Skateaway.

At extremes of human experience, the habitual reflective syntax of language breaks, just as reflective consciousness breaks, opening to the catastrophe of a present that recalls no precedent and anticipates no aftermath.

— Donald Revell, “Better Unsaid: On Poetic Fragments”

Last night, after texting back and forth with the teens about whether they would return before midnight— whether they should return before midnight —- whether midnight, itself, can be asked to stand for a line that my partner likes to call a “curfew” — whether boundaries make us safer or just protect us from imagining how one day’s feelings spill over into the next day’s not-quite light yet.

. . . No fear alone at night she’s sailing through the crowd . . . . .

In 1980, The Dire Straits released their album, Making Movies. To this day, any bar from its rhymes drags my mind back to the age of 17, the signifiers and psychogeographies of that terrain. Whiplash. Skateaway careening from the kitchen speakers, calling me elsewhere, mid-text. The realistic mom-mask falls from the face. The tongue finds the fork in its path.

An intersection captions the crossroads:

“Your mom remembering what she was doing at 11 pm on a Friday night at your age.”

Hell, it’s an anthem for me. Why not read the corniness closely?

In this case, the unpacking must begin with the titular luggage. “Skateaway” is that particular form of neologism known as a portmanteau word. Beloved by Surrealists and OULIPO, portmanteau words erase the spatial gap between two words, in this case, cramming “skate” (a verb) and “away” (an adverb that modifies skate), rendering an action that also alludes to a state. Skateaway is given as a way of being precipitated by a certain type of action which the song’s subject— a girl on skates— creates.

Aside: One of my favorite portmanteau words, Barococo, or “excessively ornate in style,” combines baroque and rococo. Baroque is a borrowing from French that originates in the older Portuguese barroco or Spanish barrueco, “irregularly shaped pearl,” though linguists have also connected it to the Spanish berruca, “wart” (from Latin verrūca). Rococo is also borrowed from French and derives from Medieval Latin rocca, “rock,” which may come from a Celtic source or, alternatively, Latin rūpēs, “cliff.” In music, Barococo refers to a certain type of “impersonal” background music that originated in the Baroque and pre-Classic periods and was popularized in the early 20th century by technology that permitted longer-playing records and allowed listeners to demote music to ambiance rather than active listening.

“Skateaway” is recognizably Knopfleresque in its snappy refrain, guitar bridges, and extended guitar solo rounding out the end. The song opens with a view: the speaker sees a girl breaking the rules of traffic by skating against the flow. “I seen a girl on a one-way corridor / Stealing down a wrong-way street.” She is stealing, as he puts it, though we don’t know yet if this is an accusation or reason for admiration.

The misheard lyric is a convention of my listening practices. Accordingly, I spent most of my life believing the lyrics to be:

For all the world like an urban toreador
She had wings on, on her feet

when in fact the lyrics did not include wings, or any other allusion to flying. My wings are Knopfler’s wheels, which is a more sensible thing for a skater to have on her feet. The difference between wings and wheels is that the former has little connection to the ground while the latter allows one to move over the ground quickly. Wheels are eminently grounded.

The first allusion to dance comes with the cars: “Well, the cars do the usual dances / Same old cruise and the curbside crawl.” At this point, we have an “urban toreador” (an image I adore) inserted into a scene where cars are doing the sort of dance that has rules, conventions, an ordinary. The girl disrupts the dances doubly: first she disrupts them by going the wrong way, or breaking the rules, and then she disrupts them by jamming the familiar aesthetic with the provocation of bullfighting.

It is the ambivalence of the car’s drivers that creates excitement. Bullfighting is a bloodsport: one of the lives in the ring will end. But this tone of this song is light, frisky, ____ (ambi-valent). The cars are doing their usual dances “But the roller girl, she's taking chances” and “They just love to see her take them all.”

A breakdown of the song’s verse structure:

• All the verses (stanzas) have 4 lines, excepting my favorite verse, which has 5 lines.

• If your gander involves refrains, there are many ways to combine the verses and study what gets amplified (and maybe altered) through repetition. My gander doesn’t know what it wants, and proceeds accordingly.

• Briefly, taking the verses as stanzas, we have the following structure (with no eye to end-rhyme): A / B / C / D / E / C / F / G / H / I / C / F / G / J / K, where C is the first refrain and G is (loosely, loosely) something like a second refrain.

The first refrain elucidates the affective conditions of the skateaway: headphones, night, crowds, city streets.

No fear alone at night
She's sailing through the crowd
In her ears the phones are tight
And the music's playing loud

The next verse is simply a casual exchange that sets the terms of communication between the speaker the girl: “Halle-LU-jah, here SHE comes / Queen ROLLerball / And ENchanté, what can I SAY? / Don't care at all.”

No pressure. No worries. She’s not looking for conversation or attention. If she gets it, she may laugh but she won’t stop skating, and skating is her purpose. The gaze (what they “love to see”) is part of the background scenery when you are moving too quickly to be apprehended by it. In a way, interpellation loses it power in the skateaway realm.

What’s different about the skateaway is that it puts an end to the waiting: “You know, she used to have to wait around.” She used to depend on things that came to her. “She used to be the lonely one.” Skateaway shifts agency. “But now that she can skate around town / She's the only, only one.” She can tell her own story rather than waiting to be told or defined by adults, parents, experts, priests . . .

The refrain returns here, reminding us that she isn’t afraid when skating through the crowd at night because she is wearing her headphones, drowning out her surroundings with loud music, lost in the world of her head which happens to correspond with the radio song. “She gets rock 'n' roll and a rock 'n' roll station / And a rock 'n' roll dream.” She tunes in to the frequency of her own reveries, her own dreams. “She's making movies on location / She don't know what it means.” Each place she moves through becomes part of the movie generated by the music and motion. She doesn’t have to know what this ‘means’: her only commitment is to feel it, to move with it.

Narrativity enchants from the margins of movement. “And the music make her wanna be the story / And the story was whatever was the song, what it was.” The song is the story and she is part of it, part of this story told by the music and yet retold, re-made, by her relationship to it, just as a good book draws us into its spine, enabling us to recognize familiar traces and spaces that resonate and refract. Proust is summer’s king of that. Time is suspended: “Roller girl, don't worry / D.J. play the movies / All night long, all night long.” The girl isn’t choosing specific tunes or songs; she is just going along with the radio songs. She experiences agency or autonomy (she can go where she wants and listen to music and make a ‘movie’) with limitations (she can’t pick the song, she can only make a movie from the song that is given).

The next verse delights me because it crosses again into that ambivalence. “She tortures taxi drivers just for fun” — so she gets pleasure from provoking or upsetting taxi drivers; “She likes to read their lips” — so she engages them in some form of conversation that elicits a response; She “Says, ‘Toro, toro, taxi, see ya tomorrow, my son’” — so she calls to them with the classic call a toreador makes when trying to lure a bull closer and capture his interest for the purpose of wounding him — “I swear, she let a big truck graze her hip” — so she puts herself at risk, which is consistent with the toreador’s practice in bullfight, but also doesn’t seem to put the taxi drivers at risk. This “torture” isn’t physical but flirtatious. There is no risk to anyone apart from herself, the girl on the skates.

And this reminds me of Paul Valery’s essay on dance, where he studies the dancer as an exercise in philosophy. “For the dancer is in another world; no longer the world that draws color from our gaze, but one that she weaves with her steps and with her gestures,” writes Valery. “And in that world acts have no outward aim; there is no object to grasp, to attain, to repulse or run away from, no one which puts a precise end to an action and gives movements firm outward direction and coordination.”

Do the actions of the girl on skates have a purpose, apart from moving across the streets and through the city? Does she have an outward aim, apart from listening to music and living in that skateaway dreamworld?

There are similarities between the girl and Valery’s description of the dancer, even if those similarities are most striking in the quality of absorption both seem to involve. The dancer is “in another world,” a word “she weaves with her steps and with her gestures”; the skater . . .

“Aw, she got her own world in the city, yeah / You can't intrude on her, no, no, no, no / She got her own world in the city / The city's been so rude to her.”

Now the first refrain is repeated and followed immediately by the two verses of the song refrain, moving towards the song’s diminishment through repetition and repositioning, the result being a snowman-shaped refrain-combo:

No fears alone at night
Sailing through the crowd
In her ears those phones so tight
And the music's playing loud

She gets rock 'n' roll and a rock 'n' roll station
And a rock 'n' roll dream
She's making movies on location
She don't know what it means

But the music make her wanna be the story
And the story was whatever was the song, what it was
Roller girl, don't worry
D.J. play the movies
All night long, all night long

A slight shift: “No fear alone at night” becomes “No fears alone at night” in this repetition. The girl moves from the repudiating the condition of one fear (the fear of being alone at night in the city) to repudiating the condition of many fears (all the fears that emerge after being alone at night in the city long enough to see the city, to taste life, to witness the possibilities of hurt and harm).

Au fin: the repetition, humming. The phased out humming and sound-making — “Slippin' and a-slidin' / Yeah, life's a rollerball / Slippin' and a-slidin' / Skateaway, that's all” — sums up life in a “rollerball,” or a skating disco scene where couples move past each other on wheels, and coordinate their actions into steps and slow dances. But the girl of Skateaway never dances in the lyrics: she skates against the grain and plays with danger. She listens to her own music on headphones. There is no sense in which she is dancing to the same music as those around her. If this is a rollerball, then she imagines it and remains its single knowing attendee.

In the ending, Knopfler repeats the titular world, invoking the “Skateaway” space, while vocalizing the skater’s imaginary (as he perceives it) and quoting this imaginary in “Sha-la sha-lay, hey, hey / Skateaway Now, sha-la sha-lay, hey, hey / She's singing sha-la sha-lay, hey, hey…”

—- And there is seepage in the SHA-la, sha-LAY stresses of the skateaway, a soft interpenetration that reminds me of what Beatrice Douvre evoked in (a line from her poem, “She Who Goes Beyond”) “the fascinated distance that bleeds,” which is to say, music has always pulled me from myself: it is better at doing so than any human voice or conversation. Perhaps this is due to the nature of its invitation, for music unfurls the texture of dreams, drawing us towards the imaginary, insinuating through beats, tempo markings, instrumentation the possibility of motion into and away. The body climbs the steps while discovering them. The imaginary holds sway, unimpeded by hyper-consciousness. And yes, there is sublime pleasure in this.

Towards the end of his essay on dance, Valery shows his hand in a sprawling and marvelous sentence (italics mine):

I wanted to show you how this art, far from being a futile amusement, far from being a specialty confined to putting on a show now and then for the amusement of the eyes that contemplate it or the bodies that take part in it, is quite simply a poetry that encompasses the action of living creatures in its entirety: it isolates and develops, distinguishes and deploys the essential characteristics of this action, and makes the dancer's body into an object whose transformations and successive aspects, whose striving to attain the limits that each instant sets upon the powers of being, inevitably remind us of the task the poet imposes on his mind, the difficulties he sets before it, the metamorphoses he obtains from it, the flights he expects of it— flights which remove him, sometimes too far, from the ground, from reason, from the average notion of logic and common sense.

I don’t know when the girls will wander in tonight, or what the proper ceiling for their wanders should be. I hope they find their skateaway, ride their unknowns, tarry near their fascinations, carry only what frees them, make movies whose meaning eludes them.

The restless, tempestuous, eternally-hungry physical part of me can’t resist the invitation, the beat of it, the thrill of feeling the body lose and find, lose and find, SHA-la, sha-LAY . . . rollERgirl, don’t WERE-ry, dj play the MOVE-ies all NIGHT long . . .

Playing on the cutting room floor.

I do not profess that writing may not and does not in fact play this role [man’s exploitation by man], but from that to attribute to writing the specificity of this role and to conclude that speech is exempt from it, is an abyss that one must not leap over ... lightly.

– Catherine Malabou

What was left on the cutting room floor?

