political Dynasty

Jump to Political families in Republics‎:
Some political dynasties: The Beazley and Crean
It has been suggested that Kennedy family
political line be merged into this
We study political dynasties in the United States Congress
since its inception in 1789. We
JAIPUR: AICC general secretary Janardan Dwivedi
defended Congress leader Rahul Gandhi, who said
the “largest” political dynasty in terms of both the
number of members placed in Congress
A New Face in the Kennedy Political Dynasty:
Joe the Third. Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Even industrialized democracies are not immune
to the politics of dynasty. Although the
Aug 9, 2010 ... While Barry Soetoro's family lavish
themselves at a luxury Spanish resort
dO u agree with stAtement?
is pOliticAL dynAsty undemOcrAtic?
will ... based on my
We study political dynasties
in a ____ full of plutocrats.




[source: google search 'political dynasty', jan 15 2011]

moon phaser

ms nsty

man proposes, god disposes (june 10, 2010 - aug 5, 2010)

TerryM again ontane said ...
Man proposes, God disposes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

June 10, 2010 5:27 PM


walsha said ...
Cast not the First Stone. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

June 14, 2010 4:55 AM


Yijie Yi Jie said ...
Support you!!! Look forward to your updates!!! Am sure will be even better!!!! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

June 22, 2010 10:27 PM


Rui said ...
Water is always the same, but they are new every moment.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


June 29, 2010 11:21 PM


The court said ...
Happiness is not everything, people have a responsibility.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

July 3, 2010 10:07 AM


Wang Ming Ren said ...
When a human heart can hold different conflicting things, that people will start to become valuable.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

July 7, 2010 6:30 PM


Yijie Yi Jie said ...
So excellent blog, do not step're down . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

July 9, 2010 11:41 PM


JasonBirk Jia Qi said ...
We're too old too fast, but smart too late.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

July 11, 2010 11:09 PM


Xing Yu Xing Yu said ...
Lonely and bored Oh Come see your BLOG!! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

July 14, 2010 3:27 AM


Liu Xiu-Ying Tsai Health Home said ...
Enjoy your own life, not in comparison with others.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

July 16, 2010 6:51 PM


Yun Yun Mao Mao said ...
Difficulty is not a new concept, but rather to avoid the old concept.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

July 19, 2010 2:41 AM


Zhengya Qi Zheng Yaqi said ...
Life is like surging waves, if not stop the rock, how can they create beautiful waves?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

July 21, 2010 7:20 PM


Wan An Wanan said ...
Do not get things to think about, think more of their own hands have . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

July 24, 2010 3:46 PM


Liu Shixian said ...
Really kind man, forget the good deeds they did, they head in the present work thing of the past have been forgotten.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

July 27, 2010 4:37 AM


Tang Ming-home said ...
Hello ~ to ask about safety first . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [/ url] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

August 2, 2010 5:01 PM


Qiu Jian Xun said ...
Learning makes a Good Man Better Man worse and ill. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

August 5, 2010 8:19 AM

from "Ambient Stylistics" by Tan Lin

So. On the 10th of March I board a plane into Seattle, rent a white Honda Acura and drive 87 miles to Concrete, WA, which is on the edge of the park and where the Bear Park Motel is located. When I arrive, my aunt shows me to Room 17, and whenever I have gone to the The Bear Park in the intervening years I stay in Room 17, just as Salvador Dali when he came to New York always stayed at the St. Regis and always in Room 1628. Although I don't remember any, there is as I gather from the photographs an occasional painting in the rooms, and once when I first thought about visiting, when I was in high school, I remember thinking about a photograph of a door that had been kicked in. After arriving, my aunt proudly tells me that the Bear Park is one of the only motels in America where there are no phones in any of the rooms. I believe this says something about the clientele, about the kinds of people who have and have not stayed at the Bear Park Motel on the western edge of North Cascades National Park, the people who have died and not died there, had sex and not had sex, lied and not lied there way out of that godforsaken landscape or one of those rooms. I have often thought of the motel and have asked my aunt many times if she had ever discovered a corpse in one of the rooms and she said no, never. On my second and last night at the Bear Park I asked my aunt if she liked running the motel. She said she did but she added that the worst thing about running a motel was never being able to take a vacation. And drunks bang on the office door, which is the door to their living room, and this wakes her and her uncle up in the middle of the night. People come to cheat in their motel. I have taken that trip to Glacier and the Bear Park Motel many times. I know the head is made for places like the Bear Park Motel where a half-Chinese woman runs a motel filled with language and its lies.

When I was in graduate school getting a Ph.D in 1983 and writing poetry on the side I met a woman who spoke 8 languages-Chinese (mandarin and cantonese and an amoy dialect known as xiamen), German, French, Vietnamese, and English, almost all of them fluently except for German, which she learned in school I think. She was born in Saigon, was raised in Paris and told me she had never ridden in public transportation before NYC because she had spent her childhood in the back seat of a limousine and whenever I think of her I think of her in the back seat of a limousine and basically just living there and reading her favorite books there (she was born a reader just as all avid readers are born not made), and being taken to restaurants, and waiting for her father to put her in the car so she could go to school. I believe she told me her father was in business and that her mother was capable of extreme cruelty. She was very pretty for her age and very slight, almost trop raffiné, and her name was G________, but she had a laugh that was just loud enough, and she was very fond of smiling and not quite smiling at the same time. Her eyes were brown with the color of scuffed shoe polish. From the moment I met her I believed she was an exquisite liar. One night I asked her if she lied in one language better than another because I knew she loved questions like that (all questions for her resembled lies), and she said she knew she could lie best in English, because it was not her favorite language and was most free in it but when she was in bed with someone she preferred to make the sounds of endearment and physical longing in Chinese. One hot very early July morning, my father who was visiting Brooke Alexander, a gallery owner who deals a lot of print works by contemporary artists in NY, walked up the five flights of stairs in my walkup apartment on 125th St. in Spanish Harlem, and met her by accident (she was leaving). I introduced them, asked them to say a few words of Chinese to each other because at the time I was not sure how well she spoke Chinese, and they exchanged a few words in mandarin which I did not understand because I do not speak or understand Chinese except certain names of food. I have always told my friends that I can speak Chinese but only in a restaurant.

