Wednesday, January 23, 2019

These Days I Don't Taste Good

  • Can a translation be a masterpiece?
  • Can I ever stop knotting viz reading Proust in translation, no
  • I felt zero impulse to buy anything at Politics & Prose Monday past, poetry or fiction
  • I never read (past tense) to escape but reading now like fleeing so my reading sucks
  • Tipping point tipped re: Earth
  • but Proust in translation
  • I was right about the martyrdom of the Catholic school shits, wrong this story would be done by today.




  • Above by davidly!
  • The same subjects appear.
  • I know by my eyelids when lung bug imminent
  • Earthgirl got it first, I knew not if but when until last night: my eyelids told me
  • The Catholic school shits parents will never spend a dime on their shit sons' college, the shit son's will have jobs waiting when they finish college, the smirking fuck starts his gig on CNN this Saturday and his regular Sunday NYT opinion column the Sunday after that
  • Earthgirl says whoever gets lung bug first gets lung bug worse, I hope she's right
  • Progress and the demented search for historical purity
  • Listening to DC's news-radio on work-drive ads for Jiffy Lube, a hot read, Mr Jiffy Lube
  • hi honey (jinxed me, light lung bug eyelids)
  • yes I got the oil changed, some squeaky fuck who owns a roofing company, the guy
  • begging you please let me caulk your bathtub
  • Politics & Prose, I need buy nothing
  • I've zillions cubed infinity pages I will never read I
  • never came slightly close to impulse buying....
  • Kaiser Permanente's boutique professional voiceover antique
  • I have never heard of Padraic Fiacc nor read his poetry or can vouch for anything about him, but here's a life.
  • New GbV below!
  • Blocking Amazon is impossible.
  • I bought a new lighthouse cobalt blue quad tablet, 4x4 not 5x5, but, my first rule of no rules: I can only write in it when I can't type and as long as I hate thumbing my phone
  • how's this post
  • Next January ask me, I begged my Kamalahillaryite Colleague yesterday over coffee




Sunday, January 20, 2019

Dizzy Procession of the Wave's Boundaries

  • My first thought yesterday when I saw the video of the teenage turds in MAGA hats harassing the indigenous American was wait until you hear about their parents.
  • My second thought yesterday was by Monday at the latest the teenage turds in MAGA hats (and their turdy parents and their turdy Catholic high school, in fact all Catholics and Catholic high schools) will be presented as the victims in the incident.
  • My third thought yesterday was by Wednesday at the latest no one will remember when the teenage turds in MAGA hats harassed the indigenous American.
  • My fourth thought yesterday is that I did not, on seeing the video the first time of the teenage turds in MAGA hats harassing the indigenous American, seize with seething, so that's changed.
  • My fifth thought today, long after yesterday's first four thoughts, upon seeing a report that Bory Cooker, a clintonian Democrat, in the midst of the LA County teachers' strike, gave keynote address at a pro-charter school rally, is I know which team in this unified league makes me seize with seething.









A BOOK OF MUSIC

Jack Spicer

Coming at an end, the lovers
Are exhausted like two swimmers. Where
Did it end? There is no telling. No  love is
Like an ocean with the dizzy procession of the wave's boundaries
From which two can emerge exhausted, nor long goodbye
Like Death. 
Coming at an end. Rather, I would say, like a length
Of coiled rope
Which does not disguise in the final twists of its lengths
Its endings.
But, you will say, we loved
And some parts of us loved
And the rest of us will remain
Two persons. Yes,
Poetry ends as a rope.

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Morning's Amber Road

  • The ramp off the Beltway inner-loop onto Rockville Pike, MD-355 South, labeled as Wisconsin Avenue on Beltway signage, the off-ramp of my life to the u-turn of my life north towards Rockville, there is no Borth Nethesda on Beltway signage and
  • Rockville Pike doesn't Wisconsin for two miles south of this stoplight.




  • Yes, this is a bleggalgaze: the lit amber of stoplights at night is my second favorite color.
  • I've abandoned Deronda, midway, 
  • Grandcourt and Gwendolyn just after marrying with Sir Hugo and Deronda touring one of their many estates, I'm like fuck (the) English history, the time I'd need to know the history to get the novel the novel isn't worth (though Eliot's sentences still...).
  • I bet pints this winter will be shittiest winter ever, won't end until May, will toggle directly to summer which won't end until November then toggle to the next shittiest winter ever.
  • Life in the springless autumnless ocene.
  • Read three more obits on Lit Blogging this week, here's the latest, there's a sub-bleggalgaze to this metaphor finely abounding, but....
  • At the moment this post not dead, I may add more, may add links, including Sundays, maybe not.
  • I've not abandoned any of the cherished nothings that recreationally infuriate me.





