Page2RRS

• 07 Feb ' 11:33

  February 07, 2012 Strumpshaw (evening) Longing And Indifference Mark Edwards via _______________________ A Scrupulous Fidelity, On Thomas Bernhard’s The Loser Douglas Glover (....) Over and over, the reader senses that the narrator is thinking fast to prevent himself from thinking, his thoughts always implying an excess they dare not express (although the narrator does let slip many very clear pointers). The entire text is framed within an implied conflict—the narrator's resistance to a truth he cannot face—and this conflict propels the text forward with a mysterious urgency. The desperate, compulsive, and transparently self-serving if not delusional nature of the narrator's thoughts in turn motivates the stressed form characteristic of the prose. Hysteria motivates hyperbole. The mechanical elaborations of grammatical yoking are desperate attempts on the part of the narrator to appear logical and analytical even as he is constantly dropping into spiraling word repetitions, fugue stops, digressions, and self-revealing tirades. But the disorder is only a semblance of disorder. It looks like a verbal torrent, the delirium of a madman, which of course it is meant to resemble in some superficial and theatrical sense, a deranged dramatic monologue (of thought), when in fact it is also artfully controlled, patterned and symmetrical (right down to the substandard Ehrbar piano the narrator plays as a child which returns at the end of the novel as the rented, “horribly untuned” Ehrbar Wertheimer plays for his travesty concert), art as symptom or symptom as art (repetition is a pattern of art and also of dream and neurosis), super-controlled (such an Austrian trait) and at the same time in tension with its own apparent haphazardness and compulsivity. Hyperbole and absurdity subvert every aspect of Bernhard's novel; hyperbole is the constant marker for irony, the double sign that destroys the fictional facade of plausibility and univocal meaning and points to a second meaning that is absent in the text. This is the ultimate moment of ambiguity and difficulty, the text announcing that it doesn't mean what it says it means....(more) via Mark Thwaite_______________________ Silence Henry Fuseli b. Feb. 7, 1741 _______________________ tweets from engels Outsider Poems: A Mini-Anthology in Progress (35) presented by Jerome Rothenberg (....) kit + krystof survival instinct is more prominent in th #homeless // society wears blindfolds #kit I wake up + think oh no another day will I walk in2 sum1 whos generous //? //or a fist #kit alcohol + drugs get u thru th nite // like prisoners #kit #comfort = a big word when u think of it = warmth is th main 1 Id say warmth like an emotion #krystof family push-u pull-u in again or Id be out of here = a bullet from a gun // a changing face #krystof yr hand = comfort a warm feeling in th pit of yr stomach + a glow in th mind nice + toasty #krystof ...(more) tweets from engels _______________________ The Evergreen Review Reader: 1967-1973 mediafire epub _______________________ META. Research in Hermeneutics, Phenomenology and Practical Philosophy Vol. III, No. 2 / December 2011 At the Threshold of Memory: Collective Memory between Personal Experience and Political Identity Jeffrey Andrew Barash Politics and the Internet: A Phenomenological Critique Gregory Cameron _______________________ Kitchen Garden Padmaloke Buddhist Retreat, Surlingham Mark Edwards _______________________ The Roles of Finance, Food, and Force in US Foreign Policy Stan Goff The Text of a Lecture at Pennsylvania State University - School of International Affairs February 2, 2012 _______________________ Wittgenstein's Ladder David Lehman G A M M M (....) 6. Philosophy was an activity, not a doctrine. “Solipsism, when its implications are followed out strictly, coincides with pure realism,” he wrote. Dozens of dons wondered what he meant. Asked how he knew that “this color is red,” he smiled and said, “because I have learnt English.” There were no other questions. Wittgenstein let the silence gather. Then he said, “This itself is the answer.” ...(more) David Lehman at the Poetry Foundation permanent link

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• 06 Feb ' 12:28

  photo - mw

  February 06, 2012 photo - mw _______________________ Address to an Old Wooden Gate Patrick Kavanagh Battered by time and weather, scarcely fit For firewood; there’s not a single bit Of paint to hide those wrinkles, and such scringes Break hoarsely on the silence – rusty hinges: A barbed wire clasp around one withered arm Replaces the old latch, with evil charm. That poplar tree you hang upon is rotten, And all its early loveliness forgotten. This gap ere long must find another sentry If the cows are not to roam the open country. They’ll laugh at you, Old Wooden Gate, they’ll push Your limbs asunder, soon, into the slush. Then I will lean upon your top no more To muse, and dream of pebbles on a shore, Or watch the fairy-columned turf-smoke rise From white-washed cottage chimneys heaven-wise. Here have I kept fair tryst, and kept it true, When we were lovers all, and you were new; And many a time I’ve seen the laughing-eyed Schoolchildren, on your trusty back astride. But Time’s long silver hand has touched our brows, And I’m the scorned of women – you of cows. How can I love the iron gates which guard The fields of wealthy farmers? They are hard, Unlovely things, a-swing on concrete piers – Their finger-tips are pointed like old spears. But you and I are kindred, Ruined Gate, For both of us have met the self-same fate. _______________________ photo - mw _______________________ Combusted Travel Journal to a Former Friend Thomas Bernhard A Translation of "In Flammen aufgegangen Reisebericht an einen einstigen Freund" by by Douglas Robertson The Philosophical Worldview Artist As you know I have been on the run for more than four months now, not southwards as I gave you to understand, but northwards, it was not warmth to which I was ultimately drawn, but cold, not architecture, my dear architect and building-artist, but nature and in actual fact that quite specific[ally] northern nature, of which I have spoken to you so often, the so-called polar circular nature about which I wrote a paper a full thirty years ago, one of the innumerable secret papers, secreted papers that are never destined for publication, [but] only for annihilation, for I have indeed recently recovered my intention of continuing to live, not of merely prolonging my existence, [for] I am bent on continuing [only] in a [state of] absolute libertinage, my dear architect, my dear building-artist, my dear charlatan of superficies. Secretly, secretively epoch-making, so to speak, my dear sir. At first I had thought that I would never write to you again under any circumstances, as it really does seem to me that our relationship has actually and irrevocably been standing at its terminus for quite a number of years, above all has reached its intellectual terminus, never again to establish contact with you had been my intention, naturally never again to write you any lines, every additional line to you has appeared to me for quite some time to be a complete absurdity addressed to a person who once decades ago was a friend, an intellectual companion, but ultimately [and] for quite a number of decades has only been an enemy, an enemy of my thought, an enemy of my existence, which of course is nothing but an intellectual existence. I had written to you several letters in Vienna and in Madrid, ultimately in Budapest and Palermo, but not sent these letters, I had actually put addresses and stamps on these letters, never sent them, in order not to make a sacrifice to a vulgar piece of tastelessness. I have annihilated these letters and sworn to myself not to write any more lines to you, to refrain from writing to you as [I refrained from writing] to everybody else. I permitted myself no further correspondence. So I have been traveling for several years through Europe and North America, possibly in a [state of] unavailing madness, as you would say, without contacts, without correspondence, because my pleasure in communicating had died at once, after I had denied myself [this pleasure] for years on end. I went, so to speak, into myself and no longer came out of myself. ...(more) _______________________ photo - mw _______________________ A Provisional Topography Jürgen Becker Translated By: Okla Elliott On the Weichsel River, before the war. You see exactly where we could have gone farther on the path above the dam separating the Nothing of river-silver from those things that formed only shadows in the changing light. The unmoved architecture of clouds: it is this moment that over decades has dragged itself and has adopted the color of newsprint. In the distance, in the dark, two houses. Although it’s bright as day. Whether souls wander here . . . in any case, distant, on the dam, two people walking stand out against the horizon, in the middle of this past. The rows of trees continue until they disappear in a line that returns on the other side of the river. The question, whether such or similar conflicts begin. At night, and not just nights, in the subjunctive. ...(more) Arch Literary Journal _______________________ On the Commerce of Thinking Of Books and Bookstores Jean-Luc Nancy Translated by David Wills ifile pdf permanent link

