Meanwhile, back at The Verein zur Förderung von Kunst und Kultur am Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz e.V., there’s a Warren Neidich show. His Afterimage Paintings (2016) consist of red neon sculptures that spell out Bertolt Brecht, Hanns Eisler and Lion Feuchtwanger, all of whom were blacklisted in Hollywood as communists and none of whom, unlike Donald Trump (who did what, exactly?) have been granted stars on Hollywood Boulevard. Neidich remedies this by activating complementary-colored afterimages which are then projected upon empty painted stars mimicking those found on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. In the Archive of False Accusations (2016), first exhibited at Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions, vitrines illuminated by lavender neon light display found press clippings reporting on what has become known as The Lavender Scare — a less well-known facet of The Joseph McCarthy Psychopath Years. In a second room a large 3D cloudlike sculpture is installed called Pizzagate — thank you Alex Jones — named after the infamous conspiracy tale believed only by millions of idiots culminating in sniper Edgar Welch wanting to rescue the supposed sexually abused children he believed to be held in the basement of the Comet Ping Pong pizza parlour. Pizzagate exposes the apparatuses and patterns of flow and connectivity that generate Fake News (when was there any other kind?) and defines click bait as well as understanding that in cognitive capitalism one new-old site of governmentalization is the so-called attention economy. This piece perpetuates what I call the Bifo-error, which conflates our tendency to believe what we want to be true with the brain’s neural plasticity, especially that found in the frontal cortex where attention and working memory are located. But Neidich means well. Speaking of Trump, his star’s been vandalized a second time now. Hopefully this won’t be the last. Bright moments! Bright moments! Here is a summary of our election coverage this morning:
- Emmanuel Macron has come under fire for celebrating his first-round result with his staff, inner circle and a few celebrity friends in a Paris brasserie, La Rotunde, on Sunday night. Marine Le Pen tried to capitalise on the criticism saying she was “the candidate of the people”.
- Le Pen hit the campaign trail hard on Monday morning and took every opportunity to criticise her rival, calling him “weak” on Islamist terrorism.
- Support for Macron has flooded in from political leaders across Europe, including Angela Merkel’s spokesperson in Germany and the Labour party in the UK. Theresa May’s Conservative party have refused to back any candidate.
- The first opinion poll since the first round of the French presidential election has centrist candidate Macron beating the far-right candidate Le Pen in the second round by 61% to 39%.
- The French stock market surged as investors welcomed last night’s election results. The CAC 40, which contains the largest French companies, jumped by 4% at the start of trading to its highest level since April 2015.
Bright moments! Bright moments! When I’m reincarnated, I’m gonna come back as a musical note! That way can’t nobody capture me. They can use the hell out of me but ain’t nothin’ too much they can do to me. Clickety clack ... clickety clack ... I’m sure the fuck not coming back as a human. But I guess you can get used to anything. I’ve got a meet with them tomorrow .... in the nonexistent basement of Comet Ping Pong, where else?
could be it’s trouble
could be could be
dis place is maybe crazy
vot am I doink here
(can’t face the mirror without crying)
& the iggle
“hey heya heya” but translates it
as “yuh-buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-buh” etc.
(he says) vot em I doink here
yuh-buh-
(his train has reached Topeka
Custer is dead)
A
T T
E
N T
I O N
DANGER DE MORT
and with a pain in my neck and my eyes staring at nothing I shall pull hairs out of my finger and if it bleeds it leads today is the 102nd anniversary of the beginning of the genocide of the Armenians.
