My distress about Isabel and Teresa, coupled with my guilt about my parents, opened onto larger questions about my fraudulence; that I was a fraud had never been in question - who isn't? Who wasn't squatting in one of the handful of prefabricated subject positions proffered by capital or whatever you wanted to call it, lying every time she said "I": who wasn't a bit player in a looped infomercial for the damaged life? If I was a poet, I had become one because poetry, more intensely than any other practive, could not evade its anachronism and marginality and so constituted a kink of acknowledgment of my own preposterousness, admitting my bad faith in good faith, so to speak. I could lie about my interest in the literary response to war because by making a mockery of the notion that literature could be commensurate with mass murder I was not defaming the victims of the latter, but the dilettantes of the former, rejecting the political claims repeatedly made by the so-called left for a poetry radical only in its unpopularity. I had been a small time performance artist pretending to be a poet, but now, with an alarming fervor, I wanted to write great poems. I wanted my "work" to take on the United States of Bush, to shed its scare quotes, and I wanted, after I self-immolated on the Capitol steps of whatever, to become the Miguel Hernandez of late empire, for Isabel and Teresa and everyone everywhere to read my poems, shatter storefronts, etc. This was a structure of feeling, not an idea, which made it harder to dismiss, and I felt it more intensely in direct proportion to its ridiculousness.
- Leaving the Atocha Station, Ben Lerner.
So I owe you some links, but Farrokh Bulsara was born 68 years ago today so I spent part of last night listening to Queen, I'm in a novel I'm digging because the nameless fuck narrating reminds me of me (see above), and last night a friend tweeted the word gravediggers which of course made me immediately think of the above Avengers episode, so - I'm sorry - fuck link-fishing for clusterfuck aarghduh, though I want to note that I goaded a friend into breaking his blogfast, he provides bleggalgaze, travelog, and Elkin, plus this friend wrote the fictional writer, the fictional reader and this friend asks an earnest question and Dave gifs you a dog in a pickup plus a new toy. But I have aargh: some fucker(s) deleted the of the _udrey _artman song, Tie Your Mother Down, that - longtimers can vouch for the story and for the version - I've used for years for Freddie's birthday. Still, because I love you, have another Avengers b/w Emma Peel episode, then a poem, then another b/w Emma Peel episode. You're welcome.
Change, move, dead clock, that this fresh day
May break with dazzling light to these sick eyes.
Burn, glare, old sun, so long unseen,
That time may find its sound again, and cleanse
Whatever it is that a wound remembers
After the healing ends.