Monday, September 22, 2003
I wanted to wait until it was actually in my hands before I said anything, so am pleased this morning to announce that my book of poems "Hammertown" is out from New Star Books. It costs 16 dollars in Canada, 12 in the US, and it's ISBN is 1-55420-000-8. It will be launched at KSW in Vancouver on the 18th of October. I will also be reading from it at St Mark's in NYC on the 22nd (with George Stanley), SUNY Buffalo on the 24th (with Bernadette Mayer) and Aerial Edge Books in Washington, DC (with George again) on the 26th. Anyone reading this within range of those spots is cordially invited.
NICK DRAKE: Exiled From Heaven : "Postmodern urban cynics will already be busy deconstructing this. A bourgeois fantasy of rural life that never existed; a dream; an evasion. Well, yes; up to a point. I've lived in the countryside for fifteen years and I can see what it 'really' is as I speed through it in my car. Certainly, it's as much a social construction as anything else is, or isn't. But after writing the previous paragraph, I went downstairs to make a cup of tea and, when I paused to look out of the window, the human-husbanded utilitarian landscape of interlocking lanes and fields and neatly-pruned woodland which I normally see was suddenly deep, suddenly enveloping. I'm living in the country, I realised, as if briefly coming awake. And it's magical. Minutes later, after the kettle boiled, my ecstasy had lapsed and the view had returned to normal. So was the experience 'real'? It arose through contemplation summoned by writing 'poetically' about the outer world as inner experience. And the fact is that if we could live in that state all the time, that enveloping, magical view would be reality. "
A Bad Impression : " I don't blame Johnson for this train wreck of a show. If anything, I feel for him, since his money, and the splashy art it lets him make, get him public scrutiny that an Ohio butter sculptor doesn't have to face"
Sunday, September 21, 2003
Hellfire Nation: "Americans commonly attribute their economic advantages over a lethargic and decadent Europe to the fact that free enterprise in the United States does not find itself shackled to a bloated public sector. While social welfare provision is much more restricted than in Europe, the prison statistics qualify the notion that Americans dislike big government. America has more than six million citizens in jail, on probation or on parole, with an incarceration rate, Morone notes, five times higher than other industrialised democracies. Inside America's slimline government there's clearly a big state trying to get out: 'Only an unusually muscular state could push 3 per cent of the adult population into its criminal justice system.' "
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Alexander Trocchi article in the Guardian: "'I am living my own personal Dada,' he would write. 'For a long time, I have suspected there is no way out.' "
Friday, September 19, 2003
My Cottage Unroofed By Autumn Gales Du Fu
"In the eighth month autumn's high winds angrily howl,
And sweep three layers of thatch from off my house.
The straw flies over the river, where it scatters,
Some is caught and hangs high up in the treetops,
Some floats down and sinks into the ditch.
The urchins from the southern village bully me, weak as I am;
They're cruel enough to rob me to my face,
Openly, they carry the straw into the bamboo.
My mouth and lips are dry from pointless calling,
I lean again on my cane and heave a sigh.
The wind soon calms, and the clouds turn the colour of ink;
The autumn sky is black in all directions.
My ancient cotton quilt is cold as iron,
My restless children sleep badly, and kick it apart.
The roof leaks over the bed- there's nowhere dry,
The rain falls thick as hemp, and without end.
Lost amid disorder, I hardly sleep,
Wet through, how can I last the long nights!
If I could get a mansion with a million rooms,
I'd give all scholars joy and shelter from cold.
Solid as a mountain, the elements could not move it.
Oh! If I could see this house before me,
I'd happily freeze to death in my broken hut! "
"In the eighth month autumn's high winds angrily howl,
And sweep three layers of thatch from off my house.
The straw flies over the river, where it scatters,
Some is caught and hangs high up in the treetops,
Some floats down and sinks into the ditch.
The urchins from the southern village bully me, weak as I am;
They're cruel enough to rob me to my face,
Openly, they carry the straw into the bamboo.
My mouth and lips are dry from pointless calling,
I lean again on my cane and heave a sigh.
The wind soon calms, and the clouds turn the colour of ink;
The autumn sky is black in all directions.
My ancient cotton quilt is cold as iron,
My restless children sleep badly, and kick it apart.
The roof leaks over the bed- there's nowhere dry,
The rain falls thick as hemp, and without end.
Lost amid disorder, I hardly sleep,
Wet through, how can I last the long nights!
If I could get a mansion with a million rooms,
I'd give all scholars joy and shelter from cold.
Solid as a mountain, the elements could not move it.
Oh! If I could see this house before me,
I'd happily freeze to death in my broken hut! "
The Church Of Me:
"And then there is 'Telstar.'
