Random neuron firing, lame philosophy, literary pontificating, movies, sex, clothes & other femme stuff

Thursday, October 02, 2003

Blake v. Schopenhauer

I thought I could blog from LA. Ha. . . . ! I'm only now just getting some brain cells back.

Notice that Alli is reading Schopenhauer and Kasey is reading Blake (and reading Alli, too, and bestowing on her a deserved honor [yay, Alli!]). Neurons randomly firing, I turn again to my trusty commonplace book to show that I am like so totally there and to offer the Schopenhauer passage that resonates most profoundly with my Weltanshauung (it too used to be on my plan) along with what I take to be Blake's proleptic, characteristically dismissive retort.

[Sexual love] is the ultimate goal of almost all human effort; it has an unfavorable influence on the most important affairs, interrupts every hour the most serious occupations, and sometimes perplexes for a while even the greatest minds. It does not hesitate to intrude with its trash, and to interfere with the negotiations of statesmen and the investigations of the learned. It knows how to slip its love-notes and ringlets even into ministerial portfolios and philosophical manuscripts. Every day it brews and hatches the worst and most perplexing quarrels and disputes, destroys the most valuable relationships, and breaks the strongest bonds. It demands the sacrifice sometimes of life or health, sometimes of wealth, position, and happiness. Indeed, it robs of all conscience those who were previously honorable and upright, and makes traitors of those who have hitherto been loyal and faithful. Accordingly, it appears on the whole as a malevolent demon, striving to pervert, to confuse, and to overthrow everything.

Schopenhauer, "The Metaphysics of Sexual Love"

Abstinence sows sand all over
The ruddy limbs & flaming hair
But Desire Gratified
Plants fruit of life & beauty there


Thursday, September 25, 2003

College Is Just Around the Corner
At one point, when I taught at a college, I used to have this quote from Kerouac's Visions of Cody posted on my "plan." If you don't know what a plan is, in UNIX it's sort of like a rudimentary personal page you would get to see if you "fingered" someone's user name (i.e., FINGER MCOOPER). Having always enjoyed being fingered, I thought I'd post things to reward students and encourage frequent fingering.
In America, the idea of going to college is just like the idea of prosperity is just around the corner, it was supposed to solve something or everything or something because all you had to do was learn what they taught and then everything else was going to be handled; instead of that, and just like prosperity that was never around the corner but a couple miles at least (and false prosperity--) going to college by acquainting me with all the mad elements of life, such as the sensibilities, books arts, histories of madness, and fashions, has not only made it impossible for me to learn simple tricks of how to earn a living but has deprived me of my one-time innocent belief in my own thoughts that used to make me handle my own destiny. So now I sit and stew in a sophistication which has taken hold of me just exactly like a disease and makes me lie around like a bum all day long and stay up all night goofing with myself.

Tell me about it.
Giving a profound sentiment some consideration
"Getting dressed and looking great is like going on vacation," says Norma Kamali. "It's an uplift."

Well, we're going on vacation tomorrow (LA), and I sure hope (commutatively) it's very much like getting dressed and looking great, because we're staying at the Standard, and I, for one, need all the help I can get. Unlike my desert island, the Standard at least has T1 lines in the rooms, so I assume I can blog (on Leigh's laptop, of course), as long as I have occasional windows of lucidity, or at least consciousness, if lucidity is too much to ask.
Did you notice I slimmed down quite a bit? You know what they say, "The web page always adds ten pounds to your figure." Well I showed that web page who was boss!

Wednesday, September 24, 2003

Just when I learned how to pronounce "Gier" correctly, she goes and changes it to "Vengua"! Are you on the lam, Jean? Or were you just fed up with constantly being mistaken for the other Jean Giers? You know, come to think of it, "Curvalicious Vengua" has a nice seductive bounce to it. Maybe you should consider changing your first name too! :-) Just kidding. Jean G. Vengua sounds beautiful.

Tuesday, September 23, 2003

A Banner Day!

No banner ads at this moment! I keep refreshing just to check. How great is that?

And here I had this whole post in mind about the word panties and how fascinating it is (linguistically). I thought that a post mentioning panties a lot and linked to various panty sites (like this test: what sort of panties are you?) might change the tone of the banner ads (no more body bag sites). And get some fresh blood circulating in here through google.

