I could hear the radio blaring “I’ll see you in the funny papers some old day, so long, my honey, so long ...” So yes, there is indeed a common, coherent and justifiable set of humanist objections to the type of concepts created by Deleuze and Guattari: it is all very well to celebrate nomadology unless you actually happen to be a stateless person; it is all very well to champion the schizo unless you have lived schizophrenia; and it is suspiciously timely to advocate becoming-woman on the way to becoming-imperceptible precisely at that moment that real women are claiming subjectivity for themselves. Which is to say that at Jebel Hafeet the coral has formed an immense natural totem. And that the pink of the rock meets its hue in the glowing tail of the receding sun. And that hundreds of creatures, a mass of butterflies, thrive around caves at the base, where a hot water spring pools out in the horizon. And that mountain felines convene around commercial food sources. As day pulls away, electricity announces its dominion, and the landscape, the distance, becomes a transitory circuit board. Do you know what Jebel Hafeet means? The Empty Mountain. So yes, and no: all faces envelop an unknown, unexplored landscape; all landscapes are populated by a loved or dreamed-of face, develop a face to come or already past. What face has not called upon the landscapes it amalgamated, sea and hill; what landscape has not evoked the face that would have completed it, providing an unexpected complement for its lines and traits? Even when painting becomes abstract, all it does is rediscover the black hole and white wall, the great composition of the white canvas and black slash. Are we talking here about what Lawrence Gross calls, re the colonization and world-destruction of the Anishinaabeg, ‘postapocalypse stress syndrome’? What we still don’t know will maybe kill us in forever and a week, and yet and yet, my chic LA aura beam will still be lambent if we are ever here again. How quiet the night air, how mutilated the still small voice of calm. What’s more, those pulses of carbon dioxide corresponded to seismic events, as the Earth moves and gases are released. Sparkle sparkle time. On the front is a leaf from a Beatus Manuscript: “at the Clarion of the Fifth Angel's Trumpet, a Star Falls from the Sky; the Bottomless Pit is Opened with a Key; Emerging from the Smoke, Locusts Come Upon the Earth and Torment the Deathless”. Ca 1180. Spanish. Tempera, gold, and ink on parchment. And inside is “Angel Applicant” by Paul Klee. Gouache, ink, and graphite on paper mounted on cardboard.
This is not to say the war will win.
But if the frame fits, wear it.
The tire speaks of wounded roads, people who are people in roads, and
Frank Jackson’s Mary is indeed a brilliant scientist who is, for whatever reason, forced to investigate the world from a black and white room via a black and white television monitor. She specialises in the neurophysiology of vision and acquires, let us suppose, all the physical information there is to obtain about what goes on when we see ripe tomatoes, or the sky, and use terms like ‘red’, ‘blue’, and so on. She discovers, for example, just which wave-length combinations from the sky stimulate the retina, and exactly how this produces via the central nervous system the contraction of the vocal chords and expulsion of air from the lungs that results in the uttering of the sentence ‘The sky is blue’. Now, however, she crosses the threshold of the odourless black and white room — after a teetotal lifetime nourished on tasteless pap. She passes gracefully into a well-lit white windowless room containing a black table. It’s quite a moment. The first thing she sees is a large Bloody Mary on the table. She picks it up and drinks it down. According to Galen Strawson, Mary’s existence until now has been painless. I don’t know why he makes this assumption. Nevertheless, we too hope that this will continue to be the case. We spare her William James’s toothache, and grant her a vision of his cloudless sky. Many have made the point. Russell made it in 1927: it is obvious that a man who can see knows things which a blind man cannot know; but a blind man can know the whole of physics. Thus the knowledge which other men have and he has not is not a part of physics. It’s a one-sentence point, or at best a one-paragraph point, a point to be made in passing, a starting datum. So of course it would not have been difficult to acquire the materials to make the suit, if the company did not already have one in the property cupboard. Bearbaiting pits often doubled as venues for early plays, and several of the public theatres were clustered around the Beargarden on Bankside; a bearskin, even if somewhat damaged, could have been acquired and recycled for stage purposes as easily as the elements of earlier romances were