Poor misbegotten bastards, the Tornados. Yes it's Thatcher's favourite pop record (which would have no doubt horrified Meek), yes it's been played to death, but ERASE all of that. Imagine you are listening to this for the first time. It is heartbreaking. The audacious intro (20 seconds of electronic crackle, interference and bleeps) which leads into a rapid ascent of a strange processed organ/guitar line (over the same 'Johnny Remember Me' galloping rhythm) which sounded like nothing else which had ever made the charts, or indeed like nothing anyone had ever heard (Sun Ra's records didn't start becoming available in the UK until 1965/6, and even then only as expensive imports). It imparts some awesome idea of hope, welcomes the future yet simultaneously realises its own redundancy. It is a future desired but transitory and unlikely to happen, underlined by the strange processed vocal which adds itself to the final refrain, and its ultimate disappearance into the electronic void (another 20-second fade-out). It was, as the sleevenotes state, already Joe Meek's epitaph. It was simultaneously #1 in Britain and America in October 1962, at the height of the Cuban missile crisis, and could quite easily have been the last song you ever heard. Think about that when you listen to this for the first time."
"And then there is 'Telstar.'
Poor misbegotten bastards, the Tornados. Yes it's Thatcher's favourite pop record (which would have no doubt horrified Meek), yes it's been played to death, but ERASE all of that. Imagine you are listening to this for the first time. It is heartbreaking. The audacious intro (20 seconds of electronic crackle, interference and bleeps) which leads into a rapid ascent of a strange processed organ/guitar line (over the same 'Johnny Remember Me' galloping rhythm) which sounded like nothing else which had ever made the charts, or indeed like nothing anyone had ever heard (Sun Ra's records didn't start becoming available in the UK until 1965/6, and even then only as expensive imports). It imparts some awesome idea of hope, welcomes the future yet simultaneously realises its own redundancy. It is a future desired but transitory and unlikely to happen, underlined by the strange processed vocal which adds itself to the final refrain, and its ultimate disappearance into the electronic void (another 20-second fade-out). It was, as the sleevenotes state, already Joe Meek's epitaph. It was simultaneously #1 in Britain and America in October 1962, at the height of the Cuban missile crisis, and could quite easily have been the last song you ever heard. Think about that when you listen to this for the first time."
Thursday, September 18, 2003
Bruno Schulz: "One thing must be avoided at all costs: narrow-mindedness, pedantry, dull pettiness. Most things are interconnected, most threads lead to the same reel. Have you ever noticed swallows rising in flocks from between the lines of certain books, whole stanzas of quivering pointed swallows? One should read the flight of these birds ... "
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
The-Incredible-True-Facts-Of-Space:
"time resonator perfected! just back from 1982, visited the Mobile Al, Sears store #1056, I actually smoked a cigarette while trying out their typewriters. The sales guy, who seemed very professional by the way, offered me a light. Oh and the Atari display was fantastic, played Space Invaders and a game I have never seen before, called Canyon Glider.
Will attempt to travel to 1979 later this week."
"time resonator perfected! just back from 1982, visited the Mobile Al, Sears store #1056, I actually smoked a cigarette while trying out their typewriters. The sales guy, who seemed very professional by the way, offered me a light. Oh and the Atari display was fantastic, played Space Invaders and a game I have never seen before, called Canyon Glider.
Will attempt to travel to 1979 later this week."
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Autumn Almanac Ray Davies
From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar,
When the dawn begins to crack.
It's all part of my autumn almanac.
Breeze blows leaves of a musty-coloured yellow,
So I sweep them in my sack.
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac.
Friday evenings, people get together,
Hiding from the weather.
Tea and toasted, buttered currant buns
Can't compensate for lack of sun,
Because the summer's all gone.
La-la-la-la...
Oh, my poor rheumatic back
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac.
La-la-la-la...
Oh, my autumn almanac
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac.
I like my football on a Saturday,
Roast beef on Sundays, all right.
I go to Blackpool for my holidays,
Sit in the open sunlight.
This is my street, and I'm never gonna to leave it,
And I'm always gonna to stay here
If I live to be ninety-nine,
'Cause all the people I meet
Seem to come from my street
And I can't get away,
Because it's calling me, (come on home)
Hear it calling me, (come on home)
La-la-la-la...
Oh, my autumn Armagnac
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac.
La-la-la-la...
Oh, my autumn almanac
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar,
When the dawn begins to crack.
It's all part of my autumn almanac.
Breeze blows leaves of a musty-coloured yellow,
So I sweep them in my sack.
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac.
Friday evenings, people get together,
Hiding from the weather.
Tea and toasted, buttered currant buns
Can't compensate for lack of sun,
Because the summer's all gone.
La-la-la-la...
Oh, my poor rheumatic back
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac.
