Showing posts with label My Complicity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Complicity. Show all posts
2024/04/08
2024/04/02
2024/03/22
2024/03/19
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2024/03/18
2024/03/15
2024 March Front & Back of My Next Album Cover
I discovered mixing acrylic ink directly into clear elmer's glue, mixing thoroughly then applying by squirt bottle, and discovered the water-repellent properties of industrial strength crayon. New toys, I'm happy, stupidbursting, just typefucked it up
2024/03/13
2024 March Return of Clear Elmer’s Glue; Too, Introducing Crayon
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2024/02/292024/02/242024/02/062024/02/052014/07/24How We Picnicked in Pine Forests, in Coves with the Water Always Seeping Up, and Left Our Trash, Sperm, and Excrement Everywhere, Smeared on the Landscape, to Make of Us What We Could
STREET MUSICIANS John Ashbery One died, and the soul was wrenched out Of the other in life, who, walking the streets Wrapped in an identity like a coat, sees on and on The same corners, volumetrics, shadows Under trees. Farther than anyone was ever Called, through increasingly suburban airs And ways, with autumn falling over everything: The plush leaves the chattels in barrels Of an obscure family being evicted Into the way it was, and is. The other beached Glimpses of what the other was up to: Revelations at last. So they grew to hate and forget each other. So I cradle this average violin that knows Only forgotten showtunes, but argues The possibility of free declamation anchored To a dull refrain, the year turning over on itself In November, with the spaces among the days More literal, the meat more visible on the bone. Our question of a place of origin hangs Like smoke: how we picnicked in pine forests, In coves with the water always seeping up, and left Our trash, sperm and excrement everywhere, smeared On the landscape, to make of us what we could.
2014/07/22surpassing things we've known before passing on its effectThere had been other troubles, with a chief called Big Head wounded while on a friendly visit to Fort Kearny. The Cheyenne felt especial put upon, for by their lights they had always been amiable to white men. Even after all these bad things, they sent a delegation to see the Government Indian agent and apologized. They also returned a woman they had captured. but you see the complication was this: Indians wasn't ever organized. Them that come in to apologize wasn't the same as what killed the whites. And them that the soldiers usually punished was never the ones who had committed the outrages. The white people on who the Indians took revenge had no connection with the soldiers. Thomas Berger, Little Big Man  Yesterday two blogfriends discussed Berger on Twooter, I didn't stop to think why, adding to the conversation that when I read Little Big Man when I was nineteen it was KABOOM! Today I discovered why he might have been being discussed: he died this past July 13th. It has been years since I read Berger. I liked the Reinhart Tetrology, especially when read against Updike's Rabbit Tetrology for comparison and contrast in style, tone, themes, I liked his second historical novel, Arthur Rex, I liked some of his genre-examining novels like Who Is Teddy Villanova and Nowhere, but all failed when measured against Little Big Man. I didn't know it when I read it, but it engaged many of the concerns I encountered in Theory in grad school, especially but not limited to its examination of passing: see the excerpt above. I am about to find out if it's KABOOM! still.
