You dig? I could say I am a feminist poet because I write for one reason: the landlords insisted we had heat when the tenants knew we were freezing. It was sixteen degrees, and we tried everything to get warm like burning the signs the landlords had written for us: “the heat is on.” From these I learned human aspects: to be a big mouth like an appetite. Somehow a hunger which seemed to have everything to do with holes was also misunderstood for the kind of active reaching toward what it wants like an antenna or phallus. There was nothing about being a woman that could be proved though starting lists. On the radio she said, “I have my SUV and I have my Prius and this is what freedom means to me.” The rest of us could die if we tried that. Who could chart the invisible and on just what kind of graph? I am so sorry this is not even really an essay, certainly not an essay that says “and then I spread upon my furrowed brow the balm of science” or “a twentieth century philosophy of liberation remedied nature and saved my life” or “ “now I am beautiful and have health insurance and many friends.” “Then someone invents something else (not a ladder).” I’m gonna explore its associative side once I’ve had enough coffee for my association fetish to kick in. No, no black currant things at the market I went to. But that only made me more determined to find them. So I’m off to the next closest market and then, if necessary, the second closest, etc. What is ‘chocolate film’, tho? The light from the blondness of the girls comes as much from the sun as from the gold of the battlefield. The giant, pterodactyl / angel wings of many of the sisters are golden, as are the fiery hands of evil that appear in the air and try to destroy them; and everywhere in that blondness is blood, like mortality splashed into light. The girls’ eyes are often blacked out in pencil, which may reflect the other, dead side of the war they’re alive in, the dimension that is the reel of life still running on in a void the life has been extinguished from, or ripped out of …“an allegory whose other side is blankness.” Yet, as with all such theories, this runs the risk of … Here we meet the The Unseen, a figure who hovers above the book. I mean, as I begin watching Fisher’s film I consider the effect of the ambient sound on my viewing experience. I wonder what would happen instead if I put on headphones and listened to music. Having listened to the new Wolves in the Throne Room album, Celestite, the other day and finding it utterly disappointing, I thought maybe it would benefit from this visual accompaniment. So I put my headphones on, begin the album, and after two minutes decide to turn the music off because it seems to be destroying everything with which it comes into contact. Makes me want to write them a letter: Dear Wolves in the Throne Room, what have you done? Black Cascade is one of my top five black metal albums of all time. Celestite, on the other hand, sounds like the type of thing I imagine one might hear at a New Age retreat. (As a side note, after telling my brother about my negative review of the new Wolves album he suggests I reconsider. His theory for approving of it has to do with what he perceives to be a connection between black metal and ambient electronic. Since I find this idea intriguing, and since I respect his perspective, I decide to give it another shot at a later date. A much later date.) Anyway, I take my headphones off and decide to let the sounds of Southeastern Louisiana mingle with Fisher’s visuals. Also important to me is this: she deploys neologisms with ferocity, “dreamt up to capture the jargon of the future,” so: we get a whole array of scientific and pseudo-scientific terminology, for example the technical geology term ‘korngräns’ (grain boundary). But to make matters even stranger, it is jammed together with the word ‘hud’ (skin) into ‘korngränshuden’ (grainboundary skin), creating a kind of double-exposure of geology and the human body within one intensively unstable word. Double-exposure (oh really?) of geology and the human body — just you wait; now I have waited here, close by in the deep nights of Dovre. I have dropped cold stones into the blue chasm. I have tried to handle metal. I have moved through the grains of the face. With fingers I have sought you through the ashes of the facial form. Wing quills have shot bloody out of my hand, and I have dragged dark fins through water. This is explicit; she calls such transgressions by genetic terms the “contorted gene.” In regions where shadows brood. Out of Dovre Chasm the deep-green metallic lizards swarm and glitter … Where the ground water rises in the rift. Where the wood castle glows so alone at the edge of the gurgling hole-shaft. The machines chew on the mountain at Dovre slate mill. It’s that glowing, the hole-shaft — that’s it. I haul, I urge my dissolved substance, slowly forward across the metal of calm stones, the hovering thread-glue’s suction toward a point in the distant middle of the perspective. Where the river’s banks will meet and like the thinnest needle of silver of liquid will drill dark tunnel-water straight in the heart of the dying image, this moistly broken-up surface of paper to which we cling. “The night sky wailed and exploded in fireworks and bursting particle heaps.” Rivers glitter, ore glows red-hot, there are the “dark blue opiates” and there is the “black deer bleat.” “What is taking place in the cisterns? A ray cuts through the dark matter. A sound runs through glass, an arc glides through the “flutter of strata between the winds of the higher skies.” All causes for paranoia, / MACHINES, / search machines gnaw, dig, drill the ether steel through. There is more to this that we won’t get to: we won’t get to the journey of her love, and of her witness, and Dark Matter’s shifting interlocutors, Zachris, Ivo, and Alexander. We won’t get to the black foam and the Madonna. But “Everything has to go somewhere in the logic of the great redistribution. Everything must be reevaluated even though the dimensions are breaking. When matter leaves chasms in the hollow after its removal. There is nowhere at all to die in the mirror halls of concretion. But I will meet the gaze never lose