MMFF FF MMM MM
MMFF FF MMM MM
FF FFF FMMM
FF FFF FMMM
FMF FMF
FF FFF FMMM
FF FFF FMMM
The sky above was the color of a dead television
And Ongka was terrified. I shall let him use his own words (in translation) to describe the events. The fact that his words survive is crucial. When the first planes of the white men came, I was down by a stream. There were several of us, old men and young boys, all working at shaping stone axes. I thought I heard one of the marsupials that growl as they go along and have tails like lizards’ tails. We chased the noise through the undergrowth; it kept moving in front of us and we couldn’t catch it. Then we looked up and saw it was in the sky and we said ‘It’s a kind of witchcraft come to strike us and eat us up!’ We argued about it: was it really witchcraft, or was it a big hornbill or an eagle? Some said it was a thunderclap gone mad and come down from the sky. Then it went away and we said that we would find out about it later ... Later we saw Jim Taylor himself, [Taylor was a government officer accompanying Mick and Dan Leahy, two gold prospectors, into the New Guinea Highlands] he came through and called out for supplies for his many carriers. People took sugar-cane, sweet potatoes, bananas and pigs to him. He would draw out of his long trouser pockets a big mottled cowrie shell of the kind we valued, and show it to them and they said ‘Oh! He has a big cowrie and he’s drawn it out of his own ass!’ Finishing his book in the early 1990s, Hobsbawm added a caveat: the century whose history he was writing was the ‘short’ 20th century, running from 1914 to 1991, and the world the Russian Revolution had shaped was ‘the world that went to pieces at the end of the 1980s’ — a lost world, in short, that was now being replaced by a post-20th-century one whose outlines could not yet be discerned. Representing the new [read: at first, neoliberal, “Fukuyama”, and now tending towards what I can only call neofascist — ed.] consensus, Tony Brenton calls it probably one of ‘history’s great dead ends, like the Inca Empire’. Fuck that. To be sure, Miéville, like everyone else, concedes that it all ended in tears because, given the failure of revolution elsewhere, the historical outcome was ‘Stalinism: a police state of paranoia, cruelty, murder and kitsch’. But that hasn’t made him give up on revolutions, even if his hopes are expressed in extremely qualified form. The world’s first socialist revolution deserves celebration, he writes, because ‘things changed once, and they might do so again’ (how’s that for a really minimal claim?). And yet ... what else do we have? The Fate of the Furious? This is something that Serres does in his book on Lucretius when he reinterprets ancient atomism in terms of the thermodynamics of dynamic systems. What we get in Serres’s reading is an unheard-of Lucretius, an entirely new Lucretius, that nonetheless maintains fidelity to “Lucretius.” The problem becomes new in a contemporary context. There is, for Serres, something worth preserving and repeating in Lucretius, but it is not necessarily a Lucretius that the scholar would recognize ... It is, rather, Lucretius treated as a contemporary in dialogue with us today and the problems that we encounter today. And it seems to me that Badiou is up to something similar with his repetition of Plato and above all in his “translation” of Plato’s Republic. This is all very Pierre Menard, isn’t it? Ride or die, as Letty put it. So it was only when Akkadian took over from Sumerian as the main spoken language after 2300bce that syllabic text really came into its own. The first scripts were not used for poetry or forms of creative expression, but for accountancy: keeping a track of plants, animals, and craft products from the point of production through various forms of exchange. Here is one immediate attraction of prehistory, then — it is the period before accountants came to dominate the earth. It is the period when
Bezsmert’e
Mtsekh
Khitsi
Mukh
TS l
Lam
Ma
Tske
Shokretyts
Mekhytso
Lamoshka
Shksad
Tsa
Tyal
a ??? shows a fist.
Which is obviously a protest against some authority (the legal system? the bosses on the railroad? the military?), but why would ‘junk flow from the ear’?
Sticks were poking out
Iron was wetting
over the dug-up field
eyes rolled
we all were lying down
and nearby of soot
and my wife has
stiff hair
out of the quiet
crawl mo / ro / cho / mo / kho / ro / do / sho / bo and
sha ma cha mak / shak / gak / shak / ma / del.
Which is and isn’t to say
tunshap / mkher / ameslev / skap / fev / lunsuk / sale / kchy
which is and isn’t to say
gunshap / khar / amechlev / chkap / fev l lunchuk / chu / nu.
