double no, the double “dis,” how transcendence comes through disenchantment of disenchantment – therefore: enchantment.
Enchantment being a big word for me. As stolen from William Burroughs as a way of explaining a spell of madness emerging it seemed from under a vast tissue of lies?
And an enchantment that along the way ate its own tail, turned rotten, deadly, no matter what anybody did to try help me calm down – I’d fall in again and again, into such a wild state of panic, beyond anything I could have ever imagined I’d ever put myself through, for reasons that on the surface could not acquit themselves, as madness poured in with unfathomable chaos & ruthlessness.
Now I try think of these things as roots of theatre, so as to create a place for, not as hypnotic or deadly, my being host to wildly submerged unending sets, seesawing with seeming frantic contradiction, as slither through my hair with a monstrous love – for well, the subtexts of tragedy, glory of death, magic of hysteria, etc.
The book is called Mythology Madness and Laughter. There are two more chapters to go. She rubs her hand over the mythical lamp. Last two chapters in book are by Mr. Zizek. Starting them now very shortly.
1) Translating literally word for word, 2) Working thru idiom, finding voice…
Eyes pierce the night.
Young girl in long white chemise, half asleep, mumbling. In a corner, in light and shadows, she kneels quavering before crucifix and Virgin. Pious images cover all the walls, she – my noctabulant – lends all readiness on her knees then slides between sheets.
The livery, care and feeding of phantoms, less is real, having taken full rights over me, the bedroom resumes its intransigence, heavy with aborted nightmare.
There is a terror that arises between four walls like wind on the sea. A crone bent in two menaces at me with her stick, a man rendered invisible by rings of fame lurks and looms at any instant, God “who sees all and knows all thoughts” regards me sharply. A curtain of white detaches from its window, planes across the darkness, closes in, carries me away, slowly I mount the sky –
A thousand traces of lucifer summon from out of the abyss, dance naked in the round, pilot the night, have a go at me. Rainbow dust composes itself into ruthless arrays, colors slip from one to the next. Conic, circular, rectangular, ancient tombs of luminous liquid, a forge of curvature and color, an oblique sun. The sky is my tears. A prisoners cinema, jiggling in the round – the bed rocks under this swell of dreams.
And all the days of all these nights, was a childhood made sordid and anxious, haunted by the sin of being mortal, Friday’s saint and Wednesday’s ashes. All the childhoods crushed under heavy sails of mourning, childhoods stolen from us children.
No, that doesn’t begin to cover it. Outlaw hands gripped the wheel of my destiny, so much lodged there, neonates fervently oppressed by cordon umbilical, and still, our only demand – is to live!
Reworked up to here so far.
Listening to the night full of cries: heart-rending cries broken off by windows slamming closed, cries raucous, muffled by a gag, dying between lips, calls strident, the names of men, of women thrown into empty eternity. Laughter, avenging falls from on high, in a cascade of contempt, complaints vague and diffused, from wails of children to voices of men. All these cries mix as falling leaves in autumn mount up in a garden, as would mount to the smells of dew, of humic compote and the cut of hay.
It is a well known garden in Paris where I found a hidden spot. From behind the charcoal-ists, comes a man all pale, himself inclined, a hand squeezing in the void, goes a few steps on white stones, still so inclined, his hand crotched at the absent, starts again with a caution all around the lawn – Another upsurges, face enflamed, ruby lips, surprised at my refuge in a slot by the wall, cached behind a frightful mass of fuschia. It is full of ivy there and soot, flowers of begonias in dirty fingers, signs of hopscotch traced with chalk. The man, the gesture obscene, he approaches, but there are many well known detours.
And here another spans his window, distraught, batting the air like a windmill, with foam on his lips: “they robbed me the bastards,” we overlorded him. Passes a woman, hands clutched to her chin, she runs from all, her body shapeless, flabby and clumsy.