Years afterwards when my father had decided to buy another house and was living in Santa Barbara and I had gone to visit him during my summer off, my father asked what happened to her, said she was very well brought up, and that she spoke a very beautiful mandarin. I believe that she reminded my father of my mother though I realize this only now as I am writing it.











Fig. 1b

One night I remember she had told me she was a virgin. I knew she was not really lying because she was lying to me in my favorite language, which is English because it is the only one that I really possess as a language to imagine things in, and because I have always thought that she is probably one of those persons that can only lie well over the phone. I continue to believe to this day that she was a terrible liar in person, although I am probably lying to myself, and of course this is the main reason I fell in love with her after we had ended things, and this is the main reason I still, years later, remember her voice when I am on the telephone and am lonely and am waiting for someone on the other end of the telephone to tell me they love me. One can wait for years to hear a beautiful lie like that. Nearly ten years later I ran into a friend of hers on the Columbia campus near the statue of Rodin's The Thinker. I had gone back (I love the campus and steps where the students sit out on a warm day) to see a professor of mine, George Stade, who wrote a novel called Confessions of a Lady Killer and is my one of favorite professors because he of all my professors, he always acted glad to see me (and I believe he genuinely was) when I came in to talk with him about orals exams, or dissertation chapters or whatever. Anyway, Christina and I talked for a long time. Eventually the subject of G________ came up and she told me that G________ had finished her thesis on the Princesse de Cleves, had married a Swiss banker, and was living in Geneva. Today I feel a strong urge to know what country her parents live in, if they are even alive, and I have an irrevocable desire to meet them, not to talk to them, just to be introduced to them, to go through the mechanical social pleasantries with them. Sometimes there are times when I wish G________ had lied that night when she told me she was a virgin. Without lies, the brain would be more empty than a midtown office building. Without lies, the emotions would have nothing to live for except themselves and no emotion should have to live with itself for very long. Lies are the ways the mind has of accepting our own emotions. None of the lies we tell is real except to the person we tell that lie to. It never really matters if one is telling the truth. It only matters if one cares enough not to tell a lie to someone. There is nothing so sad as a family without liars. My father died in 1989 of a heart attack (he was the best liar in our family) and of course there were things that I never said to him. Everybody needs to lie to someone. As I was saying, the rooms at the Big Bear Park rent for $37 a night.

flatty thingy

SURPLUS BIRDS

Y-V-A

tone tone

"Surface" by Jorie Graham.

It has a hole in it. Not only where I

concentrate.

The river still ribboning, twisting up,

into its re-

arrangements, chill enlightenments, tight-knotted

quickenings

and loosenings--whispered messages dissolving

the messengers--

the river still glinting-up into its handfuls, heapings.

glassy

forgettings under the river of

my attention--

and the river of my attention laying itself down--

bending,

reassembling--over the quick leaving-offs and windy

obstacles--

and the surface rippling under the wind's attention--

rippling over the accumulations, the slowed-down drifting

permanences

of the cold

bed.

I say iridescent and I look down.

The leaves very still as they are carried.

untitled

Dart the skins

Again it rang, again the rocks

This little un-person sang

quietly to herself.

A Dry Scene

There was no end to this town, as they stood peering in it. “Too much word play in this script” was the whispered sound from behind the gaffer’s post. That post was well lit, at least. We bought this town, for this film, and can do what we will, was the thought animating the gunman’s eyes.

Those eyes which had seemed dead until this scene. Well, “dead,” he knew, was just a reassuring play of light on a lens. There was a windswept valley, and ridges dark behind that. And some silhouette, maybe an antagonist.

This death scene ran too long; on that they could all agree.

"The Burning Ship" by Campbell McGrath

No room for regret or self-doubt in art,
doubt but not self-doubt. The ship hauls anchor,
the kerosene lantern flickers and goes out,
voices in the pitch black swell with anger

as shipmates mistake each other for enemies.
The lantern spills, the pilot drops a lit cigar.
Tragedy ensues and engenders more tragedy.
If only the moon could see, if only the stars

had been granted the power of speech.
But the blind remain blind, the voiceless mute.
The burning ship threads its way between reefs
in the darkness. Doubt but not self-doubt.

R*U*S*K*I*N

R*U*S*K*I*N

Event Poster - Martin Kippenberger

Maurice Blanchot by Jean-Luc Nancy

The Infinite Conversation: This title - one of the most striking of all his works - we could take as an emblem of Maurice Blanchot's thinking. Not so much thinking, really, as a stance or gesture: a confidence. Above all, Blanchot has confidence in the possibility of the conversation. What is undertaken in the conversation (with another, with oneself, with the very pursuit of conversation) is the ever-renewed relationship of speech to the infinity of meaning that shapes its truth.

Writing (literature) names this relationship. It does not transcribe a testimony, it does not invent a fiction, it does not deliver a message: it traces the infinite journey of meaning as it absents itself. This absenting is not negative; it shapes the chance and challenge of meaning itself. "To write" means continuously to approach the limit of speech, the limit that speech alone designates, whose designation makes us (speakers) unlimited.

Blanchot was able in this way to recognize the event of modernity: the evaporation of worlds-beyond and, with them, of any secure division between "literature" and experience or truth. He reopens in writing the task of giving a voice to the part of the self that remains silent.

To give such a voice is "to keep watch over absent meaning." Attentive, careful, affectionate vigilance. It wants to take care of these reserves of absence through which truth is given: the experience within us of the infinite outside us.

