Public Space Rethought

Siri Agrell wrote a piece for the Globe and Mail which toured various cities around the world. It featured what human scale living could be like in an urban context. The piece is called "Rethinking public space - one day at a time".

One of the featured cities is New York

If there is a reigning Queen of Pop-Up, it is Janette Sadik-Khan, the New York city transportation commissioner. In 2009, Ms. Sadik-Khan famously closed Times Square to traffic, transforming it into a pedestrian mall by simply throwing down some pylons and offering a smattering of lawn chairs. [...] She performs most of her transformations without capital funds from the city, scrounging up cash and resources and avoiding actually asking permission.
Vancouver city councillor Andrea Reimer on similar experiments in the west coast city observes,
"I don't see a future where any street is only used for one thing. We need our roads for movement during the week, but on the weekends, we need them for recreation," Ms. Reimer said. "By trying things out, it really just makes people rethink public space."
The activities in the piece remind me of the cities in the fictional universe created by Samuel Delany in such novels as Triton and Stars In My Pocket Like Grains of Sand. Also a documentary film covers some of the same ground (especially the focus on alternatives to car culture). See: The Human Scale.

And so for day 1114

Bucks and Does

Jacques Le Clerq in the introduction to the Peter Pauper Press (1955) publication of his translations of Love Poems from the Greek Anthology writes about the "somewhat special" section of the collection, the "Paedic Muse or Musa Puerilis"

which, as its title shows, was devoted to the celebration of pederastic amours. Compiled under the reign of Septimus Severus (193-211 A.D.) by Strato of Sardis, it consists of two hundred and fifty-eight epigrams, about two-fifths of which are by the compiler. Mr. [W. R.] Paton believes that originally Strato published merely a collection of his own poems — he was an avowed homosexual, sometimes a witty and felicitous poet but too often gross and obscene — and that some later Byzantine added other like writing. This, Mr. Paton argues, would explain such blunders as presenting obvious heterosexual lyrics as homosexual (especially in the case of Meleager) and including a poem by Asclepiades addressed to himself. "Among the poems by Meleager," Mr. Paton writes, "are eight relating to women, six of them being on women whose names end in the diminutive form (Phanion, Callistion, Thermion, Timarion, Dordion)." True, doubtless. And yet a mere bowing acquaintance with sodomy and linguistics might suggest that female diminutives are often substituted for male praenomens among the gentry of Urning persuasion.
Mr. Le Clerq omits one point brought forward by Peter Jay in his introduction to The Greek Anthology and Other Ancient Greek Epigrams (1973).
Kephalas was not very consistent in his redistribution of the poems by subject-matter. Book 12, based largely on Strato's Mousa Paidiké (Pederastic Poems) has a number of heterosexual poems in it; Book 5, the other collection of erotic poems, likewise has some homosexual poems.
What a tangle of genre and gender. Transposed and otherwise. Interesting migrations.

And so for day 1113

Word Book World Back

It was originally published under the title Triton. Wesleyan University Press reissued it under the title Trouble on Triton with a forward by Kathy Acker who introduces the reader to the intricacies of Samuel Delany's prose by way of an extended meditation on the magical aspect of Orphic traversals.

For the poet, the world is word. Words. Not that precisely. Precisely: the world and words fuck each other.
Not it should be noted fuck each other up. The mode here is the copulatory. Not per se combat.

Further on she places into this mix of merging the active role of the reader.
Every book, remember, is dead until a reader activates it by reading. Every time that you read, you are walking among the dead, and, if you are listening, you just might hear prophecies. Aeneas did. Odysseus did. Listen to Delany, a prophet.
And we find in the second appendix devoted to "Ashima Slade and the Harbin-Y Lecures", Delany delivering a succinct exposition of how world and word hook up.
There are situations in the world. And there are words — which are, to put it circularly, what we use to talk about them with. What makes it circular is that the existence of words, and their relationship to meanings, and the interrelationships among them all, are also situations. When we talk about how words do what they do, we are apt to get into trouble because we are maneuvering through a complex house of mirrors, and there is almost no way to avoid that trouble, short of resorting to pictures — which I am not above doing.
When there is trouble on Triton. SNAFU. Resort to pictures. (My first reading of the paragraph above treated the last phrase as declarative i.e. that in the above paragraph our author was not resorting to pictures; now, I see that the author is announcing what is to follow -- the use of pictures. Still I'm iffy about the line between "picture" and "word" since both can through different modulations result in "images".)

And so for day 1112

Involution Not Equivalent to Self-Referentiality

I have a fondness for jokes that depend on going meta that is inquiring about the frame of reference to make their point. For instance, Brian Basset in this 1996 three panel cartoon (Adam) brings a smile by having one of the characters adeptly query parental logic.

Frame 1
Father: Clayton, you know the rule. No television until you've finished your homework.
Clayton: But aren't rules made to be broken?

Frame 2
No. Records are made to be broken.

Frame 3
Okay, what's the record for the most rules ever broken?
What is endearing in the illustration is that from frame to frame the focus zeros in on the wide-eyed face of the child — gone is the television; it's all cerebral by the end.

And so for day 1111

Product Placement

The Bad Sequence by Phil Hall published by Book Thug in 2004 and reprinted in 2007 is built out of a series of repetitions (The Bad Sequence is... The Bad Sequence does...) with one eye-catching exception:

Priests are torturing The Good Sequence. Apparently there are laws against removing the ghosts of history and story from dictionaries. Meanwhile, Sunlight's unflappable surrealism measures and swabs the room.
Some may think of Sunlight as dishwashing liquid. It first appeared in 1884 as a brand of soap for washing clothes and general household use. And what is it doing here in a segment of poem?

I venture an answer by way of Gerald L. Bruns "Karen Mac Cormack Among the Pagans" and my initial reading of "obsessive" for "objective" in the following passage:
Recourse to source texts or found language is a poetics that subjects the writing subject to an objective language (or linguistic field). It is a poetics of finitude [...]
Bruns is here discussing the use of chance operations confined to a restricted source text. For my purposes, I would like to suggest how a brand name is a fragment of found language and how its placement in Hall's sequence, so close to the mention of torture, reminds me of mouths washed out with soap and the surreal survival of poetry in quotidian lather of non sequiturs where the objective is obsessive.

And so for day 1110

Necklaces Neckless

Ceiling, we look up. Roof, we look down. Covering, either way. [in English]

Wait, wait a moment
for us to dry a moment
there's in our trace
a reckless lament
    and a ceramic bird ...
and watch for the necklaces on the ceiling
from "Wolves" in Ghassan Zaqtan Like a Straw Bird It Follows Me, and Other Poems translated by Fady Joudah.

As I watch for the necklaces on the ceiling I wonder if they lie flat defying gravity or if they dangle in filaments. And the very last line of the book ("Only the jasmine continued its climb, its eyes on the ceiling") takes me in another direction (in English) and makes be wonder if "ceiling" and "roof" are not covered by the same word in Arabic. Regardless I am at a loss for direction in a tumble of necklaces and jasmine.

And so for day 1109

Dead Men's Fingers

In the midst of this reworking of the Kay and Gerda story ("The Snow Queen" by Hans Christian Andersen), Daphne Marlatt introduces a strong childhood memory which I share (I distinctly recall the sugary liquid followed by chewing the wax shell to a pale whiteness — very like the colour of dead men's bones).

     She suggests I go to the cemetery with her, as a gesture, helping to dust rain-spatter off the artificial roses. & suddenly I taste grape soda fizz, from way back, from the black cat coffee shop. Remember those tiny wax urns with cordial inside? licour of dead men's bones.
There is in the Vancouver archives a copy of a placement ( dated from 1960) featuring the image of a black cat in a top hat. Goes nicely with this segement from 1968 Frames by Marlatt. A cat in a top hat just as artificial as those roses touched by rain-splatter or as dead men's bones — chewed.

And so for day 1108

On The Scent

Wickedly good.

If Earth Witch, rather than Earth Mother receives
the woman's wound offering — and there is no
protection against this — the woman becomes more
and more driven with a Need. A Need. ...
and sometimes leaves her family, her village and
roams the mountains, seeking Earth Witch.
She will take lovers and they might satisfy her flesh
but her spirit is always seeking
    Earth Witch does not intend to be cruel
    She does not enjoy your pain
    It is just ... how she is ...
    The opposite of Earth Mother ...
Frankly sensuous.
Womanscent and womansalt and womanslick flesh against my lips, and all the mysteries explained, all the secrets open and inviting me to enter.
Anne Cameron. Earth Witch.

What is admirable here is the yoking of quest with eros. In a woman-identified perspective. Scent, salt and slick take on an added resonance with the prefix woman coming from a woman-identified stance (the poetic voice is strongly female). And a good dose of outlaw imagery provides a note of spiciness.

And so for day 1107

Polymorphous Aphorism

In one poem ("The Double-Goer") Daryl Hine writes "Manifold are the disguises of our love." That should prepare us for the intriguing passage in "Osiris Remembered"

     Once Orpheus had turned his back upon
     The saddest and the palest of shades
     And tuned his hymn of praise to the homosexual sun,
     He strolled amid the adolescent glades
     That moved beside the streams that ceased to run
     To music, Dionysus' weakest reeds
Are women. Alas, with them have glades and music gone.
"Homosexual sun" was what caught my eye. And then the retreat from music and the going of the women behind that epithet of weakness. Music, women and even the glades where he walked are gone. Of course our singer is gone too. In legend's lore those weak reeds spurned by the poet exact their wrath but Ovid's descendant treats the reader to a freeze frame moment before the final demise.