hold of the gaze. I will reach in the strata’s anxiety to read matter’s brain.” Or, as Osama bin Laden put it, Let me elaborate. What is weird about them, and a lot of them are pretty weird, is that they should say all of this in the era of climate change, at a time when George Bush himself, who I take to be my comrade because I extend love to all, chooses faciality above all else as his enemy. At a time when the American government was warned by their defence analysts that climate change was now the real threat to national security and not terrorism, they still chose to conduct a trillion dollar war on one face, my face. In this sense, to accelerate an equivalence, the Bush era is just like the Facebook, which is also obsessed with the face – the selfie – at the cost of everything that acts as a condition of our conditions themselves. What is weird about them, and they really can be pretty weird, is that they play out a kind of fantasy of the face of the enemy existence precisely at the moment when the real enemy is not me, but RIGHT INTO YOUR MILK HEART RIGHT ISN’T THAT TO BE ABLE RIGHT. Jennifer Lawrence, what do you think? My boss has fed me cake again I have a headache now and feel un- / ... all great amusements are / dangerous ... / time the art rots / beautifully / because the offices are dirty / like my pajamas / the text is doing an immediacy / authenticity thing now / I hate certainty and I hate the sun and I hate this quote / I should edit this quote away bc it’s too brutality and stuff / the two main characters you play go undead and become souleating demon half-god things / and the fun thing is that eating souls is liberating them bc they get to live on inside of the undead where life is nice and etc. This view of the world, as has surely already been pointed out (oh, there is a lot of writing about The Dispossessed, a lot of talk, but as far I know I’m the only person who’s actually founded an anarchist utopia on the moon) is a dialectical one. One example of such language-that-might-get-you is a certain long green sentence spinning down into the Tower, which, yes, goes down instead of up. It is described as something out of the Old Testament, and it may recall the voice from the whirlwind in The Book of Job – but the association of language and contamination feels even more relevant. (And just as Bernhard / Ligotti try to prang us out with italics, VanderMeer insists that something “has to do with the other boot print”). Like Frida Kahlo was almost certainly a werewolf, but that fact doesn’t make me (and shouldn't make you) love her any less. But the final, mysterious wealth of this book is the nearly indescribable “Private Advertisements” — selections from a collection of 4,000 cards which were found in Satie’s apartment after his death. These close set, printed or hand written cards read like cryptic advertisements, musical scores or even architectural renderings. These are impossible to truly quote here — “Forge-on-the-Bubble / The White Pine Inn: / Manor & Farm / (1253) / Entirely in cast iron / Gift of the Devil to his Godson” — It is a grand staircase, very grand. / It has more than a thousand steps, all made of ivory. / It is very beautiful. / No one dares to use it for fear of spoiling it. / The King himself has never used it. / To leave his room, he jumps out of the window. / And often he says: / “I love this staircase so much I am going to have it stuffed.” No doubt, this is all your hallucination of what it’s like to be dead. I’m still thinking of being not dead. You are delirious. Your temperature skyrockets. Your mother recites the verses from the Quran over your head. The bed shakes. “What day is it today?” you ask your mother. She lowers her head, trying to answer you. It looks like she too has forgotten the day and the date. But that’s not what you are asking for. ‘The world is small’ opined Confucius, standing on top of Mount Snowdon and chewing a pomegranate. While you were listening and not paying attention Ulysses lashed himself to the mist. Did I say Ulysses? In Agamemnon, Aeschylus has the Watchman tell the Chorus that Iphigenia tried to sing when she was brought to the altar. He says that she had sung prayers at her father’s table. Who knows, says the Watchman, what curse she would have called down had they not gagged her. From the depths, she cries out. Undone, undone. The cry and the knife: we know which cuts the silence. A history in which Iphigenia is allowed to sing – in which her song changes her ending – is not the history we live in. And yet (listen) it is.
[Note: Sources: JBR; Anne Boyer, “I could say I am a feminist poet”, at Delirious Hem, 4 May 09, “all the language I have — so far today — removed”, at Anne Boyer, 21 Jul 014; Dennis Cooper, “Brief histories of certain plastic enclosures”, at DC’s, 21 Jul 014; Lisa Flowers, “An Unrecorded Dailiness: Henry Darger and Jim Elledge’s H”, at Entropy, 21 Jul 014; JBR; Christopher Higgs, “By My Green Candle: It’s Morgan Fisher’s ( )!”, at Entropy, 21 Jul 014; Ryo Yamaguchi, “Pressures Of Luminosity: Aase Berg’s Dark Matter And HDR Photography”, at The Hairsplitter, (?) 18 Jul 014; JBR; Jonty Tiplady, “from Faceless (2014), an unpublished play featuring Osama bin Laden and Jennifer Lawrence and PuppyCat”, “photo”, at Trillionaires, 21 Jul 014; bits from various posts at igittigittigitt, 20 & 21 Jul 014; Jo Lindsay Walton, “Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer”, at All That Is Solid Melts Into Argh, 21 Jul 014, and “[GUEST REVIEW] Jo Lindsay Walton Reviews ANNIHILATION by Jeff VanderMeer”, at SF Signal, 21 Jul 014; JBR; William Keckler, “Frida Kahlo”, at Joe Brainard’s Pyjamas (The Sequel), 21 Jul 014 (cancelled post); Joyelle McSweeney, and Erik Satie, quoted in McSweeney’s “A Lemonade-Genius, Tart and Incisive, Sold by the Sip: On _A Mammal’s Notebook: The Writings of Erik Satie”, at Montevidayo, 21 Jul 014; Najlaa Ataallah, “The 9th Day (The Right to Live. Not the Right to not Die)”, at nataallh, 19 Jul 014; JH Prynne, quoted in Lucas Klein, “Zhou Yaping & J. H. Prynne”, at Notes on the Mosquito, 21 Jul 014; JBR; Rod Mengham, “To repeal the Spoils”, in Paris By Helen, at Oystercatcher Press; JBR; Sophie Mayer, “Silence, Singing”, at The Wolf 30]