This experience is possible and necessary when sacred scriptures with their hermeneutics of existence are shut. Literature - or writing - begins with the closing of those books. But literature does not constitute a profane theology. It challenges any theology as well as any atheism: any establishment of a Meaning. "Absence" here is nothing but a movement: an absenting. It's the constant passage to the infinity of all speech. "The prodigious absent, absent from me and from everything, absent also for me" that Thomas the Obscure speaks of is not a being or an authority but the continuous shift of myself outside myself, by means of which there comes, although always pending, the "pure feeling of his existence."

This existence is not life as unmediated fondness for, and perpetuation of, self, nor is it its death. But the "dying" of which Blanchot speaks - and which is not at all to be confused with the cessation of living, but which on the contrary is the living or "sur-viving" named by Derrida so close to Blanchot - shapes the movement of the incessant approach to absenting as true meaning, annulling in it any trace of nihilism.

That is the movement that by being written can "give to nothing, in its form of nothing, the form of something."



Written on the 100th anniversary of the birth of Maurice Blanchot. Jean-Luc Nancy is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Strasbourg and author, most recently, of Listening, translated by Charlotte Mandell.

Garbage men

Two guys, garbage men, grew tired of the language that they had been taught, and invented a new language. This in itself is unremarkable, and happens frequently. But this language, modeled on the trash compactor, was a compact language, fitting neatly into the spaces of words and letters in the old language. It was a model of efficiency, although it had to be spoken and written along with the old language, being dependent on the spacings. That was it's only flaw, really, if you believe doubling is a flaw. They couldn't think of a catchy name, and it never caught on.

from "Love Poems" by Rod Smith

If a lion could speak, we would not understand him.
—Wittgenstein



Listen to the lion. Like
an owl in the
heaped instant
oil-death craft, my love
my driftwood my
Susquehana deckhand
disturbance, so sad, printed
into everything taken.
That enormous bandaged
boundary behind
the open muffling
Is to be filled rain
envisioned, tall
fear rim peopled &
transmuting different
bunk in us "surrounding
a little bird-buddha"
in an ad for an ad for
Listen to the lion. Biological
crank turned by burned
sausage into the vacuum
of affirmation where my
oft inner floated mesquite
self's Ismene suddness
is known spirals sleep and
clear. No roads can show
the middle eye something
other objects shot into
the sky. When giving.
No tactile surface
is stone moist to the
toned raking Paris
you wish. The sun
has several names, like
Sherman, Tazmo, Bonk,
& Harmine-- it's risen
raves retake Atlanta
from nothing's lost
laundry room key &
we, clean in those
clothes have regone
there, we've done
a hell of a job.
thank you. We've
done exactly what
was expected of
us. & we
are not dead. 6
tabs re-side baste
& coax ton's opera-knuckle
brisket. Pal 1
is the cloned guy, &
loosely they have
or will have nice
copulated currency, as
if a tusk warranted Suzuki,
as if, portly
a re-stained tore heart's
made timing looked
back in tears over this
strange be.

from "Canto I" by Ezra Pound

And then went down to the ship,
Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and
We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward
Bore us onward with bellying canvas,
Circe's this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.
Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller,
Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day's end.
Sun to his slumber, shadows o'er all the ocean,
Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,
To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities
Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever
With glitter of sun-rays
Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven
Swartest night stretched over wreteched men there.

les choses

"The Not Tale (Funeral)" by Caroline Bergvall.

The great labour of appearance
Served the making of the pyre.
But how
Nor how
How also
How they
Shal nat be toold
Shall not be told.
Nor how the gods
Nor how the beestes and the birds
Nor how the ground agast
Nor how the fire
First with straw
And then with drye
And then with grene
And then with gold
And then
Now how a site is laid like this.
Nor what
Nor how
Nor how
Nor what she spak nor what was her desir
Nor what jewels
When the fire
Nor how some threw their
And some their
And their
And cups full of wine and milk
And blood
Into the fyr
Into the fire.
Nor how three times
And three times with
And three times how.
And how that
Nor how
Nor how
Nor how
Nor who
I cannot tell
Nor can I say
But shortly to the point I turn
And make of my tale an ende.



from Shorter Chaucer Tales.

grammantical

"Betwixt" by Mel Nichols.

Here are some things to keep in mind as you get to know your small dog. Your reddish-orange dog.

Dare you go? Need you say this? Ought we go through with this?
How do you know that God didn’t make us evolve?
Nanotubes are created rapidly by squirting a carbon source.

I have a huge collection of frogs, right down to a frog toilet seat in my garden.


a metallic whisper please visit the mirror tortured in the potential space and one heck of a wondertickled verbena smoky sea wrack of excellence and tiger's eye








(look here you! http://thebeginningofbeauty.blogspot.com/)

post

>>>

Pivot

from "Le Sens du Combat" by Michel Houellebecq.

The swallows take their flight, skimming the waves slowly, then fly in a spiral into the warming atmosphere. They do not speak to humans, for the humans remain stuck on the earth.

The swallows are not free. They are conditioned by the geometry of their repeated orbits. They slightly modify the angle of attack of their wings to describe spirals that grow further and further apart in relation to the blueprint of the earth’s surface. In short, there is nothing to be learned from swallows.

Sometimes, we would come back together in the car. Over the immense plain the sunset was enormous and red. Suddenly there was a quick flight of swallows and its surface was sliced. You shuddered, at that moment. Your hands were tight on the snake-skin cover of the wheel. So many things could, at the time, make us part.

from "Platonic False Teeth" by Francis Picabia.

The regime of the photographic radium screen’s wind rests every day in the effluvia of the sublime family of great vices when the pyre laughs at the pirate world. Blushing gets pretty dangerous if paralyzed King lacks a Queen, and Jesus Christ, crazed with the sorrows of a society violated in public hereditary silence, operates early in the intrigues of the seraglio, vizier of heaven’s administration.

