Showing posts with label Gaddis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gaddis. Show all posts

2013/12/29

This Morning We Shall Spend a Few Minutes Upon the Study of Symbolism, Which Is Basic to the Nature of Money, or: Born Ninety-One Years Ago Today


Even though I should have known from The Recognitions that the world was not waiting breathlessly for my message, that it already knew, and was quite happy to live with all these false values, I’d always been intrigued by the charade of the so-called free market, so-called free enterprise system, the stock market conceived of as what was called a “people’s capitalism” where you “owned a part of the company” and so forth. All of which is true; you own shares in a company, so you literally do own part of the assets. But if you own a hundred shares out of six or sixty or six hundred million, you’re not going to influence things very much. Also, the fact that people buy securities—the very word in this context is comic—not because they are excited by the product—often you don’t know what the company makes—but simply for profit: The stock looks good and you buy it. The moment it looks bad you sell it. What had actually happened in the company is not your concern. In many ways I thought . . . the childishness of all this. Because JR himself, which is why he is eleven years old, is motivated only by good-natured greed. JR was, in other words, to be a commentary on this free enterprise system running out of control. Looking around us now with a two-trillion-dollar federal deficit and billions of private debt and the banks, the farms, basic industry all in serious trouble, it seems to have been rather prophetic.

 - William Gaddis in a 1986 interview.





  • RIP Walter McCabe. Rake, fraud, friend.
  • Today's Maqroll precept: Hawks screaming above the precipices and circling as they hunt their prey are the only image I can think of to evoke the men who judge, legislate, govern. Damn them.
  • Maggie's weekly links.
  • { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
  • Jon Swift Memorial Blog Round-Up. Jon Smith did me many Kinds. Many of my long-time regulars (thank you) found me via Jon Smith.
  • A reminder: if you are Kinding me but me not you, please let me know.
  • The least marketable skills in America.












MONEY
  
Howard Nemerov
  
This morning we shall spend a few minutes   
Upon the study of symbolism, which is basic   
To the nature of money. I show you this nickel.   
Icons and cryptograms are written all over
The nickel: one side shows a hunchbacked bison   
Bending his head and curling his tail to accommodate   
The circular nature of money. Over him arches
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, and, squinched in   
Between that and his rump, E PLURIBUS UNUM,
A Roman reminiscence that appears to mean   
An indeterminately large number of things   
All of which are the same. Under the bison
A straight line giving him a ground to stand on   
Reads FIVE CENTS. And on the other side of our nickel   
There is the profile of a man with long hair   
And a couple of feathers in the hair; we know   
Somehow that he is an American Indian, and   
He wears the number nineteen-thirty-six.
Right in front of his eyes the word LIBERTY, bent   
To conform with the curve of the rim, appears   
To be falling out of the sky Y first; the Indian   
Keeps his eyes downcast and does not notice this;   
To notice it, indeed, would be shortsighted of him.   
So much for the iconography of one of our nickels,   
Which is now becoming a rarity and something of   
A collectors’ item: for as a matter of fact
There is almost nothing you can buy with a nickel,   
The representative American Indian was destroyed   
A hundred years or so ago, and his descendants’   
Relations with liberty are maintained with reservations,   
Or primitive concentration camps; while the bison,   
Except for a few examples kept in cages,
Is now extinct. Something like that, I think,
Is what Keats must have meant in his celebrated   
Ode on a Grecian Urn.
                               Notice, in conclusion,
A number of circumstances sometimes overlooked   
Even by experts: (a) Indian and bison,
Confined to obverse and reverse of the coin,   
Can never see each other; (b) they are looking   
In opposite directions, the bison past
The Indian’s feathers, the Indian past
The bison’s tail; (c) they are upside down
To one another; (d) the bison has a human face   
Somewhat resembling that of Jupiter Ammon.
I hope that our studies today will have shown you   
Something of the import of symbolism
With respect to the understanding of what is symbolized.