[constant change figures] Lyn Hejinian constant change figures the time we sense passing on its effect surpassing things we've known before since memory of many things is called experience but what of what we call nature's picture surpassing things we call since memory we call nature's picture surpassing things we've known before constant change figures experience passing on its effect but what of what constant change figures since memory of many things is called the time we sense called nature's picture but what of what in the time we sense surpassing things we've known before passing on its effect is experience
2014/07/21and every finger is a toe That's my left big toe - it looks worse than it feels unless I kick a wall with it. Was crossing a creek on Saturday's hike, slipped on a wet rock, jammed the toe against a second. I'd rather take off my shoe and kick a wall with that toe than clusterfuck today. Friday my swag package for donating to WFMU last Winter arrived, I asked for nothing but music, thirteen discs in all. Each is prepared by one of the DJs just to be Marathon swag (and many DJ discs - from both current and former DJs - are still available, it's fun to pick). I'll post a song from each, most below the fold, and in no particular order other than how they were shuffled when I took them out of the mailing package. This is from Jeffrey Davidson's CD, Small Wonder:
[as freedom is a breakfastfood] E.E. Cummings as freedom is a breakfastfood or truth can live with right and wrong or molehills are from mountains made —long enough and just so long will being pay the rent of seem and genius please the talentgang and water most encourage flame as hatracks into peachtrees grow or hopes dance best on bald men’s hair and every finger is a toe and any courage is a fear —long enough and just so long will the impure think all things pure and hornets wail by children stung or as the seeing are the blind and robins never welcome spring nor flatfolk prove their world is round nor dingsters die at break of dong and common’s rare and millstones float —long enough and just so long tomorrow will not be too late worms are the words but joy’s the voice down shall go which and up come who breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs deeds cannot dream what dreams can do —time is a tree(this life one leaf) but love is the sky and i am for you just so long and long enough
2014/07/20Ink-Black, but Moving Independently Across the Black and White Parquet of Print, the Ant Cancels the Author Out High Holy Day in Egoslavia. Diana Rigg, first, still best crush ever, is 76 today. The Avengers, the Honor Blackman/Katherine Gale years in b/w, the Diana Rigg/Emma Peel years, but especially the first Emma year, in b/w, first, best crush ever. Two years ago I was able to post some episodes, last year some motherfuckers claimed rights and blocked them. Last year I was able to post the black & white opening theme song, this year some motherfuckers claimed rights and blocked that, here, have the vastly inferior color opening to the second Emma Peel season (which, fine metaphors abounding, was vastly inferior - though still better than almost everything else then, since, forever - to the first season in black and white): That doesn't give me the toe-curling waves of nostalgic pleasure like the black & white opening still does. I haven't mentioned this here in a while: I remember seeing the Flintstones in color, the first time I'd see a color TV, I was five? six? I don't remember whose house, a relative's presumably, I know it was in western Pennsylvania, but I am convinced that seminal event, followed by a decade of TV repeats after school, home when sick or faking sick, color then B/W then B/W then color then less and less B/W as the old shows fell out of syndication, and especially the shows in syndication like Avengers and Get Smart and Bewitched whose first years were in B/W then toggled to color, influence, for good and bad, how I apprehend and interpret the world still. Yes, I post a version of that paragraph every year on July 20. Here's the only black & white scene I can find: Hey, then there's this email: Hello, I'll believe it if this shitty blog is still here the morning of the 26th.
FABLE OF THE ANT AND THE WORD Mary Barnard Ink-black, but moving independently across the black and white parquet of print, the ant cancels the author out. The page, translated to itself, bears hair-like legs disturbing the fine hairs of its fiber. These are the feet of summer, pillaging meaning, destroying Alexandria. Sunlight is silence laying waste all languages, until, thinly, the fictional dialogue begins again: the page goes on telling another story.