recycled to make the original story. It must have been a bulky item to store, all the same, and once acquired, was crying out for good uses. More bears accordingly began to appear on the Elizabethan stage. Some twenty years later, Shakespeare combined a story of a queen falsely accused of adultery with a bear that chases and, offstage, eats the guardian of her baby at the moment when he abandons it in the wilds. The bearsuit, if it was the same one, was likely in terrible shape by that time. The Winter’s Tale was its last new appearance. It is appropriate that the stage direction for its bear should be not an entrance, but ‘Exit, pursued by a bear’. So when did you start drawing? Probably when I was an infant. My parents met at the Art Institute of Chicago as students, and somewhere in there they procreated off to the side and created me. My mother’s line was always, “I met him, and I said, ‘If you’ll stretch my canvases I’ll clean your brushes.’” Going to the Art Institute was like going to church. We went there for our religious education. We sort of memorized paintings the way other kids memorized Bible verses. We had to know what was in the right quadrant. My father, by the way, was a great man. He was one of the great people. He taught me stealth drawing. We would get on the L train and he would take out his sketchbook, I would take out mine and we would find a person and ... When did you contract West Nile virus? I was a single parent at the time and I was trying to support my daughter so I was working at night and taking care of her during the day. When she was six or seven years old, I was bitten by a mosquito, and within three weeks I was completely paralyzed from the waist down and I lost the use of my right hand for some time. Have you always used storytelling in your life? When I was a child I had this severe disability, so I was the kid in the playground who wasn’t running. I had a spinal curvature, some amount of hunchback, two different lengths of leg, but I learned — and this is what’s so interesting about the world — I learned the telling horror and ghost stories would get a crowd of ten kids around me. So I was not alone. I learned how not to be alone in the playground. They would all show up for the next installment — of course I would always leave it hanging anywhere I could, so I could be assured that the next installment would be something they were looking forward to, because I didn’t want to be alone. Why draw the protagonist Karen as a werewolf? I drew her the way I saw myself, the way I felt I was. I drew her the way I wanted to be. My mother was very, very beautiful, and I saw that the beautiful women around me were often constrained not only by their beauty but by the way that being an object of male desire frequently caused violence in their lives. And it caused them — it causes them — to be constrained in these terribly sad ways ... So, and the second book really does deal with this, I didn’t ever want to be a woman. I mean, it just did not look like a good thing, nor did being a man, because they were being victimized by the same system. It didn’t give them much more latitude than they gave women, in many ways. They were being constrained to behave in these ways that weren’t authentic and didn’t allow them to realize their full personhood, either. Being a monster seemed like the absolute best solution. Who would you say influenced you? Goya, and Daumier, and then when I was about eight years old my grandmother in New Mexico began sending me the Collier’s Illustrated Dickens, and if I read one she would send me another. They were big and fat and thick and had these beautiful illustrations, beautiful engravings. I just wanted that experience: to write stories where the drawings were that articulated and atmospheric. Any contemporary cartoonists? Well, I got to meet Art Spiegelman. I sat down at a bench at the Miami Book Fair and I’m looking at this guy who’s sitting across from me. He introduces himself and says his name is Dean Haspiel and I said, “Oh, okay,” and shook his hand. I felt like people were looking at me and thinking, “Oh, a little old lady, what did she write?” I’m sure that’s what people thought. And I have crumbs on my face from the empanadas and am totally a train wreck and he says, “What did you write?” And I said, “I wrote this book,” and he looks at me, with this blinking face, like he was trying to put me together with this book. And then he turns to this guy next to him — he doesn’t even say anything to me — and he whispers to this guy, and that guy turns around and looks at me with the same expression, mouth open, blink blink, and that guy puts his hand out and says, “I’m Charlie, I work at Adams, I think you want to meet somebody.” So Charlie turns to this other guy, this guy looks like some kind of very distinguished member of the