[Before I got my eye put out]

EMILY DICKINSON

Before I got my eye put out –
I liked as well to see
As other creatures, that have eyes –
And know no other way –
    
But were it told to me, Today,
That I might have the Sky
For mine, I tell you that my Heart
Would split, for size of me –
    
The Meadows – mine –
The Mountains – mine –
All Forests – Stintless stars –
As much of noon, as I could take –
Between my finite eyes –
    
The Motions of the Dipping Birds –
The Morning’s Amber Road –
For mine – to look at when I liked,
The news would strike me dead –
    
So safer – guess – with just my soul
Opon the window pane
Where other creatures put their eyes –
Incautious – of the Sun –

Thursday, January 17, 2019

I've Been Trying to Lose the Poem That Asks for a Map

  • Much missed and loved Mr Alarum has a new article in Triquarterly, hurry, please
  • Thanks as always to Corrente for the water cooler bump at naked capitalism
  • I would love to tell you how an always current but now KABOOM! at work (I'm not directly related: it's not my fault) is the second best metaphor for America after professional helmetball but I can't, though think of I-70 in Pennsylvania between New Stanton and West Virginia border, why it's always been that way, why it won't be that way any longer, it'll get worse
  • Once I'd love to tell you how bookkeeper is eggshell and knows it, until KABOOM! in bullet above I'd forgot I once wanted to though bookkeeper still an eggshell
  • At 20:42 EST Wednesday January 16 2019 I typed this bullet, either there are two bullets above about work or there aren't, this sentence remains
  • UPDATE! something sorta related new at the other place
  • Reminder: Triskelions will surrender right, not left, thralls.
  • I saw George, thesis mentor, Wednesday, he doesn't think Murnane the effort
  • recommended Coover's Huck Out West to me, I recommended Coover's Wrath of Brunists to him
  • I think about Coover's Wrath of the Brunists every single day, best prologue ever, George
  • said I don't have to read Twain's Finn the fuck again to Coover
  • Huck, I said you don't have to Origin to Wrath Coover but you do have to wait for the prologue
  • to pay off
  • I can turn you on to Wrath if you ask
  • Richard sent me an excellent playlist, thank you! here's one:





[Think this blooming basin would help the poem?]

Clark Coolidge

Think this blooming basin would help the poem?
marquee above the poem proclaims EXISTENTIALISM
a hot ticket at the time of the fading poem
experiment that stays clear of the poem
still affecting its buttons and bows or else
think the poem? you'll lose the poem that time
the poem following us I've been trying to lose
the poem that asks for a map
of the territory that admits of no poems
will that poem survive its own dangers?
this litigious era has shaken its poems
think the poem is going away?
that poem made a frying pan entry
outcry of the thoughtless poem a rarity?

Wednesday, January 16, 2019

Fluctuant Geometries, or: Born Ninety-Six Years Ago Today



GREEN: AN EPISTLE

Anthony Hecht

I write at last of the one forbidden topic
We, by a truce, have never touched upon:
Resentment, malice, hatred so inwrought
With moral inhibitions, so at odds with
The home-movie of yourself as patience, kindness
And Charlton Heston playing Socrates,
That almost all of us were taken in,
Yourself not least, as to a giant Roxy,
Where the lights dimmed and the famous allegory
Of Good and Evil, clearly identified
By the unshaven surliness of the Bad Guys,
The virginal meekness of the ingenue,
Seduced us straight into that perfect world
Of Justice under God. Art for the sake
Of money, glamour, ego, self-deceit.
When we emerged into the assaulting sunlight,
We had a yen, like bad philosophers,
To go back and stay forever, there in the dark
With the trumpets, horses, and ancient Certitudes
On which, as we know, this great nation was founded,
Washington crossing the Delaware, and so forth.
And all of us, for an hour or so after,
Were Humphrey Bogart dating Ingrid Bergman,
Walking together but incommunicado
Till subway and homework knocked us out of it.
Yet even then, whatever we returned to
Was not, although we thought it was, the world.

I write at last on the topic because I am safe
Here in the grubby border town
With its one cheap hotel. No one has my address.
The food is bad, the wine too expensive,
And the local cathedral marred by restorations.
But from my balcony I view the east
For miles and, if I lean, the local sunsets
That bathe a marble duke with what must be
Surely the saddest light I have ever seen.
The air is thin and cool at this elevation,
And my desk wobbles unless propped with matchbooks.