— Gabriela Denise Frank, in a line left on the cutting room floor of an interview draft

FALLEN NESTS

While meandering up and down the street with Radu, pausing at his usual pee-mail stops, even venturing to add a new box to the map of his scent-relations, a Carolina wren chirped my name and the world shimmered, froze, melted, became momentarily Otherwise. On the day before leaving for Romania last month, on a similar walk with Radu, I

I thought about a nest I’d come across a few weeks ago, on a similar walk, the day before we left for Romania— and feeling the world’s axis tilt into the eerie. Had I taken a photo of that fallen nest? Flipping through the images on my phone . . . green, the walk, the tree, the nest, the small blue egg crushed within it. The egg’s shell struck me multiply, but also figuratively, as the broken skin of a curved origins. Not a surface so much as the absence of roundness, the not-whole of a thing that breaks when a life hatches from it or, breaks too early, falling into a story of accidents.

The persistence of this image inflamed my curiosity, much as the “abyss” did on in 2021, when pandemic consigned us to the house. In this case, what emerged wasn’t a word but the process of wording, itself, situated in an restless urge to animate the scraps and remnants —- to make an alternate nest from the shadows of things that got cut from my conversation with Gabriela Denise Frank (which will be published in The Rumpus next week). In that interview, when Gabriela queried my writing process, I spoke of juxtaposing fragments and pieces of sound, but there is, perhaps, another way of ‘saying’ the same thing, which is by enacting it.

From my fever for lost and fallen things: two fallen nests. Two structures arose the cuttings of wood chips at the base of the interview’s final draft. The first nest is self-conscious: the speakers are set apart by/in quotation marks. As these quoted words (the “cuttings”) have not or will not be published in an official journal, there is a thrill in according them the status of words that were scored and prepared for performance. The second nest is composed entirely from my own words, the ones looking up at me from the draft’s cutting floor, asking to be placed in an un-synced relation that is not quite a conversation.

Both nests have their own lullabies, though what lulling might sound like for occupants of fallen nests remains unclear. Nevertheless.

Fallen Nest 1: Cracker, “Big Dipper” (1996)

“FALLEN NEST 1”

Gabriela’s kindness and brilliance rises from the screen immediately. Moved by her demeanor, I visit her website and marvel at her art. Now, I want to tack the boat and focus the questions on the provocative asynchronies in her work rather than consider the meh of my own. But Gabriela asks. “How and where does this message find you? What is giving you pleasure these days?”

And I reply. “Dear Gabriela, this message finds me at home in Birmingham, at 12:14 a.m., feeling grateful to you, while also paring down a draft essay, which, in my case, involves cutting hundreds of words at an hour when letting go of words is less onerous. Pleasures: bright crimson azaleas, the overwrought aroma of wisteria, archives of e-flux index, making collages from stills in old family films, Charlotte Mandell’s translation of Paul Valéry’s Monsieur Teste, recent encounters with poets like K. Iver, the unsayables that drive the having-said, a year with no surgeries, the splendid critique of my teens, the birdsongs that spring lays near my window.”

Gabriela turns towards the furred one. “And (importantly!) how is the wonderful, terrible Radu?”

I reply. I am conscious of being the one who is replying. “Radu is as wonderful and terrible as the poems he courts on the front porch. He has turned his melancholic heart away from books and invested in birdwatching and barking at bumblebees. I could not be more proud—or more embarrassed. Love does this to us, I think. Love impels us to recognize how the beloved is seen by others, which is often much less appealing than we care to admit.”

Gabriela mentions the poem “Alternative Index Discovered in Franz Kafka’s Notebooks.” She wonders how I “came to the index as a scaffolding” for it. “How did the poem start, develop, and evolve with this form? What was left on the cutting room floor?”

I tell her a truth. “Those poems were lifted from the cutting room floor of my notebooks, where I indulged in cross-annotation of Kafka’s correspondence, published fiction, and diaries. An index is a lovely apparatus for shaping: it presumes to know without acknowledging its bias. I wanted to mess with that way of knowing implied by structure. In the sidereal, I hear Svetlana Boym whispering, yes, yes, ‘nostalgic manifestations are side effects of the teleology of progress.’ The structure creates the conditions under which the sidereal develops. The poem listens and attempts to depict this.”

At this point, Gabriela’s insight gives me goosebumps. She says, “My Heresies ends with alliterative epiphanies in “Epiphania”—a closure that opens. (It makes me think of Hélène Cixous: “A feminine textual body is recognized by the fact that it is always endless, without ending. There’s no clo­sure, it doesn’t stop.”) Why and/or how did brightness become an end for this poem and this book? How does brightness here (different from redemption) maintain the distance between the room of the poem and the world it imagines?”

[Since Gabriela links the essay on closure in her email, I have elected to leave that link and set it apart with an italicized quote-link of her works, to be distinguished from various and sundry links peppered by yours truly/untruly throughout these nests.]

I fumble with hauntology. I struggle to articulate an apposition that continues to trouble and excite me. I reply. “Since you mention Cixous, I confess that I found myself thinking of her interviews and conversations when reading your questions. There is a similar discursivity alongside an extraordinary close attention that you bring to the art of the ask. Disclosure interests me more than closure; dialectic, for me, doesn’t aim to conclude. The poem risks inclusiveness by expanding the scope of knowledge, and, in so doing, asks how we know what we claim to know. Or believe.”

Photo album of shavings, coincidentals, and the zombie of a manuscript related to the conversation about my heresies

Fallen Nest 2: The Afghan Whigs, “I Am Fire” (2014)

“FALLEN NEST 2”

But the first passport — “Untitled” (Passport), 1991 — the original passport in Gonzalez-Torres’ series . . .

. . . is one of my personal favorites, my backup, my gauntlet . . .

. . . This “(passport)” contains a homeland in my head, the papers for a country worth claiming, a space to which I would willingly belong, which drove the prefatory poem, “Byline, Be Sky,” and its longing for a byline that moves like wind rather than grounding itself in status. One part of the writer is always . . .

— writing.

. . . Memorials conspire with eternity to make something permanent. Where do we go after we die? Gonzales-Torres’ long-term lover, Ross Laycock, died of AIDS in 1991. When do we stop moving through one another? What does eternity look like? A stack of blank white paper could be anything, anyone, anyplace, anytime. A poet in Alabama meets the spirit of Cuban-American queer conceptual artist in that indeterminacy. 

When writing to a friend the other day, I found myself trying to describe why . . .

Certainly . . .

Speaking of materiality . . .

. . . Hannah Zeavin’s Mother Media offers a brilliant look at the evolving technology in mediated forms of modern parenting.

Performing ‘civilization’ seemed silly in context. I mean . . .

Your questions delight me.

I treated billboards as profit-seeking entities who want something more than money from me. “What are you missing?” I asked that woman with very white teeth on the billboard near my house. “And what do you need me to normalize in order for you to feel big enough, or strong enough, or great enough?”

While living in Paris and trying to write what would become The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Briggs, Rilke sat in on courses by sociologist Georges Simmel (as did Robert Musil and Walter Benjamin). Simmel’s influence on Rilke was tremendous; he wrangles with his theories on love and affinity throughout Malte. We don’t study Simmel enough. His writing is still difficult to find in translation. In thinking through socialization and modernity, Simmel noted that our utilitarian, role-based conceptions assume that love can and should lead to “happiness.”

. . . Like Johannes Kepler’s mother who took him to the peak of a hill as a young boy so he could watch the great Comet of 1577 shoot across the sky, my mother exposed me to things I could not forget — everything from catacombs to honeysuckle-naps. Unlike Kepler's mother, my mom was never accused of witchcraft by a well-connected girl named Ursula who invented a witch in order to disguise her own abortion from the religious leaders. Catherine Kepler spent the winter of her seventy-fifth year in a German prison. She died shortly after her release on April 13, 1622. I was born on April 13th, the day Kepler's mother died. As a writer, coincidence is material.

On our walk home last night, the man told me to stand in the green gap. And so I did.

“The masses are rushing, running, charging through the age. They think they are advancing, but they are simply running on the spot and falling into the void, that is all.”

— Franz Kafka, prefiguring the 21st century

*

Adrian Sobol, Hair Shirt (Malarkey Books, 2025)
Alina Stefanescu, “ABYSS: pandemic diary, 2021” (in pdf, since the original website is gone)
Brad, “Buttercup” (1993)
Cracker, “Big Dipper” (1996)
Gabriela Denise Frank.
Hannah Zeavin, Mother Media: Hot and Cool Parenting in the Twentieth Century (MIT Press, 2025)
K. Iver.
Paul Valéry, Monsieur Teste translated by Charlotte Mandell (NYRB, 2024)
The Afghan Whigs, “I Am Fire” (2014)
The Flaming Lips, “Always There, In Our Hearts” (2013)

Ode to the hundreds.

We write to be in the reverb of word and world.

— Lauren Berlant and Kathleen Stewart, “In it”

RECTO

Why the Daniel Lafore song?

Because gender, like genre, still blurs “me”, and juxtaposition within the titular still thrills me . . . as does the friction generated within the binary of “Un baiser, une bombe,” which automates the association between a kiss (gendered masculine) and a bomb (gendered feminine).

I am always looking for thing within the thingness of what we construct. What we assume. What we call holy and bundle as ‘true’. What Lauren Berlant and Kathleen Stewart called the “reverb of word and world.” Whether studying the machine of what we mean in language or seeking the bloops in the operative games, there is the pleasure of playing and being played.

And, in that vein, there is a little game I play with myself that involves chasing the overheated energy deposited in the number 69 through any poetry book I happen to read, where opening the book to page 69, beginning in the scandalous energy of taboo and totem, ushers me into the text differently.

Over the years, a chorus of 69’s has gathered itself from the voices composed of these page-69-poems and today is as good a day as never to share the 69-song found in The Hundreds by Lauren Berlant and Kathleen Stewart.

“We write to invite and to goad, to bring the weight of scenes home; not to model,” Berlant and Stewart say in the hundred of parsing the phrase, “In it.”

In the spirit of unforseen innings, please take these additional in-roads to theory and speculative poetics from The Hundreds, accompanied by images that struck me—- and are present in relation to these texts for no other reason apart from interior lightnings, which may or may not be a provocation to your own writing and thoughts:

The dread of another virtue breakfast was superseded by politics, a painful twist of need and interest and vigilant bad reading. There was an online Punch and Judy show with all the thrill and erotic boredom of your average stalker rom-com. When fools fuck up, one faction calls the other retro, a mole, a vampire, a baby. A mob of tweeting lurkers converges on every speculative heart. The mix of disgust and love keeps me quiet.

(from “The Week in Shakes,” on the day designated as “Tuesday”)

4. I have loved me so many assholes. The one who loved calling other people stupid, the one who insulted secretaries, the ones who puffed themselves up so big that the rest of us became minor characters, the ones who secured their charisma by shitting on lost and current beloveds, the ones who were so intentionally good there was no room to breathe, the others who blamed the world for their angst and every hiccup, the ones who thought they were all that and the opposite too, plus the ones I was related to.

(from the inventory piece titled “Friendhating”)

Excerpted from the hundred titled ““Friendhating”

Harder's not always the same thing as worse. In the chronicles of disappointing touch there's a lifetime of accommodation and the throat wedges, trying not to suffer from the wrong wants again. Against that wind, the question asks itself: what is it to be naked among men?

(from what may be “What is like to be naked among men,” although I have misplaced my copy of the book and can’t looking for it to confirm this right now so I leave it with the felt title, infused with tentativity)

Fantasy stains the approaching air like the eddy of a fuck-you said out of love, so warm you don't savor it: it savors you. This genre of the world jolt makes episodes possible.

(from “Everyday Life in Early Spring”)

VERSO

“Style is another matter-no new thought without new style (Nietzsche). Here you go, Fred. Style is a test. Any objections? (Sort them all out, and you have a totally sick objectivity—Latour.) Yes, it is fictocriticism: The ficto- side of fictocriticism follows the twists and turns of animated language as it finds new pathways. The -criticism part comes in the risky leap of taking the story to a different “world,” where it might be tested by an unexpected public.”