intelligentsia of Weimar Berlin. He’s vaping in this very elegant way. And Charlie says something to him, and then this weird thing happens. He just reaches across the table and grabs my hand and says, “I’m Art Spiegelman and I loved your book,” and then I started crying like a big dumb baby. It was absolutely the craziest thing. But take another Abraham. One who wanted to perform the sacrifice altogether in the right way and had a correct sense in general of the whole affair, but could not believe that he was the one meant, he, an ugly old man, and the dirty youngster that was his child. True faith is not lacking to him, he has this faith; he would make the sacrifice in the right spirit if only he could believe he was the one meant. He is afraid that after starting out as Abraham with his son he would change on the way into Don Quixote. The world would have been enraged at the other Abraham could it have beheld him at the time, but this one is afraid that the world would laugh itself to death at the sight of him. However, it is not the ridiculousness as such that he is afraid of — though he is, of course, afraid of that too and, above all, of his joining in the laughter — but in the main he is afraid that this ridiculousness will make him even older and uglier, his son even dirtier, even more unworthy of being really called. An Abraham who should come unsummoned! It is as if, at the end of the year, when the best student was solemnly about to receive a prize, the worst student rose in the expectant stillness and came forward from his dirty desk in the last row because he had made a mistake of hearing, and the whole class burst out laughing ... This Abraham serves as a model for what I am calling the misinterpellated subject. He is either totally unexpected or a pawn for the interplay between the powerful and the desired; he is a bystander at best, an unwanted intruder at worst. My interest in this parable lies not so much in the intention of the caller, however — that is, in terms of whom God meant to call — and much more with what happens to this subject when she or he actually shows up. What does this subject do at this point (after what must be a highly awkward pause)? Does he also attempt to sacrifice his son? Would God show him the same mercy that was shown to the intended Abraham? Most critically, what happens if — no, when — all the hope and faith this Abraham experiences when he hears the call conflict with his discovery that he was never the subject of the call in the first place? Well, my mother has a tendency to dream out loud. In the quiet darkness of her bedroom her third eye opens onto a new world, a beautiful light-filled place as peaceful as her state of mind. But her other two eyes never let her forget where we lived. The cops, dealers, social workers, the rusty tapwater, roaches and rodents, the piss-scented hallways, and the piles of garbage were constant reminders that our world began and ended in a battered apartment on 157th and Amsterdam. Yet she would not allow us to live as victims. Instead, we were a family of caretakers who had inherited this earth. We were expected to help any living creature in need, even if that meant giving up our last piece of bread. Strange, needy people always passed through our house, occasionally staying for long stretches of time. We were expected to stand apart from the crowd and befriend them, the misfits, the kids who stuttered, smelled bad, or had holes in their clothes. My mother taught us that the Marvelous was free — in the patterns of a stray bird feather, in a Hudson River sunset, in the view from our fire escape, in the stories she told us, in the way she sang Gershwin’s “Summertime,” in a curbside rainbow created by the alchemy of motor oil and water from an open hydrant. She simply wanted us to live through our third eyes, to see life as possibility. She wasn’t talking about a postmortem world, some kind of heaven or afterlife; and she was not speaking of reincarnation (which she believes in, by the way). She dreamed of land, a spacious house, fresh air, organic food, and endless meadows without boundaries, free of evil and violence, free of toxins and environmental hazards, free of poverty, racism, and sexism ... just free. She never talked about how we might create such a world, nor had she connected her vision to any political ideology. The idea that we could possibly go somewhere that exists only in our imaginations — that is, “nowhere” — is the classic definition of utopia. So call me utopian, now. For maybe two hours a week.
If you are on water, get to shore and off wide open beaches.
If you are on land, I don’t know what to say.
Why didn’t you do your homework on the mothership?
No green no pigs no rabbits.
Hi-def pie chart.
Why do I say you when I mean me?
Do I mean me?
Let us now leave tragedy and move to foolishness.