It began, I suppose, as a color, yellow-green,
The tincture of spring willows, not so much color
As the sensation of color, haze that took shape
As a light scum, a doily of minutiae
On the smooth pool and surfaces of your mind.
A founding colony, Pilgrim amoebas
Descended from the gaseous flux when Zeus
Tossed down his great original thunderbolt
That flashed in darkness like an electric tree
Or the lit-up veins in an old arthritic hand.

Here is the microscope one had as a child,
The Christmas gift of some forgotten uncle.
Here is the slide with a drop of cider vinegar
As clear as gin, clear as your early mind.
Look down, being most careful not to see
Your own eye in the mirror underneath,
Which will appear, unless your view is right,
As a darkness on the face of the first waters.
When all is silvery and brilliant, look:
The long, thin, darting shapes, the flagellates,
Rat-tailed, ambitious, lash themselves along -
Those humble, floating ones, those simple cells
Content to be borne on whatever tide,
Trustful, the very image of consent -
These are the frail, unlikely origins,
Scarcely perceived, of all your shall become.
Scarcely perceived? But at this early age
(What are you, one or two?) you have no knowledge
Nor do your folks, not could the gravest doctors
Suspect that anything was really wrong.
Nor see the pale beginnings, lace endeavors
That with advancing ages shall mature
Into sea lettuce, beard the rocky shore
With a light green of soft and tidal hair.

Whole eras, seemingly without event,
Now scud the glassy pool processionally
Until one day, misty, uncalendared,
As mild and unemphatic as a schwa,
Vascular tissue, conduit filaments
Learn how to feel the outposts of that small
Emerald principate. Now there are roots,
The filmy gills of toadstools, crested fern,
Quillworts, and foxtail mosses, and at last
Snapweed, loment, trillium, grass, herb Robert.
How soundlessly, shyly this came about,
One thinks today. But that is not the truth.
It was, from the first, an everlasting war
conducted, as always, at gigantic cost.
Think of the droughts, the shifts of wind and weather,
The many seeds washed to some salt conclusion
Or brought to rest at last on barren ground.
Think of some inching tendrils worming down
In hope of water, blind and white as death.
Think of the strange mutations life requires.
Only the toughest endured, themselves much altered,
Trained in the cripple's careful sciences
Of mute accommodation. The survivors
Were all, one way or another, amputees
Who learned to live with their stumps, like Brueghel's beggars.

Yet, for all that, it clearly was a triumph,
Considering, as one must, what was to come
And, even by themselves, those fields of clover,
Cattails, marsh bracken, water-lily pads
Stirred by the lightest airs, pliant, submissive -
Who could have called their slow creation rage?

Consider, as one must, what was to come.
Great towering conifers, deciduous,
Rib-vaulted elms, the banyan, oak, and palm,
Sequoia forests of vindictiveness
That also would go down on the death list
And, buried deep beneath the alluvial shifts,
Would slowly darken into lakes of coal
And then under exquisite pressure turn
Into the tiny diamonds of pure hate.
The delicate fingers of the clematis
Feeling their way along a face of shale
With all the ingenuity of spite.
The indigestible thistle of revenge.
And your most late accomplishment, the rose.
Until at last, what we might designate
As your Third Day, behold a world of green:
Color of hope, of the Church's springtide vestments,
The primal wash, heraldic hue of envy.
But in what pre-lapsarian disguise!
Strangers and those who do not know you well
(Yourself not least) are quickly taken in
By a summary prospect, shades of innocence.
Like that young girl, a sort of chance acquaintance,
Seven or eight she was, on the New York Central,
Who, with a blue-eyed, beatific smile,
Shouted with joy, "Look, Mommy, quick, Look. Daisies!"

These days, with most of us at a safe distance,
You scarcely know yourself. Whole weeks go by
Without your remembering that enormous effort,
Ages of disappointment, the long ache
Of motives twisted out of recognition,
The doubt and hesitation all submerged
In those first clear waters, that untroubled pool.
Who could have hope for this eventual peace?
Moreover, there are moments almost of bliss,
A sort of recompense, in which your mood
Sorts with the peach endowments of late sunlight
On a snowfield or on the breaker's froth
Or the white steeple of the local church.
Or, like a sunbather, whose lids retain
A greenish, gemmed impression of the sun
In lively, fluctuant geometries,
You sometimes contemplate a single image,
Utterly silent, utterly at rest.
It is of someone, a stranger, quite unknown,
Sitting alone in a foreign-looking room,
Gravely intent at a table propped with matchbooks,
Writing this poem - about me.

-------

Yearly statement that working with Hecht a highlight of my life, my Hecht stories, more poems, here.