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• 05 Feb ' 17:57

  Anton Mauve

  February 05, 2012 _______________________ Knot iii.VII Stacy Doris If people could feed on themselves which they can, whether in despair or Pride, time becomes a circulation, reduced and expanded to that, imitating Digestion. Ingesting decomposes any scrap into functions, whereas eating Something other than yourself disprove wholeness. What rewards Rewording might be justice. Then does response outrun responsibility, Overthrow it, so all government's automatic, total, a model of control based On nature? If retribution's normal, rule's always enforcing, twisted and Abstract: flexed. Then days are contaminated by law, and life's a code, Dead yet lethal. Even putrefaction would be saturated thus: the severed Hand molder on schedule. Perhaps in this way all living's starvation, programmed to regurgitate itself, So cutting off supplies would free, while goods stifle. Thus the excuse That oneness means bodiless, that what has parts is too bulky for unity. Indivisible then implies a corpus subtracted, or, origin in amputation. Any Bomb curls back on its unleashing, so mirrors cause and denies effect. So repeats; is a refrain. Like all waves, destruction won't break. If so, Nobody needs to be alive to go on. State equals machine, but runs only By crashing. Each project attacks what may be in place with the corrosive Burn of potential. Passivity's the only order: ordains. But breathing counts Down. Each movement of respiration encodes terror, which flourishes in Everyone thus, in the midst of hunger and abundance, in the speed of love. No tourniquet dispels it. With Respect: Stacy Doris, 1962-2012 By Harriet Staff Stacy Doris at PennSound _______________________ Anton Mauve d. Feb. 5, 1888 _______________________ The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad Wallace Stevens The time of year has grown indifferent. Mildew of summer and the deepening snow Are both alike in the routine I know: I am too dumbly in my being pent. The wind attendant on the solstices Blows on the shutters of the metropoles, Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls The grand ideas of the villages. The malady of the quotidian . . . Perhaps if summer ever came to rest And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed Through days like oceans in obsidian Horizons, full of night's midsummer blaze; Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate Through all its purples to the final slate, Persisting bleakly in an icy haze; One might in turn become less diffident, Out of such mildew plucking neater mould And spouting new orations of the cold. One might. One might. But time will not relent. _______________________ Nature Morte, ABC 1927 Fernand Léger b. Feb. 4, 1881 _______________________ The Global Square: an online platform for our movement A proposal on how to perpetuate the creative and cooperative spirit of the occupations and transform them into lasting forms of social organization. Reflections on a Revolution (ROAR) ..................................................... call and response Sounds, sights, and stanzas from then and now. An #OWS survey. triple canopy _______________________ Beyond SOPA: ACTA, WIPO, and the Global Copyfight Michael Geist youtub Keynote address at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg on January 27, 2012 that discusses the role of digital activism in countering bills like SOPA and the ongoing copyfight over the use of WIPO, ACTA, and aggressive laws to promote restrictive copyright rules. via Copyfight: the politics of IP _______________________ Sharing: Culture and the Economy in the Internet Age Philippe Aigrain Abstract In the past fifteen years, file sharing of digital cultural works between individuals has been at the center of a number of debates on the future of culture itself. To some, sharing constitutes piracy, to be fought against and eradicated. Others see it as unavoidable, and table proposals to compensate for its harmful effects. Meanwhile, little progress has been made towards addressing the real challenges facing culture in a digital world. Sharing starts from a radically different viewpoint, namely that the non-market sharing of digital works is both legitimate and useful. It supports this premise with empirical research, demonstrating that non-market sharing leads to more diversity in the attention given to various works. Taking stock of what we have learnt about the cultural economy in recent years, Sharing sets out the conditions necessary for valuable cultural functions to remain sustainable in this context. OAPEN (Open Access Publishing in European Networks) _______________________ The case for piracy J. D. Hildebrand Software Development Times What if we are looking at this the wrong way. What if, instead of expending their time and energy stopping piracy, copyright holders accepted the pirates as an inevitable, even helpful, part of the creative ecosystem? A number of researchers, writers, and even copyright holders are starting to come around to this point of view. In increasing numbers, people are sharing their opinion that piracy is a good thing. How could this be?...(more) permanent link