The slant tone is caught again in "The Destruction of Sodom" which concludes in a turning-cheek invocation that asks for forgiveness but not deliverance.
Number your vices in imagination:
Would they teach whole cities of perversion?
Forgive us our bodies, forgive us our bodies' uses.
The irony is relished when one retraces one's steps and reads the beginning:
One would never suspect there were so many vices.
It is, I think, a tribute to the imagination
Of those who in these eminently destructible cities
Have made an exact science of perversion
That they, like us, limited by their bodies
Could put those bodies to such various uses.
And then there is the sauciness of the tenth of the "Fourteen Aphorisms in the Same Vein"
A definition of depravity:
What the imagination's suavity
     Can devise
Than the simple need to fill a cavity.
Audacious rhymes. Witty.

Daryl Hine. The Devil's Picture Book (1960).

And so for day 1106

Reality Dissolves Imagination

I was first taken by how these two lines open a stanza some way through the first section of David McFadden's A New Romance.

Reality dissolves imagination,
dream seeks its own level
I was left with the impression of dream like water finding its place in the contour of a landscape. But the stanza continues and does so with a circularity that is constructed out of skilful use of conjunction and punctuation &mdash the line endings do not end the thought or the image.
Reality dissolves imagination,
dream seeks its own level
in the grey dawn of awesome stillness
and the newness of a new romance
glowing with the skin's electrical fire
in the dissolution of the imagination.
What edges towards burn (fire) retreats with the repetition of the dissolution of the imagination. The newness of the new allows the dream to find its own level in a circle that goes on and on — dissolving the ground of imagination.

And so for day 1105

Memory Rising

Mark Sinnett attentive to sensuality brings on layers memories. The child is never very far away from the appetites of the adult. Together they form a continuity that consumes the world with an avidity that results in acute observations. There is, for instance, an extended description of a partner making bread which culminates in the promise of an embrace imbued with aroma and attractiveness.

And when you do come up to me,
in the end, swinging your arms
in the room's air
with a rough semaphore
that says you want me
to be proud of you,
pushing around the smells
of yeast, of baking, stirring them
about you until they are over me
like a blanket
There follows a fine observation about a trace of flour in the hair at the top of the spine and the next segment brings the memory which carries the conceit further and interestingly balances plural (marmalades) and singular savours (the butter).
and I lie there in the gusts
of memory brought on by your sent —
before I loose myself
from your body, untie
the knots we made

and turn instead to the bright
bitter marmalades I grew up with;
the soft, warm butter.
"Late Riser" in The Landing.

And so for day 1104

People Who

How do you represent an infinite space? You rift on a catalogue. Take two lines from a translation of Borges. Between the lines insert more lines as if the poem could go on and on. You have something like the poem by Steven Heighton collected in Patient Frame which ends in this conglomeration

Those who sit on front porches, not in fenced in privacy, in the
         erotic inaugural summer night steam.
Who redeem from neglect a gorgeous, long-orphaned word.
Who treat dogs with a sincere and comical diplomacy
Attempt to craft a decent wine in a desperate climate.
Clip the chin of consequence by letting others have the last word.
Master the banjo.
Are operatically loud in love.
These people, without knowing it, are saving the world
And there is on this second page of "Some Other Just Ones" following the words a panel of white space that offers the reader room to ruminate about saving the world and how many more just ones there may be.

And so for day 1103

Necessary Chances

"Where Chance Meets Necessity"

Somewhere in the city of New York there are four or five still-unknown objects that belong together. [...] The city has an infinite number of interesting objects in an infinite number of unlikely places.
Charles Simic. Dime-Store Alchemy: The Art of Joseph Cornell. These are the opening and closing sentences of Simic's prose poem brought together here by chance and making a very necessary observation about the plethora of opportunities found in urban spaces.

And so for day 1102

Aggregates and Equivalencies

W.S. Merwin on the progressive nature of translation from his forward to Selected Translations 1968-1978.

But if we take a single word of any language and try to find an exact equivalent in another, even if the second language is closely akin to the first, we have to admit that it cannot be done. A single primary denotation may be shared; but the constellation of secondary meanings, the moving rings of associations, the etymological echoes, the sound and its own levels of association, do not have an equivalent because they cannot. If we put two words of a language together and repeat the attempt, the failure is still more obvious. Yet if we continue, we reach a point where some sequence of the first language conveys a dynamic unit, a rudiment of form. Some energy of the first language begins to be manifest, not only in single words but in the charge of their relationship. The surprising thing is that at this point the hope of translation does not fade altogether, but begins to emerge.
The poet after sketching out the limit where energy is manifest and where hope emerges continues in workman-like assertion.
Not that these rudiments of form in the original language can be matched — any more than individual words could be — with exact equivalents in another. But the imaginative force which they embody, and which single words embody in context, may suggest convocations of words in another language that will have a comparable thrust and sense.
Take a single word. Trace from there the rudiments of form. Find the comparable convocations.

And so for day 1101

Enigma & the Enigmatics

Signage. Alan Davies. "Private Enigma in the Opened Text"

This present writing defines those private enigmas with which the author sometimes pierces his text. These are distinct from, for example: the narratively enigmatic which, functioning, becomes through reappearance, a character or figure of the text; the metaphysically enigmatic which functions, deliberately, through our lives as we return to its imperative point of question; the enigmatics of dream which function, vehicularly, to let life ride itself; the grammatically enigmatic, which functions as a verbal irregularity, a non sequitur stunning us with what previously could not have been said; the enigmatic of any single text, which is obsessive in its function as the ground for all text and all enigma. Throughout this writing, the word "enigma" will refer to private enigmas, and not to the otherwise enigmatic which may frequently surround its appearance.
The contrast between private enigma and functional enigmatics seems to breakdown towards the end of the paragraph but it is only a semblance of a breakdown. The "enigmatic of any single text" is not the same as a "private enigma". The "private enigma" seems to haunt every item in the listing, shadowing obsessively like a vehicle question endlessly figuring.

And so for day 1100

Dancing and Songs Undanced

I thoroughly enjoyed the chorus that knits together the narration of what would be a collection of disparate tales. I like the wryness of the collective "we" that comments on the next generation's path. I do like. I can almost identify with these ancestor voices.

We taught you how to dance.
Full of metaphoric import with "dancing" as code for how to live. And some pages later the comment about limits. The identification grows stronger.
Not all songs need to be for dancing. There will always be the next song, to draw the dancers back.
It reminds me of the classic Dancer from the Dance by Andrew Holleran where the dancers come and go but the dance itself continues. The comparison is not gratuitous. The voice of the chorus in David Levithan's Two Boys Kissing in some ways sounds like the older generation except for a very different take on the embracing of death. Levithan's "we" cheers on the adolescents, it embraces a longing for life; all well and good for there is a valour in struggle. Yet for one who heard and read the Holleran generation there is a but a hint of the savvy sadness that imbued an attitude to life. It is an attitude that only occasionally comes to the fore in Levithan's chorus. Take the edge in this remark:
It's a highly deceptive world, one that constantly asks you to comment but doesn't really care about what you have to say.
Glory and fame are now even more fleeting than the Warhol standard of 15 minutes. Attention and devotion are never total — as the characters in Levithan's novel acknowledge. Self-reliance is necessary for mature relationships. All our characters seem to learn this except for one.

There is a radical tour de force in the scene where Cooper burns through his online contacts by a series of truth-telling comments that see him blocked or blocking all interested parties. Cooper is deeply depressed and isolated. This scene cements that fact.
He gets kicked out of every site he's ever created a profile on. A block on each and every one. Stacked up, these blocks make a wall. Him on one side. The rest of the world on the other. It might be his most successful barrier yet.
Cooper in the course of the narrative is led to the brink. He is ready to jump off a bridge. At the last instant, he is tackled by a police officer. His parents are called. The suicide attempt is foiled. Should the author have been truthful to the darkness and killed off the character? Regardless how the narrative should unfold, there is a flaw in the narration. Our chorus, the generation who faced decimation by AIDS, would not look upon suicide as a bad thing. Choosing one's exit is terribly important. Our chorus, comments "Cooper will live to meet his future self. / You should all live to meet your future selves". The order needs some adjustment. All have a right to meet future selves. Cooper too. However, Cooper may yet meet more darkness. Given the depths of his depression, there is no guarantee that he would not seek oblivion again. His is the only character where their final appearance is not from the character's point of view. It is from the outside. We do not have Cooper's words. He becomes a cipher. He is brought back. He is an exception. The narration has a catalogue of suicides (with the odd addition in the middle of the catalogue of suicides of the mention of a brutal gay bashing death that alludes to the case of Matthew Shepard as if the murder victim died by his own hand). This catalogue recited by the chorus underscores the exceptional nature of Cooper's case. The chorus flinches. Which is odd. The narrative can well foil the suicide attempt. It works as an acceptable plot device. But the narration suffers. The savvy chorus grows maudlin. In dreaming a chain of succession it does more than fail in acknowledging breaks and ruptures. It burdens the future. It becomes an oppressor. In a detour around loss, the chorus seems harmless in what it declares, yet its hope is lethal to clear-eyed attitude.
We saw our friends die. But we also see our friends live. So many of them live, and we often toast their long and full lives. They carry us on.
Never have my dead friends placed such a burden upon me. I was not to carry them on. I simply aim to carry on. They are gone. It is an irredeemable loss.