La-la-la-la...
Oh, my autumn almanac
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac.
I like my football on a Saturday,
Roast beef on Sundays, all right.
I go to Blackpool for my holidays,
Sit in the open sunlight.
This is my street, and I'm never gonna to leave it,
And I'm always gonna to stay here
If I live to be ninety-nine,
'Cause all the people I meet
Seem to come from my street
And I can't get away,
Because it's calling me, (come on home)
Hear it calling me, (come on home)
La-la-la-la...
Oh, my autumn Armagnac
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac.
La-la-la-la...
Oh, my autumn almanac
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
I love late September; last night the lavender light through the tree spaces, this morning the sun came out and it started raining at the same time, and then a great cool apple smell drifted in, and I can re-readthis
Monday, September 15, 2003
josh blog: "I thought Geoff was talking to himself in the next room. But I forgot that I was playing a Glenn Gould record."
Aaron D. Wolf on the legacy of June Carter Cash: "In a memoir, as she reflected on that “Ring of Fire” that brought her and John together, Mrs. Cash confessed: “Christ died for people like me. People who mess up their lives and stand shaking in their boots with guilt, wondering if they’re really going straight to hell. But he tells us to repent . . . That’s what I did.”"
from Adorno's Minima Moralia (1944) via Ezra Mark and Daniel Comiskey:
OUT OF THE FIRING LINE. — Reports of air attacks are seldom without the names of the firms which produced the planes: Focke-Wulff, Heinkel, Lancaster feature where once the talk was of cuirassiers, lancers and
hussars. The mechanism for reproducing life, for dominating and for destroying it, are exactly the same, and accordingly industry, state and advertising are amalgamated. The old exaggeration of skeptical Liberals, that war was a business, has come true: state power has shed even the appearance of independence from particular interests in profit; always in
their service really, it now also places itself there ideologically. Every laudatory mention of the chief contractor in the destruction of cities,
helps earn it the good name that will secure it the best commissions in their rebuilding.
[...]
The total obliteration of war by information,commentaries, with camera-men
in the first tanks and war reporters dying heroic deaths, the mish-mash of enlightened manipulation of public opinion and oblivious activity: all this
is another expression for the withering of experience, the vacuum between men and their fate, in which their real fate lies. It is as if the reified,
hardened plaster-cast of events takes the place of the events themselves. Men are reduced to walk-on parts in a monster documentary film which has no
spectators, since the least of them has his bit to do on the screen.
OUT OF THE FIRING LINE. — Reports of air attacks are seldom without the names of the firms which produced the planes: Focke-Wulff, Heinkel, Lancaster feature where once the talk was of cuirassiers, lancers and
hussars. The mechanism for reproducing life, for dominating and for destroying it, are exactly the same, and accordingly industry, state and advertising are amalgamated. The old exaggeration of skeptical Liberals, that war was a business, has come true: state power has shed even the appearance of independence from particular interests in profit; always in
their service really, it now also places itself there ideologically. Every laudatory mention of the chief contractor in the destruction of cities,
helps earn it the good name that will secure it the best commissions in their rebuilding.
[...]
The total obliteration of war by information,commentaries, with camera-men
in the first tanks and war reporters dying heroic deaths, the mish-mash of enlightened manipulation of public opinion and oblivious activity: all this
is another expression for the withering of experience, the vacuum between men and their fate, in which their real fate lies. It is as if the reified,
hardened plaster-cast of events takes the place of the events themselves. Men are reduced to walk-on parts in a monster documentary film which has no
spectators, since the least of them has his bit to do on the screen.
Eric Alterman: Altercation: "The champion will have the honour, no, no, the privilege, to go forth and rescue the lovely Princess Fiona from the fiery keep of the dragon. If for any reason, the winner is unsuccessful, the first runner-up will take his place. And so on and so forth. Some of you may die, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make."
Saturday, September 13, 2003
"Well, you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.
I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.
I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.
Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.
I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.
And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen' that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen' that we all were on their side.
Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.
Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black."
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.
I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.
I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.
Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.
I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.
And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen' that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen' that we all were on their side.
Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.
Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black."
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Theodor Adorno 100 today
"Donald Duck in the cartoons and the unfortunate in real life get their thrashing so that the audience can learn to take their own punishment."
"Donald Duck in the cartoons and the unfortunate in real life get their thrashing so that the audience can learn to take their own punishment."