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• 04 Feb ' 06:32

  February 03, 2012 WestCallum Ross 12interview: Callum Ross small sight On Death, without ExaggerationWislawa Szymborska Sometimes it isn’t strong enough to swat a fly from the air. Many are the caterpillars that have outcrawled it. All those bulbs, pods, tentacles, fins, tracheae, nuptial plumage, and winter fur show that it has fallen behind with its halfhearted work. Ill will won’t help and even our lending a hand with wars and coups d’etat is so far not enough. Hearts beat inside eggs. Babies’ skeletons grow. Seeds, hard at work, sprout their first tiny pair of leaves and sometimes even tall trees fall away. Whoever claims that it’s omnipotent is himself living proof that it’s not. There’s no life that couldn’t be immortal if only for a moment. Death always arrives by that very moment too late. In vain it tugs at the knob of the invisible door. As far as you’ve come can’t be undone. Wislawa Szymborska(2 July 1923 – 1 February 2012) Possibilities Wislawa SzymborskaTranslated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh I prefer zeroes on the loose to those lined up behind a cipher. I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars. I prefer to knock on wood. I prefer not to ask how much longer and when. I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has its own reason for being. Slow MediaTransformationsIssue No. 20 2011 Given the contemporary fascination with and, indeed, addiction to real-time media dispatch and commentary, what does it mean to speak of “slow media”? Is this to invoke the memory of “old” media, of legacy media, the media and technologies that are now thoroughly mediated and remediated into newer, faster, digital forms (Bolter & Grusin)? Or is it to speak of the possibility of experiencing our media more slowly, of taking time out or time off from the email, releasing some of the pressure that has built up in our systems? And dare we even think such a thing when everything around us screams of increased processing speed, increased bandwidth, and increased convergence? We are 24-7, we are always-on, we are connected; we are locatable, we are geotagged, we are Cartesian-coordinated; we are status updated, we are tweet-fed; we are real-time media junkies and everything about our mediascape exists to remind us that we don’t have time to slow down. Indeed, “slow media” may seem entirely inimical to the age of social media and 24-hour news channels, where we live immersed in a mediascape dedicated to that magical moment “when the interval between the triggering of an event and its processing/reception falls beneath the threshold of sensible perception” (Mackenzie 168). In such a scenario, “slow media” appears either heretical or retrogressive, a wanton disregarding of the patent necessity of instant information dissemination and rampant friending, or just another Luddite reaction-formation. And yet the term, and concept, has a resonance that is not so easily elided by the familiar narratives of progress and development, and it has taken root in a number of quarters. Digital Suicide and the Biopolitics of Leaving Facebook Tero Karppi Slow Play Strategies:Digital Games Walkthroughs and the Perpetual Upgrade Economy Daniel Ashton and James Newman StaircaseAlexander Lapin1981Underground: Russian Photography 1970s-1980s Nailya Alexander Gallery Why I Quit Facebook Justin E. H. Smith I have mentioned that some of my reasons for leaving Facebook have to do with my own personal concerns, my projects and the way Facebook perhaps fails to facilitate them. I also mentioned that in my view Facebook is failing to live up to its potential. Recently, when I looked at my wall, it was as if 'Family Circus', 'Marmaduke', Penny Saver and Reader's Digest were spilling right off of Gutenberg's own press: such a wonderful and promising technology, descended into pure idiocy just after its first appearance in the world. I have in mind in particular this new innovation, whereby whatever trashy meme some friend (in a highly equivocal sense) deems worthy of liking, ends up in my own newsfeed with the purported explanation that such-and-such friend has just deemed it like-worthy. Thus, after having fought so hard to banish Farmville and Cityville and shit like that from my wall, I was now being bombarded with misspelled slogans insisting that Marilyn Monroe's curves are in fact more beautiful than Lindsay Lohan's skin-and-bones, or that Obama is alright because he fist-bumps janitors, while Romney by contrast likes to get shoeshines on airport tarmacs (something I truly doubt, by the way). And most recently George Takei, likeable enough in himself, has entirely drowned out, with his good-spirited and sassy mash-ups, any possibility of using that social network for that higher aim for which it briefly held some promise: the exchange of well-thought-out ideas. All the way back in 2007 there was something about this endeavor that rubbed me the wrong way: it was born of the dormitories, and to some extent it draws us all back into them. Or perhaps I should not say 'back': I was a commuter, to a state school, and I lived with my mother. I never lived in a dorm, and I never showed up in a yearbook, to be judged for my hotness or my plainness. The culture that produced Facebook is one that I never knew, and do not like. An image of that culture invaded, and invades, my mind every single time I hear the name of Mark Zuckerberg's venture, and every time I hear the name of Mark Zuckerberg. I still believe Internet-mediated social networks will prove to be more important in human history than printing presses. But my social network will not be Facebook.