"Thing Language" by Jack Spicer

This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
Or crash of water. It means
nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt. The death
That young men hope for. Aimlessly
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals, No
One listens to poetry.

1,3,6,7

Mute

Train

Several dark stretches passed on the train before any edges could be seen in the rushing trees. Why did you write this he asked. I am surprised that you think this is an insight.

The Baby

He could not imagine the baby peeing in the mouth. That’s not something I should be thinking, he exclaimed but with a small sound. This exclamation did not adjust the tautness. There was no imagined play at rest here, this was for a real something. It is difficult to see the baby. As a metaphor, he remarked to her, but she was too angry to drop the lip into a new shape.

A Stretch

There she sat beside the cabinet, the tooth angling abruptly. An exclamation or yell built up inside her, but it was unreasonable. However, later there were comments such as: I will not miss this tooth. Her hand touched the humid edge of the furniture while she commented. I am a young woman still, so there is plenty of time for more.

The husband’s dog growled attempting to debone. The dog’s teeth were less yellow than a month ago, as new food had been bought. This had been his surprise plan, to change the food. It was unnerving to come home and find a food that was not the normal food; it was now a food that cleaned gums. The cabinet had also been his, some relative unloading old pieces on us, she had said, as a sort of aside. You’ll come to like it here, he assured her, knowing that was not the case. But what love is toothless or silent?

The Sunset

What was that she was dragging? The pit was too close for anything good. Her black cap was fringed with sweat; the light did not catch it. We followed on her footsteps. On the counter some errant cardboard rested ahead of its use.

Our hands felt groupings of one or the other, as the room was blackened to honor the defeat. We congratulated ourselves on our economy, so unsure up until this moment.

Breadth

This part has no one object to its own. This other has a cat, warm and full of imagined feeling. We say ‘imagined’ for the sake of our futures.

So how small could this part make itself, he thought. There was an unconscious person laying there who could tell some things about the way it was made, although they were also barely there. There was, in fact, a fake part to him, more than one even. This part was not broken, but was gilt. Well, in his head it was.

The other woman walked onto the scene and took stock. There were so many parts that she was unable to count them all, although some were sure to prove unreal. The varied pieces came together in an instant. There she heard some sound like pouncing. Oh! How that could be! Which part was it moving with its paw?

"White" by Charles Simic.

In the inky forest,
In its maziest,

Murkiest scribble
Of words

And wordless cries,
I went for a glimpse

Of the blossomlike
White erasure

Over a huge,
Furiously crossed-out something.

diagonal

There is more complicated
time unspooling in three hours than
most here are willing to admit.

Who is not surprised to
find themselves among 'most'?

But you shift in your chair
unalarmed, so I suppose
I should shift similarly.

My tongue, which I had not
often thought of as clumsy,
or indignant,
thinks out loud of your mouth,
although it -
your mouth -
pursed.

Some mysterious sentence
makes its way onto the table:
What a thing that would be:
to extend that "he" or "she"
to some pronoun more familiar
to us both.

Funny thing
that I remember the diagonal
of your eyelids
equal to
the diagonal of your hips.

from "The Last Man" by Maurice Blanchot

Oh, if it is true that we were alive together—and, really, you were
already a thought—if it is possible that these words flowing between us tell
us something that comes to us from us, at an earlier time wasn’t I always,
near you, this light, avid, insatiable desire to see you and yet, once you were
visible, to transform you further, into something more visible, to draw you,
slowly and darkly, into that point where you couldn’t any longer be anything
but seen, where your face became the nakedness of a face and your mouth
metamorphosed into a mouth? Wasn’t there a moment when you said to me:
“I have the feeling that when you die, I will become completely visible, more
visible than is possible and to the point that I won’t be able to endure it.”
Strange, strange speech. Is it now that you say this? Could it be that he is
dying at this moment? Is it you who always die in him, near him? Could it
be that he wasn’t dead enough, calm enough, strange enough, does he have
to carry desire, memory even further, is that the extremely fine and amazingly
distant point that always slips away and by which, slowly, with authority,
you draw him, you push him back into forgetfulness?

Thought, infinitesimal thought, calm thought, pain.

Later, he asked himself how he had entered the calm. He couldn’t
talk about it with himself. Only joy at feeling he was in harmony with the
words: “Later, he . . .”

02.26

I was unsure what the light
would look like when I arrived
here.

Here, it severed a leg.
There, another head,
run through by
a bright shard.

I watched it
collect against my hand
as a warm volume,
remembering
your cupped palm,
folded and flickering
like a surprising
bird.

02.08

DEAR DRAWING:
So. The world expires at your touch. The touch, cut up, some Burroughs thing - what was it? “I shine at the moment I’m cut.” I’m brought close to something I remember from a past, brushing against my shoulder.
Was that music?
Was that the throne of heaven?

I know for sure that we are, ourselves, against continents. On this island, I’ve found some clunked out landing gear, the throne of heaven’s sound, landing on the top of the palace. The king, sucking his wife’s last breast, the other, a dry scar. Amputated in her body’s war against itself.
Continents are languages. Wholeness at war with parts. Human shields, the light shining through from shrapnel.

There were years when I was not myself, when a double found me, and walked off with my bags. He smelled of potatoes.

There is a machine with me that describes the surface of the vapor-world in ways that I can’t describe to you. The general invisibility of things we love.

One thing is increasingly clear:
I have learned how to hate the non-existent.

H.M.

Today I Wrote Nothing

02.03

Beating hearts
sometimes
beaten,
or beaten back,
hurled at one another
from hands
that became wrenched
in the works
while raising the
theater curtain.

"A Poem Without a Single Bird in It" by Jack Spicer.