In other letters he says, “Kho bo ro is the gloom of the tundra isn’t it?” (Other copies may differ (eee gee., b / y / r/ yn / d / y / r). Tsots (1918b) is similar. But of course the use of the quipu disappeared soon after the Spanish invasion and we don’t really know how it worked. “And still I rise.” Well, not me, exactly, I mean Rose. Anyway,
I am planning a job of carpentry; at least
I am thinking about doing it
And about how later I will send you a green bird
Via the airwaves, green bird willing of course
But first I will reread ANTS by Bill Berkson and Greg Irons
You know: The ants line up / We crush them / / The ants line up / We
crush them / / Etc
And in the drawings each time more and more ants
Which reminds me of Bruce’s great book Resister
Which reminds me of the first of Allen Ginsberg’s
AIRPLANE DREAMS, the “History of the Jewish
Socialist Party in America”, which I will quote
(for Bruce) in full:
In meeting hall, a small room or foyer of private house downstairs on street storefront level — we’re inside — me, and my friend, a square FBI agent who is arresting us all, but wants more information so doesn’t take us in but lets us continue our activity, which is all internal regulations of the party which now has very few members anyway, being, as the FBI boy knows to his chagrin, much more concerned with psychic regulation of the idealism of its members than any activity relating to the US Govt — in fact, we are completely unconcerned with the US Govt, and far from spying on it we welcome spies in our midst in the hope they be converted and learn something about us — since the internal structure of the party is a mystery still unresolved even to us — a fact which embarrasses the FBI fellow even further since he guesses our general crazy goodwill and devotion to some mysterious politics of complete integrity, so extreme that the policy of the party is really dedicated to discovering what the policy is and who the leaders really are — we being willing to share the info with anyone — even the US Govt — with complete faith that with such an open policy no harm can befall anyone, even jail or execution is further opportunity for study, revelation or martyrdom to the Mystery of Idealistic Socialism and a further chapter of the Jewish S. Party’s profound activity in America — no less profound because limited to a small group which pursue the basic study, for the intensity of their dedication.Thus we are having a meeting in the foyer — as Aunt Rose’s tho smaller 1930 — & the FBI man, with tie askew & coat over arm, sweating in summer heat, pistol in one hand & other on telephone, is undecided what to do, so I advise him, after a nervous walk in the plaza, to trust us & wait awhile til something definite develops. He seems to agree, nodding his head, tho worried we’ll all escape, vanish, and he’ll lose his job and be fired by his intemperate boss a cruel Faggot named J. Edgar Hoover.
The subject of tonite’s meeting was announced last week to be a speech — manifesto of policy — by and old & trusted member Dr Hershman — who arrived earlier, very disturbed, took over the meeting — and announced — “The Subject of my Announcement will be the Follows — please take note and understand why I am announcing it so that anybody who does not wish to be further implicated may leave the room: Why I killed President Berg and Member Hoffman.” This throws everybody into a turmoil — there are only 5 or 6 members & they all realize they will be held as accomplices — but maybe he had good reason, so why leave and betray his mad trust? — It’s an apocalyptic party full of necessary mistakes. The FBI man is thrown into a crisis of nerves — He is ready to telephone to arrest us all, but wants to hear why they killed Berg & Hoffman — But also afraid he might be implicated, since he too is (tho spy) a member of this small Socialist Party which long ago agreed to be mutually responsible & share all guilt. If the FBI man waits he may end up in jail with all of us, if he doesn’t wait he’ll never fulfill his mission to find out what the Mystery of the Party is and arrest us on basic evidence of conspiracy — Arrest now for mere murder means little but regular cop crime to the FBI not a political triumph. I advise him to hold his horses and to stick with us, we all want to find out.
Horowitz is in the chair, talking furiously: “Comrades, Berg was a traitor to the Party, he wanted to end the Party & had legal power to dissolve it — I realized the danger, so did he, he invited me to address you on the subject & he also invited me to take the necessary action on the subject — an action which hadn’t occurred before because a similar situation had not arisen. —
“And here is the can of Napthaline with which I killed him — gagged him & poisoned his soda water with it, & made him drink, and his co-conspirator Hoffman — I’m going to burn the evidence — in the fireplace right now —”
He opens the (Ether type) Napthaline can in the floor of fireplace and lights it — it burns and gives off a dull blue flame & great fumes of weird gas —everybody coughs — I sniff & realize you can get high on it, so I want to stick around & not call firemen or cops —
“Let it burn” we all yell — the FBI man rushes outside but I rush him back in — “Smell it & get high maybe well all get the Answer that way. Don’t give up the Ship.”
The girls are nearly fainting, the can is burning in the fireplace, fumes dizzy us, one girl faints in chair, her Jewish girlfriend rubs her hands & fans her, the FBI man is sweating, Horowitz is sniffing furiously — the room is in turmoil — we will all be arrested for murder — “Destroy the Evidence & let’s get high” shouts the killer — on this scene of evident excitement, a new chapter of the history of Jewish socialism nears its end & the Dream concludes prematurely.