These passing visions snatched with a half smile just as soon paralyze, as above appears a pallid face who is trying to introduce himself between the bars of his cage, tries first face front and then at an angle, but in vain. Alas a white bony arm as it crosses hangs slowly, up against the evening, like linen in the wind.
A lying, smiling pack (parents and doctors) rotate around, this pit of fools, from the garden of a childhood.
Poor insipid beings, grief that surrenders, rears up, pain that gets beaten, powerless, crushed, idiotic. Listening to it: a b c d I don’t no anymore how to speak, 1 2 3 4 don’t know anymore how to count.
Have you imported the village innocent or neighborhood crazy, are streets not full of consciousness sold out, backbones broken? Others doomed, near death, a better life run aground in fairs, in harbors, in squares, under bridges.
What misery, despair remains for those alive after coming off shipwrecks – astonished at finding themselves on friable edges alongside. Astonished meeting one to one, from man to man, as with brief looks, exchanging all purpose words, without any sense or depth of meaning. Those who return alone from far off, to hear themselves so speak. . . of rain or good weather. And it seems that the earth responds to the sound of voices harder under foot. Rivers flow greasy waters, carrying along a heavy stench. Above city bridges, above the countryside. And in the city and in the country, a moving sea of human glances.
Not one, that does not shelter a secret history. That does not call for a response, an explication. Regarding through purity undiluted their spotty net, backdrop of troubles. Algae and detritus. Humans strewn, with protruding looks, dark and cruddy-eyed, voiceless visions further elucidated, looks that know hate and scorn, looks loving and confident, looks that reveal one goal, one wish, looks that desire sail in blood. I glimpse all this through an insistence lost in colorless hunger, seeming to demand account of all impotence, all human defeat, other than its own.
I was not living life but death. Knew most of corpses rising right before my eyes – “as much as you turn away, to hide yourself, deny. . . you will attend to for the sake of your family.” Discussing it tenderly, kindly if not sardonically, else at image of Christ eternally humble, insane piece of work, as they held out to me their arms.
From west to east, countryside to countryside, city to city I marched between tombs. Soon the sun lost me, whether it was grassy or paved, I was floating, suspended between sky and earth, between the ceiling and floor. My sore eyes, toppled presenting to the world their stringy lobes, my hands hooked and mutilated carrying a senseless heritage. I rode the clouds with air of disheveled folly or friendly beggar. Feeling somewhat the monster, didn’t recognize anymore people I used to like. Finally, slowly I became as petrified in place as a perfect accessory of the decor.
For a longtime wandering around the city from place to place, from top to bottom. I came to know it well, that it is not only a city but an octopus. All streets parallel and oblique converging toward a liquid center, suckers clutching. Tentacles of the beast, each carrying houses on its own two sides: one of small panes, another of heavy curtains. It is there that I heard from the lips of Vérax, the good news about Notre Dame de Cléry, there that I saw the beautiful gaze of Violette injected in black ink, finally stars Justus and Bételguese, Vérax and La Chevelure, all girls whose names stars absorbed through magnetized doors set by powerful currents. Darkness instantly traversed by invisible rays a space revealed of their own reflection. Only the incandescent transparency of skeleton and shape of heart. Deaf triggers alternately animate flashes of breath and combustion of methane, halos of mercury, their bodies automatic. How they see each other go purple then green.
The time for attractions having passed, streets are dismissed by the same complicated regularity. Its face purified, regains its crown, believed reborn. (The trunk of man gone away to think in its own quarter.)
Day to day, people fill like sand then leave no trace of these expansions and convulsions, one can set a course on it as a beach by its sun.
At such a beach I discover the sky, an immense cloudless sky to lose oneself in as a kite. Faithfully to follow as my eyes could not to leave it, I ran without end to try and meet it. Breathless, I threw myself on the sand, sand so fine between fingers with a warm caress, that made me laugh.
The inevitable procession: women in black bring me back to the streets and now, of an icy air, towards a gothic villa whose windows reflect the house-trained sun. It is the first day of my life that I see the light.
