and you imagine a bird is flying in the room,
and the bird flying in the room
is reading all these books ...
Anyway, here’s a Heine poem, in AS Kline's translation:
A single fir-tree, lonely,
on a northern mountain height,
sleeps in a white blanket,
draped in snow and ice.
His dreams are of a palm-tree,
who, far in eastern lands,
weeps, all alone and silent,
among the burning sands.
Is this the love poem of which we speak? Hamburger / Hamburger / Hamburger. To establish “emotional stability,” Tyrell injects Nexus-6 models with memory chips. The nearer the word is to the verb in a sentence, which itself has no fixed place in the sentence, the more emphasis it has. Which is to say that, over the past two centuries, neither high levels of inequality nor the expansion of suffrage caused top marginal rates on the rich to rise. A finger lingers in the warm bread.
The air is partially
Visible, and its structure as frail and interrupted
As the structure of thoughts, or the structure of the sea.
So we looked for pictures of ‘circumcised penis’ on Google Images.
(On the 10th of July of 1969, James Schuyler
Wrote in his diary, “Extraordinary how anything far enough past
Can come to seem like a happy time.”)
Here however Malabou wishes to focus on a different aspect. For her, stem cells provide a way to think about both differentiation and undifferentiated life. Is the “reversibility of cellular differentiation” possible? Can we go back to “a time before difference”? The stakes are clear, as Malabou has also indicated in her recent book, Changing Diffeence: difference itself must be understood as plastic. At the same time, she revisits the problems of the, yes, the) philosophical bias, writing that “Philosophy is woman's tomb. It grants her no place, no space whatsoever”.) Here in the sections on cloning, Malabou is trying to locate how difference operates in both philosophical and biological contexts. Reading the essay I was reminded of the way in which Meillassoux characterizes historical time in After Finitude. Early in that text he introduces the concepts of the “ancestral” and the “arche-fossil.” I always found this part of the argument dissatisfying, to put it mildly. Still, his argument is almost compelling, and I suspect its ultimate value lies in how it introduces into philosophy the very real problem of human extinction. A Tristan chord stacks an augmented fourth, sixth, and ninth above the bass. So yes, the members of the 1921 British Reconnaissance Expedition to Everest (George Mallory was but one of their number, albeit the only one anyone today really remembers), were the first Europeans to set foot in that part of the Himalayas. At that moment, the Himalayas were the greatest of the great unknown mountains, which is why the first expedition party included photographers, geographers and geologists with no real mountaineering experience. Their job was to turn the mountains of the mind into mountains that can be climbed. This hitherto blank space on the map seems to have functioned in a perfectly Lacanian way, acting as an irresistible magnet on the imperial and adventure-minded alike (in the 19th and early 20th century imperialism and adventure went hand in hand — imperialism was the condition for adventure and adventure was the alibi for imperialism). It was like Shel Silverstein’s Big O, I mean,
i threw my 2014 macbook in the river this morning
it was the one thing that could happen
could happen the most
i can’t live without feeling that everyone would one day feel the same
or knowing that they do, there is no way to say
to happen most with what is most happening
the macbook has all the footprints
the trillocene macbook is gone
life is so beautiful i can’t live without saying what its extinction
might have meant to the fullest extent
So the kings came and fought; then fought the kings of Canaan at Taanach near the waters of Megiddo (JUDGES 5:19). Megiddo was of strategic importance because it occupies a valley through which armies could march on their various campaigns. Because of the many history-changing battles fought there, it came to symbolize warfare, struggle and death. But that's about Megiddo; a valley. Where is “Har-Magedon”, which translates as “the mountain of Megiddo” from which we get the word Armageddon, then? The answer is that there is NO such literal place! It does not exist as far as geography is concerned! Then why does the book of Revelation mention it? I mean, I just love the unclean spirits croaking like frogs ribit, ribit, ribit, and the don’t walk around naked admonition ... So what is the difference between eros and thanatos? It appears (to me at least) that they are merging as we speak ... Which is to say no, the Chella Bod is not functional. It’s just for your Instagram followers — and to make it easier for you to thirst trap. I mean, surely there are at least two bands in Brooklyn called Priestdaddy. ‘Violinist’ was a fig cut in half ... ‘Penniless’ was an empty copper outline ... Error! File Name Not Specified! The milk bottles burst like scared chickens. Her father would later cross the Tiber, as ecclesiastical types say, and become a Catholic priest, a devoted viewer of Schwarzenegger flicks. That’s why the poems in Lockwood’s Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals have titles like “The Whole World Gets Together and Gangbangs a Deer” and “The Father and Mother of American Tit-Pics.” The sea, then, is, once again, a theme for our time. Our relationship to the coast is changing. Minnmouth bodes the inshot and ootshot tide: sea rise, coastal inundation,
m reachin oot mm– m inder ite mm–
m headin sooth mm– m widdar storm mm–
m an bit an bit mm– furr th marram mm–
m id awlready be mm– gawn mm– gawn mm– gawn ...