2014/07/19Which Only Quiet Walking Ever InstructsSix-miler around Catoctin yesterday with Earthgirl. From Chimney Rocks, the rock outcrop and view about two-thirds through, you can see Sugarloaf twenty-five miles to the southeast. Today is Corbin Cabin in Shenandoah with Planet and Air too. Also, Happy Birthday to my father (who reads this blog daily to monitor news of his grand-daughter and daughter-in-law) who got us the hell out of Ghost Town, Pennsylvania in 1964 for which I don't thank him enough. He's BBQing salmon tonight for us. Saturday intermittent tradition is to post songs heard on Bryce's Friday show. Bryce was off today, fill-in host was Ira the K. Below the poem is Ira the K's band's latest single, first, the Morton Feldman piece Ira the K played yesterday: RIVERS AND MOUNTAINS John Ashbery On the secret map the assassins Cloistered, the Moon River was marked Near the eighteen peaks and the city Of humiliation and defeat—wan ending Of the trail among dry, papery leaves Gray-brown quills like thoughts In the melodious but vast mass of today’s Writing through fields and swamps Marked, on the map, with little bunches of weeds. Certainly squirrels lived in the woods But devastation and dull sleep still Hung over the land, quelled The rioters turned out of sleep in the peace of prisons Singing on marble factory walls Deaf consolation of minor tunes that pack The air with heavy invisible rods Pent in some sand valley from Which only quiet walking ever instructs. The bird flew over and Sat—there was nothing else to do. Do not mistake its silence for pride or strength Or the waterfall for a harbor Full of light boats that is there Performing for thousands of people In clothes some with places to go Or games. Sometimes over the pillar Of square stones its impact Makes a light print. So going around cities To get to other places you found It all on paper but the land Was made of paper processed To look like ferns, mud or other Whose sea unrolled its magic Distances and then rolled them up Its secret was only a pocket After all but some corners are darker Than these moonless nights spent as on a raft In the seclusion of a melody heard As though through trees And you can never ignite their touch Long but there were homes Flung far out near the asperities Of a sharp, rocky pinnacle And other collective places Shadows of vineyards whose wine Tasted of the forest floor Fisheries and oyster beds Tides under the pole Seminaries of instruction, public Places for electric light And the major tax assessment area Wrinkled on the plan Of election to public office Sixty-two years old bath and breakfast The formal traffic, shadows To make it not worth joining After the ox had pulled away the cart. Your plan was to separate the enemy into two groups With the razor-edged mountains between. It worked well on paper But their camp had grown To be the mountains and the map Carefully peeled away and not torn Was the light, a tender but tough bark On everything. Fortunately the war was solved In another way by isolating the two sections Of the enemy’s navy so that the mainland Warded away the big floating ships. Light bounced off the ends Of the small gray waves to tell Them in the observatory About the great drama that was being won To turn off the machinery And quietly move among the rustic landscape Scooping snow off the mountains rinsing The coarser ones that love had Slowly risen in the night to overflow Wetting pillow and petal Determined to place the letter On the unassassinated president’s desk So that a stamp could reproduce all this In detail, down to the last autumn leaf And the affliction of June ride Slowly out into the sun-blackened landscape.
2014/07/18the flower-visiting speciesWe are going to the woods today, we are going to the woods tomorrow (w/Planet and Air!), we are going to the woods on Sunday. Something will be here or nothing will be here Saturday morning, Sunday is a High Egoslavian Holy Day so that ritual will be observed. Quick:
remembering; and with the aid of; ventilation; and production; the poemChristian Hawkeymust balance; this risk; a tablet; peak plasma; the first alphabet; with the clinical need; finger-sized; it makes sense; the fingers; were the first; to make sense; this risk; 31 letters; the flower-visiting species; as opposed to; dung-feeding; the terminal phase; and the; distribution phase; never; in my life; the relationship; logarithmic; propriate or; propion; to make sense; this risk; and the; as opposed to; had i imagined; that’s business; he was as soft as; bill nodded; his neck trembling; a tablet; peak plasma; 31 letters; throwing my body; the flower-visiting species; with the clinical need; in front of; and with the aid of; that’s business; the distribution phase; and the; on-coming; volunteers; reflected; in the moment of; the fingers the first alphabet; peak plasma; bill nodded; pooled analyses; in my life; this risk; the fingers; reappropriated; his neck trembling; numb
2014/07/17It Was a World. What a World! What a World? What a Big World but a World to Be Drowned In. It's Just a Joke Man.  True, but not the world. New album out this September, old song here right now.
Here Is the Man Night-Walking Who Derives Tomorrow's Manifestos from This Midnight MeetingSo today's the day this blog's domain name is supposed to automatically renew. Blooger has been sending me email every week for the past month warning me to renew or else and sending me email every week for the past month telling me all is fine, my automatic renewal is good as long as billing information is up to date. We're talking ten dollars after all for the exclusive domain name ownership of this shitty blog on a free blogging platform, ten dollars on vanity. My billing information DID change since last year's debacle and rescue: Earthgirl lost the credit card, we put a block on it immediately, were issued new cards. I logged into Blooger's weirdass and creepy Blogger admin site and made the change a month ago. I'm told I'm good by one email. Another email tells me I'm not. Maybe I'll get a confirm later today. Maybe this blog will disappear in a week. It's a win-win.
