Thursday, August 4, 2011

In This Miserly Country Where We'll Never Be Anything but Orphans Engaged to Each Other

How's blogging, K asked, after everyone's weary obamapostasies and cracker-damning, Thursday Night Pints held last night at L's request. I've been posting Ashbery's new translations of Rimbaud's poems and snippets of Gaddis out of The Recognitions, so I'm happy, but the big news in Blegsylania is the best barker in our Stringtown suddenly returned from self-exile: he quit, he didn't announce a hiatus - and Stringtown's like, Holyfuck! Resurrection!

He's far better than the rest of us at the necessary daily doh day after every fucking day. I'm glad he's blogging again. He's been a good guy with me, he's smart and funny, but also, it's fascinating watching the renewed pissing contests in comments to be the second smartest guy at that blog, it reminds me we may not need a king but we sure as fuck want one if we can't be one, whatever ratio of nature v nurture. (I used a Star Trek allusion in comments to a Star Trek allusion in the post which alluded to a commenter to that post! That's better than citing Michel Foucault, yes?)

Gaddis? L said, that tedious bastard? Why'd you bring up Gaddis, said D. I didn't know, I said. Buy me a pint, nodding at L, I won't tell you why I love Gaddis, buy me a pint, nodding at D, I won't tell you how much I hate The Fucking Doors,* Hello I Love You on the bar's muzak, D twitching, on purpose, in rhythm. Win.

Lose. No Daily Gaddis today as I never got the chance to read yesterday. Esme's still just shot up and is handwriting out Duino Elegies from memory.


Arthur Rimbaud

Translated by John Ashbery

O that February morning. The untimely South came to enliven our ridiculous pauper's memories, our your poverty.
     Henrika had on a brown and white checked cotton skirt, which must have been worn during the last century, a bonnet with ribbons, and a silk scarf. It was much sadder than mourning. We went for a walk in the suburbs. The sky was overcast, and that South wind stirred up all the vile odors of ruined gardens and parched meadows.
     This didn't seem to tire my woman as much as it did me. In the puddle left in a rather steep path by last month's flood she showed me some tiny fish.
     The city, with its smoke and sounds of looms, followed us very far along the roads. O the other world, dwelling blessed by sky and shade! The south reminded me of the miserable events of my childhood, my despair in summer, the horrible amount of strength and knowledge that destiny always kept far from me. No! we will not spend the summer in this miserly country where we'll never be anything but orphans engaged to each other. I don't want this rugged arm to keep dragging a beloved image behind us.


  1. Yes, good morning. Only 18 hours of clarity so far, but I see now that I will pry pomo masturbation from your cold rigid fingers, and there's nothing I should think about that. I'll try to remember this vision; I owe no less.

    Beloved, see you at the Rust Bowl soonish.

  2. You forgot to vouch on The Fucking Doors.

    Yes, the need for a primal scream at a beautiful goal is great.

  3. Crooks? They're not crazy enough, i.e. entertaining.

    When I return to the Batcave, I'm going to listen to some The Fucking Doors - after I send a sternly-worded email to my library betters as to why all the public branches have copies ready or in process of the Ashbery translation & we don't.

  4. ...who, exactly, are we calling "pomo masturbation"? Not Gaddis, I hope, since he couldn't be further from it. Ditto Gass. (Foucault, on the other hand, is touch and go.)

    also, hot damn I hate the fucking Doors.

  5. Senator Macaca is turning teabag?

    You could knock me over with a feather!

  6. I was so wrapped up in my own brand of masturbation that I totally forgot to vouch on Doors, and that is indisputably my bad.

    Yes. He hates the Doors. Always has. His cred here is beyond reproach.

    Richard: I wouldn't know Gaddis (or Gass) from Beavis and Butthead. And while I don't find the pendulum particularly pomo, I'm not going to pretend to expertise, either. I'm a philistine. Embrace it.