Humour with an edge

Gay Allison has a way of concluding poems that engender a double take. Take for example these lines from “1977”

Me, I’ve stopped seeing my shrink

But now my chiropractor informs me,

my head has always been screwed

on crooked.

It’s a passage worthy of being quoted in Phyllis Chesler’s Women and Madness.

And on a deceivingly lighter note, this conclusion from “The Joy of Cooking” ascribed to a poetic voice that has collected cookbooks:

What I really need now
is a stove.

Such reversals of perspective are well collected in a book entitled Life: Still for there is still life in the spirit that animates… a body at work.

That punch line conclusion from “The Joy of Cooking” really deserves to be set up by some of the lines that go before.

I have gathered all the recipes
of the world in my kitchen:
500 casseroles
exotic curries from India
French fantasies for pleasure
and a diet cookbook from Chatelaine.
[…]
What I really need now
is a stove.

I like how “1977” and “The Joy of Cooking” appear in a section entitle “When I Awoke” — there is something akin to consciousness raising in these poems.

And so for day 510
06.05.2008

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Feline Perception

In one passage of Particularly Cats Doris Lessing observes and in a sense recreates the sensorium of a familiar creature

Her ears, lightly fringed with white that looked silver, lifted and moved, back, forward, listening and sensing. Her face turned, slightly, after each new sensation, alert. Her tail moved, in another dimension, as if its tip was catching messages her other organs could not. She sat poised, air-light, looking, hearing, feeling, smelling, breathing, with all of her, fur, whiskers, ears — everything, in delicate vibration. If a fish is the movement of water embodied, given shape, then cat is a diagram and pattern of subtle air.

Such a passage intrigues me and in a moment I am thinking about humans, stretching to find an analogy for a beast caught in the nexus of sight, sound, smell and texture. Fire?

And so for day 509
05.05.2008

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Tactful Reminders

Adrienne Rich sending off a coda of concluding imagery at the end of “Transcendental Etude” collected in Dream of a Common Language

Vision begins to happen in such a life
as if a woman quietly walked away
from the argument and jargon in a room
and sitting down in the kitchen, began turning in her lap
bits of yarn, calico and velvet scraps,
laying them out absently on the scrubbed boards

Absently not absent-mindedly.

And so for day 508
04.05.2008

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Home or Less

There’s a never going home built into the unempty occupied by the first person place. I am thinking here of the conclusion of a poem by Chrystos. It is the final poem found in the volume Not Vanishing and here are its concluding lines: “This is a give away poem / I cannot go home / until you have taken everything & the basket which held it / When my hands are empty / I will be full” and its title is “CEREMONY FOR COMPLETING A POETRY READING”.

All the lines that preceded this would-be ending point to the inexhaustibility of the gifts. There is always more. And so the great gift is the lesson that we are constantly living in ceremony and that life can be lived as a perpetual poetry reading. And when one takes that lesson on, one arrives at insight: one might not be able to go home and yet be at home. To the empty hand nothing is alien. No sorrow, no pain, and no joy.

And so for day 507
03.05.2008

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Psychomimetic Notes and Stops

Alignments in Avital Ronell Crack Wars: literature addiction mania (1992) especially those of page 131 produce a mania for literature addiction or for an addiction to the mania of literature … watch as the characters from Flaubert’s novel Madame Bovary are spirited about

In the crucial playoffs between representatives of pharmacy and of religion, the priest declares music to be less dangerous to morals than literature […] He [the druggist] has offered Emma the unlimited use of his library, inviting the addicted neighbor to mix pharmaceuticals and literature. […] Literature comes down on the side of pharmacy, if somewhat negatively cast. Religion, which also deals in transcendental experience, appears to opt for the non-mimetic trance, which is why music is viewed as safe text.

Notice the hedging: appears to opt; is viewed as.

On an index card inserted into the book is in pencil a rows and columns alignment of the key items:

religion – pharmacy
music – literature
nonmimetic – [ ]

The gap represented by the set of brackets indicates a bifurcation. What is to be paired with the nonmimetic (notice that the transcription to the index card elides the hyphen and thus sets up a signifying chain of gap/non-gap)? The nonmimetic may be paired with “mimetic” but so too it can be paired with the non-nonmimetic (to glide the hyphen to the other side).

Our little index card is silent about the options. However there is one sentence/reference below the columns and rows. It reads “I wonder if this is related to how Ronell deploys non-address p. 93”. But before quoting to from that section of the Ronell unsafe text, let me remind the dear reader who may not have Crack Wars at hand that after introducing the agonistic tension between music and literature, Ronell quotes Flaubert

In the crucial playoffs between representatives of pharmacy and of religion, the priest declares music to be less dangerous to morals than literature: “The pharmacist sprang to the defense of letters”

“Letters” aka literature and yet subject to the polysemous pull towards the building blocks that are learnt as one’s letters or to the tug of calligraphic character read in the productions by penmanship. Literature when invoked by the name “letters” evokes its material base. Would it be just to read such a material base as non-nonmimetic?

And so we turn to non-address

In many ways, Madamce Bovary is a novel about suicidal anguish, about exploring the limits of interiorizing violence. The motivation to suicide never simply involves the extinction of one person, but tends to arrive from another agency. It hits you with the violence of a non-address.

“You” are hit. What is absolutely fascinating to me at this point is how the “you” enacts a form of non-address. It hits you. It doesn’t hit me, or more accurately, it does not not hit me. The escape from being addressed, from being hailed as a “you”, itself involves violence or at the very least some resistence. “It” furthermore has an ambiguous reference. It can be the motivation to suicide or it can be the other agency. In the violence of non-address, the sender is as unaddressable as the receiver.