Let us now leave foolishness for pin pin pin pin pin pin
wire, at the wrist, the Hey
plan gar tine
in on or is as
full are am end
cam cap do ohm
marls pays loops watts
the light from the flash doesn’t even escape the inner-inner wall, if the light from the flash even cut out through one pore it would not be the inner-inner wall it would be only the inner wall, and so far inside, deeply inside, as that flash is, it is compressed into a bang, which can be heard faintly outside that wall and outside another wall still, it is only the sound of the bang that the light from the picture has become by the time it shakes through the walls, that faint vibration you can hear if you’re standing outside, if you're standing right beside the exact place, voice fute hiding behind inward croak closed open (ord.) tilted away nothing sustained glottal tone * (read pitch info as if tablature for this section) * = 80 ø ordinaro air channel at niente loose embouchure ordinaro air channel tight embouchure ordinaro air channel soft falsetto tight embouchure falsetto chest voice on vowel an inhale vocalized in the chest inward croak with overtones inward croak nothing mf tight embouchure ordinaro air channel inward croak with overtones =104 208 52 416 ø ordinaro air channel at niente falsetto + :07 + :30 08:53 08:53 08:53 08:10 on (yllw frnt) on (2) = 65 tight embouchure falsetto inward croak p dead but basically audible ppp p not even ok i guess a little ah mm ah 3 + mu fe o L R L R lights electronic sound projector 1 + 2 + as loud as possible of of 09:57 09:57 09:36 voice fute closed open (ord.) tilted away 26 13 sustained glottal tone sustained glottal tone inward croak nothing sustained glottal tone * (read pitch info as if tablature for this section) * = 91 ø ordinaro air channel at niente loose embouchure ordinaro air channel tight embouchure ordinaro air channel soft falsetto tight embouchure falsetto chest voice on vowel an inhale vocalized in the chest inward croak with overtones inward croak nothing n 91 14 = + mu fe o L R L R 3 2 1 ppp mp ppp highest lowest vlvz pitch (embouchure) f ff pp mf ff 121 66 88 121 55 110 88 55 ff pp mf ff ppp f mp ppp 55 110 88 55 55 110 88 55 10:54 10:54 11:33 I SAID, THE LOUDER MY VOICE THE DEEPER THEY BURY ME! Free all political prisoners, prisoners of war, prisoner of consciousness. 12:50 (when you can’t hear it) on (2) 00:00 00:00 00:00 + 1” when you hear it + 2” + 2” + 2” + 3” + 3” + 4” + 5” + 5” + 5” + 6” +6” + 6” + 3” + 4” + 4” + 7” + 7” + 7” + 8” + 8” + 8” + 9” + 9” + 10” + 11” + 11” + 11” + 9” + 10” + 10” + 0” +0” + 0 + 1” + 1” tchi edyvrom omg vrdyiecht htecyird mv o vod mir cyteh ehy trc miodv dviocm trhye yerhm tocvid id cvtoh mery reset f f f + 1” + 2” + 2” + 2” + 3” + 3” + 3” + 4” + 4” + 4” + 5” + 5” + 5” + 6” + 6” + 6” + 7” + 7” + 7” + 8” + 8” - 8 - lights electronic sound projector 1 + 2 zac + alex carman LOUD QUIET niente as loud as possible at position 02:40 of 02:40 02:40 04:25 04:25 04:25 + 8” + 9” + 9” + 4” + 4” + 4” + 5” + 5” + 5” + 6” + 6” + 6” + 7” + 7” + 7” + 8” + 9” + 8” + 8” + 9” + 10” + 9” + 9” + 10” + 10” + 10” + 11” + 11” + 11” + 0” + 0” + 0” + 1” + 1” + 1” + 2” + 2” + 2” + 3” + 3” + 3” reset rymeoh vtdci cit dhv eoymr mroyved hitc tchi edyvrom omg vrdyiecht htecyird mv o vod mir cyteh ehy trc miodv + 10” + 4” + 4” + 4” + 5” + 11” + 11” + 11” + 0” + 0” + 0” + 1” + 1” + 1” + 2” + 2” + 2” + 3” + 3” + 3” + 10” reset — 9 — at that point , the book reproduces the unique “Paysage Fautif” (1946) from the Museum of Modern Art in Toyama, Japan, which consists of seminal fluid on black satin. It was included in a deluxe edition of “Boîte-en-valise” that Duchamp gave to Maria Martins, his lover and the body model for the nude figure in “Étant donnés: 1° la chute d’eau / 2° le gaz d’éclairage” (1946–66). A genetic test in 1989 confirmed that the semen in this piece is indeed his. Thus the claim that I exist is certain, though not necessary. Finally, Leibniz connects distortion or perspective with existence in space. Our direct, non-spatial access to our self either means that it is not perceived in space because it is particularly clear, or it is particularly clear because it is not perceived in space. When Leibniz talks about innate ideas and self-reflection, though, he usually intends those ideas which come a priori through the understanding, as, for example, the idea of a triangle.