— Stephen Muecke, “Untitled”

“You remind me to point sideways, to the shapeless thing I want to name, the thing that hangs around. It shifts its shape. A shifter's only meaning is the object it happens to point to. The little girls pose with one hand bent from the wrist as if once in some other place or time this was the way a princess stood. Melodramas of mixed ontological status hit swells of feeling and the force of things colliding. You opened the window to get rid of the atmosphere; but the air just swelled.”

— Susan Lepselter, “The Index”

Kiki Smith’s Moons

Ars for the fragment.

Enter the “POSTLUDIC” . . . to borrow a schemata from Berlant and Stewart, or to inscribe a repetition to admire its shift in velocity vis a vis its own shadow:

So I sit down again to write. The mark of history on my back turns my front to the wind, like Adorno said. He's on my mind this morning, writing a wrecked world back into endurable form. He's on my mind this morning, waiting in a lonely place for his collaborator, without whom there's only loose scrolling through a life built carefully just beyond the nose.

"Et ma sirène à la peau lisse qui lorgne..."

“At some crisis times like this one, politics is defined by a collectively held sense that a glitch has appeared in the reproduction of life.”

— Lauren Berlant, “The commons: Infrastructures for troubling times”

“It’s mere scenery, but under the light, through the glitch of history,
Its enchantments are plenty.”

— Caridad Svich, Minotaur

[APOLOGIA]

Back on my Biolay bullshit.

I blame the green surging around me.

I blame my tendency to respond to moments of glitch with anxiety rather than engaging what glitches reveal about failing systems.

I blame, too, the seductions of expectation for making glitches sound ‘wrong’ to me rather than relevant.

Certainly, I blame the earphones that allow me to listen to music when tromping through the park near our home.

And I hold dubstep personally responsible for all the bullshit of an overly-close reading that hovers at the threshold of the glitches and skipped stitches in Morcheeba’s “Paris sur Mer” . . .

[BRIEF SKETCH OF MY INTEREST]

Leaving the siren/sirenes to the side, at 0:44 in the song, the reverb overtakes Benjamin Biolay’s voice, lifting the lyric (La pluie lâche lâche un fil) into a mirroring of its repetition. I can see it shimmering, sending off sparks, especially since the beat is now recognizably peripatetic, sensibly so as the reverb of the lâche moves alongside the beat, like a wee eddy of wind swirling through an ensemble of trash on the sidewalk.

But the wind doesn’t just swirl the trash — it also creates the ensemble. It puts the candy wrapper and lost receipt in dialogue. Or that’s what I hear/see in Un ciel de traine défile. The accidental eddy ensemble sharpens the peripatetic beat.

Re-entering the piece at 0:55, where the reverb comes back to inflect — lightly, lightly — the repetition La nuit, la nuit je sors, so that the combination — La pluie lâche lâche un fil / Un ciel de traîne défile — reminds me of something that happens with sound in poetry as well, when the moment being depicted uncouples itself sonically from representation of the immediate and interposes a condition of possibility in the polymorphous perversion of temporality.

[UNNECESSARY DIGRESSION]

One could take this down to the level of sound art. The level of sound, the syllable has its own arc that plays out in ADSR envelope. Usually, our ears attend to the point of attack in a sound. Recording artists play with the stickiness of sound that comes in decay. (Sometimes I amuse myself by imagining an echo as evidence of a sound’s relationship to its own decline rather than a mirroring of sound.)

A visual of the ADSR envelope used in sound art. The Attack parameter determines the time it takes for a sound to reach its maximum amplitude from silence. Decay sets the time it takes for the sound to decrease from its peak amplitude to the sustain level. Sustain determines the level at which the sound will remain as long as the note is held. Release is the time it takes for a sound to fade away after the note is released.

[”CHANGING GENRES”]

We are verses out of rhythm
Couplets out of rhyme . . .

– Simon and Garfunkel, “The Dangling Conversation”

To pick up a different thread, Dean Young’s poem, “Changing Genres,” seems to acknowledge something like an uncoupling of pace or step in both its title and the direction ventured by the first line: “I was satisfied with haiku until I met you . . . “

What drew me back towards this poem after listening to “Paris Sur Mer” occurs midway through this headlong single-stanza, a stanza whose pacing races forward with few pauses or recapitulations, and no breath to mark “time in gulps as glitches / passing, squibs of threnody, a fallen nest,” the images similarly gathered into an accidental (or uncanny) ensemble.

Young’s title, “Changing Genres,” is a literary reference: it indicates shifting from the short, bright, uncluttered images of haiku to the expansive ornamentation of “a Russian novel.” Young makes this clear in the first few lines. The speaker desires all the extraneous and decidedly unsimple artifice of the “glittering ball,” the elaborate staging devised just for “a kiss at the end of a dark hall.” The change in genre here indicates a desire for rapid pacing, a beat of flushed cheeks and scrolling fans.

I was satisfied with haiku until I met you also duplicates the long-u sound within a line, doing the thing we call rhyme. One could argue that this particular rhyme is what sets the whole poem in motion, or gives it wind, hands it a spool to unwind. Although Young’s poem situates itself in a heteronormative couple, that particular step-pair that is most interesting in its mis-steps and articulations of difference, one can also consider the Russian novel as a glitchier affective environment for the staging of romance. The more material on the sidewalk, the easier it is for the wind to ensemble it.

Writing about the affective reverb of Ed Atkinson’s Pianowork 2 in “The Pain Artist”, Ben Lerner employed a spell-binding parentheses: “(our breath glitches from emotion)”. Lerner hears this in Pianowork 2, as I hear it in “Paris sur Mer” — or the topos that Paris-sur-Mer has taken up in my imagination. The glitches conspire to open language at the point of mismatch, or the instant when the shadow separates from the object.

La pluie lâche lâche un fil
Un ciel de traîne défile

“And yet I cannot shake the question mark. It is as if, by way of a cosmological glitch, the typographical certainty by which we would normally stamp time with a date was obstructed. Maybe we retain the mark, not only here but everywhere we see an image. Maybe we refuse the imperative to find its answer and insist instead on its fundamental ambiguity, on its being and remaining a question.”

— Ben Libman, The Third Solitude

Attempting to illustrate how the speaker uncouples atop a swing, with a drawing by Lenora Carrington in the boughs.

Bloomdaze.

O happiest of Bloomsdays to the boss who watches over our bed and serves as guardian of the threshold to the window!

Happy, too, the veil I laid over Joyce’s face after having worn this veil at the protest against genocide and empire which took place at the New Orleans Poetry Festival earlier this year! For what is a veil if not a gaze that commits to seeing through hue?

"As we, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, from day to day, their molecules shuttled to and fro, so does the artist weave and unweave his image. So in the future, the sister of the past, I may see myself as I sit here now but by reflection from that which then I shall be.”

Like Dante, Joyce created a streetside universe of caricatures and persons from the town in which he was raised, a world to hold that woman he saw on the street, or that Beatrice that he imagined into eternity. Her name was Nora. She was what Steve Earle would serenade as a Galway Girl. Joyce noticed her "sauntering" down the street in Dublin and asked her out immediately. Nora agreed, but then failed to show up.

Happy Bloomsday to sauntering, itself— and to the literary saunter that gives rise to characters we chase through the crannies and alleyways at night!

Undaunted, Joyce pursued Nora with a note that led to an actual date on June 16, 1904, a first encounter realized in a casual stroll along the banks of the Liffey. As the two walked towards Ringsend, Nora reached into his pants and masturbated him. Their first date became the setting for Joyce's Ulysses. Anyone celebrating Bloomsday is "celebrating that first masturbation," in Louis Menand's words, or perhaps that profane moment made sacred by literature and memory. In Joyce's words, as offered to Nora in a letter two months later, what happened on that date was "a kind of a sacrament, and the recollection of it fills me with amazed joy." 

Amazed joy might be how Bach described his greatest choral pieces when performed in a cathedral, but Joyce's awe was more intimate. He felt no shame, no weight, and no transaction in relation to Nora. Five years later, on a trip to Dublin, he writes to her in Trieste: "It was not I who first touched you long ago down at Ringsend. It was you who slid your hand down down inside my trousers . . . and frigged me slowly until I came off through your fingers, all the time bending over me and gazing at me out of your quiet saintlike eyes." That night "made me a man," he told Nora in a different letter.

Happy Bloomsday to being so made and unmade!

After a date, Joyce took one of Nora’s gloves home with him, and he writes to her to say that he has slept with it: “Your glove lay beside me all night—unbuttoned—but otherwise conducted itself very properly—like Nora.” 

James Joyce and Nora Barnacle raised their children, Giorgio and Lucia, in countless apartments across Paris and Europe. He relished telling stories, filling bar stools, being generous whenever money appeared, and living at full nerve, although only two things ultimately matter to him namely his writing and his family.

“A man of small virtue, inclined to extravagance and alcoholism”:  this is how James Joyce described himself to Carl Jung.

After two of Nora’s boyfriends died when she was dating them; the girls at the convent where she boarded in Galway called her the “man-killer.”

Happy Bloomsday to all “man-killers” and to the stelle, or stars, with which Dante ends all three books of his Comedy!

Happy Bloomsday, too, to the consecration of a sacrificial religious event by Stephen and Bloom, who honor such an occasion by urinating together in the garden!

Happiest of Bloomdays to you!

The first house.

“What we have is everything around us, and it is sufficiently creative and weird all by itself.”

— Jairus Grove

George Enescu’s Piano Suite No. 2 in D Major, Op. 10 “Des cloches sonores": II. Sarabande: Noblement . . .

The sarabande held my attention last night, due to my appetite for bells, or sounds associated with pigeons on landscapes. I stared at the photos of my “first house,” so to speak, the apartment in Bucharest where I lived out my earliest years in the care of my grandparents.

The dreariness, to me, is charming; it aligns with the feeling of lost time, a sense of lateness within the future anterior itself, a motion that shapes this “Late Blazon” by Christina Davis—

Metronomes help musicians “keep time” when preparing for a performance. Our own metronome abandoned his space on the black piano to seek the markings of college, as pianists and humans and pigeons must do. But Man Ray was onto something when he clipped the woman’s eye to the “Object of Destruction” —

A Wasteland Sonnet

I am saved by love the way the fisherman
In the myth is cured by that knowledgeable knight
Who step by step and counter to his ban
Works a unique and superstitious rite
That frees the waters, and suddenly they run
Through the fisherman’s country and the silver blight
Quits his wheat, and his dry herds begin
To calve, and the king himself to govern right.
This is the way throughout my sick estate
Where love effects its ruthless cure of will; 
The will restored restores the whole to health.
Finish the working of your arcane rite,
Stay with me just this lifetime, or until
None can maim me, even I myself.

William Meredith

Bunicu, addressing my father from the balcony of the home where I would spend the first few years of my life in Bucharest.

“Writing or saying the truth is equivalent to death, since we cannot tell the truth. It is in every way forbidden because it hurts everyone. We never say the truth, we must lie, mostly as a result of two needs: our need for love and cowardice. The cowardice of love but also love's courage. Cowardice and courage are so close that they are often exchanged. Cowardice is probably the strange, tortuous path of courage.

Love is tortuous. So it is only at the very last page of a book that we perhaps get a chance to say what we have never said, write what we have never written all our lives, i.e., the most precarious, the best, in other words, the worst. I have respect and admiration for those writers who, in their lifetime, have approached that point where cowardice and courage are so close to each other they might fly into the flames if they were to say one word more. This is what Tsvetaeva describes, the point that I call the truth and which she calls the magical words in writing.”

— Helene Cixous, Steps Up the Ladder of Writing

Long live the post horn!

“I’m afraid that then dialectics in its total abstrusity is only good for totally sick, ill, and mad people.”

— Goethe to Hegel, 1827

“It was unusable. However, what mattered was my passion and commitment”

— Vigdis Hjorth, Long Live the Post Horn! (translated by Charlotte Barslund)

[All unindented text below is taken directly from Vigdis Hjorth’s Long Live the Post Horn!, as translated by Charlotte Barslund. All indented objects are yours, truly.]

1

HE: Why are you pouting?

ME: "Because she does not express herself in theoretical language, no one expects too much from her and she is used to tripping out on layers of complexity in total silence." I’m quoting Chris Kraus in I Love Dick.