Monday, September 22, 2003

Bakhtin: Words as A.B.C. Gum
Just so we don't lose sight of literature on this blog (and so as to save myself from thinking up something original to write), I thought I'd reach into my commonplace book for a couple of passages I completely adore. Those below come from Bakhtin's "Discouse in the Novel," reprinted in The Dialogic Imagination. I love his notion of language as this thing that lies "on the borderline between oneself and the other" and as something we don't take fresh from the dictionary but rather from others' usage, inevitably perfused with their expressive intentions (the image in my head is of some seriously A.B.C. gum). All uses of language, he argues, take place at least to some degree within quotation marks. I love his imbuing words themselves with intentionality--they "stubbornly resist" the author's attempt to seize them and transform them "into private property." It "is as if they put themselves in quotation marks against the will of the speaker."
As a living, socio-ideological concrete thing, as heteroglot opinion, language, for the individual consciousness, lies on the borderline between oneself and the other. The word in language is half someone else's. It becomes "one's own" only when the speaker populates it with his own intention, his own accent, when he appropriates the word, adapting it to his own semantic and expressive intention. Prior to this moment of appropriation the word does not exist in a neutral and impersonal language (it is not, after all, out of a dictionary that the speaker gets his words!), but rather it exists in other people's mouths, in other people's contexts, serving other people's intentions: it is from there that one must take the word, and make it one's own. And not all words for just anyone submit equally easily to this appropriation, to this seizure and transformation into private property: many words stubbornly resist, others remain alien, sound foreign in the mouth of the one who appropriated them and who now speaks them; they cannot be assimilated into his context and fall out of it; it is as if they put themselves in quotation marks against the will of the speaker.


Thus a prose writer can distance himself from the language of his own work, while at the same time distancing himself, in varying degrees, from the different layers and aspects of the work. He can make use of language without wholly giving himself up to it; he may treat it as semi-alien or completely alien to himself, while compelling language ultimately to serve all his own intentions. The author does not speak in a given language (from which he distances himself to a greater or lesser degree), but he speaks, as it were, through language, a language that has somehow more or less materialized, become objectivized, that he merely ventriloquates.

Bakhtin, "Discourse on the Novel"

The part of his argument that I find outdated and inutile is his insistence that this dialogism and heteroglossia (terms sometimes interchangeable for him, sometimes not quite) are defining characteristics of prose literature, not poetry. Certainly today, and very arguably back then, poetry is nothing if not heteroglossic!
For those who were asking for the URL of the official Barry Manilow web site, it's here.

Sunday, September 21, 2003

Another sign that Leigh & I should get engaged.
World's Oldest Genitals Found in Scotland
The Holy Grail of Blogs

How could I have lived so long in abject ignorance? The greatest living American writer has had a blog for years & I knew nothing of it. I suddenly feel abysmally supererogatory.

From a post on his blog, I found a link to a site asking a question whose pertinence increases every day as we approach the home stretch of the election course: which presidential candidate looks the most like Skeletor?

Friday, September 19, 2003

Hurricane Ex-Lax is coming

Catherine has a completely brilliant idea--letting corporations bid to put their names on hurricanes. Like the years in D.F.W.'s Infinite Book, "The Year of the Depends Adult Diaper," etc. Also, Catherine's encounter with the aspiring mutilatant (mutilatee? mutilatand? mutilatrix? woman just wanting some mutilation?) is so perfectly bizarre. It's so totally uncanny when you all of a sudden find yourself trapped in a real-life situation.

Random neuron firing. One of the (few) lines of popular song I consider celestial poetry: "Little old lady got mutilated late last night." Interweavings of dentals and labials are just asking to be sung. Like "tra la la." And the contrast between the babbling brook fluidity of "lady got mutilated" and the long voweled, evenly emphasized, equally "t"-stopped "late last night" is fucking divine, I think.

Isn't Warren Zevon one of those recently surprisingly dead people?

Um, couldn't I maybe just go one day without sneaking death into a post? How about this Tuesday? Couldn't we have Tuesdays Without Memento Mori?

If there were a restaurant called Arcadia Ego, someone could say, "Last night I et in Arcadia Ego."