Which bringeth forth bread
from the earth, etc.
“A streak of lights appeared like a phosphorescent worm, etc.”
The signpost is blue like in Germany.
Of course, if a thing changes
it still remains what it was first.
Before our eyes a gas station appears.
Like a hot bath.
Like a bowl of chopped meat.
Likewise: keep it moving!
Don’t bother me
[lit. don’t throw a hook around my nose]!
[lit. a wallop or a toot]
[lit. stuffed in dead birds]
[lit. “do me a favor & don’t do me any favors !”]
World without world going without end without us
and with us so very far, until the untyll
Very far from peace pepsi and not far from rip pimp c. The machine:
the rest is history:
In this scene will be described, by means of a technique still to be established — perhaps with a photographic trick, etc. — the ‘abduction to the third heaven’ of Paul. Probably a vision of a dream: reappearance of a childhood place, with plants, birds, insects, water and with mounds of earth shaped like them: a humble realistic ‘terrestrial paradise’. Each effigy mound, burial site or pyramid he sees took many hundreds of years and many generations of people to create. The ancestors were people who loved the sky and creatures of the world so deeply that they expressed their care over time and space, using their own hands to carry baskets of clay from riverbanks to make mounds and pyramids, some white clay on one side, red on the other. With an extraordinary knowledge of geometry, this world has been shaped into the forms of frog and turtle and even the water spider in one region, all animals who dwell in two elements, land and water. The habitation of more than one realm is significant here. In other locations he sees mounds shaped as birds with smaller birds flying beneath the wings of the larger. He sees bear mound effigies which have been created not far from the mountain lion and deer. Important here is the realization that no species has gone unnoticed. Important also is the revelation that these mounds are still felt sites of living power. These places of special energy on the reveal an evolved consciousness at work in their creation, the accumulation of knowledge, spirituality and myth we do not often recollect because the history of this place has transpired as a progressive loss of such qualities. The final realization is that there are cosmic worlds on all continents that are yet to be revealed and that are perhaps best kept in secret since many of these have unfortunately been discovered as forests and other life-preserving environments have been destroyed. So sometimes I’ll bump into a chair and I’ll say “Excuse me.” I’ll go for a walk and I’ll stare at a tree, the way it’s silhouetted, and I feel such a connection to it, as though its roots grow out of my feet and its branches are my arms rising to the sky. Other times, when I’m so into the tasks I need to do, I become oblivious ... to the sky, the trees, the sea otters, the whales, and whatever is out there in the sea. I have to bring myself back, and as soon as I put my attention on a little leaf or on the way the waves are coming in ... It’s a constant struggle for me to bring myself back to connecting with things. But the connections are there, the signs I read in the environment — if a snake crosses my path when I’m walking across Lighthouse Field, it means something to me. I’ll look at that tree silhouetted by the sun, and its design says something to me, to my soul, which I then have to decipher. We get these messages ... from whatever you want to call the intelligence of the universe. It’s constantly speaking to us ... to both outer ear and inner ear. This is the spiritual dimension of “la mano zurda” ... “el mundo zurdo” ... which is to say that the third heaven is a complicated place. I think of the throne James Hampton constructed for its Nations’ Millennium General Assembly, which I’ve seen. He hand-crafted many of the elements from cardboard and plastic, but added found objects from his neighborhood, such