HE: Do you, though?

ME: She did.

 I didn’t believe in ghosts so who was in the corner whispering? Dag, I said out loud. Then it grew deathly quiet. I looked across the fjord where the fog was descending and spreading out, hiding the tops of tall buildings and the masts of the biggest boats, then the smaller ones until finally everything was covered in grey. It wasn't nature screaming, nature was cool and numb, remote and inaccessible, it was me screaming a non-scream, me who was in the process of evaporating from lack of sustenance, I was completely beside myself, yet I'd never been inside myself. How to make the leap from screaming to writing, I wrote. To achieve in my language something I couldn't achieve in my life, I wrote, then I got up, went to the toilet and looked in the mirror, I was ill, I had been out too late that night in Paris, if I had really been there, what did the homeless do when they fell ill? I've nudged you, someone whispered, now you'll have to fall and hurt yourself. Despair, the voice said.

HE: You have your bed back. You escaped COVID contamination. You are now free from the no-place of the sofa.

SHE: I’m not so sure.

HE: What’s on your mind?

SHE: I’m thinking about Smithson’s use of mirrors in his “non-sites.” The making of spaces that reflect the viewer while throwing into shadow the factual world behind them. Wherever you look, the unflinching landscape looks back.

HE: What does the landscape have that you lack?

SHE: It has all the time in the world. All the time as we know it to show how Nothing reflects Nothing back.

 . . . before switching on the light, he went to the kitchen, picked up a letter from the table and stuffed it into his coat pocket. Then he turned on the tap, bent down and drank straight from it as if he was very thirsty, as if that explained why he had rushed into the darkness. If I hadn't been paying attention, I wouldn't have noticed the business with the letter. It was small and square, not rectangular like an official brown envelope. He returned to the hall, turned on the light, took off his shoes and hung his coat on a hanger. The letter didn't stick out of the pocket. I decided not to get up in the night and sneak into the hall to read it. I wanted to preserve the curiosity I felt at that moment. So I'm capable of feeling something, I thought, I touched his arm, he jumped. Was it a love letter? An old flame he couldn't forget who had suddenly got in touch? We didn't have sex, the letter had come between us.

SHE: (writing in her notebook) When painting people close to him, Francis Bacon used photographs rather than sitting models. “I don’t want to practice before them the injury that I do to them in my work,” Bacon told critic David Sylvester.

[Tracey Emin’s tent installation titled “Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963–1995 “ (1995), which burned up in a warehouse fire and has never been recreated]

Don't let them knock you off balance! Don't let them get to you. Then repeat what you've decided to say and add nothing else. Articulate in advance what you want to say in three or four different ways, same content, different wrapping.

[The needles, threads, and hands involved in stitching “Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963–1995 “ (1995), which burned up in a warehouse fire and has never been recreated]

The secretive gap of the letterbox, I wrote. Two narrow for the biggest items, which must be collected with a delivery card, goods ordered online from the great abroad. 

2

“Survival is a matter of avowing the trace of loss that inaugurates one’s own emergence.”

– Judith Butler, The Psychic Life of Power

“Flesh was the reason why oil painting was invented.”

– Willem de Kooning

The shrill whistle of the steamer and the hoarse screeching of the seagulls, both reassuring sounds that everything is as it should be, amid repetition and the rhythms of nature, the whispering of the waves and the chirping of the birds, he was setting the scene just like we had done during the media training course.

A pair of portraits leaned side by side against a wall. . . . to vigorously mark the heads with lines as vividly yellow and blue and orange .. . underpainting . . . influenced by her research into the Greek myth in which the princess Danaë is impregnated by Zeus, who takes the form of a shower of gold. . . . several paintings by Titian. . . . . exploring ways to visually capture the moment of conception. Under the influence of religious imagery from the early Renaissance, she had incorporated cerulean and gold lines into depictions of several female figures . . . recalled Byzantine iconography, and a blue line piercing the subject’s cheekbone and emerging from her nostril evoked the way that, in some devotional paintings of the Annunciation from the fifteenth century, the Virgin is struck by a heavenly beam of light that enters through her window or doorway.

– excerpts from Rebecca Mead, “Jenny Saville, The Body Artist”

Then I was reminded of the letter, because we were eating at the kitchen table where it had been lying. So had his fairy tale found him after all in the form of a letter? A tale of unrequited love? His beloved had declared her love, but was tied to another and so he had to make do with me? Yet still he hoped? Had this been a Hollywood movie, I thought, and had the audience known the contents of the letter, they would pity him because he couldn't get the one he loved, but also pity me because I believed myself to be loved while my boyfriend loved another? Should I be pitied?

[The photograph of a young Roland Barthes in his mothers’ arms, captioned: “The demand for love.”]

The love letter, I wrote once I was back home, when it arrives with its declaration and everything is explained and out in the open. When it says black on white: I love you. I had never said those words, but now I had written them, bursting with unknown passion, with hitherto unknown hope. When the course has been set and the aim is clear, then no hesitation is necessary, I hammered away on the keyboard, my new secret love. No distractions in the form of responsibilities and unpaid bills, Christmas presents as yet unbought and time ticking away at the parking meter, forget all of that and remember this: that the button to be pushed is inside me and remember to push the button and climb the mountain of enlightenment and shout it out loud from the bottom of my heart, at that point I ran out of steam, but it was a start . . . 

3

Once we have burned our brains out, we can plunge 
to Hell or Heaven—any abyss will do—
deep in the Unknown to find the new!

—Charles Baudelaire

'Any letter without a clear name or address is put in a box labelled "addressee unknown" or in a box on which the postmaster has written "address incomplete", unless the sender has written their address on the back in which case the letter is returned to sender, but this is rare. Letters with no sender are junked when the boxes are full.’

Again there was nodding in the back rows.

'Thrown in the bin with trash and junk mail and that day's big, fat, lying newspapers, lost for all time!' Glum nodding ensued.

'But what if', Rudolf Karena Hansen said in a more solemn tone of voice, 'dead letters could be turned into living ones?'

'How?'

HE: Not everything needs to remembered.

ME: There is no recording of Walter Smetak’s 1970 production of Macbeth for which he recorded the instruments playing underwater.

HE: And why do you need that?

ME: I don’t think I need it…

A shadow fell across me, I looked around to see what had caused it, but there were no windows, the shelves were stuffed with toys in every colour right up to the ceiling and there were toys hanging from the ceiling, but there were no windows, I rushed outside. In the street I got my breath back and I went to a bookshop instead.

4

Speculative work cannot predetermine what actors or relations will matter until we follow, carefully and slowly, emergent entanglements in specific scenes. What we discover in that following may very well serve the interests of those in power - especially when those entanglements solidify into stable structures protecting elite interests - but then again, they may not. The open-ended, turbulent and bumpy nature of all entanglements means that they cannot be preemptively yoked to a priori categories of usefulness'. In this tempestuous intellectual landscape, we will find what we will find, regardless of what the university managers, funders and governments desire.

— Debbie Lisle, “A Speculative Lexicon of Entanglement”

Ah, philatelists, I thought, they’ll be on our side. Philatelists will support us, there are lots of them and most have the right to vote, the power to influence and a driving passion for stamps along with sentimentality, why has no one thought of them before? Philatelists of Norway unite against the EU's postal directive! Save the Post Office and Stamps for the People, I wrote once I got home, with the new king in profile, I added, because it was important to get the monarchists on board as well. Once again I was reminded of my childhood excitement at steaming stamps over the kettle and bashed the keyboard with renewed vigour. Long live the King and the royal family, I wrote, bursting with exuberance. Our quaint ambassadors for fjords and mountains and stamps. Our dogged and occasionally well-dressed champions, our timorous heartbeat's chosen ones, a source of comfort in times of hardship, leading actors in our anxious minds. We hail your blurred royalty! We celebrate our ageing Monarch, so lacking in pretension, and his cultured Queen with poems, paintings and presumably stamps, our unimpeachable Crown Prince so seemingly tender-hearted, our film star Crown Princess, our penitent Cinderella who gave a face to single mothers, the image of her naked body lives inside the heads of men of all ages in towns and villages, our whore and Madonna. We celebrate their duality and their duplicity, and our angelic Princess who talks to horses, dogs, daughters and the dead. In prison and in times of distress we want tiny squares of our better betters glued to our most important messages and tentative greetings and our Christmas cards because what would we do without them and their castle that stands full square like a stamp in the middle of a dangerous park guarded by men in horsehair helmets and holding shiny bayonets. Oh, royal family, royal ancestry of blue blood, older than the red post office, its high protectors, let yourselves be depicted so that you can be licked by our wet and willing tongues and thus ensure our missives reach their destination.

[Various images from the post album my grandfather taught me to keep, a history of Romanian stamps from the year of my birth until 1989, when everything shifted]

Once I got home, I opened my laptop to begin writing the Real Thing pitch, not because I wanted to but because I had to, to get it over and done with so I could devote myself to the postal directive. I wrote that the Real Thing was likely to be a success. There was a big market for all things real and genuine since many people felt themselves to be fake and imposters, I wrote, myself included, I added, but deleted it, it might be heartfelt and true but it was unprofessional. Then I hit a wall. What exactly did 'real' mean? 

“Noli me tangere,” Jesus of Nazareth said to Mary Magdalene, as they stood inside the tomb negotiating relationality post-resurrection.

Was the man behind the Real Thing himself the real thing, I wondered? I googled him; he looks like every other capitalist.

[Photograph of Donald Trump wearing a suit and holding an adult female’s hand as a crowd moves out of a church and a child tries to find the word that would communicate the feeling of watching a yellow balloon drift from his hand up into the sky and vanish completely.]

'That I a strange experience in Alta,’ I said.

'Yes?'

But where should I begin?

Yes?' he said again, and then I remembered that he was on the edge and if I didn't get it right, I might get it badly wrong, and I said that the right words were proving hard to find and that I couldn't articulate what I wanted to say. He said he knew what I meant because he often felt that way, then he said that he was going on a winter holiday with his mother and Truls. He paused and then he said that he had missed me.

ME: Speaking of the two revolutionists who find themselves dying at the end of Sylvia Warner Townsend’s After the Death of Don Juan (1938), Heather Love compares them to Walter Benjamin’s soothsayers who “can promise nothing; all they have to offer is the depth of their longing.”

VIGDIS: …. you might as well stop swimming today as tomorrow or the day after, except that the water was colder here than in France, and my feet were already cold. And yet there was something I couldn't dismiss with my logic; a restless yearning in my body like an unrequited love I couldn't get over.

RADU: Long live the post horn!

*

“When someone asks what is your writing process, I think it must be to try and try and then finally, in the gap between the limits of my body and the possibility of pulling something through, somewhere in that gap—"

― Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore, Touching the Art

"Speak of the devil, the devil appears..."

“Speak of the devil, the devil appears . . .”

In celebration of minor keys, I must confess that only Moral Minority could convince me to compose myself for a 7 a.m. discussion of Derrida’s The Politics of Friendship.

To free my mind for lesser things, I will dump a few (disordered) notes here, with due regard for the strange objects that hovered above the table during our trialogue, including the (disorderly) angels and (disordering) demons of discourse.

1

Derrida sets the stage with the quoted apostrophe, that rhetorical gesture which invokes the absent friend, or calls them into being. Is this the posthumous being-with that recurs in his elegies? We hear the idea that quotations, or references to the words of friends, realizes (makes real, creates) a legend of “the two of them,” a “twosome that is kept in memory” and archived and preserved in Derrida’s writing on “the phantom friend returning.”

“Send me an angel,” to quote The Scorpions. Or: develop an expectancy capacious enough to handle Walter Benjamin’s Angelus Novus. Time, teleology, eschatology: this is the threshold where angel-angles enter. And so we must take seriously the unanswerable questions as part of theory.

What is an angel? So then, who is an angel?

2

When we speak of the devil, we construct him, or call the devil into being through myth, but we still have to reckon with our hunger for this myth, and our need to identify a diablo.

Theologists would say that identifying the devil enables us to protect our spirits, ourselves, and our loved ones from his influence; Carl Schmitt might say that the devil is the enemy we need for a working political theology where the friend or the beloved matters less than the construction of the enemy.