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
happy birthday Equanimity and Million Poems:
"What heavy joy
To feel rising in me
All the noise I've been dying to make
Now that I know it'll be heard"
"What heavy joy
To feel rising in me
All the noise I've been dying to make
Now that I know it'll be heard"
Nanaimo record store zine, rightly urging shoppers toward downtown. Nanaimo, as new resident Elvis Costello (engaged to homegirl Diana Krall, and spotted in the great "Fascinatin' Rhythm" record shop) would be the first to tell you, is a book and record shopping paradise. Yesterday in this store I scored the Capitol Masters Merle Haggard, and wistfully gazed at the new Lyrics Born 12". The day before Bob got me "The Encyclopedia of Literary Theory" (well marked up, but...) for 50 cents.: "Can you imagine a day when the Woodgrove food court is desolate, the sweet and sour pork congealed and and orange julius unwhipped, meantime people are sunning themselves on the waterfront enjoying an ice cream or sitting with their dog sipping a latte at bocca. It remains a dream because here in Nanaimo the urban sprawl continues northward, last time I motored through 'Waples' I saw that many chain restaraunts were making new homes in the Woodgrove pit.
The constant and consistent growth leads me to believe that business is booming up there, while grapes wilt on the vine in the sun soaked south. We are watching the face of our city being scarred irreversably by folks looking for the 'best deal' or shortest walk from SUV to store. "
The constant and consistent growth leads me to believe that business is booming up there, while grapes wilt on the vine in the sun soaked south. We are watching the face of our city being scarred irreversably by folks looking for the 'best deal' or shortest walk from SUV to store. "
Leni Riefenstahl Though this obit from the Guardian is more informed than most, I wonder how many of the numerous eulogists and apologists for Hitler's last living toady have actually seen her awful films? Despite its historic importance "Triumph of the Will" is a barely competent piece of filmaking, and unless you're enthralled by the subject matter, palls after about five minutes. In thirty second clips on The History Channel--re-edited by professionals like Frank Capra--it works in a kind of sub-Lang way, but to discuss it as if it were a "masterpiece" of such stature that it demanded our attention is ludicrous. We have to deal with Pound, Celine etc. but the continuing sympathetic interest in Riefenstahl baffles me. I anticipate the Jodie Foster movie with a shudder.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Monday, September 08, 2003
dervala.net: "Still, though. National Film Board of Canada marathons. This is the X-treme sport of wholesome dorkiness."
Sunday, September 07, 2003
Herbie Nichols: "'...anyone who plays or even contemplates playing a song of Herbie's is making this planet a better place. This music teaches many things, but most importantly the sanctity of our minds and imaginations --
the Third World that lives in each of us.' -- Roswell Rudd"
the Third World that lives in each of us.' -- Roswell Rudd"
The Burryman: "This is a quite unique ceremony dating from around the 14th century that is still performed in South Queensferry. The Burryman, a native of the town, is wrapped from head to toe in flannel on which a thick matting of spikey burrs is stuck. He then processes slowly (for walking is difficult) and in silence for seven miles through the town. A number of theories exist about the origins of this strange custom. One has it that the Burryman is a scapegoat figure, carrying off the town's guilt and bad luck in his burrs. Another believes that the procession of the Burryman was meant to bring good luck to the town's herring fishermen, the numerous burrs representing fish caught in their nets. "
The Church Of Me: "If Scott Walker was the Dirk Bogarde of Brit (or honorary Brit) introspective troubadours - grandiloquent, immense, avant-garde - then Drake would be the James Fox; always apologising for breathing, so reticent that you feel that he perhaps would have been happier within a gated religious cult (as Fox later briefly was). But it's not quite accurate to assume that Drake's world is a blissful, asexual, even pre-sexual garden; in fact, if we take Barthes' identification of the 'grain' of a voice corresponding with its 'diction' - how the singer has assimilated the 'pheno-song' and 'geno-song' components, and how the singer renders them to the not necessarily passive listener - then Drake's voice is sometimes as carnal as hell. This is obviously more apparent on early things like his reading of Robin Frederick's 'Been Smoking Too Long' where his voice is surprisingly earthy, almost Hoagy Carmichael-ish; but take a real listen to his 1968 debut album, Five Leaves Left - hear particularly his Sinatra-derived habit of extending the final consonants/syllable of key words in his lyrics, sometimes with a barely suppressed growl; the 'love' in 'Time Has Told Me'; the 'time' in 'River Man'; even the 'slave' in 'Three Hours.' His natural baritone voice confirms that everything here is suggested/suggestive - Drake's voice is, more often than you might think, very sexy"
A taste of "Travels in Arabia Deserta": "The new dawn appearing we removed not yet. The day risen the tents were dismantled, the camels led in ready to their companies, and halted beside their loads. We waited to hear the cannon shot which should open that year's pilgrimage. It was near ten o'clock when we heard the signal gun fired, and then, without any disorder litters were suddenly heaved and braced upon the bearing beasts, their charges laid upon the kneeling camels, and the thousands of riders, all born in the caravan countries, mounted in silence. "
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)