Which meant the path was steep and tiresome; the air was very hot and high temperatures prevailed. A mature man — greyed by the passing of the years — and an adolescent moved as inaudible points through the silence. They carried an empty stretcher. From time to time the gaze of the younger man fell upon the stretcher and his eyes would fill with tears. Suddenly the singing broke off and was followed by a faint groan. “Permit me for a moment,” the young man said to the elder one. He rested the stretcher on the ground, sat down, closed his eyes and folded his hands. At the peak of the landscape we find him again. A ruin stood there, overgrown by the green of nature. Storms and tempests roared more fiercely here than elsewhere. The place was created for the indulgence of every conceivable suffering ... Special weight was placed on melancholy, which took place between seven and eight each evening. Moreover, a box of eyeglasses with black and dark-brown lenses was on hand, which could enhance the melancholia to a state of horror and raise the evening temperature from 37° to a feverish 40°. When the moon was full, 40° was the minimum temperature. The beautiful summer nights were used for sleeplessness. Nevertheless, the patients were awoken as early as five am for their morning diagnosis. Monday and Friday mornings were devoted to testing for anxiety; Sundays were for nightly indigestion. Thereafter ensued six hours of psychoanalysis. Subsequently hydrotherapy, which was administered telepathically due to the water, which tended to be wet and cold throughout most of the year. There followed a break at noon. It was dedicated to telephone consultations with European luminaries and to the theoretical exploration of diseases that have hitherto remained untargeted. The meals are served in a chemically cleansed Bazillopher. At this stage, then, we can attempt a geodetic mapping of the double shoot. In General Theory we would have the double cone of null lines joined at the common vertex (the “worm-hole” of recent acquaintance). This is for world points whose tubes are consequently time forms which cannot have more than metric existence. But if the common vertex is itself a tube, and if its development in time is self-elongating, then interpenetration must take place of the classically separated “active future” and “passive past”. Each plant stem is such a tube and its selfmotivation naturally violates the causality assumption. Osmotic time pressures, the logarithmic but also the cyclical, take the place of absolute causal constraints, giving rise to “is been” and “will been” in the root systems and “is being” and “has being” in the leaf & flower counterparts. A fucksaw’s a phallus attached to a chainsaw engine. It boils down. It posits. A flat ontology’s ‘made exclusively of unique, singular individuals, differing in spatiotemporal scale, maybe, but not in ontological status’. They progress as far as the cog. I guess these things evoke some collective memory of our nomadic past. Don’t we need some boys? I pledge allegiance to the lantern that I got from this dying purple alien. What do you mean by the rheomode? No monkey? No problem! The weeds we have in common are called yard. My past lives as an animal rise up before me. He mated with a Monkey Ghost and became one. You can touch a sparkle; it’s gritty, confirming your sense of touch. The man is told to say embarrassing things, to make inappropriate gestures, to get down on all fours, and walk like a dog. This hexagram reflects a situation in which any movement makes matter uh. The doors swing open and those exiting are greeted by a homeless man dancing a jig with
a look of confusion and desperation; out of breath and sweating profusely,
“please, lend
me your ears” /
and they watch, until a singing man with a violin turns the corner at the
other end of the
street causing the small crowd to look over. regretfully,
“if you could, the tale of a young man, not so different from you —” /
interrupted by the
sound of a plane through the sky on its way to Vegas, a pretty simple
story, actually. see,
I’m in love with this girl and she’s marrying this other guy /
as the crowd looks up to the noise, a blimp floats past ...