as old furniture and jelly jars, and discards like light bulbs from the federal office buildings in which he worked. Hampton selected shimmering metallic foils, purple paper (now faded to tan), so yes, there are compelling reasons to question the use of natural gas (eye eee methane), given the risks it poses to human health. Atmospheric methane is an extremely potent climate change gas, 86 times more potent than CO2 over its first 20 years. As such, it contributes to the host of threats to health known to be associated with climate change here and around the world. These include heat waves; the spread of diseases carried by insects and other vectors, such as West Nile disease, malaria, and Lyme; intense hurricanes, storms, and sea level rise; flooding; droughts; wildfires; and decreased crop yields. Methane leakage into the atmosphere is a problem whose magnitude is now being reassessed. The cumulative impact of this leakage may overwhelm the apparent advantage of burning gas instead of coal. If we pass the 2°C tipping point, much of the world’s permafrost will melt. The result: vast amounts of carbon dioxide and methane will be released, accelerating even greater climate change; more parts of the world would reach unlivable temperatures. I probably should replace would with will. I probably should pick up my viola while the world burns. I can screech out some high notes, then bounce the bow behind the bridge. I can sound like a cat orchestra, like a cat
with a hard-on
caught in a bear-trap
to quote an old poem. OK that was good. I’m back. For all those years I was working on an uncompletable book, which I conceived as the lost Critique treating not aesthetics but ‘gelastics’: experience not of the beautiful but of the funny. I made up a whole symbolic system, a ‘formal gelastics’ ... We cannot engage in such a study here, but a brief survey of a few jokes, from vastly different times and places, may help us to illustrate the distinctions made so far. To this end, it will help to introduce a bit of formal-gelastical notation:
- Let ‘!’ signify the point in a joke at which the strained expectation finally snaps.
- Let ‘⇓’, ‘=>’, and ‘⇑’ signify the direction in the hierarchy of value in which one is hurled as a result of this snapping.
- Finally, let ‘∫/’ signify the superiority relation.
Let us consider the primate proto-joke with which we began. It seems it may be analysed as follows:
Edible !⇓ inedible
Thus, with respect to its formal structure, the chimpanzee's gesture counts as a joke because it contrasts two incongruous categories, sending us plummeting downward from the relatively lofty category of ‘food’ into the lowly category of useless, inedible stones. The superiority at work in the joke occurs at a different level, as a relation between the primatologist and the primate. Often, the plunge downward is less clear, as in this classic Soviet ‘Vovochka’ joke:
Schoolteacher: Vovochka, why are you throwing spit-wads in class?
Vovochka: I’m a class enemy!
What we seem to have, with respect to incongruity, is something like this:
School prank (harmless) !⇓ political treason (serious),
while with respect to superiority, the exaltation of the adolescent antihero over establishment norms is clear:
Vovochka-∫ /class/teacher/political order.
Let us consider another Soviet joke, this time of the Jewish subvariety:
Census-taker: ‘Does Rabinovich live here?’
Rabinovich: ‘I dunno. You call this living?’
It seems that here what we have is motion from a less exalted notion of life to a more exalted one, as also an expression of the superiority of those who have remembered the more exalted notion over the soul-less bureaucrats who believe living just is habitation. Thus:
Living as habitation !⇑ Living as thriving
The irrascible soul-∫ /the soulless bureaucrat.
Or how about this joke from the ancient Greek joke book that has come to be called the Philogelos [Laughter Lover]:
Barber: How would you like your hair cut?
Customer: In silence!
