from the mighty Isola di Rifiuti--

"“Rien,” as Mallarmé so aptly put it. Snow accumulating under Wallace Stevens’s hat. Thomas Pynchon talks about the “suburban imperative”—right up the alley with Thoreau’s “quiet desperation,” what most men live lives of. One makes a little niche for oneself, keeps a blank white notebook nearby. Nudges one’s furriest utterances to the cave-mouth, out into the unblinker’d lambency of spangled light. Morton Feldman: “When you play an instrument, you’re not only playing the instrument; the instrument is playing you.” Nidges and nods of agreement. The language: a fish-bone in the sun. We a nidgery to it, and its only begetter. Language acting like Marcel Duchamp asking John Cage, that terribly poor student of chess, “Don’t you ever want to win?” Of course not, bourgeois miscreant! One desires language to cook in its own juices like a cutlet, desires it malleable and off-putting, consistency of the brain of a small child. Baudelaire: complacency in a shoe, an abattoir of complacency. “A very nodypoll nydiote myghtbe a shamed to saye yt.” First cousin to lucid prose, no?"

East River Raft

"I have climbed high in the steel of new bridges and skyscrapers, and laughed with sandhogs building caissons deep beneath the dark water. When I was a child, the port of New York was my playground, and since I had never been far from home, it offered much of what little I knew about the world beyond the river.

I often walked the piers with my father in the summertime, sometimes riding high on his shoulders, past thick webs of netting loaded with bananas and rare woods, touched by the breezes of distant oceans that mingled with the fragrance of spices and exotic teas; pausing to stare in awe at the huge smoke-clouded stacks of great ocean liners, sometimes eight at once, that loomed above the tenement rooftops..."

sad to learn here that the essayist George Trow has died. His 1980 "Within the Context of No Context" was crucial for me.

“Television is dangerous because it operates according to an attention span that is childish but is cold. It simulates the warmth of a childish response but is cold. If it were completely successful in simulating the warmth of childish enthusiasm — that is, if it were warm — would that be better? It would be better only in a society that had agreed that childish warmth and spontaneity were equivalent to public virtue; that is, a society of children. What is a cold child? A sadist.”

Kevin Davies' Comp., traduit de l'anglais par Xandaire Sélène

"Comp. dresse un portrait acide de l'Amérique au tournant du XXIe siècle. Dans le prolongement critique de la poésie L=a=n=g=u=a=g=e, Kevin Davies tire son matériau lyrique des discours qui font la sphère publique nord-américaine. Livre-poème en cinq parties, Comp. désarçonne et relance la lecture par une composition libre, qui sélectionne, assemble, remixe. Ruptures de ton, glissements de sens, syntaxe et vers combinatoires emportent cette comédie de langage, où se profile l'homo economicus moderne en pleine surproduction agitée.

S'écrivant depuis des points de vue toujours mobiles, Comp. se construit en reprenant à son compte les thèmes, les préoccupations et les rhétoriques du pouvoir, du militarisme, de l'obsession de la gestion, des combats idéologiques, de l'automatisation, du corporatisme triomphant, du consumérisme comme mode de vie, de la médiation à tout prix et en tout.

Au-delà de la vigueur critique des textes, la composition rythmique et visuelle de chaque page, de chaque poème confère au livre une beauté indéfinissable, en porte-à-faux, où résonnent, flottant, les échos d'un feuilleton collectif que tous les langages traversent d'office : Comp. les éprouve et les ausculte à l'écoute de vérités pliées.

Délicieuses erreurs de communication, les phrases et les vers se font ici en se défaisant, et leur force est de réaliser le potentiel poétique du bruissement continu des discours qui nous entourent – qui constituent le véritable landscape américain d'aujourd'hui, qu'il est encore possible d'investir et de transformer..."

South Wellington Trees

Hap'ly re-reading Thomas Pynchon's Mason & Dixon in preparation for planned post-Xmas curl-up with the new one & suddenly here is this splendid on-line reference...

a mention on "The Wire" made me curious about the Lake Trout Sandwich, a Baltimore favorite--

"Rob Kasper, writing in this paper some time back, suggested that the name lake trout caught on because it was a more appealing moniker than whiting. But I prefer the story told by John Shields in his book Chesapeake Bay Cooking. Shields conjures the image of the last fishing boat of the day making for shore. As the crew nears the dock, a worker sings out, "Late trout! Late trout." The buyers, unfamiliar with the Chesapeake Bay accent, hear, "Lake trout! Lake trout!" Pick a story or make up your own..."

Hiroshi Teshigahara's The Face of Another a film I've been trying to see for years, on TCM at 2300 PST tonight....