Leaving behind the Memories, the avalanche and scaffolding of a stillborn life, the bronzes and plaster casts of all civilization and trusting myself to an angle blue as slate, I took a place in the beautiful sky in a flight of pigeons in the heart of the City. The heavy bird voyagers came flocking down not far from a place where, always devoured by the demon of curiosity, I melt into a crowd.
I saw they were holding a parade. The standards and flags of feeble boys and bony old men (cane in hand); the banners and faded finery of sweaty clergymen (armpits stinky and green), the holy scapulars and filthy rosary of young sisters, children of Mary trembling: “My father I have had bad thoughts.” All yammering, breadth rotten : we are espoused to France. Three greasy haired hunched over old men discovering between their rack of mustaches a hostful of rancid wafers.
There you are in your place under the flag, insane with holiness. Why not smile disillusioned or burst out laughing with amusement… But no I stay to spit at the blood of my ancestors, who all take after you. Will I soon enough not end rejecting this sinking burden? Yes, it is not so long, la Véronique was smiling at me in saintly line with Christ, the Virgin and crown wavering under the incense, large as nails fixed to the wall, trainees of blood, the Saintly Face crying oily tears under a single red lamp lighting the “chapel of Seven Sorrows.”
It was a retreat, an hour of meditation, I was seven years old, on my knees trembling. Forcing myself to invent sins, as mine seemed insufficient, sins little in relation with the gravity of my own, arms and legs broken, the severity of the texts, the invocations. So I invented… The priest welcomed me into an obscure room where I will horror and he will confess to me on his knees. They took me back to a cab. The house was far away : “between Saint and Safety” explained my mother to the coachman as I trembled through the long ride on upholstery of damp velour, dreading death at every turn, street streaming with rain, horseshoes slipping out of control.
I had to swallow the host also, shame in not knowing how to go about it, posing these questions. “Especially do not make him have to touch your teeth,” said my mother to me. What a frightful debate of language, the goodness of god ensalivated. It was so long and messed up that I began to doubt it was composed of…God. The idea would not let go, became impossible to think of anything else : I began sobbing. Seeing my emotion, the priest and parents congratulated themselves of my utmost piety. Would I say – could I confess the horror of what was happening? Was it not already a state of mortal sin? One speaks of fervors… For the first time the blissful smiles, superior airs of the grand appeared to me strange, doubtable. Meanwhile, I was so proud to be an only child of a first communion that would happen to, but like my mother wished, without any material rejoicing that would trouble the sanctity of the day.
And another time sanctity had lodged itself in the attic. A storage room full of trunks and old junk. Where the window was never opened, condemned by a heavy curtain, leaving only a filter of light thru stained glass. Would stay there for hours, escaping their tedium, plunged in a body lost to it. It happened one day that we had to move the clutter of objects to make a crossing to reach the window; it was the only place where one could see a captive dirigible that had fallen in the garden next door. One could see its nacelle at 20 meters coinciding between two walls, a half deflated orange envelope, striated heavy ropes, sprawled over the rooftops and branches of a tree. Finally I saw the pilot emerge from the diverse mass; his smallness to have fallen from heaven appeared to me a strange disappointment. An incomparable event, its puff of air in my punctured attic.
I was without friend. All were reproved by my mother as “too good” or “not pious enough.” Poor, little girl – only to find her scope innately, to seek out neighbors who might have lent a hand, to be at leave to play with other children on the street, to speak with tradesmen, to be acquainted with the stories of the neighborhood! But her situation would not permit it, instead we were locked in, by a distrust of all that were not Family, in complete ignorance of all in the world that could be gay, active, lively, vibrant, productive, same to say simply human. “To have relations” or “to receive” threw my mother into a state of solemn panic and forced our submission to its withering backlash. My brother alone would pull us through the malaise with his abandon, bursting into a whirlwind of crazy sacrilegious giggles, that we were forced to contain in living room or church.