But naming is an act of intimacy: it binds us in relation to the named. To quote Derrida: “Everything in the political question of friendship seems to be suspended on the secret of a name. Will this name be published?” Surely Jacques/Jackie circled this question on tip-toe in Envois, which reminds me of the fantastic deconstruction of naming/claiming that occurs in I, Daniel: An Illegitimate Reading of Jacques Derrida's «Envois», by Jeremy Stewart, excerpted at Minor Literatures.

3

Inheritances aside, apostrophes in neon, it is hard not to feel for Lucifer, the promising star, the Icarus in each of us, the name of the being intended to fill the abstract container of “devil.” The devil is an Other, of course, so how do we recognize him? What are the structures, syntaxes, and shapes in which the devil apprehends us? Lot’s wife looked back: she sinned against the law of the Law-speaking God. Maybe she just wanted a moment to miss what she was abandoning: a community, a place, an ecology of relationships and meaning.

Enter the problematics of non-teleological intellections and gestures: it is impractical and lazy and useless to yearn. We are socialized to accept this at a young age, and poetry is a space where I have tried however fruitlessly to reckon with the radical, revolutionary potential of longing. Longing has always been dangerous precisely because it doesn’t know exactly what it wants: it feels-into wanting. It fumbles. What if longing, itself, is diabolically structured in relation to the possibility of the Fall? I mean: falling is the shape longing takes when it lets go. No monotheistic God ever “fell” in such a fashion. Falling, itself, is stigmatized by Lucifer’s fall. Don’t we follow the devil in our desires for questioning the patriarchal dominance of the law?

4

Deconstructionism offers another angle into the animating questions of philosophy. If this angle — this edge where light troubles linearity— feels generative for me, it is because the questions we can now remain political in their difference — political in their relation to the structures of sociality as administered by governments and discourses in the post-industrial era, political in their presentist challenges, political in their scale and grappling with duration, political in their poetics and rhetorical contracts, political in their election of who is included and who is deemed threatening.

5

Oath and promise are claims about the future self, but how much can we know about the self of tomorrow once we accept identity is fluid and complex?

What is a “promise” between friends? What can the between-ness “promise” outside itself, apart from the terrain it creates?

How is the construction of loyalty cross-cut by tensions between subjectivity (required to make a promise or give consent) and fidelity (which often refuses to exercise or make a subjective choice in the name of that very promise)?

The heartbeat or pulse of any claim is an ethical tension, a struggle, a contradiction. This is what it means to live the questions, to paraphrase Rainer Maria Rilke. Philosophy cannot live without poetry, and poetry cannot be without philosophy.

6

The last word should belong to the hauntologue himself, and so I quote from Derrida’s (I think) final interview, given as his pancreatic cancer was progressing, and published in Learning to Live Finally, where the titular “finally” hovers about the page:

Postscript: Charles took these screen-shots of our hand gestures which appear as a sort of paratextual visual triptych to our conversation — either an addenda to the original text or perhaps even the sort of footnote that becomes its own book, the sort of provocation that Derridada could never resist.

"But it was never enough."

Philosophy and literature are speculative constructs of the commerce between word and world. Our first ontology, that of Parmenides, is a poem.

— George Steiner

Chasing “rerun” through Maya Deren late last year.

1

Constitutionally, my notebooks resemble my dog, Radu, in that they alternate between butterfly-chases, speculative ornithologies, lyrical feasts, and nervous deconstructions. Returning to that hand-scribbled madness delights me the way a busy dungeon delights the alchemist. Months passed since I last lit a candle to wander through the notebooks’ tunnels, or deliver them into the Arial 10 pt text of official existence.

Determined to end the drought, I dove into one of the blues this morning, and dawdled for an hour or so, letting myself “chase the feeling”, to quote Kris Kristofferson against the grain of the alcohol central to his own “chase”, which is to say, being drunk, thereby interposing my own particular addiction, namely, the thrill of studying language and texts, within the stresses and beats of his. A structure of feeling chasing the feeling while Radu watches worriedly from the grey couch.

Jack you were wrong (or not
the radio is not from Mars
it is sitting here it has
the world
by its short
wavy hairs, home.

— Pierre Joris addressing Jack Spicer in “Short Wave Radio #2”

2

The notebook is my short-wave, my world of “wavy hairs, home,” the landing space for sound waves that stick in my head. In them, as elsewhere, I often query what brings us to the page, and whether (or which) particular experiences of incompletion put a creative pressure on language by making words want something from the world.

“If the insights of the past few decades could newly mobilize shame, shattering, or melancholy as interesting, as opposed to merely seeming instances of fear and trembling; what if we could learn from those insights and critical practices, and imagine happiness as theoretically mobilizable, and conceptually difficult?” asks Michael Snediker in “Queer Optimism” (italics mine). And: “what if happiness weren't merely, self-reflexively happy, but interesting?"

I’m interested in the desire of sentences as well as the forms that seek to disavow desire in the name of rigor or righteousness. “I always hung around in the street after school because of love,” said Chantal Akerman:

Love makes you hang around. I used to walk a girl a couple of years above me to the Gare du Luxembourg. We would talk for a long time, she would miss one train, sometimes two, to talk to me for longer, even when it was raining. I can’t remember what we talked about. Whenever it rained her long blonde hair became darker but it didn’t matter. She always ended up getting on a train and I would always return home. I didn’t know what love was at the time. But that was surely it.

Nothing ever happened between us but it was love and it was what made school bearable.

I would wake up at the crack of dawn every day to get to school early to meet her. We would rush to meet in-between our classrooms to talk just for five minutes. We had so much to say to each other. So it was worth it, even for five minutes. But it was never enough.

Akerman specifies a duration— “five minutes” —- here. She locates the bearable in this brief temporal dimension characterized by limitation. A short snatch of time. A thing that was never enough. A blip in which her relationship to infinitude was being negotiated by waking up early, rushing, meeting, and being left with the “so much” decades after the older girl had vanished from her daily life.

3

I believe that, in every person, there is an area which speaks and hears in the poetic idiom . . . something in every person which can still sing in the desert when the throat is almost too dry for speaking.

— Maya Deren, “A Statement of Principles”

In a 1967 interview, while answering a question about his methodology, Michel Foucault recounted a childhood nightmare:

A nightmare has haunted me since my childhood: I am looking at a text that I can't read, or only a tiny part of it is decipherable. I pretend to read it, aware that I'm inventing; then suddenly the text is completely scrambled, I can no longer read anything or even invent it, my throat tightens up and I wake up. I'm not blind to the personal investment there may be in this obsession with language that exists everywhere and escapes us in its very survival. It survives by turning its looks away from us, its face inclined toward a darkness we know nothing about.

The darkness we can only imagine: the throat too dry for speaking, the throat tightening, the mind settling on that part of outer space believed to be empty, silent, and dark which scientists call ‘vacuum’. Researchers have listened to vacuum by using sensitive, light-detecting machinery, and what they found was omnipresent sound, an ongoing random noise that permeated the dark ‘silence’ due to the presence of subatomic particles that appeared and disappeared spontaneously.

Nothing is entirely empty, or not in the way we imagine emptiness to be. “Philosophy and literature are speculative constructs of the commerce between word and world” and in that world of words, “our first ontology . . . is a poem,” said George Steiner. To borrow a syntax of feeling from Frank O’Hara, I am always eating a piece of my hair in the photo that has given me up.

4

Silence appears in the presence of the divine, as George Steiner noted, but 20th century silence, for him, includes the place where “language simply ceases.” The poet sinks into this thing with the abyss at its hem. 

“Clairaudience” is the hearing of what is inaudible. Just as clairvoyance is the seeing of what is invisible. Both clairaudience (a.k.a. remote hearing) and clairvoyance press up against the limitations of space-time. “A stress is born in time, and in sound, meaning and emotion; but it also stands outside time in a sort of minor, eternal present, a trembling instant which half stands still, partly resisting the flow of the line which creates it,” writes Daniel Muzyczuk. The stress’ “great fascination” lies in the possibility of representing “a little model of how our minds relate the instant of time to the flow of time.”

"Silence has invaded everything, and there is still music," John Cage wrote in For the Birds. 

“A poem is about knowing something both all at once and in its unrolling in time,” wrote Alice Notley, whereas “a song is more about being in time.”

“Could it be that in songs, the unfolding of time prevails over the eternal precisely because songs situate the stress?” wonders Muzyczuk.

There are variations within silence, as, for example, when silence differs from itself when by gaining layers, bringing various silences into relation with one another.

Seven minutes of yellow . . .

And such do love the marvellous too well
Not to believe it. We will wind up her fancy
With a strange music, that she knows not of . . .

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Remorse

Jack you were not wrong
But it was never enough . . .

*
Adam Thirlwell, “Diary of Nuance,” The Paris Review (Jan. 24, 2023)
Benjamin Biolay with Vanessa Paradis, “Profite” (2012)
Daniel Muzyczuk, “Ten Lessons in Clairaudience,” e-flux journal (April 2024)
George Steiner, “A Reading Against Shakespeare,” the W.P. Ker lecture for 1986
Maya Deren, “A Statement of Principles,” Film Culture 22/23 (1961)
Michael Snediker, “Queer Optimism,” Postmodern Culture 16.3 (2006)
Pierre Joris, “Short Wave Radio #2”
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Remorse (1813)

Schuyler's dog.

Delighted to discover one of my favorite poems by James Schuyler in The Paris Review archives newsletter today. Sharing it because the “skies of spit” are real, as are the clouds between Frankfurt and Atlanta from the place where the wing meets the body of the airplane.

Speaking of wings, Schuyler’s line, “The sky is pitiless”, meets up later in the poem with those “skies of spit” and yes it seems quite likely that spit, pitted, and pity are consciously playing with each other at this point in the flight.

The Dog Wants His Dinner

        for Clark Coolidge

The sky is pitiless. I beg
your pardon? OK then
the sky is pitted. The yard
is sand and laced with roots
afloat on rock encasing fire.
You think so do you. No.
Yes. Don’t know. Check one.
Forget all you ever knew.
Sorry. Not my romance. What
is? Sorry. We don’t take
in trick questions. You mean?
I do: put down that.
Put that down too. Skies
of spit, seas where whales
piss and die to make a bar
of scented soap, uhm smells
good. She came in like an ex-
cited headline. The deer
they all were starving! To
death, even, perhaps. And
eating people! What to do
with these disordered herds
of words? I said I would
eat my words and do so, now
you see. He eats them, all
up. Greedily. Yesterday the
air was squeaky clean today
it’s dull and lifeless as an
addict’s armpit. Surely you
mean leafless. I have a flea
bite, here, pink, of course
as an eye disease: the cat ,
who brings me fleas dies
like a dog, sleepily, or
an unwatered plant. That
was exciting wasn’t it. It’s
not that I crave. Uh did
you say crave? Some words
are briefly worse than others:
get the Librium gun and point
it and the Kodak at that Kodiak.
You see? No hope. So don’t
hope. Hop, skip, jump or
lie down. Feed your face.
Now feed the dog. He ate his.
He is eating the cat who
objects. Fix the fire. Put
out the light. An ice cold
hand slides in the window
to touch your uncovered head
forehead cheeks lips lobes
and all with worlds of fire
chilled by distance. O night.
Bedclothes loosen. Unseen twigs
erect themselves in air. You
asleep too, O magic root.

by James Schuyler

From Penelope Green’s obit for the fabulous Orien McNeill.

"Again": ibid. 213.

“To press down with one’s own hand whatever ghost of life is left . . . Yours faithfully” — a little more found poetry from Kafka’s diaries, with gratitude to Seth Rogoff and of course Ross Benjamin, whose translations of the diaries provide the source for these poems.

A few excerpts below, peppered with photos from Transylvania, where I am currently wandering . . .

[Music in video below is “Rien à me foutre en l'air” by Claire Denamur feat. Emmanuel Da Silva]

Collage with writing on the wall of Brasov fortress and myself looking into grandmother’s mirror as fascisms old and new surge throughout the world.

Window with flowers in Brasov.

