the TINKLE REPORT
Really getting sick of the face on this version Tinkle. Finish Sunils rewrite. Basic design structure done. I was supposed to work on over the weekend. But then got caught up with Colette.
Colette!! Fab a lot fabulous. Falling into somebody elses beautiful muses that are tragic destructive mournful, loving & gifted, supporter of radicals, privileged, sexually embarked upon, captivated by images, starts right off – coming through The Religion.
Death, havent got to the sex part yet & Privilege. Poor little rich girl. But thats Bataille’s fng title. And others. First para, straight thru religious garb. Dressed up and praying in darkness of inkling light. For all of two lines.
Original Sweeney Astray is fronted by prayer of Priest, La Mancha priests are at the end, the back end. As madness dissolves into death. Spin span lunge after the fall in well of time and calculate The Sublime.
Thinking pressed up against edges of meaning gathering a pound of cobs and rattling webs. I call it the Vincent Dream. Its from a fab fake history of Van Gough by a guy named Irving Stone, read it as a late teen. That he was always dreaming of an Art Colony on the South of France.
Red Rover Red Rover – I am thinking of writing an introduction letter between my two favorite writers right now. Who does that? Its a dream. To each other. Through their publishers. Faulkner points at the Southern Star: Device and logic. Bees at window. Still with the bees. Translation Colette.
Frankenstein with hands out mumbling Mantra. Bat + Aille, which is french for Go.
The subjunctive is a mood: a grammatical term which describes the subject’s attitude.
The subjunctive is a mood which expressing wish, hope, fear, uncertainty, and other attitudes or feelings toward a fact or an idea.
Frankenstein is a familiar. Let you be who you are and allow existence with stubborn ruthless Parker, down the street, a drunk but you know.
NYU. American bleak. Washington Square. I am always there. Cawnt drink in the library. Oh but California. Going after Colette. Hand to Heaven. Translate translate. Rummies with beauty. Feels – right thing to do, correct.
Started translating Laure by Colette Peignot.
Cervantes is a new piece, still in excavation mode, its about his trunk, in the play The Man of la Mancha, his theatrical trunk, being 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?)
Am reading In Defense of Lost Causes, Frankenstein Section. The monster is heartbroken over so many lost causes that its like a shrine (of mine). She who lives in defense of hearts lost in a possession of sorrow, madness ugliness rent stupidity ferocity imbecility heartache, and yet remains fascinated by its processes as a journey through the eye of the beast. Which goes straight back to Bataille.
School – fourth week.
SCHOOL heading into fourth week, finish up tank tech pack, complete tshirt drawing front & back, add tank to linelist, learn pen & more.
Translating from the French:
Eyes of a girl piercing the night.
Somnambular, in long white chemise, alight in shadows of a corner where she kneels mumbling drowsily, before crucifix and Virgin mostly asleep. Pious images cover the walls, the kneeling sleeper readily slips between drapes. Livery & fur of phantoms also have full rights on me, my bedroom resuming its immobility heavy with aborted nightmares.
The terror that lifts itself between four walls like wind on the sea. A very old woman broken in two threatens me with her stick, a man rendered invisible by ring of fame watches at any instant, God “who sees all and knows all thoughts” regards with severity. A white curtain is detached from the window, it planes in the darkness, approaches, carries me away, I pass sweetly through the window, mount the sky –
Thousands of spots of light appear out of the darkness, escape from the night light, to dance in the round, have a go at me. A fine dust of rainbow poses itself into objects, drops of color slip from one to the others. Cones, circles, rectangles, pyramids of luminous liquid, an alphabet primer of forms and colors, a solitary prism, sky of my eyes in tears, the illuminated dance around – the bed pitches under a swell of dreams.
Days of nights, a childhood sordid and timid, haunted by Good Friday and Ash Wednesday the sin of being mortal. A childhood crushed under heavy sails of mourning, a swindled childhood.
No, that’s not all. Hands criminal have grabbed the wheel of destiny: all treads there, newborns entangled to be strangled by cords umbilical, nevertheless – their only demand “is to live.”
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. ♠♥
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 symmetrizes – its way around “hell.”
Steal! The ghosts in the machine exclaim! Steal from its beauty, steal the pastiche, steal the discursive! Steal from y’all lucidity – lucidity for Blinky (the Partisan)! Couldn’t it be just real. What the 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?
See SCHOOL page for Class Description – Digital Flats & Specs 1. Also includes a few Adobe Illustrator Tutorials: Simple Ruffle (Circle) Skirt, Chain (Pattern) Brush – These I hope to be adding to over the course of this next semester. Will also be adding a Sign Up for those who would like to keep up to date on available Tutorials sometime soon. Hoping to expand the list greatly over time and include some iphone Video. Turns out transforming class materials into Posts is pretty darn time consuming.
Art for arts sake. This past summer’s Montage of Heck. Mostly Nudes. Got out the watercolors and painted limbs. Started with fast sketch of a girl – pencil & watercolor with a little ink.
Then moved on to boys. Love drawing boys. First – a fast wild sketch.
Then a simpler sketch, “squaring up” started kicking in.
Then did another girl, not bad – made a copy on bigger paper, where had room to finish off knee, wondering about ways might color up. Hmm –
Then did some tonals.
Then a body with color – very sketchy! Want to start experimenting more with color for bodies. Though this one feels pretty fleshy. Rounding ground body laying on ever so slightly. Funny how that makes a difference.
Been trying to get myself to start playing around more with gouache on Kraft like Mr. Edgar. I bought a midrange set of gouache with 24 colors that I haven’t even dove into once yet. My rule of thumb with art materials: if you’ve bought for some day some way – be sure to use them!