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• 03 Feb ' 04:49

  February 01, 2012 Desperate Intentions Viviana Peretti Guernica Viviana Peretti _______________________ To saddle me with a lifetime is probably not enough for them: I have to be given a taste of two or three generations. But it's not certain. Perhaps all they have told me has reference to a single existence - the confusion of identities being merely apparent and due to my inaptitude to assume any. If I ever succeed in dying under my own steam, then they will be in a better position to decide if I am worthy to adorn another age (or to try the same one again, with the benefit of my experience). I may therefore perhaps legitimately suppose that the one-armed wayfarer of a moment ago and the wedge-headed trunk in which I am now marooned are simply two phases of the same carnal envelope (the soul being notoriously immune from deterioration and dismemberment). Having lost one leg, what more likely than that I should mislay the other? And similarly for the arms. A natural transition in sum. But what then of that other old age they bestowed upon me (if I remember right), and that other middle age, when neither legs nor arms were lacking, but simply the power to profit by them? And of that kind of youth in which they had to give me up for dead? If I have warm place it is not in their hearts. Oh I don't say they haven't done all they could to be agreeable to me, to get me out of here (on no matter what pretext, in no matter what disguise). All I reproach them with is their insistence. For beyond them is that other who will not give me quittance until they have abandoned me as inutilizable and restored me to myself. Then at last I can set about saying what I was, and where, during all this long lost time. But who is he, if my guess is right, who is waiting for that, from me? And who these others whose designs are so different? And into whose hands I play when I ask myself such questions? But do I, do I? In the jar did I ask myself questions? And in the arena? I have dwindled, I dwindle. Not so long ago (with a kind of shrink of my head and shoulders, as when one is scolded) I could disappear. Soon, at my present rate of decrease, I may spare myself this effort. And spare myself the trouble of closing my eyes, so as not to see the day (for they are blinded by the jar a few inches away). And I have only to let my head fall forward against the wall to be sure that the light from above (which at night is that of the moon) will not be reflected there either, in those little blue mirrors. (I used to look at myself in them, to try and brighten them.)   - Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable _______________________ Beyond Passaic a photo essay by Bryan Zanisnik The Meadowlands cannot be comprehended from a bird's-eye view, nor can it be experienced in a hazmat suit-or even by driving above the wetlands on the Turnpike. One must stay close to the ground and risk exposure to the environment. And so I did, armed with nothing more than a map and a camera. Triple Canopy_______________________ The Past Under Erasure? History, Memory, and the Contemporary Geoff Eley At the Crossroads of Past and Present - 'Contemporary' History and the Historical Discipline Edited by: Jan Palmowski and Kristina Spohr Readman Special Issue: The Journal of Contemporary History ..................................................... Recent history and the new dangers of politicization Pierre Nora Translation by Mike Routledge eurozine The positivist tradition of nineteenth century history, dominated by the idea of the nation and based on the archive, began in the 1970s to give way to a concern with recent history, in which the historical witness became paramount. With the past ceasing to be a body of knowledge and becoming a public issue, a new form of political influence has exerted itself upon historians. In the French case, the subject of colonialism is particularly controversial. Now more than ever it is crucial historians retain critical distance. Reflections on writing historyOmnivore at bookforum _______________________ Words without Borders February 2012: International Graphic Novels: Volume VI _______________________ UbuWeb's Top Ten for February selected by design critic & author Rob Walker _______________________ The Sky Is Rising! Techdirt For years now, the legacy entertainment industry has been predicting its own demise, claiming that the rise of technology, by enabling easy duplication and sharing -- and thus copyright infringement -- is destroying their bottom line. If left unchecked, they say, it is not only they that will suffer, but also the content creators, who will be deprived of a means to make a living. And, with artists lacking an incentive to create, no more art will be produced, starving our culture. While it seems obvious to many that this could not possibly be true, since creators and performers of artistic content existed long before the gatekeepers ever did, we've looked into the numbers to get an honest picture of the state of things. What we found is that not only is the sky not falling, as some would have us believe, but it appears that we're living through an incredible period of abundance and opportunity, with more people producing more content and more money being made than ever before. As it turns out... The Sky Is Rising! With A Little Help: Digital Lysenkoism DRM, “social DRM,” and the madness of publishers Cory Doctorow (....) It’s one thing to have your publisher’s bizarre, ideology-driven superstitions erode e-book sales. It’s quite another to learn that you’re going to miss out on a chance to pay off your mortgage because your publisher has bought into a form of digital Lysenkoism. (....) ... we know that customers hate DRM. They rail against it, they actively seek out non-DRM versions, and they boycott products with DRM platforms. In publishing, there’s the dawning realization that allowing, say, Amazon, to lock up your books with its DRM means that Amazon essentially owns your customers. That is the reality of DRM. This is incredibly bad for publishing’s future. Still, in many publishing boardrooms, executives cling to their Lysenko-like belief in DRM, while on the lower floors, digital strategists, editors, and production staff all know exactly how bad DRM is for business....(more) _______________________ Westport photo - mw permanent link

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• 31 Jan ' 07:43

  January 31, 2012 photo - mw _______________________ Letters to a Middle-Aged Poet Michael Gottlieb(....) 5. What are we supposed to do now? Do we try and hop aboard those fast-moving freights? Do we claim that we too are one of them, that we are card carrying members of their movements – we’re with them and just like them – and always have been (even before they were conceived of), or does that make us seem ridiculous? And, if we do not try and sport those ill-fitting skinny jeans and pork pie hats and (for those of us capable of sprouting same) that artfully curated facial hair – what indeed is left for us? If we can’t be one of them, can’t carry that off, are we obliged to ask ourselves: why bother writing at all anymore? 6. What if our reaction to all that is going on around us is not some cringe-worthy, pathetic attempt to climb aboard an express that has left the station several decades after we had our own tickets once and forever punched, but, instead, something else? Perhaps our posture should be one of welcoming. Maybe we should be able to get it together to write some positive criticism, a supportive review or two. We could even assume, or presume, the mantle of a champion. Let’s not dismiss such a possibility out of hand. But what if the reaction, our reaction, is different? Speciously curmudgeonly? Angry, vexatious, rejectionist? What if our response is a frankly hostile, knee-jerk dismissal of whatever it is that naturally – some might say – quite naturally, comes after what we ourselves in our youth, in our own day, served up to the world? ...(more) Otoliths 24 the southern summer issue Editor: Mark Young _______________________ Winter Wrapped Trees © of Karen McRae Karen McRae via Steve Himmer _______________________ The Bicameral Eyeball John Ashbery boston review No one noticed that it was midnight out. The tools to make the tools were forthcoming. It wasn’t so much that we were afraid of farting as that other thieves had gotten wind of his maladdress. She was startling in her new headdress. Oodles of trolls performed the funeral litany— hey, it wasn’t their turn at the foc’sle, so why be perturbed ahead of time, and too late? The factory whistle blew and released all the workers inside who came crowding down along the pavement. As though walking on stilts people blew up in amazement like pieces of trash a wind desultorily lifts, then returns for no visible reason. We were all tired and happy, plodders on life’s great thoroughfare. None of us were in it for the long haul, but paradoxically all of us were, we just didn’t know it yet. ... ...(more) _______________________ The Daily Digital Lock Dissenter: The Series To Date Michael Geist Distinguishing Friend from Foe in the Intellectual Property Debate Mat Callahan Socialism and Democracy _______________________ How Apple Can Solve Its China Problem Mike Elgan Apple is on the brink of becoming the poster child for worker abuse. Journalists and rights organizations are starting to draw attention to the enormous contrast between Apple’s quarterly billions in profits, and the desperate plight of abused workers in China. And the closer you look, the uglier this issue gets. And it threatens to damage Apple’s long-term prospects for continued growth and success. Here’s the problem, and also what Apple can do about it....(more) ..................................................... "If goods and capital can move freely from country to country, and people cannot, then people are and always will be slaves to goods and capital. We as a global society will not solve our Apple problem until people are free to live and work where they choose."   -  Stephen Downes _______________________ circa 1980 Francesca Woodman 1958-1981 at the Tait permanent link