METAPHOR TO ACTION Muriel Rukeyser Whether it is a speaker, taut on a platform, who battles a crowd with the hammers of his words, whether it is the crash of lips on lips after absence and wanting : we must close the circuits of ideas, now generate, that leap in the body's action or the mind's repose. Over us is a striking on the walls of the sky, here are the dynamos, steel-black, harboring flame, here is the man night-walking who derives tomorrow's manifestos from this midnight's meeting ; here we require the proof in solidarity, iron on iron, body on body, and the large single beating. And behind us in time are the men who second us as we continue. And near us is our love : no forced contempt, no refusal in dogma, the close of the circuit in a fierce dazzle of purity. And over us is night a field of pansies unfolding, charging with heat its softness in a symbol to weld and prepare for action our minds' intensity.
2014/07/16Here Come the Bald Arbiters with Their Eyes on Chains At three friends' encouragement I have been watching Star Trek: Deep Space Nine from beginning to end. I know the original series by heart; when I was managing Crown Books 826 and hired Hamster for a second key, we'd look through a TV Guide and compete to guess the episode by the episode's title (we also had a John McLaughlin head taped to a black file cabinet by the swinging door into the cash register and manager's office area, but that's another story). I know Star Trek: The Next Generation by heart from Season Three to finale: Seasons One and Two SUCK! SUCK! SUCK! and Maria Muldour as Doctor Polanski can send her camel to bed, so much do the first two seasons suck. I remember watching Star Trek: Voyager but nothing much about it other than Seven, second-in-command Chipotle, and Captain Janeway, now a Russian prisoner in some show, Chartreuse Is the New Vermillion, that Earthgirl and Planet watch. Star Trek: Deep Space Nine - I never got. I never stopped to think why beyond what episodes I saw didn't make me want to care. My friends insist DS9 is vastly superior to Voyager (I have friends with whom I've discussed this who insist those who think DS9 vastly superior to Voyager are fucking nuts). The friends' book and music recommendations to me have been uniformly solid (even if a particular book or musician don't sing to me - I was the poorer receptacle, I can read or hear the merits even if I don't receive right), so I downloaded Netflix and started the series. I'm in Season Five now: I don't dislike the series, I don't like the series. It does some story lines well, it develops some characters better than others. I really like Rom. I really dislike Deep Space Nine's homages to Star Trek legacies, its stroking of uberfans, which peaked last night when Sisko and Dax and O'Brien and Bashir and Odo beam over to Kirk's enterprise to stop a Klingon spy from stealing a Bejoran magic orb and going back in time to blow up Kirk with a Tribble. That's not the stupid part. (Here's a stupid part: O'Brien sees The Original Series Klingons who don't have face plates, looks at Worf, Worf says, We don't talk about it with outsiders.) Throughout the episode DS9 producers interwove scenes from The Original Series' Tribbles episode into the DS9 episode, superimposing DS9 actors into the scenes. That's fine, that's schtick I can handle. At the very end, though, Sisko, after an episode of We must not take chances to alter the timeline bullshit, alters the timeline to meet and shake hands with Kirk (to no timeline-changing harm, of course). That's not the really stupid part. No, for this scene producers didn't use The Original Series' Tribble episode for Kirk, they used the end of Mirror Mirror when Kirk recognized, on his Enterprise, the body double of the Captain's Woman he'd been banging in the alternative universe, Sisko interposed as the Captain's Woman, I.... I..... but.... fine metap..... am going to play two more Kate Bush songs and post another John Ashbery poem in anticipation of their upcoming High Holy Days.... INSTEAD OF LOSING John Ashbery Anyone, growing up in a space you hadn't used yet would've done the same: bother the family's bickering to head straight into the channel. My, those times crackled near about us, from sickly melodrama instead of losing, and the odd confusion... confusion. I thought if it then, and in the mountains. During the day we perforated the eponymous city limits and then some. No one knew all about us but some knew plenty. It was time to leave that town for an empty drawer into which they sailed. Some of the eleven thousand virgins were getting queasy. I say, stop the ship! No can do. Here come the bald arbiters with their eyes on chains, just so, like glasses. Heck, it's only a muskrat that's seen better years, when things were medieval and gold.... So you people in the front, leave. You see them. And you understand it all. It doesn't end, night's sorcery notwithstanding. Would you have preferred to be a grownup in earlier times than the child can contain or imagine? Or is right now the answer - you know, the radio we heard news on late at night, out checkered fortunes so pretty. Here's your ton of plumes, and your Red Seal Recors. The whole embrace.
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