Here what we have is a distinctly philosophical joke, one that trades on the plurivocity of that innocuous word ‘how’:
One meaning of ‘how’ !=> another meaning of ‘how’,
and also, of course, an amusing instance of a haughty fellow abusing someone of a lower social station:
What, now, of Kant's joke? How is it to be analysed? With respect to superiority, it is clear enough: we have both the superiority of the worldly Englishman over the naive Indian, as well, it seems, as the superiority of the reader over Kant himself, in view of Kant’s miserable choice of jokes. But what about the incongruity? Is it simply this:
Foam expanding !⇓ Foam contracting ?
Is it, to speak in contemporary terms, that the Indian has grasped the thermodynamic character of the universe, and is picking out an apparent instance of its violation? If so, then might it not be the Indian who deserves to gloat in his superiority, and not the Englishman? I have no idea. I don’t understand the joke, and surely would have been left sitting stone-faced and awkward in the Königsberg parlor where it once had the local sage ROFL laughing. So the coordinator gave me the contact number for the Deacon who was in charge of Jail Ministry so I called him and arrived one Saturday at the jail where I met the two female Saint-Volunteers who had been going there for eons. It was the most medieval, scary, primitive, and ghoulish building in the universe — the old jail; the kind of building that is so incorrect that it shames animal abusers who run questionable puppy mills. For your information, I am hardly ever scared of anything having survived the burning Ghats of Benares; having survived hitchhiking in Spain with a female friend after the running of the bulls in Pamplona avoiding gang rape only by visibly fingering my Virgin Mary medallion that hung around my neck; having survived, at 21, finding a place to live after travelling alone on a train from Paris to Florence, sleeping on my pocketbook; having survived anorexia and shrinking from 145 to 80 pounds, growing feral hair and completely messing up my period forever; having survived Dystonia and the 4 times a year needles filled with Botox (rat poison?) injected into my trembling neck. I tell you these horror stories to prove to you that when I say the old jail was beyond the worst fetid spot in the Ganges where tortoises are known to eat half-cremated bodies, you know this jail was really bad and realy WRONG; it housed cells that were dark with centuries of women’s tears and menstrual blood, dark with DNA flying in the air ... Let me try to describe it to you. Not designed for privacy there was one big, barred and open room, housing about 12 women, with that many bunk beds and a small, open room to the side with a stinky toilet. I am so distressed remembering the room that I can’t remember if the bathroom had a door or not. Too freaked to be clear. I think it didn’t. The women seemed to be in serial, horror movie mode; seemingly mad, disheveled, noisy, demonically angry and shouting /talking over each other. Was their hair matted? I think yes. Which for some reason makes me think of Su Hui, who, in the fourth century, embroidered a silk for her distant husband consisting of a grid of 840 characters, not counting the central one, xin [which translates as ‘heart’]. No one has ever fully explored all of its possibilities, but it is estimated that the poem — and the poems within the poem — may be read as many as three thousand or twelve thousand ways. Su Hui herself said, “As it lingers aimlessly, twisting and turning, it takes on a pattern of its own. No one but my beloved can be sure of comprehending it.”