Marram being the well-known sharp-edged grass of the dunes, sometimes known as bents. A note after the sources suggests that this text “may” form part of a larger work that “may” be entitled The Tragedy of Beyoncé Knowles. The protagonist, Jow, lives in the privileged biotope, the ramp leading up to the flaming hoop. Nonetheless, there are reasons to be suspicious of this gesture, which will emerge. Anyway, the plot. “The Café Nero philosophy is really very simple.” A “cowl” is an item of clothing consisting of a long, hooded garment with wide sleeves. (Other grammatical errors occur on 9, 12, 38). This mashup takes several pieces of dialogue and re-orders them: broadly, lines 3277-9 from the second quarto, followed by 3282-3 from the first folio, followed by 2813-27 from the second quarto, followed by 2961-7, followed by 2943-60, and a stage direction not from the second quarto. Also, “Pray you undo this button” has become “Pray you this undo button.” So why are you still apparently carrying that thing in your teeth when you could be carrying it in your hand, or you could have discarded it? Maybe you’re chewing it so it can’t be re-attached? Or maybe you are Lavinia, without any hands? It’s a bilingual book of Yiddish folk songs and poems derived from them. Do you know of Hirschhorn? He is (I think he’s still alive) a medical doctor who invented the rehydration kits for cholera — I’ve heard he saved more lives than almost anyone else in the 20th century. Speaking of which, while Trump was bombing Syria, he was eating Mar-a-Lago chocolate cake, the “most beautiful piece of chocolate cake that you’ve ever seen.” In another dream, a thing the shape of dried pacay or black locust or mimosa seedpod — dull and grayish — has a mouth that mimics a sea lamprey. The seedpod is devouring my willow cactus inside my clover field crib. I think it is only fair to note that neither Siri nor I have no interests in manufacturing Demon Seeds. Everyone in class stares at me confused. The instructor looks concerned. The bridge over the invisible canal shifts and I am now underneath and between a stop on the bridge. Here, there is a little shop with hand-painted recyclable cups and compost-friendly spoons. A sign at its entrance reads: Do Not Take Photos. I order a German sausage and Jamaican coco bread, but a petite Japanese girl won’t serve me. He is my cousin. So he says. I ask questions. He answers vaguely. He’s missing his entire front grill. This must be recent because his gums are bright, raw, and their ridges are newly divorced from incisors and canines. A large number of His creatures were grateful to Him for the favors which He bestowed upon them. I mean, He gave many of them more benefits and gifts in addition to the generous favors He had bestowed upon them earlier, saying: “Your Lord announced: If you are grateful, We shall give you more. So: you cool old ones, We give you more. You rule the night, you Pintos and Chargers and Gremlins and Checkers and Galaxie 500s and Fairlanes and Sables and Rivieras and LeSabres and Eldorados. You flaunt your God-given dents, your rust spots, your mismatched doors, your liberal applications of Bondo, your repairs effected with masking tape — and some of you revel in butch-wax jobs, gleaming like the twilight’s last sigh. And I should know, because I am the Lord.” (Sound effects of a nuclear blast). Explosion splits the boat. Dr. Benway, ship’s doctor, drunkenly added two inches to a four-inch incision with one stroke of his scalpel. “Perhaps the appendix is already out doctor” the nurse said peering dubiously over his shoulder. “I saw a little scar.” “The appendix already out !?” the doctor shouted. “I’m taking the appendix out! What do you think I'm doing here?” “Perhaps the appendix is on the left side doctor,” said the nurse. “That happens sometimes you know.” “Stop breathing down my neck I’m coming to that! Don’t you think I know where an appendix is? I studied appendectomy in 1904 at Harvard.” He threw back his elbows in a movement of exasperation. He lifts the abdominal wall and searches along the incision dropping ashes from his cigarette. “And get me another scalpel! This one has no edge to it.” He thrusts a red fist at her. The doctor reels back and flattens against the wall from the force of the explosion with the bloody scalpel clutched in one hand. The patient slides off the operating table spilling intestines across the floor. Dr. Benway sweeps instruments, cocaine, and morphine into his satchel. “Sew her up!” he said, peeling off his gloves. “I can’t be expected to work under such conditions.” By the dawn’s early light Dr. Benway, carrying his satchel, pushed through the passengers crowded around Lifeboat No. 1. “Are you all right?” he shouted, seating himself among the women.