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• 30 Jan ' 06:24

  January 30, 2012 Strange Dreams and Haunting Nightmares (14 photos)Anthony Goicolea Echo's BonesSamuel Beckett Serena II this clonic earth see-saw she is blurred in sleep she is fat half dead the rest is free-wheelinf part the black shag the pelt is ashen woad snarl and howl in the wood wake all the birds hound the harlots out of the ferns this damfool twilight threshing in the brake bleating to be bloodied this crapulent hush tear its heart out in her dreams she trembles again way back in the dark old days panting in the claws of the Pins in the stress of her hour the bag writhes she thinks she is dying the light fails it is time to lie down Clew Bay vat of xanthic flowers Croagh Patrick waned Hindu to spite a pilgrim she is ready she has laid down above all the islands of glory straining now this Sabbath evening of garlands with a yo-heave-ho of able-bodied swans out from the doomed land their reefs of tresses in a hag she drops her young the wales in Blacksod Bay are dancing the asphodels come running the flags after she thinks she is dying she is ashamed she took me up on to a watershed whence like the rubrics of a childhood behold Meath shining through a chink in the hills posses of larches there is no going back on a rout of tracks and streams fleeing to the sea kindergartens of steeples and then the harbour like a woman making to cover her breasts and left me with whatever trust of panic we went out with so much shall we return there shall be no loss of panic between a man and his dog bitch though he be sodden pair of Churchman muzzling the cairn it is worse than dream the light randy slut can't be easy this clonic earth all these phantoms shuddering out of focus it is useless to close the eyes all the chords of the earth bloken like a woman pianist's the toads abroad again on their rounds sidling up to their snares the fairy-tales of Meath ended so say your prayers now and go to bed your prayers before the lamps start to sing behind the larches here at these knees of stone then to bye-bye on the bones Richard Brautiganb. Jan. 30, 1935photo by Erik Weber1967 Levi Asher on Richard BrautiganLiterary Kicks All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace Richard Brautigan I like to think (and the sooner the better!) of a cybernetic meadow where mammels and computers live together in mutually programming harmony like pure water touching clear sky. I like to think (right now, please!) of a cybernetic forest filled with pines and electronics where deer stroll peacefully past computers as if they were flowers with spinning blossoms. I like to think (it has to be!) of a cybernetic ecology where we are free of our labors and joined back to nature, returned to our mammal brothers and sisters, and all watched over by machines of loving grace. Bad Apple It's time to face the human cost of my Apple addiction -- and yours. Crawford KilianTheTyee 26 Facts About the Awful Conditions Where Your Gadgets are Madealternet We Who Are Left Behind: Poetry as Testimony in Derrida and Celan Matthew Landis To write is to arrange language under fascination and, through language, in language, remain in contact with the absolute milieu, where the thing becomes an image again, where the image, which had been allusion to a figure, becomes an illusion to what is without figure, and having been a form sketched on absence, becomes the unformed presence of that absence, the opaque and empty opening on what is when there is no more world, when there is no world yet.  -  Maurice Blanchot, “The Essential Solitude” Poetry has a few distinct features that make it fertile ground for interrogating writing and the layers of hidden meaning, collective wishes, and unspoken associations which saturate it . Rather than a concern for grammar and syntax, it provides it’s own unique ideas about form. The sonnet, the ode, the villanelle, aleatoric writing, oulipian constraint, conceptual poetry, Projective verse --the language of any poem is replete with supplemantarity, departures, presuppositions and cognitive and aesthetic fissures and fissions. The devices associated with these formal paradigms, when deployed in a poem, can refer to several layers of meaning and association, the literal image or supra-textual ideogram, a narrative line or a paratactic break. And despite the variations on form and the diversity of content, any of these devices do not lessen a poems discursive or communicative qualities (no matter how they might be re-worked, masked, or undermined). Even an attempt to obfuscate meaning and to challenge notions of legibility communicate something about our understanding of language and signification. Even a blank sheet of paper folded into a bottle carries a message. Locked in the Ivory Tower: Why JSTOR Imprisons Academic Research Laura McKennaatlanticTom Matrullo

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• 29 Jan ' 11:15

  January 29, 2012 photo - mw _______________________ Five poems from Sakra Boccata José Antonio Mazzotti Translation from Spanish by Clayton Eshleman presented by Jerome Rothenberg 10 The solitude of the mirror does not recoup its expectations Like the Tunnel of Time it’s a trunk that swallows whatever meat It offers itself as a sacrifice it’s a trunk Viscous and fragrant with sweat from the past Painted with golden bodies it recovers its own life It remembers labyrinthine cities On the bank of a muddy river It ventilates the end of summer and searches for clams At the edge of a dry abyss Its steps lead it through churches Erect as nipples and at their doors it descends Into the woods of the centenary bones So much death and no power at all against life The mirror changes colors It illuminates from the doorway the purple mantle Of the Virgin of Candlemas Oh Saint Mary Mother of God shelter your little lambs Who seek to perpetuate themselves in the mirror Oh Saint Maria Mother of God You yourself Who with the Holy Ghost Gleamed one night before the copper Cauldron ...(more) _______________________ on Instagram James Luckett consumptive ... Instagram offers a relatively unencumbered mechanism to readily participate in a radically differing vista: the quotidian. to peruse a nexus of Instagram connections and to contribute your own photographs to that well, is to play a part in the real time accumulation, a steadying (re)valuation, of some of what gets us, singularly and together, through each day: friends, family, pets, places and food; something beautiful, something funny, something seen, and something done. it is in this way that the common practice of judging the relative merit of an individual photograph falls flat in the face of the Instagram interface. for the import of Instagram is in the very fact of each photograph having been produced and of the near-instantaneous shared profusion of countless such photographs across a network of exchange in which the legal tender is ♥ and minds [ie comments] and the reward, irregardless of the likes, is a reinforced sense of identification. every photograph is a shiver not unlike your own....(more) _______________________ photo - mw _______________________ Jerusalem & Albion; or, Maze & Barleycorn Henry Gould on Eliot, Ashbery, Beer, and Mazer The Critical Flame If there is, or could be, a center of American poetry — a suspect, much-derided supposition — then John Ashbery, needless to say, lives at or near it. Ashbery: presiding spirit, native genius! That courtly gent, whose arctic blue eyes, disappointed mouth, and eagle beak, convened for the camera, curiously resemble portraits of T.S. Eliot in old age. Ashbery's parasol-like plumage spreads a kindly shade over more recent laboring; his generous blurbs brighten the back pages of scores of advancing young upstarts. The work of two of the most promising, Ben Mazer and John Beer, reveal a substantial debt to their mentor — combined with the influence of an earlier poet, lurking behind both as he does behind Ashbery: that is, yes, Eliot, old Possum himself. How can we characterize this influence, this dual presence? Like nesting Russian babushka dolls, or those host-spirit figurines from Téotihuacan, the integral stance of a poetic forerunner — mind and heart, worldview and style — threads itself amid the aspiring weft of his or her followers. So before reviewing the work of Mazer and Beer, we will try to take a preliminary measure of their exemplars. An argument can be launched that poetry in America — and perhaps in general — is born and subsists in a state of fundamental dissonance with, and deflection from, its own milieu; that the work which is finally authorized as permanent and classic is in fact that which is most at odds with its village, off-kilter; that what proves to be most whole in the long run seems, at first, most bent and broken. Whitman and Dickinson, Thoreau and Melville, all to some extent fulfill this pattern; moreover, T.S. Eliot, Wallace Stevens, Hart Crane, Elizabeth Bishop, and Ashbery all do as well. ...(more) The Critical Flame Volume 2, Issue 17 | January-February 2012 Henry Gould - HG Poetics _______________________ On The Philosophical Styles Of The Times: [pdf] Some Questions Concerning The Meaning Of Deconstruction Adrian Costache Abstract: The present paper deals with the philosophical styles of the hermeneutic project and deconstruction and tries to answer the question whether there really is, as Derrida argues, a fundamental difference, even an opposition between them. In this sense, taking the questions Derrida addressed Gadamer in their famous Paris encounter in 1981 as a clue, the author retraces the fundamental articulations of deconstruction, descending from Derrida?s own description of the idea to his actual deconstructive practice, and shows that the presupposition Derrida takes as separating the hermeneutic project from deconstruction is actually one these two share in common. Journal for Communication and Culture 1, no. 2 (Winter 2011) permanent link