The house had always the characteristic of being dreary and unchanging. The impossible arrival of a letter filled me with passion, a letter that would be very rare, written from Africa, America or China by some uncle faraway. Though one never appeared on the bronze decorated tray full of bills, announcements, L’Écho de Paris – still I awaited the mail every day for such a thick envelope, adorned with an extraordinary stamp, writing of something fantastic.
Despite domestics, mother was constantly preoccupied with household chores, preoccupied with anguish over the dust, mothballs and polish. Not a day went by without a new stain to absorb her, her countenance put out by things and people. She was called “to arrange” and was never finished. All the world became under her foot, its only active part being to contribute to the general bouleversement. Children and domestics, tight faced at the sight of each other, coming and going, mounting and descending, nothing was saved. Lonesome, the storage room remained unchanging, an atmosphere confined in stained light.
It was my refuge, there to the horse of an old moleskin trunk or crouched in a frame of chair bottoms, I retold myself tales without end mostly of those from before I was born, of a time where I inhabited the sky. Or else, contemplating with fervor sweet sallow Jesus and blond Joseph, images blue, rose-colored, golden, stars wrapped in silk, knotted with favors. Or else, would wash my doll and partake in the discovery of my own body, that one was ordered to ignore. The curiosity of a child, toward her belly, at the same moment where she learns God sees all and is following her into the storage room. Curiosity then terror. Life being made quickly to oscillate between these two poles: the one sacred and venerated as must be exhibited (my mother’s enlistments after communions), the other dirty, shameful that must never be named. How together more mysterious, more enthralling, more intense than a life dreary and unchanging. Thus was I to rock between the infamous and the sublime, over the course of many years, where true life would always be absent.
Laborers on their way to work after having proudly wiped the kids and hurried them, with a rude tenderness that did not mince words, “blow your nose, wipe your ass, good-for-nothing.” In front of them at least children could unbutton their panties without believing themselves in hell. With them would they share an air of goodness? Not like mine, holier than thou pretentious. “My poor girl?” Send them with a wallop running out onto the sidewalk.
Where I imagine fiery laundresses hands soaking in the Siene for hours “Are you good & done, you, with your piles, get off on the shit in these napkins? wouldn’t it be doodled by his eminence the boss?” and they burst out laughing that gets lost in the reeds.
9.4.2017 – John Ashbery passed away this week. Met him at a National Book Award ceremony I think it was 2005. He was there to receive a lifetime achievement award, at film center in Tribeca I think. He came in late – after lights were already turned down. I was sitting on the window ledge, by hallway to the door. Too full of it. Hung in back by wall of windows circling my drink (in my head) – John came in just as it was about to begin, sat down beside me.
I did not know who he was. But sensed he might be a poet by the way he walked up the hallway. Poems prowl and wander – rather than say, narrate a line of thinking. And I could sense from the way he sauntered in – that he might not be particularly of the ilk linear.
(Its just a dialectic attempting to find a cut between loon and rune. Shadows of the same gaseous clay cross all ilks & pathways – )
He must have whispered something to me, about they’re not having started yet? In any case, it didnt take long for us to cop on to the fact that we both had copies of Arthur Rimbaud in our pockets. Which for poetic snakes, side winders language wise as a profusion, SUCH coincidences are a most beauteous SLAM.
Turns out Mr. Ashbery was writing a translation of Rimbaud’s Illuminations. I guffawed with delight. What a relief suddenly at his being there. An ally in the “register” of congruence over and above accordance –
And for my sweetie (in early drink), to meet his before any demons could eat his couplets for their startling meat on the skewer of life, or sink like hunger into the mud in his eye, and steal his musicality from out above his humanity – like Dante and a monster (to my ardent horror – giddy, sublime mystification) – was very sweet & nice. He asked who I was. I said “oh, stray cat.” This is before Cave of the Winds was kind to my goonies – where madness lurks after itself like a prized wild turkey there r no words but death.