One jar is filled with wings another with a finger
another has a piece of information
The voices by the time they surface are old
Aspens growing on a hillside share a single root system
And how can you not love a poem called ‘Memoir’ that begins
“Tamales of Sparta rolled global”
If you die last you will hear the will of the earth read aloud by
All this poses a hermeneutical challenge, whose major task appears not so much to be “how do we read the Anthropocene?” but rather “how do we understand this sedimentation process?” Or, differently said, “how can we follow the episodes of the story while — and not just after — the story itself sediments?” Or, to quote Calvino, “Have you ever asked yourselves what the goats on Bikini must have thought? And the cats in bombed houses? And the dogs in war zones? And the fish struck by torpedoes?” The room has pink-flowered wallpaper, lace curtains, a small single bed, a chamber pot, a writing desk with ink and convincingly scribbled-upon paper, six tattered books, a stove, a face-washing basin, a picnic basket, a rocking chair, and a clock forevermore reading 6:05. There is a headless mannequin at the center of the room, cloaked in a white dress, as popular legend stipulates Dickinson only wore white. You wanna rent this space? You can. $100/hr for up to two hours. Though you can’t close the door. And you can’t touch anything — and there is a small, polite rope barring you from approaching the bed. This subversive education is carried out not only through the poem’s corrosive flood of detail but, at the same time, in NU/FZ’s deployment of these details. NU/FZ gives us an unprecedented look into the poem’s flux. Tumultuous shiftings, transformations, disruptions, multiple intersections, fractured mirrorings, mutual containments, eclipses and feedback loops. Everything is a version, an inversion, a revision of something else, an aspect or analysis of something else, “embedded” in or a suppression of something else, overlapping or reemerging from something else. An event might be seen primarily as a “perspective analysis” of one or more prior events and at the same time embedded in or bracketed by them. Nights VIIa and VIIb are treated, at one moment, as alternative narrative perspectives; later, VIIb is embedded in VIIa. Distant events are conterminous and consecutive events are simultaneous; an established sequence of events might turn out to be simultaneous from another perspective and in reverse order from yet another. What is at one juncture seen as a cause will later appear as an effect of what it appeared to have caused. Transformations can as easily be “retroactive” as successive: new information might substantially change not only our understanding of what has preceded but therefore — and this is precisely the causal link these transformations underscore — the character of the event-complex itself, and of the chains of events that depend from it. “[R]e-enactments alter those earlier relationships through a complex process of feedback” (329; Ault’s emphasis). Competing versions of events (eee gee, the two versions of the “war plot” concluding Night I) cause the reader either to suppress differences, to invent overviews that circumvent incommensurability — both Newtonian responses — or to embrace narrative undecidability and a radically perspectual sense of the real. This is, after all, a Dream of Nine Nights, and for Ault the engine driving these narrative condensations and displacements is essentially psychosexual. Blake uses dreamwork strategies to disorient the reader’s habitual relation to the nightmare of single-vision reality itself. So that readers might read themselves awake. The same flux that organizes the narrative defines its characterology. It is in fact difficult to discuss characters and narrative structures in separate terms: events are displacements of characters and characters are condensations — “crystallizations,” in Ault’s recurrent