What can I say to you, darling,
When you ask me for help?
I do not even know the future
Or even what poetry
We are going to write.
Commit suicide. Go mad. Better people
Than either of us have tried it.
I loved you once but
I do not know the future.
I only know that I love strength in my friends
And greatness
And hate the way their bodies crack when they die
And are eaten by images.
The fun’s over. The picnic’s over.
Go mad. Commit suicide. There will be nothing left
After you die or go mad,
But the calmness of poetry.

Neighbors

1. The skulls of men are several microns thicker than those of women, as are their bones.

2. They are at essence inverted birds, dense, flightless and clumsy.

3. We could wink at the stupidity and brutality of the object. It is separated from love, and the pains of conjunction. It grasps itself, but slowly.

4. Into the surge of the sea on the rocks, the lizards rush headlong.

5. The clothes are gone at this time of night; there is no material for us to touch. We hope to kill our neighbor, marry his son, eat his cattle, drink his blood, and vomit in the bed of his parents. But we realize only vectors, and are unable to fix any point, only continuous points.

6. Our neighbor's tomato grows on its vine. It has no understanding of any one thing surrounding it, yet it moves into space freely, feelingly. Our neighbor plucks the fruit, moistens his lips and empties his bowels. To his mind, his force is not abstract, or deferential, but open and secure. Our neighbor pictures his daughter, and knows, from this picture, that he possesses her.

8. Our neighbor opens his cupboard, finding it much as he expected it.

from "On the Road to What We're Tempted to Call Heaven" by Bernadette Mayer

I'm not being bitten
by heaven or by hell by god
but by the no-god's rain on the world
that my friends the moths hate
& so they stay away
old poets
so few & far between
leave so soon as visitors
without waiting for either the rain
or most of the fun
I go up to my room
if I have one
assuming the feel or sound of the rain
could be heaven
as if there was one
but I'd rather wonder how come
no such perfection
or knowledge of everything
from the beginning of the day
or the beginning of history
or the histories of everyone
beginning to end
or no end could be

DFW

"What looks like the cage's exit is actually the bars of the cage" 222

"The encaged and suicidal" 224

"Dealers, sirens of the other, second cage" 224

"Joelle's been in a cage since Y.T.S.D.B." 227

"Set free the encaged rapacious thing inside" 229

"The difference between suicide and homicide consisting [...] in where you think you discern the cage's door" 230

"The blind god of all doorless cages" 231

"[Cocaine] had been not just her encaging god, but her lover" 235

"A foreign academic with an almost Franciscan bald spot has the swirling limp of someone with a prosthesis" 229

Mother-death-cosmology 230

Entropy: fans - 233 "everything falls off the wall sooner or later" 235

"Putting ? after THE END" 235

"Entertainment is blind" 237

"These are facts. This room in this apartment is the sum of very many specific facts and ideas. There is nothing more to it than that" 239 (Wittgenstein)

"The Prize" 239

Iona 273

Morris Code 275

Individual v. Group 82-83

Without a thought 27, 44

- from index to Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace. I'm stunned at the sudden loss of this fiercely intelligent and laceratingly funny writer.

from "The School of the Dead" by Helene Cixous

Writing is this complex activity, "this learning to die," that is, not to kill, knowing there is death, not denying it and not proclaiming it...Our crime isn't what we think, it isn't the crime in the newspapers, it's always a bit less and a bit more. In life, as soon as I say my, as soon as I say my daughter, my brother, I am verging on a form of murder, as soon as I forget to unceasingly recognize the other's difference. You may come to know your son, your sister, your daughter well after thirty, forty, or fifty years of life, and yet during those thirty or forty years you haven't known this person who was so close. You kept him or her in the realm of the dead. And the other way around. Then the one who dies kills and the one who doesn't die when the other dies kills as well. Surviving is not what we think...

Field

What was it now? History was a black glass. Time was a black glass. The island was curved, the hand was curved, the middle wasn’t there anymore.

The Kling lobby

If you can imagine a tone, vibrating at a particular rate. This tone spread from the lips of one boy, a solar systemic dust-bunny, settling into the air, freely absorbing every particle caught in the summer sunlight.

The city is vast, and threatens to overwhelm this tone, although it also vibrates in response to it. We won’t call these vibrations harmonies, for that would be too easy a description. No, we will call them sympathetic, although they are, by their nature, ambivalent. Being vibrations, they have, for the longest time, stood outside of the political process.

The city balanced on the edge of vast abyss that stretched over a black lake. So that the buildings of the city, many of which were cloud-shrouded, would not topple into the lake, every building was tethered to the ground with strong cables made of steel. We entered the Kling lobby as it was being destroyed by the tone. Having known of its onset for quite some time (years, in fact), we were surprised only by its forceful insistence. Frankly, we blew it off for a while. And then we were worried; could feel our cells shift, a micron, a pixel, an electron displacement.

The Kling lobby is a series of planes and fabrics. The fabrics include velvets, and others, more space-age and cleanly. The fabrics shuffle against our skin, sloughing off dead cells. The cells collect, shed moisture, consider, then reconsider themselves as mite-food, and squirm at the very thought of it. In short: utter consumption. Instantaneous.

The glass in the Kling lobby is vibrating so as to be invisible.
The structural supports crumbling.
Survival!
Limited from dust clouds.
Overheard against the open mouths: “Cover your eyes!”

Now here’s a funny story; you’ll laugh at this: The body swung itself over the stairwell, swollen to twice its original size. Fat cells reproduced until skin split. Arms growing out of the end places - punctuation. No preciousness here, just survival. The waxed floors shone, and our shoe leather couldn’t get a grip. Abrupt floor covered in something, and then, the usual: bright light, white-flash-what-have-you.

A cashless, armless people move through the streets. The snow falls, like always, on the armed and the armless. The people join in harmonies.

"A fat photograph..." by John Wilkinson.