Two Boys Kissing is a novel of the 21st century where for some perhaps it is necessary to articulate a burden for the future to carry. Still it sounds vile. Nothing but a rigourous self-determination allowed us to struggle. That is what I hope to read in the novel's closing injunction "Make more than dust" an echo of its peroration "Choose your actions wisely." And your words too.

And so for day 1099


A comment from Giles Benaway's blog. Giles author of Ceremonies for the Dead introduced me to this novel which has provided me with an opportunity to reflect upon questions of self-determination and debt.
The novel is terrific in displaying characters that come to realize that self-reliance is important to a mature relationship and that not all one’s self-worth is dervied from being a partner. Readers get to see most of the characters exercise self-determination with one notable exception we get to witness each’s own particular point of view as the novel moves to its denouement. The narration draws away from Cooper, the most troubled of the lot. There is for me, a very odd moment at the book’s conclusion where the collective “we” that chorus of voices from the AIDS crisis takes off on a life-affirming cresendo – which is good – but the chorus moves beyond a simple assertion that the living “carry us [dead] on” to an obligation implied in the injunction to make more than dust. There is a nuance between carrying on and carrying the dead on. I hope the sentiment that imbues relationship with the living – mutual and non-coercive relations – would animate relationships to the dead. The novel’s peroration implies a debt to the past and an obligation to the future. A type of emotional accounting displaces the discourse of self-determination. There is a lingering note of cognitive dissonance at the end of the novel. This reader for one resists the trip that is being laid on. In a fashion this resistance is a making more than dust. Something that is not countable but accountable i.e. the stuff of story.
This all reminds me of the notion of "metaphysical cannibalism" explicated by Ti-Grace Atkinson in Amazon Odyssey.

Elegiac Stasis

Mary Jo Bang in Elegy has a poem entitled "Evidence" which carries over to a second page and ends

How changed we are.
Otherwise no longer exists.
There is only stasis, continually
Granting ceremony to the moment.
And these lines stand alone on the page with nothing but white space until page end. They speak to the grief that is the subject of this collection and is a constant companion to the poet narrator. Another poem ends
A dream bell begins to toll, to tell
Of the intolerable end that keeps going on.
The very simplicity of the assonance "toll", "tell", "intolerable" rings out the anguish of pain that is perpetual. And yet it is from such sorrow that ceremony is fashioned much like the words fashion themselves into an honouring.

And so for day 1098

Staple Balm

Matthew McKean in the obituary for Marshall Berman in the Globe & Mail provides a short paragraph on Berman's love of books.

Inside the kitchen cupboards of the Upper West Side apartment where he lived for decades, he stored his staples: books. Inside the bathroom cabinets, he stored his balm: more books.
And the tender heart of the bibliophile is wrenched.

And so for day 1097

Carceral Care

The Toronto Review of Books has issued a "Tasting Menu" which includes Brett Story on "Occupying Prisons" in which I was struck by this well-constructed sentence about Quaker reform gone awry.

But something strange quickly became evident: solitary confinement, rather than offering criminals the requisite conditions of self-reflection to rehabilitate them into law-abiding citizens, instead drove prisoners mad.
The whole sentence meanders until its last clause which drives to the inevitable conclusion of madness. A small single syllable word that encompasses the outcome of solitary. One word.

You can't miss the equation. Not if you care.

And so for day 1096

Crozier on Ghazal Syntax

From Bones in Their Wings a set of ghazals by Lorna Crozier.

My Tai Chi master has Parkinson's,
a slight shudder in the stillest pose.
This is the first couplet or sher in the second ghazal in the collection. It provides for my imagination a capsule commentary on the whole genre. Each couplet is a pose and each pose trembles with potential.

Crozier provides some very sensitive and insightful notes on the ghazal genre in English in an afterward. Of the many remarks, I choose to relay these:
The enforced economy of two stand-alone lines, rather than the fluid run-on of four or six spilling over the spaces between stanzas, puts tremendous pressure on the syntax, diction, and images. A different kind of poetry animal comes into being, mammalian like the other but as similar as a horse is to a langur.
She is alive to the possibilities of syntax even in such a small space and the reader is well rewarded for paying attention to punctuation. Here a yoking comma. Elsewhere in the same sequence the two lines of the sher end in periods and further on the one line runs without punctuation mark to conclude in the next end stopped. And there is punctuation internal to a line. All this in six couplets of one ghazal, all a shudder with stillness.

And so for day 1095

Icelandic Light

I sampled her Strawberries. I was impressed by Beth Follet's Pedlar Press production of Small Arguments with its spacious and airy layout of these delicate poems. The perfect pairing of publisher and poet returns with Light by Souvankham Thammavongsa. Look at how she handles the liveliness of un-English line endings in "Ljós".

In Icelandic the word for light is ljós

And the word for poem is ljóð

What happens at the end can change everything
And there follows a whole plotting of possibilities based in the description of the letters. And the next poem is a meditation on the Lao word for "fire" in a collection given over the modalities of Light.

What is often memorable about these poems so infused with white space and effects of indentation is how they come to turns of phrase that do not suffer from being lifted and learnt by heart. Take the ending of "A Starfish" where the reader comes to a general and portable saying, takes it up as his or her own: "looking back / at where it was / / as where it was / looks back / at where it could be". Makes a fine statement about how we use the past to bridge our way to a future.

And so for day 1094

Scattering Ampersands

How Hug a Stone by Daphne Marlatt has towards the middle of this book part travelogue and part commemoration a piece that is marked by contrasting one day scurrying to avoid the incoming tide and a final day of ashes sprinkled at sea. It is called "close to the edge".

At one point in the midst of crisis we inhabit the conscience of a mother of two

if we
don't go now we won't get back & i could hear it in her,
panic, pan-ic (terror of the wild), shouldn't have brought you
here. all three, & the wind rising — risk. to meet it.
The children and the mother of course make it to safety or else there would not be this writing to read. They are panting exhilarated. "we did it. / taking us closer to the edge, over & over." And the edge is now a different one just as tinged with mortality...
we did in the end, as she asked, on a different sea-coast off
a different rock, lean from the boat to scatter bits of porous
bone, fine ash. words were not enough. & the sea took her.
I have always admired Marlatt's use of the ampersand; they jut out on her page like waves. And here they cannot hold what is breaking apart. & yet they do over & over.

And so for day 1093


Respect for fair use and copyright prevent me from quoting the poem in its entirety — at one run without interruption. An impulse to praise and its many virtues make me quote bit by bit with interspersed commentary. First off the title:

12. Enlightenment
It is the twelfth poem in the 99 collected by David W. McFadden under the title What's the Score?. It is written in couplets. The first of the couplets presents a bald statement about the nature of hobbies and the subject's time of life.
Gardening and photography, his hobbies
went together like old age and death.
From this laconic beginning, the reader moves to a bit of narrative about abandoning the implements of the vocation to a child described as "sticky-fingered" which leads one to believe the gift is a pre-empting of theft.
I understood when he grew tired and gave
his Leica to his sticky-fingered son.
Our narrator poet understands giving up on the future but is a bit flummoxed by the erasure of the marks of the past.
But when he committed to the flames his entire
collection of slides of glorious dahlias
Note here that the couplet doesn't close off as do the preceding. It carries over, we expect something from this cremation.
that he'd cultivated over a lifetime
and flowers of all kinds from around the district
And as the sentences spill over the lines, the lifetime, a stretch in time becomes figured as an increasing distance from home and our subject's glorious dahlias; the gardening interest grows a geographic spread.
or from botanical gardens around the world —
I looked into his eyes and asked him why.
The question is immediately answered:
"No one was interested." Tears appeared.
This was in his early seventies.
The staccato of these short sentences offer a sharp contrast with the flow of the previous lines. Indeed in this poem, there is a constant erosion of the previous tempos and rhythms in a way that supplements the narrative undermining of closure. As expected the poem takes a new turn:
He had several years left of growing flowers
but they blossomed and faded unphotographable.
This is the end but note that the poet narrator doesn't describe the flowers of this late blooming as "unphotographed" but as "unphotographable". As if the capacity for image making itself was impaired. Furthermore this turn to the unphotographable blossoming and fading is ambiguous. It may be a loss for one of the hobbies we started out with is gone. It may signal an enriched appreciation for the one hobby that is left: gardening. One is not quite sure if the stress is on the fading or the growing. Just who is enlightened remains a mystery.

And so for day 1092

Dung and the Masses

Salman Rushdie's narrator, Saleem, in Midnight's Children is prone to reading history in associative terms and it is perhaps fitting that we hereby bring the final paragraph of the novel in close proximity to a scatological moment — an almost castaway waste of a moment — that occurs near the end...