phrase — of events that are perspectives on them. Now characters overlap each other, are projections or returned repressions of each other, arise into the “narrative proper” only through event-contexts. Everything here is context-dependent, but contexts are no more fixed or absolute than what they contain: a context out of which some character arises might later be shown to be a projection by the character it seemed to create. Urizen is not an identity who steps from The Book of Urizen into this poem, nearly if perhaps not fully realized: he is sung into it by Enitharmon in a response to Los. Urizen “begins” not as a character but as a name attached by Enitharmon to an aspect of her own reactive vision. But he does not rest within the fictive frame of her song: Enitharmon “calls Urizen into the narrative proper out of his function as a dialogical operator in her interpolated vision.” She invents him as a fiction of her needs, ergo he exists. But when he is “wrenched out of his interpolated status,” forced into “the narrative proper,” it is as an agent, equipped with a history and identity that influence events not only after he appears but retroactively, as if he had always been there. And Enitharmon is “herself,” “originally,” a projection of Enion, without prior existence but with retrospective force. To quote David Bohm,
We could say that practically all the problems of the human race
are due to the fact that thought is not proprioceptive.
Which is why Franz Kamin used procedures — modeled on topology, general systems theory, meditational processes, and chance operations — together with spontaneous composition to bring about his unique version of proprioceptive process, which he called AUTOSKREELIK, writing about writing about what you’re writing about it. Which is the moment I receive a text from Deb, which reads, “Happy 420. Amen.”
There are porches out back. I want one. What’s it smell like? Porch
green, I mean. Personal green. Not all gardens are leapsome —
The exposed circuitry of green gets rerouted,
and green becomes white walls all the better to see the corners where
Flowers have lips —
Maximus, at Tyre and Boston
that we are only
as we find out we are
Would you like a Unicorn Frappuccino with that?
Now I will tell how Octavia, the spider-web city, is made. There is a precipice between two steep mountains: the city is over the void, bound to the two crest with ropes and chains and catwalks [...] Below there is nothing for hundreds and hundreds of feet [...] This is the foundation of the city: a net which serves as passage and support. All the rest, instead of rising up, is hung below: rope ladders, hammocks, houses made like sacks, clothes hangers, terraces like gondolas, skins of water, gas jets, spits, baskets on strings, dumb-waiters, showers, trapezes and rings for children’s games, cable cars, chandeliers, pots with trailing plants. Suspended over the abyss, the life of Octavia’s inhabitants is less uncertain than in other cities. They know the net will last only so long.
For whatever they have
And whatever you want
Is chalked by hand in white on a 3 x 3 blackboard
With what’s already sold marked out
So get in early
Say 10:55 and no later for lunch than noon
And for night time dinner don’t come at all
Because there isn’t any
That is to say my clothes are exactly like the clothing of every other male. This morning fresh from the shower I stepped into a pair of shorts and drew them up to their proper height while buttoning the lower button. I pulled over my head the standard sleeveless undershirt, tucked it into my shorts and buttoned the top two buttons, Men who are smarter than I am put the shirt on first and draw the shorts up over it. Note that I now probably have on all that propriety demands: shorts and shirt. Note that I have two layers of cloth about my waist, but only one layer about my legs and chest. Note that I have used three buttons. I have gone through nine separate motions to get into this state. And now notice that as I continue dressing I will merely be donning an elongated version of what I already wear. Sby Sca Shu Si Sja Sk ... pyffff ... Poetry doesn’t provide answers. Of course it
does. Or does it, or does it, or doesn’t it? Poetry
works! For everyone! And if you didn’t, would it
matter if you knew you didn’t or did not know
you didn’t? World, person, matter, chunk.