Laure, 1903 – 1938
Stage left. There is a book of collected writings called Laure, written by Georges Bataille’s once girlfriend Colette Peignot. For a time they lived together. She had tuberculosis, died in his house at 35. And had by that time, it is said, destroyed much else of what she’d wrote, though some of it she’d published already under various pseudonyms.
Colette was abused as a kid – by a Priest and had suffered through death after death of close loved ones. That all!? made her fierce, a radical, by the din & skin of her aggressive sexuality. Her writing was (and still is) considered shocking and yet appears to be filled with strains of astonishing beauty & resilience. Kathy Acker it is said colluded with the history of Colette’s life in her book My Mother Demonology which many consider a master work. (Am saving to read that till after.)
After learning of Ashbery’s passing, found myself being visited by a bird with a blue head and a purple neck on my fireplace landing who paced, back and forth, several times – this I marked as coincident with his passing. Demons engage thoughtfully in such age-old conspiracies. And then a cloud darkened the room into shade –
It was right after having contrived suddenly as a reflection of love – for their existence – to try my hand at a translation of some chapters of Peignot’s work. (Laure has been translated once already in the late 70s – early 80s. The thinking being that like Rimbaud – the more the better – for her.)
Like beautiful John Ashbery took to translating the wildly implacable and transformative Arthur Rimbaud. Only to drink in replete sweet heat of his bold and thorny-crowned moil, impudent and (now) divine, indomitability profound & lavish betrayals – that poetry rides as hound after hell like a thief’s night rider in the sky –
Alas – red-eyed this dark and windy, mournful ejulation. ♠♥
Tinkle Review: Gaston Bachelard
BE FORWARNED: pursuing two voices here. And they dont quite match. One is a Book Reviewer who tho jokes is plainly on target. And the other is My Lovely Hysteric. Whose ostentation is loosely based on One of Poe’s. Though not as “together.” Doesnt quite “weed” well, but is I believe still interesting enuff to keep up “as is.”
Reading Gaston Bachelard‘s The Philosophy of No: A Philosophy of the New Scientific Mind – (1940). And the word NO is barely mentioned – at all. A book called the Philosophy of No, and 3/4 thru still the word – NO – has only been mentioned once! Blinky (the Partisan) is sensing a Flip, a beta flip? Flipping the bird, oncoming.
Beta Flip is 0/1. Symmetrical Flip allows for more, say -1, 0, +1. Science & Maths do this a lot. Spin is reckoned as states of Symmetry. Its one of the ways how science gets around No when they mean Not. It is but it isn’t – as one of two states of No, and of course that doesn’t mean it can’t rearrange to positive.
Bachelard ascribes 5 phases of rational thinking, can think of simply as:
- naive realism: Quantity
- positivist empiricism: Equations
- classic rational mechanics: Calculus
- 3D+, Relativity
- discursive rationalism: Probabilities, Vectors, Mobius Patchworks, etc.
And, adding in intuition and/or conjuration, he allots one more. Bachelard’s very own: The Surrational. Seemingly formed after word surreal (surreal shows up around 1930, shortened from Surrealism: Diaghilev, Cocteau, Breton, Apollinaire, etc. circa approx. 1913) but instead it’s sur + rational. Isn’t he lovely. (Sur means over and above.)
Adorno’s Negative Dialectics (1966) lines up dichotomies of reasoning as unending. Thought as language trying to establish its Negative, a possessive negative, the Not I (Beckett’s monologue), is unable to find with exactitude any end of being – as thought – and beginning of another that is opposite of it, without reverberation extension echo, its unachievable – all you can do is talk your way into a kind of gradient to wall – with death as the Wall (and most say even that fails – in Science and Religion).
Inspired use of Surrationals led to the discursive rational – engendering Symmetrical Flips, Image Jumps, Positive Negatives (something that isn’t but if it were to come about would have to be positive, because of its broader state. Meaning 0 is not just 0 any more, it can have preferences).