[Note: Sources: JBR (the song is Janis Joplin, “Bye Bye Baby” (concert version)); Claire Colebrook, “Humanist Posthumanism, Becoming-Woman and the Powers of the ‘Faux’”, at Academia.edu; JBR; Fari Bradley, “Jebel Hafeet Mountain - جبل حفيت”, at Fari Bradley, Sept 016; JBR; Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (tr. Brian Massumi), quoted in Claire Colebrook, “Humanist Posthumanism, Becoming-Woman and the Powers of the ‘Faux’”, at Academia.edu; JBR, but see Lawrence W Gross, Anishinaabe Ways of Knowing and Being; Jonty Tiplady, “The Tomb of Shakespeare”, in Haribo Ozymandias: A Serial Adventure: Season 4; Issa; my chic ... calm: Jonty Tiplady, “The Tomb of Shakespeare”, in Haribo Ozymandias: A Serial Adventure: Season 4; Geoff Manaugh, “Tree Rings and Seismic Swarms”, at BLDGBLOG, 18 Feb 017; Allen Bramhall, “Their Best Poem Is Determined By Website”, in Bleak Like Me; Eileen Tabios, “It Keeps Resurrecting Itself”, at Eileen Verbs Books, 19 Feb 017; Allen Bramhall, “Robert Creeley With The Time To Plant A Rose”, “If The Frame Fits, Wear It”, “Navajo Creation Story In Pictures”, “It Is Black Or Grey In Colour”, in Bleak Like Me; Galen Strawson, “The Mary-go-round”, at Academia.edu; JBR; Galen Strawson, “The Mary-go-round”, at Academia.edu; JBR; Helen Cooper, The English Romance in Time; Sam Thielman, and Emil Ferris, quotted in Thielman’s “Emil Ferris: ‘I didn’t want to be a woman – being a monster was the best solution’”, at The Guardian, 20 Feb 017; Franz Kafka, and James R. Martel, quoted in Martel’s The Misinterpellated Subject; JBR; Robin DG Kelley, Freedom Dreams: The Black Radical Imagination, quoted in Jackie Wang, “Poetry, therefore, is not what we simply recognize as the formal ‘poem,’ but a revolt: a scream in the night, an emancipation of language and old ways of thinking”, at Giulia Tofana the Apothecary, 20 Feb 017; JBR; Ian Heames, Sonnets, July 016; Tom Raworth, “Sea Level”, “Hope’s Executioner”, “High Dependency”, in Average Cabin; JBR; “Tuesday poem #203 : Sara Renee Marshall : As Flight or Equinox”, at Dusie, 12 Feb 017; JBR; Clark Coolidge, Space, at EPC; Quinn Dougherty, SECOND SKULL performance version 1.0 September 2015, at Gauss PDF; JBR; Joseph Nechvatal, “From Seminal Fluid to Sassy Scribbles: The ‘Non-Art’ Works of Marcel Duchamp”, at Hyperallergic, 21 Feb 017; Franklin Perkins, LEIBNIZ AND CHINA: A commerce of light; Ariel Resnikoff, quoted in Jerome Rothenberg, “Ariel Resnikoff: from the ‘yinglossia’ series, a work in progress”, at Poems and Poetics, 7 Feb 017; Pier Paolo Pasolini, “Tarsus, From a Distance”, quoted in Elizabeth A. Castelli, “Introduction: Translating Pasolini Translating Paul”, in Pasolini’s Saint Paul: A Screenplay; Ariel Resnikoff, quoted in Jerome Rothenberg, “Ariel Resnikoff: from the ‘yinglossia’ series, a work in progress”, at Poems and Poetics, 7 Feb 017; Jonty Tiplady, “Angel of Yo”; Pier Paolo Pasolini, Saint Paul: A Screenplay (tr. Elizabeth A. Castelli); Linda Hogan, “We call it tradition”, in The Handbook of Contemporary Animism (ed. Graham Harvey); JBR; Gloria E. Anzaldúa, “Spirituality, Sexuality, and the Body: An Interview with Linda Smuckler”, and epigraph to entire volume, in The Gloria Anzaldúa Reader (ed. AnaLouise Keating); JBR; blurb for James Hampton’s The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations’ Millennium General Assembly, at Smithsonian American Art Museum, Renwick Gallery; JBR; Barbara Gottlieb, with Larysa Dyrszka, Too Dirty, Too Dangerous: Why Health Professionals Reject Natural Gas: A Report from Physicians for Social Responsibility, at Physicians for Social Responsibility; JBR; Ralph Dumain, “Albert Ayler”, at Autodidact Project; JBR; Justin Erik Halldór Smith, “The Death of Gelastics”, at Justin Erik Halldór Smith, 19 Feb 017; JBR; Linda Mary Montano, as transcribed by Sophie Strand, “Do You Vant to Go to Jail...Linda Mary Montano”, at Linda Mary Montano, 18 Feb 017; JBR; blurb for Michèle Métail, Wild Geese Returning: Chinese Reversible Poems (tr. Jody Gladding), at New York Review Books (with a few touches from “Sui Hui’s Star Gauge” at Wikipedia thrown in)]