“Inexplicably snubbed at the dog show.” If you
want to know how it was back then, picture a world
without stuffed olives. “One moon appears
everywhere.” Unto this abyss all souls are gathered
to be torn asunder, scattered like soot in a gale —
but upward into this vault of night fly tiny bees
in mighty hordes. “All surrender is tone-deaf.”
And if you didn’t, would it matter if you knew you
didn’t or did not know you didn’t? World, person,
matter, chunk. Loin-words. “Disbelief in bump form.”
That was a sonnet, motherfuckers. Its soul is hairless, it’s as hairy as they come. It was a theory dreamed up during a neon summer. For example, she really wished she wasn’t wearing overall jean shorts when she got her period in the middle of craft time. The fire alarm continues to blare. You are wearing two bathrobes underneath your down jacket. It’s easy to think the poet is the problem but the poet is really just sad or maybe even just nothing & the poet can’t burn down the entire prison or all the prisons and the poet can’t even write a fanonian poem because what would that actually look like? the poet can show up sometimes or not the poet can watch the poet can write, or not because what would the fanonian poem even be — WOULDN’T FANONIAN FORM BE SUCH A GOOD ALBUM NAME? Outside it was summer. Inside it was a fucking mess. I mean, inside it was summer, outside it was a fucking mess. I’m inside of one of the biggest rooms I’ve ever entered. The word “inside” feels inappropriate for this Berlin space, which is the size of a football pitch. A big football pitch. “The barber shop is great, isn’t it? People socialise there, it’s a really important part of Middle Eastern culture and most refugees here are from the Middle East.” Carlo is researching the experience of displaced queers at the moment. “They are in danger of experiencing the same bigotry in some of these communities as they did at home. The same pressures that meant they had to leave might be here as well ...” Remember that old Occupy sign, shit is fucked up and shit? Today is the anniversary of the Warsaw uprising.
[Note: Sources: Murat Nemet-Nejat, “To L.C.”, in The Spiritual Life of Replicants; JBR, letter to Alan Baker, sent 18 Apr 017, approx. 9:00am PDT; Heinrich Heine, “The Palm Tree” (tr. AS Kline), at Poetry in Translation; JBR; Sawako Nakayasu, “(.2.2003)”, in Texture Notes; Murat Nemet-Nejat, “Existence and Essence”, “A Few Thought on Fragment”, in The Spiritual Life of Replicants; JBR; Julia Ott, “Tax the Rich?”, at Public Books, 18 Apr 017 (re Kenneth Scheve and David Stasavage, Taxing the Rich: A History of Fiscal Fairness in the United States and Europe); Purdey Lord Kreiden, “Trakl”, “Roman Prosperity”, “The Infinite Sign”, “Why the Planets Rotate”, in Children of the Bad Hour; Alexander R Galloway, “Malabou’s Life Resistance”, at Alexander R Galloway, 17 Apr 017; Jessica Popeski, “Seven by Three”, quoted in “Tuesday poem #211 : Jessica Popeski : Seven by Three”, at Dusie, 18 Apr 017; JBR; Ian Buchanan, “Becoming Mountain”, at Academia.edu; JBR; Jonty Tiplady, “picture us gone”, email rec’d 18 Apr 017, approx. 7:40am PDT; Jon W. Quinn, “The Battle of Armageddon: The mountain of Megiddo”, at Bradley Church of Christ; JBR; JBR, email to Jonty Tiplady, 18 Apr 017, approx. 