A fat photograph

about to be cropped


where what is incidental

bloats an incident


with light or dead space

The elements

will say Ah

drawn close


the moles & needles

drill unpractised flesh


She dies less

for points of their


invention, solid caps

over points of entry


than a quick–to–the–jaw

reasonableness


without waste or

overlapping


idly ripping

incidental blossom
off

-from Proud Flesh.

At a loss

Now,
if only he placed his thumb
salted or
part-knurled
on newsprint next to my ear
I could ink it.

Fight

MK Ultra and MK Olsen circle each other warily, sweat beading on the dry parts of their skin, but not on the elbows, which remain dry, and are not formerly dry.

Further excursions

My loves,

This excursion into what they are calling quiet space has been unlike others.  The air was duller, maybe the grafts have flattened, the mountains are no longer the kind of music I had grown used to hearing. There are too many folds, and some are blaming the hypoxia in the oceans on demons; I can't help but think of the stupidity of our own recent demonology. I suppose these sort of stratifications are inevitable. I am unable to write much more at this time; both of you should take care not to mention any of this to R_______.  He has his ears to the speaker, but is unable to graft from there to there.

Yours,

H.

Habilitation

My Dear Fortune,

I have thought of writing to you for some time now.  The evenings on the island have been humid and unpleasant; the curvature of the earth here is such that I have felt like nothing more than a tuning fork for suffering. The only news I have received from the mirrore realm was a very desperate letter from your dear father, and there were no details, only that you were up to your neck in politics, or at least its consequences.  

I hoped to avoid the conventional lines, but it seems that those suspect words are all that I have with which to write. Not to evince melodrama, in these crystalline times, but I am very upset by your, and Ljuba's, behavior, that you haven't found time to write a line since our meeting in Vienna. I know, my attitude towards life is increasingly petit-bourgeois, but with that dreadful scare still in my bones, I wonder if it wouldn't have happened had you written. I shall return to the sanatorium this eve, and am hoping against hope that you will be able to join me again. There is a village nearby where the fever has not yet touched; it is no floating-world, but will do for the moment.

Under some duress from the assembled martyrs, I have begun writing again, starting with a portrait of Max Weber (you know his achievements in some forms of quiet space travel). I think often of our past together, your image a song, the grain of your voice with me late in the night. My exile to these hotels and swamps has led me to further consider the difference between the concepts Gelten and Sollen (there may in fact be some useful gesture there). Although, as you know, perhaps better than I, we are each no Leo Naphta, caught deep inside magic mountain.

Although I don't wish to keep you from your studies, please let me know if you have thoughts on the colloquium. P____ has expressed his distaste for my politics, but then again, he was the first to decry quiet space, and that has gotten our cause nowhere. Don't forget about the machines, or the sites of prophecy! Without maintenance they, also, will be lost. Be secure in your feelings towards E_____. Her love affair with that musician is imminent. The three of us are living together, although with physical proximity comes inner separation; the only real solution seems to be a friendly parting after the war. I am suddenly aware of every fold in my skeleton; my own capacity for balance seems to be growing.

I affectionately embrace you.

Until then,

H.

Haiku 18

- From 'Mostly Sitting Haiku," Allen Ginsberg.

0 to 9

-Sunrise, a song of two humans. F.W. Murnau. 1927.


Midsummer mix here.

/moonpatrol/tetine/ellen allien/gui boratto/zoo brazil
/butch & amir/traffickers/rhythm & sound/the field
/djosos krost/the presets/m83/apparat

How much it matters?

|___this much and no more___|

Six Lines

In late capitalism

guilt becomes technology.

Technology agrees with hunger.

Desire is part of being drawn.

Being is difficult to tell.

Speaking is compared to seeing.

Pastoral reprise

The hills were alive with music,
but more like living
with singing.
In the sense of:
that hand is a particle,
this, a
mechanical sound, almost,
but hollow.
In the sense of:
turtles
Being emptied from their shells.
Into the soup
was the rule.

God, he says, we've filled our hills
with this shit.

That's not polite, she returns,
scratching her shoulder against the bark.
Which, then,
unsuprisingly,
fell to the dirt.
That's just not polite.

I can remember discussing Engels,
and certain utopian metaphysicians,
but that was always
beside the point.
Hills, meadows, the like,
were beside the point.

The point was to think like rats.

Not hum
Beethoven.

She gestures:
I like that one that ends with cannons.

At hospital

Bones are unlike other
Bones, less rigid, perhaps.

I watched the others unfold
their vacation stiffness through the
tram station gates.

It only occurred to a
grasshopper (i thought)
to fly through
that brittle crowd,
checking each point
for mass and temperature.

Some anxieties about evolution

This morning, while showering, I noticed a single scale on my leg. It was iridescent, primarily on the green end of the spectrum, and pulled at my skin as I inserted a fingernail under its edge. I bent over, water forced my eyes shut; I could still make out the flashing scale behind my closed lids. A little breathless, I reached to turn the water off, blinking at the sudden brightness.

Psychological State

"There are no psychological states." Her voice drifted out over the crowd, her eyes edged with red effort. "What can you assume from language gifts? Our electrons are charged - that has to be enough." Her arm raised for emphasis, she noticed the frayed end of her suit jacket. Funny to have not noticed this before, she thought, her lips suddenly dry. At that moment in Oklahoma, two young girls were shot in the head, and left at the side of the road, their hair laced with dust. Early the next morning, the sun showed no signs of accelerating its pace, as if acknowledging an impossibility. Thinking - that sounds too much like a poem - her old worries returned, and she erased the line.

Quality of Life Czar

b:
how is it?


a:
quality of life index: magenta
happiness index: attachment to existence
banana index: several
sunglasses index: grey gradient
science fiction index: stalker
secondary science fiction index: solaris
name of g_d index: eight
parasite index: vigorous protozoa

Political pictorialism

Cats' looks are often
in the direction of mice,
it's said.
This transposition -
some brain-stem hope for blood -
fails as a measure of desire,
as cats are equally moved by the sudden
slope or the still pulse of grass,
simply put, for rolling,
or licking underneath a tail.