And the link with music-literature? Glossalia. G/l/o/s/s/a/l/i/a

What would suggest this? Ronell has a marginal annotation in the comments about violence and suicide. It is in two parts and can be read as two or as one:

Flaubertian
leaks

The writing
of secretion

Safe text? Fluid text. Secretion has two meanings: it can be taken as the act of leaking or can be taken as the act of hiding. Here, given the telling line breaks and space, what is leaking, what is being written, is from the hiding (the not not-hidden) and not from the hidden. It is a game of vertigo — getting high without the pharmacist or priest, without and within representation.

And so for day 506
02.05.2008

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Alphabet Sentences

I found tucked into a copy of The Centaur Types by Bruce Rogers (a 1996 Perdue University Press reprint of the Chicago 1949 October House edition) a lovingly scrawled sentence to mark a page in the book devoted to one of those sentences in the genre of “The quick brown fox …” which marked page reads

Far back in my patch zinnias jauntily vie with the glorious phlox in full blossoming.

The botanic theme no doubt suggested the topos of cultivating one’s own garden no doubt inspired the scrawl that marks the spot:

Let all your work and play mix a bold and generous love of humanity with a just and equanimous zeal for country.

Yes, for some, “equanimous” may be an invented word and some may object but their objections can be met with equanimity.

And so for day 505
01.05.2008

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Estate Sales

We Are Still Married: stories and letters by Garrison Keillor has a piece called “Estate” which is about a stint as a writer of obituaries and a frequenter of estate sales. He speaks of an editor:

But I managed to convince him that large beds of beautiful zinnias were one of the deceased’s accomplishments in life and should be noted in her obituary. He wouldn’t let me mention another woman’s rhubarb cake. “Recipes don’t belong in an obit. Too disrespectful,” he said. But he did once let me say, “An employee of the Northern Pacific for thirty-seven years, Mr. Johnson was well known for his skill as an electrician and for taking good care of his tools.

Which statement provides the segue to a description of estate sales:

I thought of my obit-writing days the other evening, after I’d spent the afternoon going around to estate sales. Like the obit trade, they might have been depressing — the homes of the deceased opened up for the sale of stuff the survivors didn’t want, and hundreds of us strangers tramping through the rooms looking for bargains — but they were not. Not to me, anyway. I found them very satisfying. I went to three houses, all small and jammed with stuff […]

And turns the perspective upon himself

I’m a saver myself, and to my considerable collection I added a little bit of each of theirs […] Going to estate sales, a person is struck by the fact that possessions survive us. […] I’ll hang on to them, they are so dear, but when I’m dead they should be sold to strangers at rock-bottom prices. People who may not be born yet should come by my house and snatch them up as the wonderful bargains they will be. That’s why I took good care of them — to extend their usefulness beyond the unimaginable day when I’m no longer here.

And now to make the point explicit: blogging is like running an estate sale.

And so for day 504
30.04.2008

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Roaming Conclusions

In the final section “Conclusions” of the anthology of selections and commentary entitled Texts and Pretexts (1932) Aldous Huxley invites us to consider last thoughts

Or if we must play the theological game, let us never forget that it is a game. Religion, it seems to me, can survive only as a consciously accepted system of make-believe. People will accept certain theological statements about life and the world, will elect to perform certain rites and to follow certain rules of conduct, not because they imagine the statements to be true or the rules and rites to be divinely dictated, but simply because they have discovered experimentally that to live in a certain ritual rhythm, under certain ethical restraints, and as if certain metaphysical doctrines were true, is to live nobly, with style. Every art has its conventions which every artist must accept. The greatest, the most important of the arts is living.

I find it conducive to philosophical musings to juxtapose the above with an excerpt from the Henry Vaughan poem collected under the heading of “Amor Fati”

     Man hath still either toys or care :
But hath no root, nor to one place is tied,
But ever restless and irregular,
     About this earth doth run and ride.
He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where ;
     He says it is so far,
That he has quite forgot how to go there.

Religion as toy for the homeless? Being at home in the world is to be without religion?

And so for day 503
29.04.2008

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The Written Self and Writing

Two paragraphs from Sylvia Ashton-Warner Teacher presented in reverse order:

You never want to say that it’s good or bad. That’s got nothing to do with it. You’ve got no right at all to criticise the content of another’s mind. a child doesn’t make his own mind. It’s just there. Your job is to see what’s in it. Your only allowable comment is one of natural interest in what he is writing. As in conversation. And I never mark their books in any way never cross out anything beyond helping them rub out a mistake, never put a tick or a stamp on it and never complain of bad writing. Do we complain of a friend’s writing in a strongly-felt letter? The attention is on the content.

Yet there are times when one cannot start. He’s just not in the mood. You can’t always say an important thing because it is the time to say it. Sometimes he will say candidly, “I don’t want to write,” and that’s just what you get him to write: “i don’t want to write.” From there you ask, “Why?” and here comes an account of some grievance or objection which, after all, just as well as any other idea, delivers his mind of what is on it, practises his composition, and wraps him up in what is of interest to himself.

Such methods can also be applied to adults struggling with writer’s block.

And so for day 502
28.04.2008

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The Written and the Writing Self

Quentin Crisp ends The Naked Civil Servant with cheeky yet profound meditation on the sense of an ending.

[…] an autobiography is an obituary in serial form with the last installment missing. We think we write definitively of those parts of our nature that are dead and therefore beyond change, but that which writes is still changing — still in doubt. Even a monotonously undeviating path of self-examination does not necessarily lead to a mountain of self-knowledge. I stumble toward my grave confused and hurt and hungry. …

Time for a spot of tea and a nibble.

And so for day 501
27.04.2008

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