8:05am PDT; JBR; Michael Hafford, “F—k Your Chella Bod. I Love Mine As Is and I'm Still Going to Coachella”, at Playboy, 14 Apr 017, quoted in tweet by Jennifer R Bernstein, quoted in Nancy Friedman, “Word of the week: Thirst trap”, at Fritinancy, 17 Apr 017; JBR; James Parker, “Poet on the Edge”, at The Atlantic, May 017 (re Patricia Lockwood); Alec Finlay, “minnmouth”, at Alec Finlay, 10 Apr 017; Robert Kiely, “Commentary on ‘untitled’ in Francis Crot’s The Cuntomatic”, at Academia.edu; Alan Baker, email rec’d 19 Apr 017, approx. 9:21am PDT; JBR, and Donald Trump; Latasha N. Nevada Diggs, “ORS Poetica (now infused with ghee…)”, at Harriet, 18 Apr 017; al-Tabarī, The History of al-Tabarī, vol.1 (tr. and ed. Franz Rosenthal); JBR; Luc Sante, quoted in blurb for Langdon Clay: Cars, NYC 1974-76, quoted in Artbook/D.A.P, “Limited Stock! Langdon Clay: Cars, NYC 1974-76”, email rec’d 20 Apr 017, approx. 8:03am PDT; JBR; Kells Elvins and William S Burroughs, “Twilight’s Last Gleaming”, combining what I found in Nicholas, “A little bit of Bill for your troubles”, at The Place of Dead Roads, 22 Aug 05, with a YouTube performance of the piece by WSB; Claire Marie Stancek, “Honey”, at Typo 22; blurb for Imperceptibly and Slowly Opening (ed. Caroline Picard), at SPD; Kit Robinson, and James Sherry, quoted in Robinson’s blurb for Sherry’s Entangled Bank, at SPD; Dot Devota, “Gene”, in And the Girls Worried Terribly; Italo Calvino, quoted in Serenella Iovino, “Sedimenting Stories: Italo Calvino and the Extraordinary Strata of the Anthropocene”, at Academia.edu; Anya Jaremko-Greenwold, “An Hour Renting Emily Dickinson’s Bedroom Where She Wrote Her Entire Life’s Work”, at Jezebel, 19 Apr 017 (for Alan Baker); Paul Mann, “Donald Ault, Narrative Unbound: Re-Visioning William Blake’s The Four Zoas. Barrytown, NY: Station Hill Press, 1987. xxvi + 518 pp. $37.50 cloth/$14.95 paper”, at Blake, vol.23 no.2; JBR; David Bohm, and George Quasha, quoted in Quasha’s “Poetry in Principle”, at Harriet, 20 Apr 017; JBR, and Deb Rissman; Shira Dentz, “-TUDE”, in Black Seeds on a White Dish; JBR; Charles Olson, The Maximus Poems; JBR (Starbucks sells (sold) them (it was a promotion...)); Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities (tr. William Weaver), quoted in Serenella Iovino, “Sedimenting Stories: Italo Calvino and the Extraordinary Strata of the Anthropocene”, at Academia.edu; Bern Porter, “Barbara’s Belfast”, “Clothes”, back cover blurb, in Sounds That Arouse Me: Selected Writings; Lisa Jeschke, “Manning”, “Love, XXX”, in Dead Cheap; Tom Jenks, Streak Artefacts; Christian Bök, “Colony Collapse Disorder 21. On the Plight of the Swarm”, in The Xenotext Book 1; Bruce Andrews, “Mob”, in Designated Heartbeat; Lisa Jeschke, “Manning”, “Love, XXX”, in Dead Cheap; Bruce Andrews, “Mob”, in Designated Heartbeat; JBR; Chairil Anwar, “A Story”, in The Voice of the Night (tr. Burton Raffel); Stephanie Chou, “Keep Away from Things That Can Catch Fire”, at BOMB, 21 Apr 017; Andrea Abi-Karam, The Aftermath, at Commune Editions; JBR; Philip Davenport, “We came with no name, but we leave as kings. Pt 1”, at Arthur + Maria, 21 Apr 017; JBR]