Badda Boom.

I'm dying out here, folks.
Dreary Life. Dreary Tampons.

Dreary hangover. Dreary rain. Dreary, originally meant gory, bloody. Weird how it jumped meaning somewhere and metonymically allied itself to the emotional aftermath of gory situations. Related to traurig.

Think about the metonymic jumping bean, toilet.

Laurable links to a cool page devoted to The Dial. It makes me wooze over to the shelf and pull down the one original copy I have, from March 1925. It has in it what I take to be the first publication of "The Hollow Men." No Conrad "Mistah Kurtz" epigraph. Only three stanzas, what in the final version are I, II, & IV. No "Between . . . and . . . falls the Shadow." No "not with a bang but a whimper." No "For thine is . . . ." None of the disjecta membra characteristic of Eliot during that period. Weird. I'm, like, are we missing some pages here?

Other interesting pieces: a book review by Marianne Moore, some scolding of Moore's unicorn-credulity by the "editor" (Thayer, I guess), "Strange Moonlight" by Aiken, a print by Charles Sheeler, a dialogue on government by Santayana, a great interview w/ a prickly Strawinsky (sic). The ads are fabulous. Amy Lowell's Keats bio is "Now Ready!" Dial Press is coming out with XLI Poems by E. E. Cummings (sic): "A leader among the younger American poets, whose Tulips and Chimneys showed its author to be possessed of a rare sense of the beautiful and a fine power of sensuous expression. In this new volume, particularly in the sonnets, these same characteristics are again greatly manifest." Also coming out with The Art of the Theatre by Sarah [1st I wrote "Sandra"] Bernhardt--"priceless hints to all interested in the stage."

Having a dreary hangover, I imagine pulling this issue new from the mailbox and just feel sad and envious of a lot of very dead people. Dreary.

Thursday, September 18, 2003

the picture works!

just had to get it off fucking geocities
I was just clicking along a pleasant little trail of Kerouac links . . . .

when I ended up at this spooky site. Check it out. I wanna say to whoever's responsible, go rent some Eddie Izzard dvds! Swinburne was definitely born in the wrong century (which, I suppose, he could at least take a perverse satisfaction in). Caveats: The first seven pages load automatically at a script-controlled sadistic rate of something like three minutes a page, so you might want to let them all load themselves to their hearts content while you go grab a latte. When you return, you can just backclick through them all, to see what you missed, before venturing on. Just don't go there for another hour or so, because I used up this person's allocated hourly bandwidth. I ventured on, fascinated, and eventually I emerged into the lovely photography of floria sigismondi. I have to say, I wasn't aware of her catching me wearing my iguanas on my head. But, well, you never know who's around snapping pix . . . . Anyone who can get David Bowie (who, you may remember, I sometimes dream about) to pose for her is ok in my book. And on my blog.

Wednesday, September 17, 2003

Changed the damn poem again

Just one vowel.

Michael, I'm really not paying you enough. Thank you, love.

But, remember, you agreed at least to pretend to be reading other blogs . . . .

Now somebody's really having fun with me . . . .

Latest fabulous banner ad clipped, word for word, from the top of the page:
body bags
whole sale body bags body bags for human remains

Is this just some poetryblog-wag rewriting I. A. Richards's "Harvard Yard in April, April in Harvard Yard" in the style of Soldier of Fortune?

Seriously, you guys, you have to go to this site, right now!

I so totally can't wait to see the shopping opportunities that last link brings . . . .

I hope nobody noticed (but I'm writing this, of course, because I'm panic-stricken somebody did) that I've edited that last poem about 600 times since posting it last night. I just wanted to 'fess up. I keep meaning to use Kerouac one of these days as a jumping-off point to write about blog-revisionism. I figured by posting this I might make myself get around to it.
Worried something embarrassing might be showing

Because Alli Warren lamented hers and Stephanie Young took pains to reassure Alli that at least at that moment they were looking perfectly presentable, I suddenly got self-conscious and had to check my banner ads. I don't know why I was so concerned. (Why do I have this glitch-in-the-matrix feeling somebody made basically this exact observation, with more or less the same words? Was it my idol Katie, who unknowingly led me into this mess in the first place? If so, I can't find the post. . . .) Here are the ads exhibiting themselves as I write this (reproduced here--to borrow a phrase--to preserve them in their natural habitat):

Survival Kit
Save on first aid kits and supplies
Disaster recovery products & plans

Emergency Survival Kits
Survival and preparedness gear for home, auto, office or school.