2013/02/20

Where Dogs Purr of Elastic




Leos Janacek was not born 110 ten years ago today like one of the birthday lists I use suggested, but seeing his name prompted this post's gag which was then written before I remembered to double-check the birthday list's accuracy, so here we are. A friend is reading Murakami's 1Q84, he knows why I typed this sentence. I read 1Q84 roughly a year ago, I still think about it daily when my eyes have drifted over a page and a half of Proust or Knausgaard or Melville or Pynchon or Gaddis or McElroy or Elkin as I futilely try to engage a novel, one I've never read, one I've read before and loved. The short story experiment I mentioned a couple of weeks ago was a failure. I did devour again Ishiguro's Remains of the Day a few months back, consider pushing ahead of schedule rereadings of When We Were Orphans and Never Let Me Go, I'm sure they would work, but I say no, strangely fearful they would work. It's odd, this disparagement of my rules in service of enforcement of my broken and disparaged rules.





Billy Zoom born 65 years ago today. Let me repeat that. Billy Zoom, born 65 years ago today. When I walk into the living room and Earthgirl is watching MSNBC I grab whatever novel I'm about to fail and keep my mouth shut as I head to another room. It's an outrage. What the one-percent heard. Royal bodies and the firestorm. 1988. Rather an attack on one's convictions. Scenes of life at the capital. Rally in Missouri! Struggling to survive: Puerto Rico once, twice. The Purple Line will never be built. Damascus! Towne Crest! My favorite dealer lived in Towne Crest! Boatloads of Blanchot, for those of you who do. Debord, for those of you who do. After abundance. Head in the clouds. Too brilliant to bathe. Lispector short story. New McElroy this summer. James McNew on Yo La Tengo as house band of The American Conservative. Prunella's latest playlist includes Fugazi (YAY!) and Jawbox (YAY!) and Soundgarden (GAAAAAH!). Quick! Poison Ivy was born 65 years ago today.
             



 
As for the bleggalgazing that must be farted before I can do anything else, if only build up new bleggalgas for another bleggalfart: no, no announcement of radical format change or impending hiatus: I like what I do (though I might do more of some stuff, less of other stuff depending on the weather), I don't know that I'm an irredeemable attention slut because I've never tried to not be an attention slut, but I need to write about stuff I can't-won't-don't write about here which I can't do in fair measure if I'm collating and aggregating here, so I might less here, at least for a bit. It doesn't mean I don't love you. Or most of you. If I'm collating and aggregating here I cannot fail more and more often at reading novels, I feel a need to either break through or fail utterly, fail successfully all the way to peace. It doesn't mean I don't love you. Or most of you. Joel Hodgson, one of only a few people younger than me whose birthdays I note, is 53 today.




  
SEASONS OF QUITE

Roddy Lumsden

With refreshments and some modesty and home-drawn maps,
the ladies of the parish are marshaling the plans in hand,
devising the occasions, in softest pencil: the Day of Hearsay,
Leeway Week, the Maybe Pageant, a hustings on the word   
nearby. Half-promised rain roosts in some clouds a mile out,
gradual weather making gradual notes on the green, the well,
the monument, the mayor's yard where dogs purr on elastic.

Everything taken by the smooth handle then, or about to be,
hiatus sharp in humble fashion. A small boy spins one wheel
of an upturned bike, the pond rises, full of skimmed stones
on somehow days, not Spring, not Summer yet. Engagements
are announced in the Chronicle, a nine-yard putt falls short.
Dark cattle amble on the angles of Flat Field. The ladies close
their plotting books and fill pink teacups, there or thereabouts.


2013/02/05

Difficult to Recall an Emotion That Is Dead, Particularly So Among These Unbelieved Fanfares and Admonitions from a Camouflaged Sky



             
Irene played that yesterday. Show includes a new Richard Thompson song. Skeet-shooting, let's argue about skeet-shooting and authenticity. Definitions and distinctions. Among believers. Triangulating utopia (h/t) The Rawlsian Veil of Ignorance. The American veil of omnipotence. The next Left? Wars that aren't meant to be won. Bring on the drones. Why the elite want you to fear robots. World War I. Violins on television. Gnossciene. Phantom time. Bleggalgazing Blogroll Amnesty Day (and bmpthnx). >>DB<< More proof MLS is minor league - gangsters don't think MLS worth bribing. Silliman's always generous litlinks. An anti-review of an anti-novel. Gaddis. Ashbery interview. Grateful Dead Kennedys. I am hearing ELO everywhere, gas stations, WFMU, everywhere. >>dBs<< And it's always been perturbing that the creator of ELO is named after my marriage. Baudrillard and The Minutemen (or members of). Gubaidulina, holyfuck, she is as devout towards Christ as I am profane, I'm cascading my ears, holyfuck the music, my pens are mute. The Ballads of John and Yoko. Obscure Sounds' Best of January (w/sound). Launderette. Two new Lips songs. New Nick Cave video below the poem.  I'm sorry, but I'm not sorry I like Beach House.