Why argue for slaughter, then;
there is no ancient marble of,
say, Democritus or some other
molecular heir,
that has not given way to
gentle haemorrhage,
rapid or not.

Civilizations 2

Civilization

Those are the people who do complicated things.

they'll grab us by the thousands
and put us to work.

World's going to hell, with all these
villages and trails.
Wild duck flocks aren't
what they used to be.
Aurochs grow rare.

Fetch me my feathers and amber

*

A small cricket
on the typescript page of
"Kyoto born in spring song"
grooms himself
in time with The Well-Tempered Clavier.
I quit typing and watch him through a glass.
How well articulated! How neat!

Nobody understands the ANIMAL KINGDOM.

*

When creeks are full
The poems flow
When creeks are down
We heap stones.

-Gary Snyder

Things occur naturally

Today
Water spouted
Out a water spout.
I was going to
write something about
how it happened,

but decided
against it.

Civilizations 1

To account for Life is one thing: to explain Life another. In the first we are supposed to state something prior (if not in time, yet in the order of Nature) to the thing accounted for, as the ground or cause of that thing, or as its suffient cause....To account for a thing is to see into the principle of its possibility, and from that principle to evolve its being. Thus the mathematician demonstrates the truths of geometry by constructing them....

To explain a power, on the other hand, is (the power itself being assumed, though not comprehended) to unfold or spread it out.
- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from Theory of Life.

Suprematist Poem #1

Against recent claims,
There is no world of words laid bare,
Strung across ours.
With that out: There is only room for
hands against the bow;
No nocturne or granular state for this ship.
As after beaches,
Soles could push sand into carpet rows,
Almost quickening steps.

William Blake - The Clod and the Pebble

The Clod & the Pebble

Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.

So sang a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattles feet:
But a Pebble of the brook,
Warbled out these metres meet.

Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight:
Joys in anothers loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.

Some raised thing

Rudolf Stingel, "Untitled (After Sam)," oil on canvas, 2005 - 2006

I know, this thing is not the most current thing. I feel that I should raise this thing, because, once this is raised, it will change other things. I can point it in the direction of things, and it will change things. It is some light cruelty, knit together as we are.

Deserted Islands

...To that question so dear to the old explorers- "which creatures live on deserted islands?"- one could only answer:  human beings live there already, but uncommon humans, they are absolutely separate, absolute creators, in short, an Idea of humanity, a prototype, a man who would almost be a god, a woman who would be a goddess, a great Amnesiac, a pure Artist, a consciousness of Earth and Ocean, an enormous hurricane, a beautiful witch, a statue from the Easter Islands.  There you have a human being who precedes itself.  Such a creature on a deserted island would be the deserted island itself, insofar as it imagines and reflects itself in the first movement....

From Desert Islands and Other Texts, 1953-1974 by Gilles Deleuze.

Isidore Isou 1

MANIFESTO OF LETTERIST POETRY
A Commonplaces about Words

Pathetic I The flourishing of bursts of energy dies beyond us.
All delirium is expansive.
All impulses escape stereotyping.
Still I An intimate experience maintains curious specifics.
Pathetic II Discharges are transmitted by notions.
What a difference between our fluctuations and the
brutality of words.
Transitions always arise between feeling and
speech.

Still II The word is the first stereotype.
Pathetic III What a difference between the organism and the sources.
Notions - what an inherited dictionary. Tarzan learns
in his father's book to call tigers cats.
Naming the Unknown by the Forever.
Still III The translated word does not express.
Pathetic IV The rigidity of forms impedes their transmission.
These words are so heavy that the flow fails to carry
them. Temperaments die before arriving at the goal
(firing blanks).

No word is capable of carrying the impulses one wants to send with it.

From Introduction à une Nouvelle Poésie et une Nouvelle Musique. Paris: Gallimard, 1947.

Arthur C. Clarke 1918-2008

The ultraintelligent machines will certainly make possible new forms of art, and far more elaborate developments of the old ones, by introducing the dimensions of time and probability....The insertion of an intelligent machine into the loop between a work of art and the person appreciating it opens up some fascinating possiblitles. It would allow feedback in both directions; by this I mean that the viewer would react to the work of art; then the work would react to the viewer's reactions, then....and so on, for as many stages as was felt desirable. This sort of to-and-fro process is already hinted at, in a very crude way, with today's primitive "teaching machines"; and those modern novelists who deliberately scramble thier text are perhaps also groping in this direction. A dramatic work of the future, reproduced by an intelligent machine sensitive to the varying emotional states of the audience, would never have the same form, or even the same plotline, twice in succession.

What sort of art intelligent machines would create for their own amusement, and whether we would be able to appreciate it, are questions that can hardly be answered today. The painters of the Lascaux Caves could not have imageined (though they would have enjoyed) the scores of art forms that have been invented in the twenty thousand years since they created their masterpieces. Though in some respects we can do no better, we can do much more - more than any Paleolithic Picasso could possibly have dreamed. And our machines may begin to build on the foundations we have laid.

Yet perhaps not. it has often been suggested that art is a compensation for the deficiencies of the real world; as our knowledge, our power, and above all our maturity increase, we will have less and less need for it. If this is true, the ultraintelligent machines would have no use for it at all.

-From Greetings, Carbon-Based Bipeds!: Collected Essays, 1934-1998.

Frustrum.

Gary Hill. Flap flap.