At least, someone's been reading my blog carefully. I must say, I wish that, when I was teaching, more students had been issued "survival and preparedness gear."
On the Turntable, Classical Gas

I remember watching Mason Williams play
on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour,
perched alone in the spotlight high on a stool,

cradling his nylon-string, sustained, I imagined,
by the studio orchestra secreted from those
at home. The percussive tick of the rolling guitar

in A minor gathers piecemeal a symphony
behind it, arousing at last the brass to D
major excitement, sennets, key change,

key change, enthusiasm, discord, life. A grateful
breath. The rolling tick, minor, returns alone. Too soon
the kids are bouncing back and forth afresh—

those tempting mattresses at the Travel Lodge
in Wicheta. . . . It’s a conversation between minor
and major, figuratively speaking (and . . .

well, less figuratively), where minor, hip, today,
represented by strings rapidly plucked, strummed, bowed
with sincerity, teaches old major, the tactless

brass and bourgeois percussion, how to stay cool
when juiced and not sound like a marching band.
I’d set the turntable to repeat at 45

(my age, my god) the green label over and over
and over, the propulsive jouissance
of the piece behind the speakers, interleaved

with the delicate heterodiegetic click
and whir of the tone-arm mechanism’s
phlegmatically conducting yet again

its appointed round. This beatific robot
gesture dwelt so securely in the firmament
of our culture’s daily now,

then. Today, nearly eradicated like chicken
pox, Duz soap, or mangles, it lingers mainly
an icon to its heyday’s dynamo.

Tuesday, September 16, 2003

A lamentable display

I want to cry, I’m so devasted. I have to borrow Leigh’s computer just to blog. Every time I boot my iBook, the screen convulses in chromatic paroxysms, beautiful but stupendously traumatizing, like a couple of old girlfriends I could mention. That’s my second nightmarish laptop disaster in, like, six months. Why comes this to pass?

I’m lying prone in a bright, cramped room in Addison, Texas, accompanied by my beloved torturesses Mariann and Sabrina, just a nose away from at long last seeing every film ever inspired by the journalism of Susan Orlean. A while back, you may remember, I saw Adaptation--the other one. Now, we’re watching Blue Crush, the grrlpower surfer flick, with Kate Bosworth and Mika Boorem (two consonants away from Mika Cooper!). Rather, I’m watching the film and they’re listening to it while deftly manipulating electrothermolysis needles, jabbing and zapping my miserable butt till the cows come home--which in Addison is not a figure of speech but a more-or-less definite hour of the day that everyone acknowledges and that takes forever to arrive, not unlike like cocktail hour among our people. The dvd is in my iBook on the floor, which I plugged into the cheap TV set but a nose away from my face, a placement pernicious to the eyes but unavoidable, owing to the needle-death apparatus’s butt-proximity requirements.

The Badinerie from Bach’s Suite #2 tweedles obdurately from my purse, nipping at everyone’s concentration remorselessly. It won’t desist until Sabrina holsters her electric acicular goad, awkardly bends double, unzips the purse, retrieves my cell phone, and thrusts it in my face. Appeased, the phone instantly clams up. Leigh, it reads. I’ll return her call when I and my butt get our contractual break in a few minutes. I lob the phone vaguely pursewards. Or so I believe at the time. Instead, it nails the iBook smack in the caps lock. The surfgirls freeze.

Sabrina submits me the laptop for ministry. Getting it rebooted, getting Blue Crush up and on the waves again, refinding the moment of the crash, takes longer than we expect, what with me checking my email, scanning some blogs, and bringing up the film’s credits from IMdb (crucial to have open in a window behind the film as it plays, in case of disputes).