THE PATIENT IS RALLYING

Weldon Kees

Difficult to recall an emotion that is dead,
Particularly so among these unbelieved fanfares
And admontions from a camouflaged sky.

I should have remained burdened with destinations
Perhaps, or stayed quite drunk, or obeyed
The undertaker, who was fairly charming, after all.

Or was there a room like that one, worn
With our whispers, and a great tree blossoming
Outside blue windows, warm rain blowing in the night?

There seems to be some doubt. No doubt, however,
Of the chilled and empty tissues of the mind
- Cold, cold, a great gray winter entering -
Like spines of air, frozen in an ice cube.


2012/12/29

F Coughs




Know what? Barring a KABOOM! I can't ignore in the world I call Motherfucking this bleg is an aargh-free zone until the New Year. I doubt I can make it, feel compelled to try. This is for me, though you may as well benefit too. Songs, poems, lit-links, non-aarghful links, friend's playlists (gimme), birthdays, yes, aargh-free monologues, yes and/or no, arbiter of aargh me. Promised myself a Birchville Cat Motel cascade, today's the day. Hey, William Gaddis was born eighty-five years ago today. This is from The Recognitions:

And then... is it possible? can a man be jealous of himself? Damn it, listen Esther, did you see what she tried to do? she almost kissed me goodbye? Why, she's insane. But she goes out on the street and nobody's surprised to see her, she talks and nobody's surprised to hear her. It's suffocating. Right this minute, she's talking. They're down there right this minute and that woman with the granulated eyelids is talking. You look up and there she is, people... the instant you look at them they begin to talk, automatically, they take it for granted that you understand them, that you recognize them, that they have something to say to you, and you have to wait, you have to pretend to listen, pretend you don't know what's coming next while they go right on talking with no idea what they're talking about, they don't even know but they go right on, trying to explain who they are because they take it for granted you want to know, not that they have the damnedest idea as far as that goes, they just want to know what kind of receptacle you'll be for their confidences. How do they know I'm the same person that... Who are they to presume such intimacy, to... go right on talking. And they really believe they're talking to me!

Of course there will be bleggalgazing. There's nothing but bleggalgazing.




  
Then there's twitter, which I use to bookshelf links I want to give you, many of the most aarghful links I see first there. Retweeting aargh is no different, in a major sense, than linking out to the site originally seen via tweeting: either way I'm a Relayer. Yes, an old gag, it still makes me smile. So, um, I going to try the 2013 Proustathon. Like a dope, I just dropped $50 on the editions they're gonna use. In my effort to remain hip and current, I've committed 2013 to reading Proust and rereading Olson. Leaving Proust. Three book reviews and a bleggalgaze. Deleuze, for those of you who do. Ruefle reads Ashbery. Unlikely materials. Carnation Instant Non-Fat Karma. Silence as resistance. The three-legged dog at the heart of our home. Free associations. Inherent Vice: The Movie? The Librarian. Sojourns in the parallel world. Drumming. I confess I like the block and alternating link colors now to the bulletpoints, I'll no doubt flip back to bulletpoints soon, but. darkblack's Sunday Overnight. Metal from Randal. Mining the digital motherlode. Sharon Van Etten, who's opening for Nick Cave in March at Strathmore, covers Big Star. News from a friend.




A PRIMER OF THE DAILY ROUND

Howard Nemerov

A peels and apple, while B kneels to God,
C telephones to D, who has a hand
On E's knee, F coughs, G turns up the sod
For H's grave, I do not understand
But J is bringing one clay pigeon down
While K brings down a nightstick on L's head,
And M takes mustard, N drives to town,
O goes to bed with P, and Q drops dead,
R lies to S, but happens to be heard
By T, who tells U not to fire V
For have to give W the word
That X is now deceiving Y with Z,
     Who happens, just now to remember A
     Peeling an apple somewhere far away