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• 27 Jan ' 10:28

  January 27, 2012 photo - mw WinterH. L. Hixfrom "The God of Window Screens and Honeysuckle" Stubble rows, four matte, four shiny in morning sun, show the combine’s direction. What can be preserved must be preserved as some self other than its own. Bent cattails mimic stubble in the frozen pond. Suet nearly gone, chickadees cling upside down to the feeder. Above it, a hedgeapple wedged between branches since fall. Past that, changing direction at once, fast as mackerel, a thousand blackbirds. Skaters on a pond, we fall into what we know, drown in disorienting light before we freeze. In angled afternoon sun, the fence’s shadow caresses the snow’s contours like tight-fitting clothes. Even when grass greens to re-enact spring, the snow will linger, longest in the shadows of houses. H. L. Hix at the PIPH. L. Hix - four poemsdrunken boat..................................................... “Checking One Belief Against Another”: A Conversation with H. L. Hix Karen Schubertagni Maybe I would sit and wait for inspiration if I thought I were a divine emissary or the darling of the muses, but all evidence points to the contrary, so I think of poetry in fairly blue-collar terms. Part of what the obsession implies is that I “keep at it.” Poetry feels to me much more like old-fashioned hard work than it does like a visitation from above. There’s plenty of ambient material, but like soil it needs to be worked if it’s going to produce what you want it to produce, or at least that’s been my experience.(....) KS: Recently, I admitted to a philosopher, a poetry-loving philosopher, that I had a long-standing desire to study philosophy, and he steered me away on the premise that it would ruin my ability to write poetry. Do you think there’s anything to the warning? HLH: I have to hope not, since my graduate degrees are in philosophy, not in writing or in literature! But I think some better grounds than my desperate hope could be offered for regarding with some skepticism your friend’s advice. I’d want to contest that idea by posing an alternative to the conception of poetry and the poet on which it appears to me to depend. Studying philosophy could ruin one’s ability to write poetry if the poet were an idiot savant, and poetry the result of some version of “inspiration” or “genius” susceptible to corruption by rationality. Or it could ruin poetry if poetry were essentially decorative, if it were just prettified language, and if philosophy by imposing dry reason shoved beauty out. But I doubt that either of those views, or any similar view, is true. I doubt that reason and beauty are mutually exclusive (and in support of my doubt would cite such conjunctions of reason and beauty as our counting “elegance” as one criterion for a mathematical proof). I myself believe that poetry arises from depth of knowledge or intensity of experience or acuity of attention, not from some isolated inner wellspring that would be poisoned by contact with the world. Consequently, I suspect that, all else being equal, the more a poet knows about anything (philosophy, nuclear physics, farming, geology, music, appliance repair, SpongeBob, medical imaging, differential calculus, whatever) the better for her or his poetry. I can’t think of any knowledge that would corrupt a person’s ability to write poetry; to put this in the opposite way, I doubt that the ability to write poetry is so fragile that it can be harmed by learning. That advice also echoes something I’ve heard each time I’ve taught an introductory-level poetry writing course: “I don’t read other people’s poetry because I don’t want to corrupt my own style.” But that takes for granted both that style is the single most crucial element of poetry and that one’s style is innate. I doubt both premises. My own experience, and what I can infer from any evidence I can gather, suggests that style (or voice, another term sometimes used in the same beware-of-corruption approach) is a composite, something that one constructs rather than something that one receives. I want to say that poetry has to do more fundamentally with how one listens than with how one speaks or writes, and that philosophy (like any number of other inquiries — math, geology, etc.) can help one listen more acutely. All that said, it’s worth remembering that Wittgenstein reportedly warned his students away from philosophy, period, not only if they were concerned for their poetic abilities. So whether or not you take your friend’s advice, he’s got good company in offering it! The Valley Thick with CornSamuel Palmerb. Jan.27, 1805 Babel No More The Search for the World’s Most Extraordinary Language LearnersPeter Constantine reviews The Art of Mastering Many Tongues by Michael Erard How is it, Erard asks, that certain people are able to accumulate what for the average person is a daunting number of languages? What are the secrets of polyglots who can master 6, 26, 96 languages? What are their quirks and attitudes? Are their brains wired differently from ours? Oxford Scholarly Editions Online “The text that scholars read matters everything to them because all their interpretations are based on what’s in the text. And so if the text is defective, the interpretations are going to be affected.” In a new series of videos from Oxford University Press, Michael F. Suarez, S.J. talks about the importance of the scholarly edition and its evolution from print to digital. photo - mw Helping Transport Me There Today Robert GibbonsTime Capsule Talk about one observation following another in rapid succession Rimbaud Olson Davenport. In the middle of one letter he says he just got off the phone with Hallam Movius, expert on Acheulean stone tool making culture reaching back to the Lower Paleolithic, the subject Guy takes up toward the end of his essay “Olson.” Guy was never afraid to make one wild conjecture after another. Kept things moving, as he & Olson believed all things do, including stone. Their molecules & meaning. This is where Guy sends me today: to Olson’s Volume Three, where Guy says, “Throughout these last Maximus poems Olson keeps gazing at the offshore rocks, especially Ten Pound Island.” It’s a volume made heavier over the years strewn with bookmarks & jottings. Look, open it anywhere, ha, a dried elm leaf from Cape Ann marks the page where Olson underlines “necessary woman” addressing the geography & spirit