Midnight, or thereabouts. A man carrying a folded (and intact) black umbrella walks towards my window from the direction of the railway tracks, stops, squats, shits. Then sees me silhouetted against light and, instead of taking offence at my voyeurism, calls: 'Watch this!' and proceeds to extrude the longest turd I have ever seen. 'Fifteen inches!' he calls, 'How long can you make yours?' Once, when I was more energetic, I would have wanted to tell his life-story; the hour, and his possession of an umbrella, would have been all the connections I needed to begin the process of weaving him into my life, and I have no doubt that I'd have finished by proving his indispensability to anyone who wishes to understand my life and benighted times; but now I'm disconnected , unplugged, with only epitaphs left to write. So, waving at the champion defecator, I call back: 'Seven on a good day,' and forget him.
Saleem may be modest about his production of shit but magnificent in the scope of multitudes that his writing pours out onto the page in those final epitaphs. He spirals off into the untold.
Yes, they will trample me underfoot, the numbers marching one two three, four hundred millions five hundred six, reducing me to specks of voiceless dust, just as, all in good time, they will trample my son who is not my son, and his son who will not be his, and his who will not be his, until the thousand and first generation, until a thousand and one midnights have bestowed their terrible gifts and a thousand and one children have died, because it is the privilege and the curse of midnight's children to be both masters and victims of their times, to forsake privacy and be sucked into the annihilating whirlpool of the multitudes, and to be unable to live or die in peace.
Enormous. Flood of human essence. Appropriate for a novel where the principle interlocutor is called by our narrator his dung lotus, Padma. We as readers are still focalized by this one point, this interlocutor, but we are bereft of her response. Stuck. Having to refigure in a Saleem-like fashion the connections between the untold story of the one unabashed shit producer and the multitudes whose stories are foreshortened and come to figure a return of the same but not same sons which morph into the genderless children. Privacy is forsaken. Peace unattained.

And so for day 1091

The Mechanics of Sentiment

Mark Haddon has the autistic narrator of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time meditate on the nature of computers and feelings.

Also people think they're not computers because they have feelings and computers don't have feelings. But feelings are just having a picture on the screen in your head of what is going to happen tomorrow or next year, or what might have happened instead of what did happen, and if it is a happy picture they smile and if it is a sad picture they cry.
Of course one is reminded of Wittgenstein and picture theory. What is interesting here is the need for temporal shift in order to produce emotion. There is as the French say a "décalage" necessary to the expression of emotion. Here Christopher, our narrator, introduces the process by picturing the future, followed by picturing of what might have been, followed by the experiencing of sad or happy pictures. Projection, counter-factual, emotion. All accomplished by a screen in the head.

And so for day 1090

Parentheses and Tables

BookThug has re-issued Karen Mac Cormack's first book of poetry Nothing By Mouth. There one finds a segment of a sequence that stands alone as a statement.

details)    sifting the desert  
     letters swirl  
     the grains ignite  
     in her eye    (he never
noticed)    green as oasis  
     palms burning    (in the first place
I like how the tabular layout allows the reader to read down the columns and generate meaning that complements the line by line horizontal working through. Furthermore, the placement of the parentheses can lead to a story seized upon in media res [details)], elaborated with an enjambement [(he never / noticed)] and left in suspension [(in the first place]. And the poem segment gets typographically denser as the pace of parenthetical comment picks up [two in the last "couplet" versus one in line one for the first couplet and one in line two for the second couplet causing a sort of bunching]. And retroactively one has the sense that the "swirl" results from "burning"; one moves from effect to cause in a pleasurable narrative progression. And perhaps some of the friction came from his not noticing the grains in her eye or the palms burning — in either direction "he" doesn't notice details that we as readers do but we are unable to burst through the parenthesis and address this him or caution her about the irritation of desert sand in the eye: all we carry away from the oasis is a vision of flame. (a conflagration

And so for day 1089

For Taking

Beside the non-fiction of The Evidence of Things Not Seen by James Baldwin one puts the short story by Toni Cade Bambara "Madame Bai and the Taking of Stone Mountain" in Deep Sightings & Rescue Missions. The title announces something as accomplished what the story hints as yet to come. Madame, the self-defence instructor, poses a series of questions and each of the questions initiates a description of the ruminations of the protagonist.

"One question, daughter." Madame says it in English.


"Stone Mountain," Madame says finally [...]
The question is followed by a politicized description of the relief carved into a cliff (a relief depicting a tribute to Confederacy generals). The reader is made to understand the monument receives a particular meaning depending on one's subject position ("Tourist trap entrapment of visiting schoolchildren lured under the spell of the enslavers of Africans and the killers of Amerinds, lewdly exposed mammoth granite rock of ages the good ole boys think they can hide in from history") — it is all told with rather more urgency and finesse in the short story. The questions continue.
"What is it for?" Madame asks [...]

There follows a piece of bravura writing where our protagonist in a series of truncated sentences is not only describing its function ("[t]o rally the good ole boys, to dispirit the young, to celebrate the.") but also its destruction ("Five sticks of dynamite shoved in just so [...] A people's army could."). It is an oratorical gesture that prepares Madame's striking final words which end the story
"Stone Mountain is for taking," she says.
Without quoting large swaths of the story, I do no justice to the intensity. I do want to be clear that the whole section of Madame's apparently simple questions and the train of thought they provoke follows a very detailed description of how the authorities withdraw from investigating the murders of Black children ("Wholesale defection begins in June when the headlines around the country announce that the monster's been nabbed. [...] One man, two counts, and amnesia drifts in like fog to blanket the city.")

Look up images of Stone Mountain. Read Bambara's story. Understand Baldwin's "virtuoso polemic" (Kirkus Review). And believe that changing culture is massive work. Good work. Ongoing work. Necessary work.

And so for day 1088

Antics in the Whorehouse

George Elliott Clarke. Execution Poems. "Haligonian Market Cry".

The poem is structured as a succession of sexually suggestive cries flogging vegetables and fruit interspersed with snatches of non-English phrases. Abundance is celebrated by the English bits.

I got hallelujah watermellons — virginal pears — virtuous corn!


Come-and-get-it cucumbers — hot-to-trot, lust-fresh cucumbers!
And in between are the "foreign" bits

The motto of Nova Scotia: Munit haec et altera vincit!

The end of Lowry's Under the Volcano with the key question (Do you destroy your children?) missing: Le gusta este jardin?

The best disco French: Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

Italian whose source forsooth I have been unable to trace: O peccatore, in verità!

And finally some German that alludes to a scene in Joyce's Ulysses where Bloom pays for a chandelier that Stephen smashes in a whorehouse: Die Reue ist doch nur ein leuchter Kauf!

You really should consult the whole thing to get a fulsome taste of this combination of market cries mixed with strange snippets of holy-roller praise interleaved with the "foreign" bits — it makes for a potent combination.

And so for day 1087


It was in reading Against Interpretation cover to cover in the order the essays appear instead of selectively in what ever order piqued my curiosity (I had years ago consulted the "Notes on Camp") that I noticed that the end of the essay on Happenings made a beautiful introduction to the penultimate essay in the book "Notes on Camp" which originally appeared in the Partisan Review. So the juxtaposition of "Happening" ending and "Camp" beginning is an artefact of later placement. Yet how very telling that we leave off with a consideration of audience only to pick up a concern with sensibility.

Comedy is not any less comic because it is punitive. As in tragedy, every comedy needs a scapegoat, someone who will be punished and expelled from the social order represented mimetically in the spectacle. What goes on in the Happenings merely follows Artaud's prescription for a spectacle that will eliminate the stage, that is, the distance between spectators and performers, and "will physically envelop the spectator." In Happening this scapegoat is the audience [1962]
Susan Sontag provides here in "Happenings: an art of radical juxtaposition" a marvellous key to reading the difficult-to-describe sensibility of the 1964 "Notes on Camp". There too audience plays a role:
The peculiar relation between Camp taste and homosexuality has to be explained. [...] Jews and homosexuals are the outstanding creative minorities in contemporary urban culture. Creative, that is, in the truest sense: they are creators of sensibilities. The two pioneering forces of modern sensibility are Jewish moral seriousness and homosexual aestheticism and irony.
I am reminded of the comments years later by Fran Lebowitz on connoisseurship and the gay public of the New York City Ballet. Somehow along the way we have lost the scapegoat and the monopoly on camp or moral seriousness. Still worth remembering the history.

And so for day 1086


In the perspective of an admitted "catharsis addict".

Dirt is liquid. And writing and reading are a conduit for bodily fluids.

A book, like a TV, drains me of my wishes and fears. I hook myself up to the book — the book I'm reading, the book I'm writing — and out pour the fluids. I no longer want. Afterward, I feel sickened by my release, but also relieved; the toxins are gone, flushed out of my bloodstream. A book, for catharsis addicts, is a ritual chamber wherein we acknowledge that we are dirty and that we are capable of becoming clean.
This is section 3 of the "Catheter" fugue in Wayne Koestenbaum's Humiliation. The whole mechanism depends on a "becoming clean" and raises the question of purity. Can we ever become toxin free? What of a metaphorics that views reading as ingestion? We can view cultural artefacts as osmotic membranes. They permit two-way traffic. Koestenbaum's "I" acts out a theatre of humiliation in which he attempts to drag along the reader. But what if the reader believes that a pure state is impossible and that the reader is attuned to foreign bodies dancing in a dialogic soup of antibodies? Germ phobia is not universal. And so the dynamics of humiliation may have a more limited reach than observed by Koestenbaum's "I". And for anyone tempted to "go meta", please note that it is not the case that exposure of faulty plumbing is humiliation; a catharsis addict and their ritual chamber may spring leaks; it is in the order of language and the physics of liquids for flows to disrupt machines.