Which is and isn’t to say
tunshap / mkher / ameslev / skap / fev / lunsuk / sale / kchy
which is and isn’t to say
gunshap / khar / amechlev / chkap / fev l lunchuk / chu / nu
which is and isn’t to say
a
d s
red
w c i
fire explosion
k
tt l
d
yellow burnt
e bursts of
***
orange
little specks of brown
a
smell of wet leaves
like bananas ll
Are we speaking here of a rupture, a Foucauldian epistemological break, as it were? A small group of us saw the power of that allure firsthand in Maine in June 2000. I traveled there with my husband, Dan, and my former research assistant, Chadwick Allen, a scholar of comparative indigenous literatures. In advance of our arrival, I had arranged for Moses Lewey (Passamaquoddy) to help with our research as our local guide and assistant. I had told Moses about my project and asked him to introduce me to people who might be helpful. In addition to introducing me to individuals within the Passamaquoddy communities, Moses had also taken the initiative to call all the local historical societies in the area and inquire about their holdings. A member of one of these societies told Moses that his group’s small museum possessed what he and his fellow members believed to be a Viking-era carved stone. So Moses made an appointment for all of us to visit the museum. When we arrived at the small building, we were greeted by an older retired gentleman who volunteered as the museum’s part-time director and caretaker. He began by showing us drawer after drawer of glass display cases filled with (mostly unidentified) Indian arrowheads. In response to our questions, he admitted that no one in the society had attempted to contact any of the local Indian communities in order to share their holdings or to inquire about the possible uses, age, or tribal affiliation of any of the arrowheads. “We just store whatever anybody brings in or donates,” he told us. Clearly, Indian history and Indian artifacts were not this group’s keen interest. Instead, as he gradually revealed to us, most of the members of this local historical society were convinced that ancient visitors from Europe and even Africa had once plied the Maine coast and perhaps established a settlement for a time. And then he offered to show us the society’s most prized possession. Unlocking a large wooden wall case, he brought out a locked glass box that housed a gray stone about six inches in diameter and eighteen inches long. One side of the stone was relatively flat, and on this side was a crude graven image of some sort of male warrior figure holding in front of him a round shield. This was the Viking artifact about which Moses had been told. It had been found locally years before and donated to the museum, though no record of the place and date of the find seemed to be available, not even the name of the person who first uncovered it. When I explained to the museum’s caretaker- director that my husband and I had studied Viking-era artifacts on our trips to Norway and Denmark, and we now wished to examine the stone more closely, he unlocked the glass box, removed the stone, and gingerly placed it in my hands. Dan and I turned the stone over and over, looking at it in full daylight as well as under the incandescent and fluorescent lamps of the museum. We also peered at it through a magnifying glass. “I don’t think this is Norse,” I told the gentleman. “It doesn’t resemble anything I’ve ever seen in the museums and archives of Scandinavia.” “Then it must be Phoenician,” he replied. “They were here too, you know.” Finally, I asked if Moses could examine the stone, and the gentleman agreed. “No, it’s definitely not Indian,” Moses declared with conviction. “It looks to me like it was done with a Dremel tool.” [...] As for the two remaining questions — Where was Vinland located? and What really happened there? — I have no conclusive answers. Clearly, L’Anse aux Meadows was a landing site and a place for repairing ships, but it was not the Vinland where grapes grew wild [...] The stories told in the sagas only imperfectly coincide with the stories Native peoples tell. But where we have clues in the archaeological record, it is reasonably clear that conflict was at least one outcome of the encounter. Unlike the encounters of later centuries, however, in Vinland the Native peoples prevailed, and it was the Europeans who were driven out. Maybe this is why Frank Jackson’s Mary, a brilliant scientist, is 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.’ One day, however, god knows why, she is allowed to cross the threshold of the odourless black and white room and pass into a well-lit white windowless room containing a black table. It’s quite a moment, as it turns out. The first thing she sees is a large Bloody Mary. She picks it up and drinks it down. Then she sees and smells Emil Du Bois-Reymond’s rose. She smells a vial of ammonia thoughtfully supplied by C. D. Broad, who observed in 1925 that an ‘archangel’ would know exactly what the microscopic structure of ammonia must be; but he would be totally unable to predict that a substance with this structure must smell as ammonia does when it gets into the human nose. The utmost that he could predict on this subject would be that certain changes would take place in the mucous membrane, the olfactory nerves and so on. But he could not possibly know that these changes would be accompanied by the appearance of a smell in general or of the peculiar smell of ammonia in particular, unless someone told him so or he had smelled it for himself. Everybody’s gotta live, as Arthur Lee told us. Even archangels. On September 25, 1967, a bird flew headfirst into Larry Eigner’s front door.