of Gloucester herself, begging her “not go away”. Now, the NYC DJ resorts to Dvorak’s My Home, Op. 62, Overture, helping transport me there today January 26, 2012 photo - mw The Scholar’s ArtAnge Mlinko, reviewing Susan Stewart's The Poet's Freedom: A Notebook on Makingla reviewscroll down ... there is something about poetry — about language use itself — that sits uneasily with “freedom.” Maybe it’s the terror of babble (the verbal mode of insanity, dementia, and catastrophe). Maybe it’s that for tens of centuries, scribes and grammarians have been mainstays against the cultural losses — and dysphasias — incurred by history: losses of manuscripts, of entire languages. They have also been the ones to sniff at an improperly used meter, a “shapeless” ode, or a qasida that seemed just “a string of pearls,” all rhyme and no reason. Grammar is hard to master. Meaning is easily lost. To mess with it, to mess with language, to play with it (much less play with it without a net) drives pious types bonkers. And on the other side are the ones who have played with language relentlessly, also for thousands of years, the rhymers, punners, riddlers, and innuendo-peddlers who have simultaneously performed the shamanistic duties of the bard: keeper of the culture’s stories, its knowledge, its word-hoard. Frivolous and serious, mischievous and magisterial, poets play both sides of the coin of freedom — heads they study (“the scholar’s art,” Wallace Stevens called poetry), tails they frisk. If freedom and poetry seem paradoxical, freedom and poets are all but identical. the page Hendrik AvercampJanuary 27, 1585 (bapt.) Boredom in the Charnel House Theses on ‘Post-industrial’ Ruins John Cunninghamvariant “Our capital of misery remains intact down through the ages; yet we have one advantage over our ancestors; that of having invested our capital better, since our disaster is better organised.”  -  E.M Cioran, A Short History of Decay 1/ Suggestive Boredom A friend recently sent me a poem that explained his dissatisfaction and boredom with urban decay and industrial ruins. He wrote much of the poem via one of the automatic text generators that often give the best lines: “Sick of ruins/ sick of meaning of ruins/ ruined/ decay/ blight/ derelict/ poetry/ heavy bricks/ getting heavy/ sick of work/ getting sick/ labour history/ dead city/ history dead/ city labour/ dead city/ invading ruins/ my apologies/ my theft/ sick of poverty/ sick of ruins...” For something as ephemeral as the ruin – the slow decomposition of spatial form in time – the best approach is a fragmentary one. The following is a series of provisional theses upon the decomposition of the contemporary ruin grasped through image and text. In line with this ephemerality and the over determination of everything in spectacular capitalism the following should be viewed as theoretical fictions, transitory attempts to formulate concepts of what is falling apart. This is the first thesis: ‘ruins boredom’ is a suggestive affect in that it is constituted by and through the contemporary metropolis. Walter Benjamin, connoisseur of the arcades – the ruins of 19th century commodity capitalism – wrote that, “Boredom is a warm grey fabric lined on the inside with the most lustrous and colourful of silks.” How might boredom with ruins be turned inside out and industrial ruin capital re-invested as anti-capitalist critique? Variant issue 42 Boys of the Dumps South Boston, Massachusetts October 1909Lewis W. Hine: Child ScavengersTom ClarkBeyond the Pale Terrifyingly real: Poulantzas and the capitalist state Lenin's Tomb Before delving into Poulantzas' theoretical innovations, I must make a note on his method. As he said in his critique of Miliband, any historical materialist approach to the capitalist state must clearly state its epistemological criteria in order to properly situate the concrete historical data it works with. Absent this, it becomes an exercise in empiricism. His own works, particularly PPSC (Political Power and Social Classes), are to a very large extent concerned with outlining these protocols. His approach, as such, has been taxed with the stigma of 'formalism' and (pace Miliband) 'hyper-abstractionism'. The burden of this criticism is that Poulantzas spent more time parsing texts from the marxist canon and arguing through their implications, than examining concrete state formations. This is not entirely unfair, and to the extent that it is true, Poulantzas was being typically althusserian: a close, symptomatic scrutiny of texts being the modus operandi of the Althusser Circle. But the point is overstated. The survey of the typologies of the capitalist state in PPSC, for instance, largely draws on current sociological and historical research. The argument about the ambiguous role of state personnel in SPS (State, Power, Socialism) draws from the immediate experience of May 1968 in France. Moreover, there is something praiseworthy in Poulantzas' re-evaluation of first principles, the painstaking clarification of concepts. Though this responded to concrete political problems, usually crises - of Greek communism, of democracy, of marxism, etc - his response was far from intellectually defensive. He took theoretical risks in order to make marxism adequate to the present. Only by doing so is it possible to make any sort of progress. State, Power, Socialism Nicos Poulantzas mediafire pdf The Poulantzas Reader: Marxism, Law and the State Edited by James Martinmediafire pdf The Dreams of Dr. PlagueTakeo Takei1924 50 Watts Haptics, Mobile Handhelds, and other "Novel" Devices The Tactile Unconscious of Reading across Old and New Media Rachel Leectheory I wish to frame Taussig's essay (Tactility and Distraction, 1991) as part of a broader theoretical movement to shift the question for academic criticism away from vision and semiotics -- aka the search for fuller meaning, fuller representation by way of exposing the hidden meaning and bringing it to light -- to tactility and affect -- the connecting with the magic or enchantment of a material object's or phenomenon's intensity, the inquiring into the efficacy of an action or event, and the mapping of how such efficacy is enacted and circulated. The "capitalist mimetics" of advertising, and, interestingly, the pedagogies of preschool education, become exemplary of fields already way ahead of the game, so to speak, in mulling over these questions. and the Poetry Foundation