And so for day 1085


Thom Gunn Selected Poems 1950-1975 concludes with a poem chosen from Jack Straw's Castle called "The Cherry Tree" which after description of the fecund abundance of the fruit-bearing tree moves to a description of its self-possession. The babies, i.e. cherries, have fattened. The gendered tree is not preoccupied with their fate.

Now she can repose a bit
they are so fat.
                    She cares less
birds get them, men
pick them, human children wear them
in pairs over their ears
she loses them all.
That's why she made them,
to lose them into the world, she
returns to herself,
she rests, she doesn't care.

She leans into the wind
her trunk shines black
with rain, she sleeps
as black and hard as lava.
She knows nothing about babies.
I think the strength of the image derives from the gendering and from the appeal to hardened lava: there is in the picture of this "return" something elemental. It places the reader in an interesting position: what are we to know of her unknowing? What are we to do with this knowledge? Turn too to forgetfulness... grow hard, shining in the rain. Can we cultivate such indifference? Find rest?

And so for day 1084

Trick of the Light

It is a poem ostensibly about deer feeding on roses. So you wonder how the ending came to be. How the lantern came to hold a place as an image for the house you grew up in.

And that which comes alight, the house you grew up in: sometimes it is a lantern small enough to carry before you in one hand.
We get to this ending after passing over some remarks on the beauty of the household versus the beauty of the field. And it seems with this lantern ending that the demarcation gives way. The light seems a thing of beauty belonging neither to household nor to field. And the question arises about who the light is for. Its illumination is limited by its size. This is not a beacon. It is akin to a spark. One recalls the story of the blind man given a lantern (see Paul Reps, Zen Flesh, Zen Bones). But there is no blind person here. No extinguished light. Just the miracle of metaphor whereby a whole house through imagination becomes palm-sized. All alit.

Hand. Lantern. House.

The poem is called "Folklore" and is collected in The Whole Night, Coming Home by Roo Borson.

And so for day 1083

World Crossing Voices

Our narrator discloses:

Re-reading my work, I have discovered an error in chronology. The assassination of Mahatma Gandhi occurs, in these pages, on the wrong date. But I cannot say, now, what the actual sequence of events might have been; in my India, Gandhi will continue to die at the wrong date.
This introduces a split into the fictional world. There is the sequence that the narrator relates and the fictional world he inhabits while engaged in this relating. The author could have chosen any moment to make this turn; he chose a place in the novel when the narrator-hero is beginning to experience hearing voices (like those that are broadcast through All-India Radio) and coming to the realization that he has telepathic powers (a rather special tuning). The split in the narration emerges nicely just as our hero is relating his own experiences in hearing outer and inner voices and his discovery via eavesdropping of the disjunction between what a person says to the world and what they say to themselves.

Our hero is Saleem in Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children. Gifted/cursed. Now inhabiting a split world where historical dates deviate from the actuality of the fictional world ["my India"] (and not just from the actual world's chronology [our India]).

And so for day 1082

Good Readers As Attuned Receptors

My copy of The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction by Alan Jacobs contains a book marker from The Bob Miller Bookroom which discretely below an engraving of a floral specimen displays a quotation from Emerson: "'Tis the good reader that makes the good book." Note that is the definite article that is used: the reader, the book (not a reader or a book). The bookmarker is placed in the chapter "In solitude, for company" where one can read this passage:

So whether you're participating in an online conversation or reading a book by yourself, your experience is a readerly one and a responsive one. The most significant difference is that reading a book is dialogically asymmetrical: you learn about the book, about its characters and perhaps its author, but none of them learns anything about you. I'm not convinced that this is necessarily regrettable: many of us should probably spend more time just listening, rather than insisting on being heard.
Jacobs goes on to ask "I belabor these points in order to forestall a simplistic conclusion that may be all too tempting in an age of social media. If 'social' is intrinsically good, then is not private experience intrinsically less good?" I understand that for the sake of argumentation there is some weighing. I understand that it is an entry point to the evident valuing of the quiet act of reading to and by oneself. I stress the "to and by" which get collapsed in Jacobs — I posit the possibilities of being read to (which still involves separate acts of listening, no matter how large the group). In any case, here is Jacobs on the logical precedence of the single subjective experience (prior to intersubjective sharing).
Reading too is, or should be, a moving between the solitary encounter and something more social. Even when the "more social" thing is just an entry in a private diary, it constitutes a step away from the silent absorption in a text, an attempt to account for and therefore make one's response more intersubjective, that is, connected to, interacting with, the experiences of others. To write a letter to a friend, or participate in an online debate, or join a book group, are all ways of seeking this social dimension of reading, which almost everyone needs to some degree. But I think I have to insist that these various ways of reading with others are not reading proper, but rather accompaniments to reading. They cannot substitute for the solitary encounter.
I leave you alone with this insistence. But underscore that every social act is accompanied by its own little aura of composure — there is a replication of solitary moments through the chain of social interactions. We need not loose sight that the solitary encounter is not a function of reading by oneself. It arises when we accept to receive, to allow ourselves to be read to.

And so for day 1081

Subject Activity

Paul Chamberland The Courage of Poetry Translated by Ray Chamberlain.

The "I" here comes straight from strictest intimacy, from the most vigilant intimacy. On the other hand, one who pronounces the word goes superbly beyond the individual as he is forced to see himself in his reality, his opaqueness, his insufficiency. But he nonetheless enables me to reach him in the rarefied air at the summit where love, free love, overcomes the impossible in casting off all reservation and offers itself up to the miracle-working pyre. One must imagine this "I", this "subject", not as a person exactly but as a resonating center uniting all those who gather around it.
Straight from the strictest intimacy to the potency of poetry.
Only poetry, and all that surrounds it, allows me to live at the limit, standing fast in front of the voracious whirlpool, the black hole. I'm not anywhere other than where I am and I don't see any other way of being judiciously contemporary.
Limits give way...
[...] the suppression — not yet achieved — of the barrier dividing the it/I into the subject-and-object, inside and outside... It arrives there through the courage of emptying the representation — which is ever being reborn — that it offers itself. In its uplifting — seen as innate — it knows itself as an act of the world, not as a position of a (separated) subject.
A pyre. A whirlpool. A representation reborn.

Just what does it mean to say "I"?

And so for day 1080

Remarking Remaking

She is a master of ekphrasis. Take her poem "Giocometti's Dog" in the collection of the same name. She has contrived to open by posing a set of negations (what this particular sculpture of an animal cannot) and turns in mid poem to reanimate the beast ("Giacometti's Dog is coming back / as a jackal") and concludes with bravura:

He's not your doggie-in-the-window.
He's not racing into a burning house or taking your shirt
between his teeth and swimming to the beach.
He's looking out for Number One,
he's doing the dog paddle and making it
to shore in this dog-eat-dog world.
The twists and turns of this particular poem are more complex and varied than I describe here. Suffice it to say that the skill displayed in these lines appears years later in a poem with a slightly different tone but an equally suggestive ending that leads one to think about species survival. In Domain of Perfect Affection there is a poem describing the aftermath of a forest fire in New Mexico. "The Dome Fire" adopts quotation from the words of a guide on a trip through Yellowstone to leave the poem to conclude on the hovering image of succession. The blackened Yellowstone gives way to
Rose and turquoise saturated mountain phlox
     and larkspur   It begins with the wildflowers
     she said and then the world comes back
She, by the way, borrowing another's words to recount the aftermath, to record the transformation of the blackened and scorched place, is the poet Robin Becker.

And so for day 1079

Tuber Traces

Allan Cooper in Gabriel's Wing has a poem in honour of Seamus Heaney. It is a fine meditation entitled "Potatoes". After stanzas describing potatoes in all their concrete earthiness, the poem turns to a search for one word equally nourishing. It concludes with a geopolitical perspective.

A thin strand
leading all the way back to the Incas
rises in our planting.
The poem has approached this knowledge via a set of questions. The lines immediately preceding the conclusion ask "And what of the one word / we've longed for all our days? / What will we do when we find it?"

Another strand, different heritage: according to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the children's counting-out rhyme that begins one potato, two potato was first recorded in 1885 in Canada. (Also attested by A Dictionary of English Folklore.) I don't believe that Cooper had these words quite in mind: "One potato, two potato, three potato, four. Five potato, six potato, seven potato, more. One bad spud!" But something tells me that Heaney would love to be counted: rot or not.

And so for day 1078

Kept Company

Where he would use "ideology" I would refer to "dogmatism". I believe we all operate out of ideology whether acknowledged or not. Some ideologies are hegemonic; others, counter-hegemonic. In any case I like world views that promote the value of irony as a way to courtesy and good living.

Irony of this kind is the opposite of ideology, that bastion of catastrophic fixed meanings. As such, it is a virtue of the democratic imagination, an invitation to think differently, opt out, depart from imposed narratives, be a happiness delinquent. [...] The Spanish writer Gian Vincenzo Gravina: "A bore is a person who deprives you of solitude without providing you with company." Spending time with the right kind of book or teacher shows us the parallel definition. An ironist is a person who enhances your solitude with company.
Mark Kingwell from the Globe and Mail (31.08.2013) discussing the value of irony in the context of educational outcomes.