As I’m fiddling with the computer, I gradually become aware of occasional gentle bleeps floating on the air, as if R2D2 were snoring somewherein a corner. Sabrina & Mariann laugh. Butt poke . . . zap . . . bleep. “That’s me,” says Mariann. Butt poke . . . zap . . . bleep. “That’s me,” giggles Sabrina. I’m galvanized. Literally. It was actually kind of magical, like a science demonstration when you were little. My lovely tormentors were sending special ops zaps of electricity covertly rapelling into hair follicles in my butt, knocking out the extrusion generators there, then traveling up through my body, racing down my arms, escaping out my fingers, leaping into my iBook, transforming from zaps into bleeps and easing out the speakers, no one the wiser. Somehow or other I managed to get the movie playing on the TV again. But for the laptop’s display, it was the beginning of the end. Since then, it hasn’t gone two minutes without freezing and then psychedically chromatizing in that one-row-at-a-time recessional way they have that’s so demoralizing.

When I think of all the trouble I’ve taken always to ground myself to an outlet with one of those manacles with the alligator clips so as not to get any static electricity accidentally into the computer while installing chips and cards and whatnot! And here I was happily serving as the conduit for a whole brigade of active (if that’s the opposite of static) electricity! Well, whether I brained the computer when I threw the cell phone at it or fried it by inadvertently administering ECT (or perhaps it required the one-two punch), I don’t have a laptop for a while, and I’m probably not going to be posting as frequently as I was, until I do.
It's nice to be back. Missed everyone tons. Never got time before I left to publicly acknowledge how much I love Jean for thinking sweetly in my direction and using the words "laughter, curvy trickster" as a link here, Michael for likening my blog to "Classical Gas" (I'm taking it as a positive remark; the piece was one of my favorites when it came out & I learned it [in a futzy way but enough to show that I could learn it better if only I would work at it] on the guitar), and Kasey for hunting down the poster for the film version of Mikarrhea and making it this site's icon.

Sunday, September 07, 2003


I'm going away for a few days. To a desert island.

2 points.

1) Isn't the gradual transfiguration of the word "desert" in this context cool? Orlando, AYLI (2.7), says, "But whate'er you are / That in this desert inaccessible, / Under the shade of melancholy boughs / Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time. . . ." It used to mean just wilderness, generally—merely the opposite of civilization, of cultivation. Forests, bogs, mountains, oceans, moors—all could be deserts, without a speck of sand in sight. I guess it changed when the advance and dissemination of biological discourse sat upon and smooshed the notion of these places as utterly devoid of life. So that left only the lone and level sands. But now, what with the dissemination of the fact that deserts are really complex organic ecosystems teeming with biodiversity, is the word going to fall into desuetude? And just be applied to, like, the surface of the moon?

2) Why is the island comprehending Acadia National Park called Mt. Desert Island? And why is it pronounced like what, in the West, is sugary and served after the main course (don't get me started on the weirdnesses of, what would you call it?, ethnogastronomy. . . )?

If I can blog from there, I will. If not, see you all soon. If I survive. . . .

Just in case anyone cares, here are the books I'm taking (listed according to increasing necessity):

(* books my library is blessed to harbor already)

10. Desperate Journeys, Abandoned Souls : True Stories of Castaways and Other Survivors, by Edward E. Leslie

9. How to Die in the Outdoors: 100 Interesting Ways, by Buck Tilton, Brian Thomas (Illustrator)

8. Exploring Tropical Isles and Seas: An Introduction for the Traveler and Amateur Naturalist, by Frederic Martini

7. A Naturalist's Guide to the Tropics, by John Venerella (Translator), Kitty Capua (Illustrator), Marco Lambertini

6. Primitive Technology: A Book of Earth Skills & Primitive Technology II: Ancestral Skills from the Society of Primitive Technology, by David Wescott (Editor), Society of Primitive Technology

5. Ditch Medicine : Advanced Field Procedures For Emergencies, by Hugh Coffee

4. Primitive Wilderness Living & Survival Skills: Naked into the Wilderness, by John McPherson, Geri McPherson

3. *Blueprint for Paradise: How to Live on a Tropic Island, by Ross Norgrove

2. *Henry David Thoreau : A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers / Walden; Or, Life in the Woods / The Maine Woods / Cape Cod (Library of America), by Henry David Thoreau, Robert F. Sayre (Editor)

1. *How to Shit in the Woods: An Environmentally Sound Approach to a Lost Art, by Kathleen Meyer

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