The monumental balls on the king’s horse in the Bucharest plaza

Stork nest in Sibiu

Stork appearing in their Sibiu nest

Elevator in Brasov

Brasov at midnight from elevator

A Bucharest linden

Window wearing a black dress in Sibiu

Cartyatid in Sibiu

Bucurestica.

Self-portrait the mirror that is pictured in the dedication to my grandmother at the beginning of My Heresies— so wonderful to run into it.

Wright and Bly on translating Trakl.

[The extensive excerpt below comes from Twenty Poems by Georg Trakl, translated and chosen by James Wright and Robert Bly.]

“THE SILENCE OF GEORG TRAKL” by Robert Bly

The poems of Georg Trakl have a magnificent silence in them. It is very rare that he himself talks—for the most part he allows the images to speak for him. Most of the images, anyway, are images of silent things.

In a good poem made by Trakl images follow one another in a way that is somehow stately. The images have a mysterious connection with each other. The rhythm is slow and heavy, like the mood of someone in a dream. Wings of dragonflies, toads, the gravestones of cemeteries, leaves, and war helmets give off strange colors, brilliant and sombre colors—they live in too deep a joy to be gay. At the same time they live surrounded by a darkness without roads. Everywhere there is the suggestion of this dark silence:

The yellow flowers
Bend without words over the blue pond

The silence is the silence of things that could speak, but choose not to. The German language has a word for deliberately keeping silence, which English does not have. Trakl uses this word “schweigen” often. When he says “the flowers/Bend without words over the blue pond”, we realise that the flowers have a voice, and that Trakl hears it. They keep their silence in the poems. Since he doesn’t put false speeches into the mouths of plants, nature has more and more confidence in him. As his poems grow, more and more creatures live in his poems—first it was only wild ducks and rats, but then oak trees, deer, decaying wall- paper, ponds, herds of sheep, trumpets, and finally steel helmets, armies, wounded men, battlefield nurses, and the blood that had run from the wounds that day.

Yet a red cloud, in which a furious god,
The spilled blood itself, has its home, silently
Gathers, a moonlike coolness in the willow bottoms

Before he died, he even allowed his own approaching death to appear in the poems, as in the late poem “Mourning“.

Trakl died when he was 27. He was born in Salzburg in 1887, the son of a hardware dealer. The family was partially Czech, but spoke German. He took a degree in Pharmacy in Vienna, and became a corpsman in the army, stationed at Innsbruch. He left the service after a short time, and spent a year writing and visiting friends. In August of 1914, at the outbreak of war, he returned to the army, and served in the field near Galizia. He felt the hopelessness of the badly wounded more than most men, and his work brought him into great depressions. After the battle of Grodek, ninety badly wounded men were left in a barn for him to care for. That night he attempted to kill himself, but was prevented by friends. The last poems in this selection were written during this time, and the sense of his own approaching death is clear, and set down with astonishing courage. His poem called “Grodek”, which is thought to be his last work, is a ferocious poem. It is constructed with great care. A short passage suggesting the whole German Romantic poetry of the nineteenth century will appear, and be followed instantly by a passage evoking the mechanical violence of the German twentieth century. This alternation, so strong that it can even be felt slightly in the translation, gives the poem great strength and fiber.

After the crisis at Grodek, Trakl went on serving in his post for several months, meanwhile using the drugs obtained from his pharmacy supplies. He was transferred to the hospital at Krakow, and assigned, to his surprise, not as a corpsman, but as a patient. There, a few days later, in November of 1914, he committed suicide with an overdose sufficient to be poisonous.

“A NOTE ON TRAKL” by James Wright

In the autumn of 1952, I wandered into the wrong classroom at the University of Vienna. According to my instructions, the professor was supposed to be a German, whose name I forget. I also forget what course I had expected. But the lecturer who actually appeared was a short swarthy man; and he spoke soft, clear German, clinging to his Italian accent. His name was Professor Susini. The only other persons in that unheated room were a few old men, who resembled Bowery bums in America.

He stood still, peering into the dusk where we sat. Then he read a poem called “Verfall”, the first poem in Georg Trakl’s Die Dichtungen. It was as though the sea had entered the class at the last moment. For this poem was not like any poem I had ever recognized: the poet, at a sign from the evening bells, followed the wings of birds that became a train of pious pilgrims who were continually vanishing into the clear autumn of distances; beyond the distances there were black horses leaping in red maple trees, in a world where seeing and hearing are not two actions, but one.

I returned to that darkening room every afternoon for months, through autumn and winter, while Professor Susini summoned every poem out of Trakl’s three volumes. I always went back to that strange room of twilight, where Susini peered for long silences into the darkness until he discovered the poem he sought; and then he spoke it with the voice of a resurrected blackbird.

His entire manner was one of enormous patience, and he read Trakl’s poems very slowly. I believe that patience is the clue to the understanding of Trakl’s poems. One does not so much read them as explore them. They are not objects which he constructed, but quiet places at the edge of a dark forest where one has to sit still for a long time and listen very carefully. Then, after all one’s patience is exhausted, and it seems as though nothing inside the poem will ever make sense in the ways to which one has become accustomed by previous reading, all sorts of images and sounds come out of the trees, or the ponds, or the meadows, or the lonely roads—those places of awful stillness that seem at the centre of nearly every poem Trakl ever wrote.

In the poems which we have translated, there are frequent references to silence and speechlessness. But even where Trakl does not mention these conditions of the spirit by name, they exist as the very nourishment without which one cannot even enter his poems, much less understand them.

We are used to reading poems whose rules of traditional construction we can memorize and quickly apply. Trakl’s poems, on the other hand, though they are shaped with the most beautiful delicacy and care, are molded from within. He did not write according to any “rules of construction”, traditional or other, but rather waited patiently and silently for the worlds of his poems to reveal their own natural laws. The result, in my experience at least, is a poetry from which all shrillness and clutter have been banished. A single red maple leaf in a poem by Trakl is an inexhaustibly rich and wonderful thing, simply because he has had the patience to look at it and the bravery to resist all distraction from it. It is so with all of his small animals, his trees, his human names. Each one contains an interior universe of shapes and sounds that have never been touched or heard before, and before a reader can explore these universes he must do as this courageous and happy poet did: he must learn to open his eyes, to listen, to be silent, and to wait patiently for the inward bodies of things to emerge, for the inward voices to whisper. I cannot imagine any more difficult tasks than these, either for a poet or for a reader of poetry. They are, ultimately, attempts to enter and to recognize one’s very self. To memorize quickly applicable rules is only one more escape into the clutter of the outside world.

Trakl is a supreme example of patience and bravery, and the worlds which these virtues enabled him to explore, and whose inhabitants he so faithfully describes, are places of great fullness and depth. His poems are not objects to be used and then cast aside, but entrances into places where dear silent labors go on.

Josef Sudek, Prichod Noci (1948-1964)

You dark mouth inside me,
You are strong, shape
Composed of autumn cloud,
And golden evening stillness;
In the shadows thrown
By the broken pine trees
A mountain stream turns dark in the green light;
A little town
That piously dies away into brown pictures.

— Trakl, from “The Mood of Depression” (translated by Bly and Wright)

Matvei Yankelevich's small wonders.

This is simply to share a poem from a small poetry book that I have loved recently, namely Matvei Yankelevich’s Dead Winter (Fonograf Editions), which I happened to pick up in New Orleans and have been studying since. Granted, the bird on the wire was glimpsed in Birmingham today, as I walked Radu near the railroad tracks, shortly before I discovered a bird’s nest that had fallen from a tree —- which is another story, a different story, an alternate expanse, incompletely.

Here is Yankelevich in dialogue with the wires I walked along:

And because the book acknowledges that “most of these poems employ the work of others, translated or transformed,” I was reminded of how writing often emerges from dialogues and relationships to the lines of others to the point where it becomes difficult to discern where a thing begins or ends.

The question of how (and when) continuity emerges in a work or composition often comes up in discussions about process. Morton Feldman alludes to continuity and borrowing in his notes from the February 1984 seminar Frankfurt, later published as a gorgeous essay titled “The Future of Local Music,” from which I now quote:

Many times I make my continuity later, which essentially is the way Tolstoy worked. I don't necessarily work in a continuity. Usually my pieces began maybe on the tenth measure, kind of getting into it. And then I would look at it and throw away the first ten measures. And that's why my music has always that opening, you see, because I borrow from all different things. I'll tell you how I get my opening. I got it from Kafka. I read an article once on Kafka, and I was very fond of Kafka. You'll notice Kafka's first sentences: "Someone has been telling lies about Joseph K." You know that's Kafka, you are in the world of Kafka. We were all reading Kafka in New York at about twenty, twenty-one, fantastic thing. I took that idea and I put it into my own music. Kafka definitely influenced my feeling of how to begin a piece.

Immediately in the atmosphere. Not like Bartók, mesto or something, another mesto.

13 with Schubert.

1

The unequivocal beauty of Schubert’s Fantasie in F Minor, D. 940, a piece for 4 hands, in this case, two hands belonging to Murray Perahia and the other two belonging to Radu Lupu.

2

Peter Filkins’ poem, “Soundboard” (from Paris Review archives)—

Soundboard

When Archie told me the incredible story
of Lady Margaret’s piano, an Obermeier plucked
from a forgotten warehouse in bombed-out Berlin,
then secretly carted off, scarfed up by the Allies
and loaded onto a plane, delivered to Ireland
only to end up the elaborate inlaid soundboard
holding Peg’s ashtray, her snooker of gin,

simply amazed, I couldn’t stop thinking
of Pasternak’s piano tossed from a window,
workmen at his dacha deeming it worthless
decades after his death, and the poem he wrote
that warned his lover, “The shivering piano
will discompose you … Death is in the air.
One opens up one’s veins much like a window.”

3

“Self-help discourse has tended to reproduce the split in romance ideology that we have been developing: valorizing the promise of love and the mutual obligations of lovers, it presumes that problems in love must be solved by way of internal adjustment, to make certain that its conventional forms can remain and keep sustaining the signs of utopian intimacy. Individuals are told that: the normative ideolo-gies and institutions of intimacy can work for them, but men and women are different species who will never experience the intimate other’s desire in the same language or with the same intensity; there are ‘rules’ of seduction and for the maintenance of the intimate other which should be followed, but about which it is bad to be explicit; romantic intimacy is an addiction that stimulates weakness and stunts growth, and yet is central to maturity; sex should be central, but not too central to love; the norms of propriety and responsibility that organize conventional lives are right, decent, and possible, but also boring, violent, and incomplete; and, within reason, anyone should get what she wants. This includes conventional norms about sexual practice itself: as discussions about sex have become more publicly available, it would seem that more varied practices have been normalized over the course of the twentieth century. Yet remaining remarkably stable has been the ideology that sex must seem natural: heterosexuality seems to require that any pedagogy between lovers must take place away from the sex itself, so that the image of the sex act as an expressive act of an unambivalent individual can be preserved. This form of hypocrisy is, currently, conventional to sex. Generally this ideology is addressed to women, who are deemed responsible for maintaining the emotional comfort of everyone in their sphere: but the unstated presumption in much self-help culture is that heterosexual intimacy is constantly in crisis and that its survival is crucial for the survival of life as we know it (a claim which is not false, but which of course does not tell the whole story of how desires are served by the reproduction of heterosexuality as a norm that gets called Nature).”

— Lauren Berlant, Desire / Love

4

An excerpt from “How to Seduce a Woman”, as published on the website, Masculine Mindset

5

“Myth is thus the Real of logos: the foreign intruder, impossible to get rid of, impossible to remain fully within. Therein resides the lesson of Adorno's and Horkheimer's Dialectic of Enlightenment: Enlightenment always already “contaminates” the naive immediacy of the mythical. Enlightenment itself is mythical, i.e. its own grounding gesture repeats the mythical operation. And what is “postmodernity” if not the ultimate defeat of the Enlightenment in its very triumph: when the dialectic of Enlightenment reaches its apogee, the dynamic, rootless postindustrial society directly generates its own myth..”