And so for day 1077

Aiding Helpless Awe

He approaches this spot via negative theology.

We are lonely for where we are.
Tim Lilburn in "How to be here?" in Poetry and Knowing goes on
Poetry helps us cope. Poetry is where we go when we want to know the world as lover. You read a poem or write one, guessing at the difficult, oblique interiority of something, but the undertaking ultimately seems incomplete, ersatz. The inevitable disappointment all poems bring motions toward the hard work of standing in helpless awe before things. "The praise of the psalms is a lament," the old men and women of the desert used to say. Poetry in its incompleteness awakens a mourning over the easy union with the world that seems lost. Poetry is a knowing to this extent: it brings us to this apposite discomfiting.
Even with out the enumeration of shortcomings, even without the intercession of poetry, the statement "We are lonely for where we are" resonates. Where we are is not an easy place to attain.

There is almost two — the one we that is lonely, the other we that is. And there is that magical moment when the being is the moment of longing. When all is arrested.

Of course there may be a tiny displacement between being lonely for and longing.

And so for day 1076

Writing Dream Taming

What kind of beast?

Part of the excitement inside this species of meditative act [poetic attention] is linguistic; it's the excitement of a tool which has hatched the illicit desire to behave like an animal.
from Don McKay's contribution to Poetry and Knowing edited by Tim Lilburn. And in the same collection, Patrick Friesen suggests that "Perhaps, learning to write poetry is like learning to dream." And Roo Borson explicitly links the two: "Writing is dreaming."

Now to muse a while even dream what type of animal hatches...

And so for day 1075

Destabilizing the Unstable

These remarks about the novels of Philip K. Dick point to a dialectic.

[...] in these fictions where words are used to reveal the unreality of things and where things are used to reveal the instabilities of words.
from Chapter Seven "Turning Reality Inside Out" by Katherine N. Hayles How we became posthuman: virtual bodies in cybernetics.

There is an interpenetration of words and things. But notice the syntagm that lays this out. Words reveal the unreality of things. Then things destabilize words. Of course in the "where" of the discourse, the two directions seem to operate at the same time, synchronously. Yet.

And so for day 1074

Dreaming Mimesis

Robert Bringhurst in "Poetry and Thinking" in Thinking and Singing edited by Tim Lilburn.

But not to repeat. Mimesis is not repetition.

One way of answering that music [poetry as a music we lean to see, to feel, to hear, to smell and then to think and then to answer] is to sing. Humans, like birds, are able to make songs and pass them on. Human songs, like birdsongs, are part nature and part culture: part genetic predilection, part cultural inheritance or training, part individual inflection or creation. These are the three parts of mimesis. If the proportion of individual creation in human song is greater than in birdsong, that's no cause for pride, though it may be very good cause for excitement. What it means is that nature and culture both are at greater risk from us than they are from the birds.
This tripartite taxonomy cries out for a folding onto another spot in Thinking and Singing. In the same book in an essay by Zan Zwicky "Dream Logic and the Politics of Interpretation"
That is: I think all, or at least many, of us are aware of primary-process-structured thought, at least from time to time. As I observed at the outset, its products marble our daily waking life in the form of slips of the tongue, and jokes — which, unlike dreams, do not tolerate much in the way of secondary process translation. They also apparently visit us when we're tired, or moved, or, often, when we are confronted with certain kinds of spatial problems whose solutions may strike us as evident but difficult to reconstruct in words.
Zwicky's invocation of spatial problems makes me wonder if the mechanisms of dream work as identified by Freud (displacement and condensation) can be mapped onto the three parts of mimesis as identified by Bringhurst. It is evident that any attribution of causation be it genetics, cultural training, individual creation can be displaced and ascribed to one or both of the other two. In other words one or two of the three parts can be repressed in interpretations.

Condensation (one dream object standing for several associations and ideas) would involve some sort of fusion of the three parts. This is where Bringhurst's formulation of mimesis as an answer to the music of poetry may serve as an anchor point to the mapping we are projecting. The parts of mimesis respond through a sort of condensation to the various sensory modalities that guide our apprehension of the world, its music and its poetry.

And of course Freud identifies other processes in dream work. So there may be other ways to absorb the parts of mimesis into a practice of interpretation.

And so for day 1073

Wish A Joke

I first encountered the joke in Jacques Derrida's quotation of it in his eulogy for Sarah Kofman. He announces it well in advance of its citation and thus builds up anticipation and tension which is released when he quotes Kofman's Pourquoi rit-on? Freud et le mot d'esprit. He offers up a retelling of the joke as a sort of posthumous postscriptum.

Two Jews, long-standing enemies, meet at the synagogue on the day of the Great Atonement. One says to the other [by way of forgiveness]: "I wish you what you wish me." And the other replies, giving tit for tat: "See, you're at it again!"
I found this quite hilarious. Others not so. It is even funnier without the intercalation of the phrase "by way of forgiveness".
Two Jews, long-standing enemies, meet at the synagogue on the day of the Great Atonement. One says to the other: "I wish you what you wish me." And the other replies, giving tit for tat: "See, you're at it again!"
To try and explain robs the effect of an infinite regression. Just try and explain why a recurring loop is funny, why a deadlock is seriously twisted.

Of course the moral edge of the joke is sharp and depends on delicate balancing: image of words as dangerous weapons is offset by words as superb defences. It is not just a good joke, it's a refined joke.

I wish the others that do not find the joke as funny as I do will some day experience the full force of the humour. Of course, I'm at it again.

The English translation of Derrida's words in honour of Sarah Kofman are found in The Work of Mourning.

And so for day 1072

Bring on the bread!

Delicious translations.
Simply scrumptious. I like how the French is a bit more specific on the sentiment that is being spread: happiness.

The corporation responsible for such word play is very successful in capturing the hearts of the peanut butter loving public. Care in its marketing is evidence of how hard they work at keeping top of mind.

And so for day 1071

Softly Going

Recently I noticed that the almost ubiquitous "to do" of list fame is a homophone for the French "tout doux" which translates back into English as "all soft". It also reminded me of the kinship between French and Italian: where the French would say "doucement" or gently, the Italian would say "piano" or slowly. English would say "gently" or more often "careful".

It strikes me that to accomplish all on a to do list one must go gently and apply slow methodic action in order not to be overwhelmed. That is going slow is in effect speeding up. Also purposely slowing down requires discipline (it's the opposite of going soft; it requires rigour) and that this is the secret of successfully accomplishing all that may pile up on a to do list. Softly, step by step...

And so for day 1070

Occupy Richmond Hill

I have been thinking a lot recently about Occupy Wall Street.

I like the time consecrated to deliberation. It takes time to disentangle want from need.

I have also thought that part of the slogan is about occupying in the sense of keeping busy. That is setting idle hands to work. Labour has intrinsic worth. This a lesson that was taught to me by my mother who passed away recently. And labour is not the same as toiling.

Riding home from her funeral, the point about valuing everyone's contribution was brought home to me. I don't drive. My nephew does. Indeed he earns a living as a mechanic but he is very much the arm-chair philosopher and loves to bounce ideas around. We got to talking about the economics of hybrid, electric and diesel. Especially how the environmental footprint of electric batteries is enormous.

He told me that Henry Ford's cars were originally designed to run on hemp oil. Big oil investors in his company squashed the idea.

I have been thinking about Toronto too and what occupation looks like in this city.

Toronto is very involved in a project of salvaging suburbia. And I wonder if one of the ways that can be accomplished is through resurrecting Henry Ford's hemp oil dream. Legalize pot. (Why should you be sick to partake of its healing properties?) Suburbia represents a vast untapped land resource for growing oil.

Institute a four day work week. Not to create an extended Sabbath but to create a day given over to corve, a day where neighbours can come together to share labour i.e. garden. (only a small percentage need to devote themselves; the others can engage in other activities)

Surely somewhere in the writings of Gandhi are to be found an economic model of how suburban hemp farming can work.

We already have municipal collection of garden waste for composting. The system could be adapted to pick up hemp from small suburban and city producers.

We already have a custom in Toronto of people setting out recyclable bottles for scavengers to pick up. Hemp pick up could function in a similar fashion.

Cheap and clean energy.

The wealth of nations can keep business occupied.  Wealth is created by citizens.

If this sounds like the pigs beneath Bartertown in Beyond the Thunderdome. It does. It is also inspired by a cross between Jane Jacobs and Clay Shirky. And of course McLuhan is in the mix.

What is a global village without its agrarian revolution?

And so for some day in the future

Latencies and Cadence

Tim Lilburn in the preface to Thinking and Singing has this phrase which I lift from an enumeration of other phrases and leave to stand alone: "lifting to the tongue latent things". Out of its context I would have its latencies serve as a lively echo to this section from Dennis Lee's contribution ("Body Music: Notes on Rhythm in Poetry") to the collection of essays by various voices. Early in Lee's essay this section incorporates some of the key technical vocabulary from his essay but lays it out as a poem in itself.

I'm drawn to terms like these.
         Prosody as sonic improvisation. Polyrhythmic form. A kinetics of meaning: clenched, a galumph, then wash of a liminal segue. Forward momentum; lateral gusts. Kinaesthetic knowing. Trajectories in audio space. Scoring the energy spoor. The rhythmic manifold. A poetics of voice in motion. Cosmophony. Body music.
For a different mode or cadence, go backwards, body music, cosmophony, a poetics of voice in motion, the rhythmic manifold... dropping from the tongue.