Singing Sailors

I've found alot to admire in Mark Manders' work, a witty and Peircean approach to object-making. Maybe because I've been planning a trip to islands, and most islands make me think of skull island (energetically littered with masts, mutants and cannibals), but this drawing 'singing sailors' (1998) seems more exuberant sea shanty than exhausted allegory. [www.markmanders.org]

Jesper Just video

from My LIfe - Lyn Heijinian

Back and backward, why, wide and wider. Such that art is inseparable from the search for reality. The continent is greater than the content. A river nets the peninsula. The garden rooster goes through the goldenrod. I watched a robin worming its way on the ridge, time on the uneven light ledge. There as in that's their truck there. Where it rested in the weather there it rusted. As one would say, my friends, meaning no possession, and don't harm my trees. Marigolds, nasturtiums, snapdragons, sweet William, forget-me-nots, replaced by chard, tomatoes, lettuce, garlic, peas, beans, carrots, radishes--but marigolds. The hum hurts. Still, I felt intuitively that this which was incomprehensible was expectant, increasing, was good. The greatest thrill was to be the one to "tell." All rivers' left banks remind me of Paris, not to see or sit upon but to hear spoken of. Cheese makes one thirsty but onions make a worse thirst. The Spanish make a little question frame. In the case, propped on a stand so as to beckon, was the hairy finger of St. Cecilia, covered with rings. The old dress is worn out, torn up, dumped. Erasures could not serve better authenticity. The years pass, years in which, I take it, events were not lacking. There are more colors in the great rose window of Chartres than in the rose. Beside a body, not a piece, of water. Serpentine is fool's jade. It is on a dressed stone. The previousness of plants in prior color--no dream can come up to the original, which in the common daylight is voluminous. Yet he insisted that his life had been full of happy chance, that he was luck's child. As a matter-of fact, quite the obverse. After a 9-to-5 job he got to just go home. Do you have a compulsion to work and then did you have a good time. Now it is one o'clock on the dot, but that is only a coincidence and it has a bad name. Patriots drive larger cars. At the time the perpetual Latin of love kept things hidden. We might be late to the movies but always early for the kids. The women at the parents' meeting must wear rings, for continuity. More sheep than sleep. Paul was telling me a plot which involved time travel, I asked, "How do they go into the future?" and he answered, "What do you mean?--they wait and the future comes to them--of course!" so the problem was going into the past. I think my interests are much broader than those of people who have been saying the same thing for eight years, or so he said. Has the baby enough teeth for an apple. Juggle, jungle, chuckle. The hummingbird, for all we know, may be singing all day long. We had been in France where every word really was a bird, a thing singing. I laugh as if my pots were clean. The apple in the pie is the pie. An extremely pleasant and often comic satisfaction comes from conjunction, the fit, say, of comprehension in a reader's mind to content in a writer's work. But not bitter.

Civilized panic

The less subjects live anymore, the more abrupt, frightening, the death. In that the latter literally transforms the former into a thing, it makes them aware of their permanent death, of reification, of the form of their relations, which they are partly culpable of. The civilized integration of death, without power over it and ridiculous before it, which it covers up cosmetically, is the reaction-formation to something social [Gesellschaftliche], the awkward attempt of exchange-society to plug the last holes still left open by the world of commodities. Death and history, particularly the collective one of the category of the individual [Individuum], form a constellation. If the individual, Hamlet, once deduced its absolute essentiality out of the dawning consciousness of the irrevocability of death, then the downfall of the individual brings down the entire construction of bourgeois existence along with it. What is annihilated in itself and perhaps also for itself is something nugatory. Hence the constant panic in the sight of death. It is no longer to be placated except through its repression.

-Theodor Adorno, Negative Dialectics.

On Belief

The impasse which Leibniz tried to solve by way of introducing the notion of the "preestablished harmony" between the monads, guaranteed by God Himself, the supreme, all-encompassing monad, repeats itself today, in the guise of the problem of communication: how does each of us know that he or she is in touch with the "real other" behind the screen, not only with spectral simulacra?" - Slavoj Zizek, On Belief.

The answer, of course, is that it doesn't matter, as spectral simulacra is like a ghostly bread pudding, satisfying without the carbohydrates.

Vertiginousness - Theodor Adorno

A dialectics no longer "glued" to identity will provoke either the charge that it is bottomless - one that ye shall know by its fascist fruits - or the objection that it is dizzying. In great modern poetry, vertigo has been a central feeling since Baudelaire; the anachronistic suggestion often made to philosophy is that it must have no part in any such thing. Philosophy is cautioned to speak to the point; Karl Kraus had to learn that no matter how precisely each line of his expressed his meaning, a materialized consciousness would lament that this very precision was making its head swim. A usage of current opinion makes such complaints comprehensible. We like to present alternatives to choose from, to be marked True or False. The decisions of a bureaucracy are frequently reduced to Yes or No answers to drafts submitted to it; the bureaucratic way of thinking has become the secret model for a thought allegedly still free. But the responsibility of philosophical thought in its essential situations is not to play this game...
- from Negative Dialectics.

Homosexuality and Marxism - Jack Spicer

There should be no rules for this but it should be
simultaneous if at all.
Homosexuality is essentially being alone. Which is
a fight against the capitalist bosses who do not want
us to be alone. Alone we are dangerous.
Our dissatisfaction could ruin America. Our love
could ruin the universe if we let it.
If we let our love flower into the true revolution
we will be swamped with offers for beds.

-Jack Spicer, from Three Marxist Essays.

The Revision by Diane Williams

You should not read this. It is too private. It is the most serious. It is even too serious for me. I should make a something of this.

Here is the best part, when he said to me come here. That was the very best part of my life so far. In the doorway to his bathroom was where I was. It was where I was when I asked him, “Are you peeing?”

He said, “No, but now I am.” He was seated to do the peeing, so it would not be any problem to do it, facing me. I didn’t even hear it, the peeing, if he peed.

Well, why?–why can’t all of it be dirty parts, every part a dirty part, or quickly leading to another dirty part? –the part when he just put himself into my mouth?–or the part when he said you looked–I can’t remember how he said I looked to him, with that part of him in my mouth, but he jiggled on my jaw. He said open up before he went ahead and he peed.

Oh! That’s how babies could be made!

-Diane Williams