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• 25 Jan ' 03:23

  photo - mw

  January 24, 2012 photo - mw _______________________ Forest Of Europe Derek Walcott b. Jan. 23, 1930 The last leaves fell like notes from a piano and left their ovals echoing in the ear; with gawky music stands, the winter forest looks like an empty orchestra, its lines ruled on these scattered manuscripts of snow. The inlaid copper laurel of an oak shines though the brown-bricked glass above your head as bright as whisky, while the wintry breath of lines from Mandelstam, which you recite, uncoils as visibly as cigarette smoke. "The rustling of ruble notes by the lemon Neva." Under your exile's tongue, crisp under heel, the gutturals crackle like decaying leaves, the phrase from Mandelstam circles with light in a brown room, in barren Oklahoma. There is a Gulag Archipelago under this ice, where the salt, mineral spring of the long Trail of Tears runnels these plains as hard and open as a herdsman's face sun-cracked and stubbled with unshaven snow. (....) From hand to mouth, across the centuries, the bread that lasts when systems have decayed, when, in his forest of barbed-wire branches, a prisoner circles, chewing the one phrase whose music will last longer than the leaves, whose condensation is the marble sweat of angels' foreheads, which will never dry till Borealis shuts the peacock lights of its slow fan from L.A. to Archangel, and memory needs nothing to repeat. Frightened and starved, with divine fever Osip Mandelstam shook, and every metaphor shuddered him with ague, each vowel heavier than a boundary stone, "to the rustling of ruble notes by the lemon Neva," but now that fever is a fire whose glow warms our hands, Joseph, as we grunt like primates exchanging gutturals in this wintry cave of a brown cottage, while in drifts outside mastodons force their systems through the snow. ...(more) _______________________ photo - mw _______________________ "Speech is the fountain..." John Latta (....) Williams’s enormous doubt, and doubt’s vacillatory burdensomeness. Hugh Kenner—in 1953, in “A Note on ‘The Great American Novel’”—notes how “the American language, or the part of it that interests Williams, is distinguished by a sort of amnesia: Though their colloquial vocabularies are restricted, their syntax simple, and their speech-rhythms the reverse of Ciceronian, Americans don’t utter a gelatinous Basic English. They have rhythmic and idiomatic means of concentrating meaning in these counters, shifting the burden of the sentence with a certain laconic grace from word to word, which falsifies the unthinking novelist’s assumption that the way to extract the unuttered meanings of American experience is to assist these pidgin gropings with the fuller cadences of European prose. European prose, when it attempts to grapple with American material, yields nothing but suave cliché. Kenner quotes the “European voice” at the beginning of Chapter XI: Eh bien mon vieux coco, this stuff that you have been writing today, do you mean that you are attempting to set down the American background? You will go mad. Why? Because you are trying to do nothing at all. The American background? It is Europe. It can be nothing else . . . Kenner’s argument: “This mind”—the European one—“thinks in phrases, not in words: the upward lilt between its punctuation marks is the signature of a habit of apprehension shaped by Latin prose. A European would have imparted a more elegant rhythm to the answering sentence, which comes with Williams’ own unmistakable flatness: As far as I have gone it is accurate.” Small fogs in retreat. “Pretense to integrity an empty shell.” Bah. A cur’s defiant intent (“nothing to say”) to avoid, at least, inaccuracy. ...(more) _______________________ photo - mw _______________________ from Revelator Ron Silliman dog barking emerges from barn but won’t approach, such boundaries visible to the mind but not physical at all, swan with a broken wing adopts small town pond, adapts, adept at avoiding all leashed dogs as they pass, as we far less permanent than this giant oak not toppled, atop wch lone raven stalks, wind rendered visible by the trees two cardinals buffeted in flight red messengers their floating text peeps by, I spy, eyes pie, terns skim over water predusk glare over the Chesapeake blue heron solitary, standing still osprey’s nest looks huge, hum means mosquito right at ear rubber soles atop hard wood screech, scratch, itch, each, two common terns atop a post implies a pairing, Jack Russell terriers under foot but Jasmine sad-eyed black poodle plays fetch hard rubber chew toy wet with success iced tea season is upon us ... ...(more) shampoo 39 _______________________ ln Plato's Cave 1972 Robert Motherwell b. Jan. 24, 1915 _______________________ Tumbril Time! Alexander Cockburn A tumbril (n.) a farm cart often used for carrying manure, also to carry prisoners to the guillotine during the French Revolution. Any headline modeled on “It’s the economy, stupid.” This tedious phrase derives from the Clinton campaign of 1992, and is still echoing on opinion pages 20 years on. To the tumbrils with it! “Well…” , as in constructs like “His performance was.. well… frankly bad.” Equally awful is “…er”, as in “Is Angeline Jolie a great actor? Er… no.” The British are particularly keen on this piece of stylistic coyness. “Staunch”, as so often used to describe right-wingers: “a staunch Republican,” “a staunch Conservative”, though not I think, “a staunch fascist.” I see left writers using this phrase freely about Republicans and Conservatives. Don’t they know that “staunch” carries the aroma of unstinting, courageous loyalty. It’s an honorific. How about “fanatic Republican”? “crazed Conservative.” No rightwinger would talk about “staunch liberals” – admittedly an oxymoron, just like “staunch Democrat.” Now, there really are staunch pacifists. Save the word for them. Michael Donnelly offers “At the end of the day,” which, I need scarcely remind you, is the hour when the fat lady sings, after the rubber has met the road. The fat lady line was first popularized in George H.W. Bush’s run for the Republican nomination in 1980. When he finally threw in the towel, the press corps hired a fat Valkyrie with a horned helmet to rush up to him and sing at the top of her voice, waving a trident. From Jean-Pierre Duboucheron: “Bad guys.” Spot on, Jean-Pierre. From Sean Dunne in Ireland: “this ain’t my first rodeo” ; “just sayin’”; “Really.” True, one does see the terse “Really” all too often. Time for the final haircut. “I would like to request that you consign one more word to the tumbrils. And that word is ‘stakeholder.’” Vukoni Lupa-Lasaga. Happy to oblige, Vukoni. ...(more) via Owen Paine permanent link

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