Blinky says if it helps Haute le Couer contend with madness burning through as beauty: What the hell?
What the Hell
Deepening presences essences prevalence of horror as hunger & beauty, where mortal shock over an Edgar-esque scavenger hunt for love & truth went spinning off into hell.
Call it a quasi-absurdist play on “devout” radical realism – that fell under to ominous spells of endless havoc over “killer” shadows of love. Like someone walking around beaming/screaming, with a knife in her eye, and hole in her bucket, drowning in a flood of adoration-bending “love-you-to-the-end” fish.
As annihilation as art as beauty lurches along, in sync with a treasury of death. (The Waste Land, Decline of the West – which didn’t lessen anything. Hegelian potentialism effectively “popping” to a new information age of living with media, beginning with Baudrillard’s Simulacra & Simulation.)
And none of it – in the least – negates or neutralizes feelings of being deeply haunted by affection & beauty. The heart (however wickedly stuck in a wild wallow of hell) never gave up on being kissed! What do you call that? when the heart is incapable of giving up on the importance of something, to the point of sheer even errant out-&-out obstinance –
Alas. Coinciding with endless language still about “crossing back” William Blake’s beautiful bridge-to-excess. Imprinted on my soul is this country fence that got “jumped” over with other artists (like Blake and Poe and Joyce and MacGowan and Burroughs) holding back the curtain. “Logic” as beauty caged like a beast that wants to break out, in language of poetry, emerges from the “discursive” like ghosts in the machine. Ghosts in a machine of sorrow horror tragedy, oh theatre – it having led to a miracle madness of ethics exceeding belief!
Meanwhile – adoration flowed around it as religiously unutterable enchanting defiant astonishing storming vivid disruptive, etc. As a dire uncanny presence in heart – of meaning & desire.
Miracles stem from an excess of hunger for beauty. Hunger for more. And something about it never lets go, however lowly descend into traumatic spirals of hate & hell – Suicide after all is martyrdom. Adoration (even for death) pops back up again and again in presence of its beauty and meaning – non obstante.
Double U Goodness
Bachelard’s Philosophy of No – is actually a double, is No overturned. Philosophy of No is effectively saying No to No! Scientists exclaiming about new maths – NO you can’t use that – that’s not real!
No to your Not! Brothers’ keeper. Scientists who could – used Leibniz’ “ghosts in the machine” – which is what he called the discursive rationals that were emerging in maths as capable of new measurement. And scientists explored using them until they could no longer be denied as, well – really useful, despite methods lacking any form of classical substance, despite its “exceeding” real.
How excess works with measurement – gives it its meaning. Bachelard was pushing back, up against a negative dialectic not giving up till it reaches a wall that can’t be reached –
Religiously head was in a noose – being brought up “to-ends-of-earth” for love, basically a militant monotheistic Medieval mentality!? Do or die romantics. Are lovely.
Caught in a rip, there imposed hope beyond hope: a seal of wretched beauty and dying undying dying undying faith as a sailing wailing baling mailing wretched treasure of innocence. Haute le Couer, means wretched in French: High on the Heart. She blasted the blessed pot (beyond all known reason) ha ha HA: why because it had a divine crack in it.
And they all (my sevendust – genesis dust-to-dust 2:7 – and the misery index – of theatricals, eccentrics, etc.) riotously slipped out (unmediated) in excess with a thirst for beauty and its rings, its Rings of Saturn, rings of fire & camp.
Bachelard’s making his way through Le Bouleversement – The Great Reversal, which is The Secret Sur-title for theme of my (work-in-progress) books.
Rationality as it succeeds through stages, over course of history, is delivering ever more refined depths to rational facilities without necessarily neutralizing out of existence anything what came before – that’s basically Bachelard’s broader outline.
Swell little book!
Haute bleeds out horror and beauty to no end. LuLu my Frenchy who adores French Philosophy, follows Negative Dialectics back to NO in Philosophy of Science and Maths, a la Bachelard – just to see what happens.