— Slavoj Žižek, “Love Without Mercy” (2001)

6

I am by essence clean and pure.
I am pure because I am clean.
I am clean because I am pure.

– Antonin Artaud, “I Hate and Renounce as a Coward Every So-Called Sensate Being”

7

A poem about libation that never uses the noun, libation?

Who desired your downfall, o liqueur / I obey perhaps the soothsayer / Buried deep in the heart of my heart
Thinking blood while pouring wine

— Paul Valery, second stanza of “Vin perdu”

8
CATHERINE MALABOU: …. the closing words of Socrates lecture are: ‘Bid farewell to the political arena and its procedures,’ exhorting the young people abandoned by their fathers to withdraw for this very reason from that which caused their abandonment. Cynicism appears to be the most radical form of taking leave. A departure that - I'll say it again - is not a departing from politics, but from its ‘arena.’ A farewell to dynasty, a farewell to arche, to microcosm, caste, oligarchy - in a word, as we shall see, it is a farewell to government.

MICHEL FOUCAULT: What is the relationship between the fact of being subject in a relation of power and a subject through which, for which, and regarding which the truth is manifested? What is this double sense of the word 'subject,' subject in a relation of power, subject in a manifestation of truth?

9

A playful “translation” of John Gower’s summary of the Phyllis and Aristotle as it appears in Book 8 of Gower’s Apollonius of Tyre. The question being posed is whether logic or syllogism can save the wise man from his desires.

Aristotle’s Downward Dog 

There, too, do I see Aristotle
Whom that Grecian queen so
Bridled that he is ridden into
Our own under a syllogism
That forgot its own logic
And made no art of its practice
In the life which excluded
The living. What he concluded
to be was deeded to his downfall.

10

R. Murray Schafer, the firmaments of the soundscape as expressed in the relationship between sound waves and light waves. . . The Doppler effect was first described in Doppler's Liber das Farbige Licht de Doppelsterne, where it was applied to light waves by analogy, after first discovering this effect in sound. The galloping of horses, the flight of a bumblebee: two Doppler effects found in nature, uncreated by humans.

11

[Phyllis near the window, talking to young Alexander the Great about his tutor, Aristotle.]

PHYLLIS: He tells you these things about himself, not me. Watch and you’ll see. Tomorrow I will ride him through the garden of his delight. 

ALEXANDER: Impossible. He is not like the King, who sacrifices wisdom to the necessities of power. The philosopher knows better. 

PHYLLIS: Of course. He knows best, but this will not stop him. Knowing the good has never stopped a mind from chasing the bad. As for me, I want nothing to do with the old sage. What I want is to win the game he’s staged. If I am inferior by nature, I will ride my superior with pleasure.

ALEXANDER: Who should the prince believe? The woman who thinks wisdom is fraudulent—- or the sage who warns me that such a woman can charm the intellect off the throne of the head?

PHYLLIS: If you want to account for the particle, you will see particles. If you prefer to imagine the wave, you will see waves. But the light is the light, regardless.

ALEXANDER: Not regardless.

PHYLLIS: Go ahead then— regard less.

12

“A love plot would, then, represent a desire for a life of unconflictedness, where the aggression inherent in intimacy is not lived as violence and submission to the discipline of institutional propriety or as the disavowals of true love, but as something less congealed into an identity or a promise, perhaps a mix of curiosity, attach- ment, and passion. But as long as the normative narrative and institutionalized forms of sexual life organize identity for people, these longings mainly get lived as a desire for love to obliterate the wildness of the unconscious, confirm the futurity of a known self, and dissolve the enigmas that marks one’s lovers.”

— Lauren Berlant, ibid.

13

Jan Sadeler (after Bartholomeus Spranger,) Phyllis and Aristotle, engraving, 16th century

"The dialectic of the heart" ... and art.

Art is not difficult because it wishes to be difficult, but because it wishes to be art. The not-knowing is crucial to art, is what permits art to be made. Without the scanning process engendered by not-knowing, without the possibility of having the mind move in unanticipated directions, there would be no invention.

— Donald Barthelme, “Not-Knowing”

One of my favorite working photos of a poet is this portrait of Frank O’Hara on rotary phone.

Morton Feldman and Frank O’Hara talking about each other in text

MORTON: I suppose it would have been fitting if Frank and I had met on the train coming to New York, like in a Russian novel. Actually I'm not certain when my personal memories of him begin. Let's just say he was there, waiting for us all.

FRANK: He was not to become an American composer in the historical-reminiscence line, but to find himself free of the conceptualized and self-conscious modernity of the international movement. Paradoxically, it is precisely this freedom which places Feldman in the front rank of the advanced musical art of our time.

MORTON: What I remember is mostly what he said about myself or one of the others. He never talked about his own work; at least, not to me. If ever I complimented him on something he had done he would answer, all smiles, “well - thank you”. That was the end of it. As if he were saying, “Now, you don't have to congratulate me about a thing. Naturally, everything I do is first rate, but it's you who needs looking after.”

FRANK: Structures for String Quartet (1951) is a classical string quartet without sonata development, without serial development, in general without benefit of clergy. Like Emily Dickinson's best poems, it does not seem to be what it is until all questions of ‘seeming’ have disappeared in its own projection. Its form reveals itself after its meaning is revealed, as Dickinson's passion ignores her dazzling technique.

MORTON: He admired my music because its methodology was hidden. Yet he admired other music too, whose method was unashamedly exposed.

FRANK: But differentiation is not Feldman's point, even in the graph music: the structure of the piece is never the image, nor in eschewing precise notation of touch is Feldman leaving the field open for dramatic incident whereby the structure could become an image (as in Boulez). Notation is, then, not so much a rigid exclusion of chance, but the means of preventing the structure from becoming an image in these works, and an indication of the composer's personal preference for where, unpredictability should operate.

MORTON: Nobody I knew resented Frank's love for an irrelevant genius like Rachmaninoff. We all know it was not Rachmaninoff who was our enemy, but the second-rate artist who dictates what art should be.

FRANK: A key work in the development away from serial technique is the Intersection 3 for Piano (1953). A graph piece, it is totally abstract in its every dimension. Feldman here successfully avoids the symbolic aspect of sound which has so plagued the abstract works of his contemporaries by employing unpredictability reinforced by spontaneity - the score indicates "indeterminacy of pitch" as a direction for the performer. . . . Where a virtuoso work places technical demands upon the performer, a Feldman piece seeks to engage his improvisatory collaboration, with its call on musical creativity as well as interpretative understanding.

MORTON: It is interesting that a in circle that demanded partisanship above all, he was so totally accepted. I suppose we recognized that his wisdom came from his own “system” - the dialectic of the heart. This was his secret. That was what made it possible for him, without ever being merely eclectic, to write so beautifully about both Pollock and Pasternak, to dedicate a poem to Larry Rivers one day and to Philip Guston the next.

FRANK: Unpredictability is used in a different way still in the Piece for Four Pianos (1957). This work, scored in notation rather than graph, begins simultaneously for all four pianos, after which the following notes may be played to the end by each of the pianists at time intervals of their mutual or individual choice.

MORTON: The repeated notes are not musical pointillism, as in Webern, but they are where the mind rests on an image - the beginning of the piece is like a recognition, not a motif, and by virtue of the repetitions it conditions one to listen.

FRANK: As we proceed to experience the individual time-responses of the four pianists we are moving inexorably toward the final image where the mind can rest, which is the end of the piece. In this particular performance it is as if one were traversing an enormous plain at the opposite ends of which were two huge monoliths, guarding its winds and grasses. . . . In all of Feldman's recent work the paramount image is that of touch.

MORTON: The use of the instrument must be as sensitive as the application of paint on canvas.

FRANK: (Which brings us back to Rachmaninoff, Fournier and Tudor.) In some pieces the entrance into the rhythmic structure is left entirely to the performer, and it is in this area that unpredictability enters and the performer must create the experience with an application of paint on canvas.

MORTON: Though he understood and appreciated my particular position in regard to virtuosity, he did not share it. Frank loved virtuosity, loved the pyrotechnics of it. He was, in fact, able to love and accept more difficult kinds of work than one would have thought possible.

FRANK: In Feldman's work unpredictability involves the performer and the audience much in the same way it does the composer, inviting an increase of sensitivity and intensity. But in much of the extreme vanguard music in America and Europe, particularly that utilizing tape and electronic devices along with elements of unpredictability, the statistical unpredictability has occurred in the traditional manner during the making of the piece; it has been employed preconceptually as a logical outgrowth of serial technique and it is dead by the time you hear it, though the music is alive in the traditional sense of hearing. What Feldman is assuming, and it is a courageous assumption, is that the performer is a sensitive and inspired musician who has the best interests of the work at heart.

MORTON: His intense involvement with so many different levels of work, so many different kinds of artist, naturally created great demands on his personal loyalties. But it was part of O'Hara's genius to be oblivious to these demands, to treat the whole thing as if it were some big, frantic, glamorous movie set. To us he seemed to dance from canvas to canvas, from party to party, from poem to poem - a Fred Astaire with the whole art community as his Ginger Rogers. Yet I know if Frank could give me one message from the grave as I write this remembrance he would say, “Don't tell them the kind of man I was, Morty. Did I do it. Never mind the rest.”

Morton Feldman, rocking his vertical planes.

[All quotes are sourced from the following: Morton Feldman, “After Modernism”; Frank O’Hara, “New Directions in Music—About the Early Work”;]

In the airs.

[a triptyph of sorts, am epigraphatic tri-fold]

1

“The story of my life doesn't exist.
Does not exist. There's never any center
to it. No path, no line. There are great spaces
where you pretend there used to be someone,
but it's not true, there was no one.”

– Marguerite Duras, The Lover

In a few days, I will be thinking aloud about Jacques Derrida and The Politics of Friendship with Charles and Devin, the wonderful polymaths of the Moral Minority podcast, and the near future commits me to thinking about this in that overwrought, unstable category known as ‘the present.’

Derrida, excerpt from The Politics of Friendship

“In all of Feldman’s recent work the paramount image is that of touch – ‘The use of the instrument must be as sensitive as the application of paint on canvas’,” wrote poet Frank O’Hara, perhaps quoting his friend Morton Feldman in the notes on the verso of a music jacket. This is one way of framing the friendship: by allowing its words to seep through the pieces themselves.

2

“We are forever translating ourselves
into and out of
each other.”

2 (a)

In the arts, friendships often develop from sharing a space in a journal, and recognizing a kindred or comrade in their publications or performances. ‘Transavanguardist’ artist Francesco Clemente met composer Morton Feldman through a mutual —Francesco Pellizzi — attached to a journal — Anthropology and Aesthetic.

Feldman dedicated his piano piece, Palais de Mari (1986), to Clemente. Appropriately, the piece made its debut at a intimate concert in Clemente’s studio. In the video below, Aleck Karis performs this piece which turned out to be Feldman’s final solo piano composition.

Palais stands out for its attention to silence: the light that sweeps through it is gentle and elusive, as if mixed with a watercolor brush. Feldman named it after “the ruins of a forgotten Mesopotamian royal palace, of which a photograph is situated in the Louvre Museum.” The photo in the Louvre is listed as the source of inspiration for Feldman’s Palais.

I am quoting from what may be the liner notes (?) for Karis’ performance:

In the beginning, an iconic four note motif fades into being and decays like a specter. The motif materializes and vanishes a few more times, with slight variation in the rhythm, order, and register. Each tone, each chord, each entity is carefully considered by the player. Each idea is not simply developed or repeated, but intermittently exists and persists. This conjures an entire new world separate from the real world, creating a timeless dimension that can be difficult to perceive in a linear fashion.

One form of quotation hopscotch that is frequently practiced in lecture forms runs the following triad: poem —> name —> image. Morton Feldman employed this structure of allusion in the Middelburg lecture by bouncing lines from a Marianne Moore into a reference to Clemente accompanied by the art of Francis Picabia.