And so for day 1069

Hand Off

In a poem that rings the changes between "hang on", "hold on" and "hand on" there is a concluding openness in the lines that brush up against attachment to confer upon the reader a line without punctuation that suspends the imagination, leaves it hovering over it knows not what, word or world. From "Where Things Come Together" in A Possible Landscape by Maureen Harris...

What I mean to tell you.
Naming is another way to hand on.
In this country anything
I think it is vital to the experience of these lines that the verb tense is inflected to the present or even the future — what I mean to tell — and then the present reasserts itself in an almost timeless manner with the strength of the copula in defining what is naming. And then the whole thing explodes and the periods gone in the last line make in a retrospective move the other previous periods provisional so that a hindsight sort of enjambement inhabits the lines each handing on something to the next and abolishing the full stop and making it into a pause.

Harris gives us more of the delightful acute attention to small words in a play on somewhere/somehow at the conclusion of "Emblem" in the same collection.
only a choice of directions and I am going some
how at every moment I am still going on somewhere —
There is no moment in which I am standing still.
And here a period closes the poem but we know that it doesn't mark a standing still but leaves a strong mark of arrest for the "no moment". The period is still a stop but the "I" escapes in a movement all its own.

And so for day 1068

Tangelo Tangents

Pedlar Press has done a lovely job with the books by May Chan The Fifth Girl and Dried Tangerine Skin with design by Zab (who introduced the Rubber Bit typeface in the headings to Maureen Scott Harris's Drowning Lessons). In the Chan books I like how the Chinese ideographs fit spaciously in the line with the Roman characters. As well the shape of the page with its generous leading accommodates the short lines — the white space complements it doesn't overwhelm. This is especially important in poems that rely on small gestures. Take for instance this excerpt from "Tangelos" from Dried Tangerine Skin. My quotation here doesn't do justice to the two-page spread and the breaking at a crucial point into a second column.

have a knobby protrusion
at the stem
and their beautiful deep
orange - red skin
easy to peel
and their flesh
[page break]
is sweet
yet langy.'

And the poem continues on the same page but in a column over to the right

a sharp.
distinctive flavour.'
The sharp distinctive flavour of the word play with "langy" echoing the "tangelo" subject/object would be lost without the typography. The column shift acts like a reboot which charts the poem into other tangy tastes (the poem continues with a description of the tangy hot sauce at a fast food Mexican restaurant chain) and still on the tip of the reader's tongue is the near relation of "l" and "t".

And so for day 1067

Weaving Wonderment

Roger Scruton. Xanthippic Dialogues. In one of these dialogues, Xanthippe is weaving a tapestry depicting the late Socrates and is engaged in conversation with Plato. She is also an adept weaver of words. Take for instance this summation of several threads:

Plato: You rebuke me, Xanthippe, and rightly.

Xanthippe: Not at all, Plato. I wish only to return you to the path on which you proposed to guide me. For now I see the end of our journey before us. This thing that I have called personality: is it not revealed in the universe itself? 'Everything is full of gods,' said Thales. Every place invites our worship, and every created thing looks upon us as a face may look, with an invitation to dialogue. Our world is enchanted, and that is why we take pride in our condition. Reason, freedom, personality — this thing that distinguishes us from the rest of creation — puts us in communion with the gods. There lies the truth of the story that I told to Socrates: in everything there is judgment, and personality abounds in the world. Certainly, therefore, our destiny is distinct from the destiny of animals, and far happier than theirs.
The faculty of imagination infuses the world with a type of pantheism which becomes the basis for the truth of our ethical being. I like how the course through all this is by the working of enchantment. Also how this Kantian bent can accommodate a hard core materialism.

And so for day 1066

Mask and Style

Julie Phillips. James Tiptree Jr.: the double life of Alice B. Sheldon.

For a woman, a pseudonym can be a way of getting published at all, or of avoiding public disapproval. "George Eliot," for example, put some distance between the respectable novels and the "fallen woman," Mary Ann Evans, who wrote them. "Currier Bell" put distance between Charlotte Brontë and the words of poet laureate Robert Southey, who told her that writing "cannot be the business of a woman's life." A male name can confer a power and authority, in the eyes of the reader, that a woman might not have as herself.
Consider also the case of Doris Lessing as Jane Somers.

And then consider, the construction of identity generally.
In other words, those experiences which are normally regarded as the special property of an individual, such as one's treasured memories, are here treated in much the same way as they are in Blade Runner, that is, as the very matter from which the individual is actually constituted. [...] Deleuze redefines experience in terms of effects and relations, or better, hecceities, which for Deleuze means that experience is individuating. So what is a hecceity? Simply put, it is a nonpersonal mode of individuation. For our purposes, though, probably the best way to think of it is in terms of style.
Ian Buchanan. "Introduction". A Deleuzian Century?.

And so for day 1065

The Origin of Furniture

Aislinn Hunter in her contribution to A Ragged Pen: Essays on Poetry & Memory develops a conceit comparing a poem and furniture.

I believe when we read a poem we enter a room. A room fashioned by the poet from his, or her, own life, from a sense of the fragmentary world, from a preference for certain kinds of language, certain kinds of furniture.
It just so happens that I was also reading John Terpstra's Naked Trees close to the time I was plunged into the essays of A Ragged Pen. There is a moment in the deciduary sequence that the narrator comments on a group assembled around a table for dinner. In "Headiness" our narrator likens the legs of the table to the trunks of trees, and even at one point "wanted to say that I saw a crown shaken by the breeze" when "everyone burst with laughter". This sensitivity to the traces of the wood in the furniture is played out in the conclusion to "Prunus serotina" where veneration borders on fetish worship.
Wandering through the ranging shades of Black Cherry; the cream, fawn, chocolate, rouge. And its figured grain, an inner life exposed. See. Feel how smooth. Voyeur to this flesh of wood you're privileged to touch. Privy to the naked lives of trees.
Poem, furniture, tree, each demands attention. Each act of attending places the body and its store of preferences in contact with what has grown and invites some musing about those growth conditions that led to what is beheld and held.

And so for day 1064

Mad and Human

May Sarton's narrator reports on a character's reaction to her father comparing her to an aunt known for her artistic talent but also locked up. The character reacts initially with disavowal and then with a kind of grudging recognition that Aunt Ida was as the character emphasizes, human. Between the two reactions is a portrait of Aunt Ida. Here is Hilary's recollection:

When she had calmed down, Hilary felt shame, she had spoken cynically and without compassion of an old woman whom she loved. Aunt Ida had given her her first pair of opera glasses; she had talked to her as if she were a human being, not a child; and when she had been locked up ("Aunt Ida is very ill," she was told, "and in a hospital"), Hilary at twelve had felt real grief. The old woman had tried to commit suicide — this fact oozed out somehow from under the pretenses. Then she was buried alive, and one more item was added to Alice Frothingham's lists of "things to do," the weekly visit to McLean with books and flowers, with paints and canvases, for there had been times when Aunt Ida moved from depression to elation and could for brief periods paint again. Hilary had not been allowed to see her. Perhaps they imagined that insanity was contagious.
After this review Hilary manages to say to her father, through her tears, that she loved Aunt Ida and would be glad to be like her, an assertion capped by the emphatic "She was human."

The figure of the artist on the verge of madness, taken up by the intensity of feeling so necessary for the production of truthful art, comes to haunt the novel Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaids Singing and the twelve year old cut off from a beloved aunt becomes a story that is "dangerously close to the surface again" for the old woman recollecting her life. May Sarton doesn't just set this as a set piece of a scene, she doesn't settle for reportage. The recollection induces an interior dialogue where Hilary, our protagonist, chides herself and turns her thoughts to the question of mourning one's parents. She wanted parental recognition; she wanted them to be proud. She comes to realize
You can't break the mould and also be consoled for breaking it, old fool! Be realistic — every book you published must have caused them embarassment and dismay. Yet the cry that escaped her lips, as she searched for the handkerchief in her pocket was, "Mother! Father!" Does the mourning for parents ever end? she asked herself, blowing her nose, and resting her eyes on the quiet green light in the room. Searingly, excruciatingly private, this pain, yet she suspected that it might be the universal condition. Children have to hurt their parents or die, have to break themselves off, whatever the cost, even though the wound never heals.
And Sarton has her character circle back and young Hilary reminds old Hilary (note the temporal flow involved in the recollection of the wisdom of a younger self) that she did not break down like Aunt Ida, that she kept going. And on it goes as Mrs. Stevens prepares for an interview ...

And so for day 1063

Night Falls Darkness Rises

Maureen Scott Harris. Drowning Lessons

distance stands up around me
It is a perhaps puzzling assertion until one makes the experiment oneself. Looking down at one's toes, sensing the short distance, slowly raising one's head to peer above the tree tops and the roof lines into the sky: distance rises... and it is the precision of this language that makes one stop and consider
Birch trees — thin spirits — glimmer
and dissolve as darkness rises from the ground
stretching in its turn till it stands and fills the sky.
One trusts the poet. The description is apt. Shadows gather in the underbrush while the light continues to play overhead. Darkness rises.