Thus
in a grandfather’s clock
are not dials but the steps
of a pyramid at wch apex
is the face of the sun,
the quote unquote divine androgyne, which is projected onto five sides of a larger-than-life cube, accompanied only by the sound of its slow inhale exhale. Shhhhh hhhhh shhhhh hhhhhh shhhhh hhhhh shhhhh hhhhhh ... kind of like Darth Vader, I am your father, Luke, I am your mother, I am your motherfatherfathermother ... Suddenly it’s covered in bodily fluids, a not-quite-identifiable disgusting goo. It re-emerges. Did they reverse the film? This happens again and again. An androgynous head is projected as if contained within a minimalist cube. Sounds of the head slowly breathing fill the space. The head is serene, waiting. Suddenly a repulsive substance pours over it from all five sides, drenching it ... it re-emerges ... shhhhh hhhhh shhhhh hhhhhh shhhhh hhhhh shhhhh hhhhhh ... I think of Hermann Nitsch’s Golden Love for some reason ... babies, consumer goods, even tho there are none, and dead animals ...
[Note: Sources: Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz Kunstverein, “Warren Neidich | Kunstverein am Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz Opening Friday April 28th 2017”, email rec’d 24 Apr 017, approx. 12:19am PDT; <JBR; Rahsaan Roland Kirk, “Bright Moments”, quoted in Ralph Dumain, “The Philosophy of Rahsaan Roland Kirk”, at Autodidact Project; The Guardian, 24 Apr 017; Rahsaan Roland Kirk, “Clickety Clack”, quoted in Ralph Dumain, “The Philosophy of Rahsaan Roland Kirk”, at Autodidact Project; JBR; William S Burroughs, Naked Lunch (for Bob and Deb); JBR; Jerome Rothenberg, “Cokboy” (pts 1 and 2), at Thing.net; Guillaume Apollinaire, “Table”, in Selected Poems (tr. Oliver Bernard); JBR; Michael Stark, “Remembering The Armenian Genocide”, at Huffington Post, 24 Apr 017; “Drum Poem #7”, in Jerome Rothenberg, Technicians of the Sacred, 2nd ed.; William Gibson, Neuromancer (memory quote);Chris Gosden, Prehistory: A Very Short Introduction; Sheila Fitzpatrick, “What’s Left?”, at London Review of Books, vol.39 no.7 (for John A); JBR; Levi Bryant, “Reading and Repetition”, at Larval Subjects, 24 Apr 017; JBR; Chris Gosden, Prehistory: A Very Short Introduction; JBR; Gerald Janecek, Zaum: The Transrational Poetry of Russian Futurism, at Thing.net; JBR; Chris Gosden, Prehistory: A Very Short Introduction; Maya Angelou, “Still I Rise”; JBR (I discovered yesterday that my daughter has now found value in poetry, so this is a shout-out. Go, Rose!); Toby Olson, “Tools”; JBR; Li-sun-yin, “Two Chinese Poems”, (trs. Elma Seto and Paul Blackburn); JBR; Bill Berkson and Greg Irons, Ants; JBR; Allen Ginsberg, “History of the Jewish Socialist Party in America”, in Airplane Dreams: Compositions from Journals (for Bruce Dancis and Karen Dean-Dancis); Walter Benjamin, “The Hypochondriac in the Landscape” (tr. Sebastian Truskolaski), at BOMB, 29 Jun 016; JH Prynne, “Full Tilt Botany”, in Bean News; JBR, bits of In the House of the Hangman 446-7 and 448; JBR; JBR, In the House of the Hangman 445; JBR; Gerald Janecek, Zaum: The Transrational Poetry of Russian Futurism, at Thing.net; JBR; Gerald Janecek, Zaum: The Transrational Poetry of Russian Futurism, at Thing.net; JBR; Jessica Smith, Organic Furniture Cellar, quoted in Sally Heggeman’s review of same at Galatea Resurrects 24; JBR (for John A); Annette Kolodny, In Search of First Contact: The Vikings of Vinland, the Peoples of the Dawnland, and the Anglo-American Anxiety of Discovery; JBR; Galen Strawson, “The Mary-Go-Round”, at Academia.edu; JBR (but see Arthur Lee, “Everybody’s Gotta Live”, and Larry Eigner, Calligraphy Typewriters: The Selected Poems (eds. Curtis Faville and Robert Grenier), p.127); Clayton Eshleman, Altars, excerpt included in a Black Sparrow advertisement for same that I’ve been carrying around for some reason for 40 years; Rosamund Felsen Gallery, “Judith Barry opens at Mary Boone Gallery”, email rec’d 26 Apr 017, approx. 3:27pm PDT, Judith Barry, quoted at The Renaissance Society, and JBR]