And as it turns out – no not just doubles back, but quantifies, turns spectral, symmetries of no, not, yesz – circumnavigates its way thru visions of “hell.”
Apologize. Confess. Sacre coeur! over relish here for peepee kaka humor-slash-signage, oo-la-la.
Penile humor helps me laugh at myself – over sublime “weight” of terror, “going live” here with working excerpts from my horror-does-not-forsake-beauty books.
Pee boy. P for precious plowing holy poly through sanctums crash cupid, wild and lonely for its depths –
Apologize, must apologize! language sticks at me, flutters & gutters through, in purlieus of fascination, that are fraught with religious embellishment.
Mythomatic violence – I fell under a casting of enchantments, sniffing after Burroughs and MacGowan rocked my world, took me over, monster & roperipe & spinning spinning – startling kerfuffles awakened from depths of lurking dormant architecture that would captivate & sabotage, astonish enrapture terrorize mortify mystify inveigle transfigure seduce.
Confess weakness for Irish voices, French poets & philosophers, Emily Dickinson’s endings – she slips off from poetic line on the image and eclipses it, sinking in after depths. Also Pound’s cracking liberty bell, Nietzsche’s discussion on religion – and its blowing up then: swamp insidious perverse/religious delicious in wild man philosopher Georges Bataille’s head.
Thank. Thank. MUST THANK (beyond measure) Shane MacGowan, Nick Cave (without whose foisted guidance probably would not have regained footing), and ghost of William Burroughs, sincerely apologize to all for having to put up with me during The Crazy Years. Monsters came home to roost, blasted by a fury of Fears.
Without their medicine, have to wonder whether ever would-a could-a wagered species everything to rover over the borderlines with Achilles Jar – cum bats, like a holy lovely feud with hair of angels, heap-a steep-a deep-a with Procrustes – in the rack?
Books on site are all works in progress. If you are interested in, for whatever reason (like publishing – ), see link on comments page for Book Interest.
Beauty, la belle, cracked up into a collapsing litany of fire and desire, Joyce speaking angry French somehow always in background like shoots and ladders going down down down to the beachhead for a wire – Trickster’s sooty pale eyes luminating the rent, wretched stupid cupids diz knees – digging out from “source” labors of hell.
Looty Poe lute-y is your beauty. Tak tak tak – many thanks.
John Ashbery – ♥ your postcard collages.
Still have tons of it – boxes of files & photos from Creem Magazine’s last gasp. The dream of doing a collected book, called The Creem Chronicles, died for me as victim of a roaring quavery sadness – sanctimonious and eruptive.
Crates of it still stuck in brothers basement settling for less – bit smelly – but basically in tact.
Would again and again push for a book – of uncompromising Piss Boy beauty – when wild gestures began to accumulate.
Suddenly I’d get lost, out at edges of righteousness and meaning, and would descend into petulance –
Quizzically, at depths of religious beauty – what purifies also terrorizes. P Boy Purity? Well that’s a Monster Cookie – clandestine monster in heavens larder who with angels screaming, would hit a breach!
Poetry had let loose a monster whose mystery was self devouring.
Had to teach myself how to find “lines” – which is what I do now – use drawing to help define edges with specific purpose, as a matter of surface and in a community where search-for-beauty is meaning.
Must apologize to: Dorothy Sherman, Louis Ginnelly, Jimmy of Jimmy’s Corner, Russell Galen, James Fitzgerald, Thomas J. McCormack, Hank Bordowitz, Marvin Jarret, Marsh, Christgau, Bangs, Altman, Arnold, and everybody else at Creem.
Who, What shd I do (w/ it) – ?
Tinkle Report though a spoof – is subderiv! (ahold with homage to – ) Patti Smith’s great gnash-ville hollar: PISS FACTORY.
Alackaday – what what what to do with 20+ crates of files from the original Creem?