It is because of such precision that one trusts the poet and becomes open to the observations captured in the ghazals: "We forget some things, lose some, throw some away". Memory and the passage of time is like a landscape where darkness rises and distance stands up.

And so for day 1062

Abbreviated Derive

Joseph N. Riddel. The Turning Word: American Literary Modernism and Continental Theory. In the context of discussing Charles Olson provides a neat explication of poem as "field".

A poem composes a "field" but an "open field," and may function like a musical text to direct but not quite determine a performance.
It is this notion of performance allied to the concept of "field" that animates in part Riddel's conclusion to his essay on Stein and Bergson. He quotes from Stein's Tender Buttons, a section called "A Centre in a Table".
It was a way a day, this made some sum. Suppose a cod liver a cod liver is an oil, suppose a cod liver is tunny, suppose a cod liver oil tunny is pressed suppose a cod liver oil tunny pressed in china and secret with a bestow a bestow reed, a reed to be a reed to be, in a reed to be.

Next to me next to a folder, next to a folder some waiter, next to a folder some waiter and re letter and read her. Read her with her for less.
After the quotation, Riddel coasts away...
Can this reading be read? In "sum," as a sense? Or does it dispatch the cogito? Disperse the sum? Stein's button, her "reed" is a pen not in hand. it is the folded letter, the mark that makes writing both more and less. It is her fold, the clitoral signature of an American and modernist writing that always already exceeds the categories or genre that allows us to read it masterfully. As a question of grammar, a questioning of grammar, it works within the empty categories of time-space, and thus of Bergson's instrumental language, as a "circular diminisher" (SW, 503), like a writing coming from the future, from the "wrist leading." Both "less" and more, this writing to be is the American identity — a "cod liver," like some c.o.d. that will demand a future payment, more or less. For as Stein repeatedly said of America, how many "acts" make a "play" — "three" at least, or more, to contain "four" saints at least, that excess of "time" which is a dimension not yet calculable.

[SW = Selected Writings of Gertrude Stein ed. by Carl Van Vechten (1972)]
The first move is a translation across languages. The English "sum" as the Latin "I am". It appears to be an echo of homophonic translation (see classic examples in Mots D'Heures: Gousses, Râmes by Luis d'Antin van Rooten and in Zukofsky's Catulus). It is however more a homoscopic or homographic relation: the sounds don't match; it is an appeal to the eye. A further appeal to the eye is the translation by spacing that introduces periods between the letters of "cod" to render it as "c.o.d" and expanded to "cash on delivery".

I invoke the fold to retranslate the c.o.d. to a set of Latin words: pecunia in traditio. And step two: create an acronym: P.I.T. And now translate by substitution (p for c, i for o, t for d) [for more on substitution methods see those employed by bpNicol in "Translating Translating Appolinaire"].
It was a way a tay, this mate sime sum. Succise a pit liver a pit liver is an iil, succise a pit liver is tunny, succise a pit liver iil tunny is cresset succise a pit liver iil tunny cresset in china and secret with a bestiw a bestiw reet, a reet ti be a reet ti be, in a reet ti be.

Next to me next ti a filter, next ti a filter sime waiter, next ti a filter sime waiter ant re letter ant reat her. Reat her with her fir less.
Filters ... operations. Reading the reading. Cached cash.

And so for day 1061


In this collection of short stories it is the short anecdote that leaves an impression — a little jolt of satire. The narrator pretending to be an intern at Vogue wittily reports that Anna Wintour has had a skylight installed above her office so that she can wear sunglasses all the time. We know this is a fabrication but it is the stuff of urban myth; shared as gossip and liable to spread notwithstanding our unreliable narrator. Rahul Mehta our author has in one of the stories a set piece that warns in postmodern fashion that the author and the narrator are not the same person and that this distinction is all the more evident when the narrator reports being a writer.

The earlier stories in the collection read like realist tales told of course in the first person. The first is about a tense relation between grandson and grandfather, an incident with an outburst, and the traditional marks of respect.

When I go downstairs, my father asks if I did pranaam, and I say yes.
We readers know this to be a lie. Just prior to the question and response we are given a description from the perspective of the I-narrator.
Now, I don't approach my grandfather. I don't know whether he is crying under the covers. I stand in the doorway another minute, watching him, and then I leave.
Pranaam involves touching the feet of the person. There is no feet touching. Is there another form of pranaam? Is there some kind of respect? It is a question that haunts the whole collection: who and what is worth respect if the narrator cannot respect himself? An answer comes in the last story where the narrator decides to address his parents in a moment of truth telling but the moment is off-stage so to speak. It is announced but not related. It is yet to come. So we have in one story a lie to a father, in the other an opening up to the parents. These are of course different narrators and different stories. However, it is a persistent theme — respect tied to communication — one of the middle stories reports on this move by one member of a couple having a tough time:
Taped to the fridge is a note: "You'll probably be asleep by the time I get home," it says. "We should talk soon."
And like many of the other stories in Quarantine the outcome is left in suspension. Pranaam for the reader is left incomplete. Readers are constructed as untouchable or quarantined. Uncontaminated by the fictions of truth.

And so for day 1060


To round out Mortality by Christopher Hitchens, his editors added notebook material. It is material that is impressionistic and not fully worked up in its argumentation. Take for instance this bit which leaves me puzzled.

Larkin good on fear in "Aubade," with implied reproof to Hume and Lucretius for their stoicism. Fair enough in one way: atheists ought not to be offering consolation either.
I am in favour of consolation. I am no tough guy. Consolation can arise from facing the inevitability of death.

In my reading Philip Larkin's poem is more indifferent. One stanza ends with the observation that
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
I take my cue from fiction. Neil Gaiman The Ocean at the End of the Lane has its narrator remark
I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled. I could not control the world I was in, could not walk away from things or people or moments that hurt, but I found joy in the things that made me happy.
It is possible to achieve this insight as an adult without recourse to a story of recuperating the wisdom of the child. Hitchens himself does this in several brave passages of Mortality. His unflinching gaze and steadfast moral stance inspires. However it is the sometimes small asides that provide valuable moments that act as inadvertent signposts to consolation. Consider the remarkable friendship with Dr. Francis Collins who crops up numerous times in this short book. Collins, a man of faith (and a man of science), is credited for not recommending prayer to the terminally ill atheist. There is relish in the retelling of this, this small thing.

And so for day 1059


J.D. McClatchy is both an editor of James Merrill's poetry and the author of an homage "Ouija" (in Hazmat) in memory of the American poet. Reading the two poets back to back I am fascinated by their treatment of the figure of the sheets on a bed. Take these concluding lines from McClathy's "Happiness" as an instance

Now all we have are shapes on the sheet,
yours doubled over, mine clenched and released.
And the lines remind one of the twisted syntax of Merrill's lines in "Walking All Night"
Somebody's shape a sheet
Unwinds from slowly tosses in our moonless heat.
And the figure of sheets makes another appearance in "The linen winds and wrinkles like shed skin" from "A Survival" by Merrill. Both poems by Merrill are collected in The Country of A Thousand Years of Peace.

And so for day 1058

Joining the Transformative Listening

So I read "venerable" for "vulnerable" towards the end of "Perspectors/Melancholia" in Lisa Robertson's Nilling: "Resistance is the vulnerable utopia of inwardness" and in so doing I enact or some part of me plays out what Robertson had noted earlier in the paragraph that begins "Melancholy is big contemplative utopia." and in which she observes

Transformation may include decay, multiplication, reversal, inflation or minification, fragmentation or annexation, plus all the Ovidian modalities.
One of my favourite modalities is juxtapositon. And so from an essay later in Nilling about the "Disquiet" that is ever present and is a source of continuity and change
But a retreat into the present's inconspicuousness is not asocial; thinking moves in the replete temporality of other thinkers, listening moves among other listeners, continuing on paths others have taken. This is a present also.
BTW prospecting for "perspectors" one comes to this definition "The point at which the three lines connecting the vertices of two perspective triangles concur, sometimes also called the perspective center, homology center, or pole."

And so for day 1057

Great Beginnings

James Merrill Nights and Days "Violent Pastoral"

In the short space of four lines Merrill paints a dynamic picture and sets the stage for bonding both creatures into a single arresting image.

Against a thunderhead's
Blue marble, the eagle
Mounts with the lamb in its clutch:
Two wings, four hooves,
And by poem's end we can only hope, in the contemplation of this hybrid of wing and fleece, to be like the shepherd "Still looking up, who understood / And was not turned to stone."

And so for day 1056

Name Game

The "Tuesday" section from Lisa Robertson's The Weather is punctuated with women's first names and the question where they are. Some bring to mind the feminists Ti-Grace [Atkinson] Gloria [Steinem] Shulamith [Firestone] and others remind one of writers Violette [Leduc], Grace [Paley], Christine [Brooke-Rose] and Emily [Dickinson] but this is not an exhaustive list of women from the past; there are other names such as the Kathleen who may be a young women in process of becoming known...

Days heap upon us. Where is our anger. And the shades darker than the plain part and darker at the top than the bottom. But darker at bottom than top. Days heap upon us. Where is Ti-Grace. But darker at the bottom than the top. Days heap upon us. Where is Christine. Broken on the word culture. But darker at the bottom than the top.
It is the dark brooding atmosphere -- the getting in touch with anger -- that put me onto this track and the succession of Valerie [Solanas] and Patty [Hearst].

And so for day 1055