2 (b)

Feldman owned a watercolor by Clemente entitled The Magic Wand (1987). My desire to see this piece dominated my morning. Desire and curiosity are not quite interchangeable here, since what I sought was relief (from the urge to see The Magic Wand) that situates itself awkwardly near to my implicit (and frequently disillusioned) belief that art serves as an alternate text into understanding the walls of the mind, or the rooms in which things are written. I wanted too many things from the magic wand, and all of these things could be stated as separate curiosities which, when allowed to converse with each other, reveal themselves to be imbricated in a clump-like structure.

I hunted for image of Clemente’s The Magic Wand online with the help of an internet search engine, the usual machine for finding badly-imagined objects and things.

Like the rooster for a ‘digital commons’, Google AI crowed from the top of the search results, offering its own intervention with the following:

While there isn't a specific artwork titled "The Magic Wand," Clemente's work is frequently described using evocative imagery and themes, including those that might lead to such a title.

Clearly, the corners or crevices are not yet part of AI’s domain. AI is a shitty reader of shadows, and shadows are my preferred sort of portrait.

3

“What
did
I
do?”

As we prepare to attend a local music festival with the teens, I am distracted by my readings and hearings. Cannot stop thinking about Feldman’s continuous shifting between time signatures in Palais. (In no particular order, I quote: 5/8, 3/8, 2/8, 2/2, 9/8, 7/8, 1/2 . . . )

Time-signature: the way time and tempo sign their name to a stave; the way rhythm gets scored.

An oil-on-linen painting by Clemente, “For Morton Feldman,” crosses paths with the time-signatures that mark duration, unfolding a way to think with the complexity that friendship occupies in the imaginary.

Francesco Clemente, For Morton Feldman (2000). Oil on linen.

The subjects of Clemente’s image are two compositions: two texts delivered to paper, each leaving their own shadows on the pinkish-white background.

The crumpled music notation sits next to the crumpled star chart (one can discern the edge of Aries in the upper right corner).

Musical staves and constellations: two cosmologies, two ways of thinking and seeing.

Paper and paper: the flesh of two trees rendered as pulp.

Music and stars: paired infinities.

Linear and constellating: the binary that Critical Theory exposed (and why we cannot forget Walter Benjamin).

Aaron Schuster’s fantastic sidereal excavation, How to Research Like a Dog: Kafka’s New Science, has been in my mind this week. At one point, Aaron says that “the construction of a work of potential philosophy takes its cue from the skewed way the mind works, how its functioning is undisturbed by a wayward drift.” In this way, the potential (or perhaps even projected) “starts from its own lack, its unsystemacity.”

How long should the resonance last?

I think Feldman presents this question as an opportunity to any pianist who performs his Palais. The rests resist the call of consistency and perfect repetition. Variance emerges within the rests, themselves, creating slight drifts in the duration of each. We are always ‘thinking-through’ the resonances and shadows of others. In a sense, resonances create their own rhythm: the possible may be forsaken for the impossibility that drove that Kafka’s epistemic dread. There is no way out of the present that isn’t a way of playing with the unpredictable and developing in relation to it.

“In some pieces the entrance into the rhythmic structure is left entirely to the performer, and it is in this area that unpredictability enters and the performer must create the experience within the limits of the notation.”

— Frank O’Hara on music jacket for New Directions in Music — 2 [Morton Feldman]

Structures of allusion within structures of elision. Yet, how longingly all non-teleological touches meet in O’Hara’s words on Feldman, which I now repeat: “the paramount image is that of touch…”

Postlude

[“The poem never stops moving, changing, shaped by the one who receives it.”]

[“The poem never stops moving, changing, shaped by the one who receives it.”]

[“The poem never stops moving, changing, shaped by the one who receives it.”]

Of shadows and light.

for Adrian Frandle, who created the conditions for this seeing

On this, the day of May 16th, in the year 1991, Jacques Derrida delivered a lecture titled “A dessein, le dessin.” We know this because Francois Martin recorded this lecture, and preserved the tape— a fact that I myself only encountered due to the thoughtfulness of a friend.

Considering the “authority of the gaze” in history, where ‘to know’ also means ‘to see’ or ‘to look’, Derrida draws the audience’s attention to Memoirs of the Blind (Mémoires d’aveugle), a book that focused on artistic “exhibition or exposition of the gaze.” He describes Memoirs of the Blind as “the log book of a blind man invited to organize an exhibition at the Louvre,” a book whose “first meaning” can be summed in the statement: “Here are the memoirs of the blind man that I am and have been throughout this exhibition of drawings.”

He is speaking of blindness in art— and sight. Of course he is doing violence to himself in this as well, for Derrida always applies the most intense intellectual violence to matters concerning his own subjectivity, or his own “I”. By “exposing the gaze, well, the eye as it is itself is exposed, exposed to the wound.”

Drawing comes from blindness, or the “apprehension” of it, as Derrida conjectures (italics mine):

Of the fall in the sense of sin…. ‘Sin’ is densely-connoted word for Derrida to lay (and to leave unexamined) in this context, yet that is precisely what he does.

Jean Baptiste Regnault, Origin of Painting, 1785

Pivoting to the artistic theme of ‘the origin of drawing’ in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Derrida gestures towards “numerous representations around the character of Dibutatis” before retelling Pliny’s tale in his own words:

This tale “sets us on the path of a kind of increased light or visibility in the very experience of blindness,” he continues, before uttering a somewhat paradoxical claim: “In the night, in the night itself, the most light appears.”

“The condition of sight can’t be seen”: we can’t see visibility. “One might as well say that the eye can’t see itself, that the condition for the eye to see is that it can’t see itself.” This leads Derrida to a “localizable point” in the field of the vision that he calls “the blind spot” or “the blind point.” The thought that guided him in the exhibition was “that the draftman’s intense experience as an intense desire to see and show, and to exhibit and expose, that is to say, to pose here in front, to show what is exposed and to expose it in turn in front, in front of oneself […] cannot but bustle around this blindness, this blind spot or this essential blindness. The draftsman as seer is somebody who, better than anybody else, experiences blindness exemplarily and who endeavors not only to show blind people, all the time, but to show himself, to expose himself as a blind man.” At this point, Derrida recognizes himself in his words, and this act of seeing is what led him to “turn this exhibition of the blind into the exhibition of self-portrait, that is to say, somehow to link the theme of memoirs of the blind to the theme subtitled Self-Portrait.” He continues by noting that, in returning to the book, “the self-portrait in the subtitle is not only the self-portrait of myself telling my story and the stories that I've just told, but also the self-portraits of draftsmen experiencing their own blindness in a sort of hallucinated, vertiginous way, experiencing the fact... that they see insofar as they don't manage to see and don't manage to see themselves.”

The violence of the attempt to see (which is kinned to the attempt to know, as he mentions briefly at the beginning) involves a struggle with recognition:

Joseph Benoit Suvee, Invention of Art of Drawing, 1793

“No internal analysis of a so-called ‘self-portrait’ drawing can prove that it's indeed a self-portrait,” Derrida says. For example, when a person refers to “Egon Schiele’s self-portrait,” they are only quoting the title given by the artist. Schiele is the one who determined which of his pieces were self-portraits and which were speculative fictions, and this determination took place in the act of titling. 

The cliche version of this would mention something about the eye of the beholder— though Derrida doesn’t bother with this English idiom. Why should he, in French? Deconstruction welcomes the kindling of the idiom and cliche, but Derrida is focused on the reflected image: the thing we see when we look in the mirror. There is something lovely and provocative in the way he says “it is we who put out the self-portrait painter’s eyes”:

”Reading, as opposed to seeing drawings, is experiencing blindness,” Derrida concludes.

As for Dibutades—

Francine van Hove, Dibutades, 2007

In the legend as recounted by Pliny (Natural History Book XXXV), the daughter remains unnamed. Pliny tells the story in order to “append some accounts of the plastic art.” According to his account:

“Butades, a potter of Sicyon, was the first who invented, at Corinth, the art of modeling portraits in the earth which he used in his trade. It was through his daughter that he made the discovery; who, being deeply in love with a young man about to depart on a long journey, traced the profile of his face, as thrown upon the wall by the light of the lamp [umbram ex facie eius ad lucernam in pariete lineis circumscripsit]. Upon seeing this, her father filled in the outline, by compressing clay upon the surface, and so made a face in relief, which he then hardened by fire along with other articles of pottery.”

This is the story of sculpture, of the plastic arts—- and plasticity is also a story of materiality, or the materials in which a subject is conceived. In drawing, as in all the paintings above, Dibutades is confronted with her own shadow alongside that of her lover’s. Pliny doesn’t mention whether or not her tracings include herself, or whether a part of her shadow mixes with his so that the final tracing is a composite —- say, her ear and cheek buried in his profile.

So there is the problem of proximity, or the relationship between the shadows on the wall. But there is also the unstable nature of the medium, itself: projection is a very sensitive endeavor. The scale of a shadow can be reduced or enlarged depending on the position, angle, and proximity of the light source. Tracing a portrait from a shadow gives up on precision: the fidelity is to the idea rather than accurate depiction. Dibutades would hardly be able to recognize her lover in the tracings of a shadow, and recognition is what seems to be at stake for the viewer of the portrait, as opposed to its creator?

*

[All Derrida quotations are from Jacques Derrida’s “Drawing by Design,” the transcription of lecture delivered by Derrida on May 16, 1991, titled “A dessein, le dessin, as translated by Laurent Milesi and given to me by Adrian Frandle.]

"My Drawer": writing the scraps.

Song, let them take it
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.

— W. B. Yeats

I wanted to unpack Lopate’s moves in “My Drawer”, a brief and memorable essay bout miscellany, junk drawers, the things we can't (or won’t or don’t) throw away, where the drawer is "a weigh station of things” that seem to have untold significance or potential. Like a god in Eden, the essayist begins by naming what is present.

An urge to sort

Lopate, who plays himself (or, at least, the speaker) begins by acknowledging that he comes to the page after having experienced “an urge to make an inventory of the drawer” in an effort to grasp the hidden “symbolic underpinnings” of his own “character,” where the word ‘character’ refers to the person he is in life as well as the person he reveals on the page.

And so he inventories:

3-d movie glasses
a silver whistle
a combo lock whose combo has long been lost
a strip of extra cuff for his white linen suit
a plastic shoehorn and an aluminum shoe horn 
a button that says BOYCOTT LETTUCE 
an expired pair of eyeglasses
two nail clippers
cufflinks
rusty scissors for child-sized fingers 
a windproof lighter that he won at an amusement park 

The final item on the list calls to mind a souvenir, or a keepsake memorabilia marking a particular time and place.

Here, Lopate pivots away from delving into the nature of souvenirs by diagnosing himself with superstitiousness. Due to his belief that throwing things away will cause “bad things” to happen, he keeps gifts for which he has “no affection,” just in case such gifts have something to reveal in the future. Gifts, after all, should mean something, and the receiver cannot be blamed for thinking he might have missed an important point if the gift falls flat. Such gifts are kept for the potential future significance. Among them, Lopate lists novelty gists like the “pair of cloth finger puppets” intended to give him pleasure alone on his bed at night. Surveying his collection of novelty gifts, he concludes that novelty is difficult to gift, since “each person's definition of cute or campy is such a private affair.” 

Next comes the “jewelry”  collection of items saved from the 1960’s, including an elephant tusk-necklace, multi-colored beads, and various “spiritual amulets.” Then Lopate lists the things he “kept to be on the safe side,” including an official bank card, a wristwatch case, a silk drawstring purse, and other objects that could serve as possible future containers.

These objects “live a hidden life in the back street of my consciousness,” writes Lopate. He muses that the drawer might exist to hold things “that arouse only half-digested desires never fantasized all the way through” . . . fantasies so secret that not even their owner has the courage to name them.

Joseph Cornell, The Journeying Sun for Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1963.

The logic

Lopate admits that these objects arouse more guilt than desire for him. The objects have hypnotized him with a “promise” to not toss them; the objects have committed him to protecting them, thus granting them the significance of the keepsake.

“I suppose if I were to examine the derivations of each of these keepsakes, many would call up some road not taken, some rejection of possibility,” Lopate muses. Clearly, there is something these objects want to say. Or, this is the story that the collector tells himself. The objects will speak if one can find the “surrealist logic” of their relation. The answer is thus relational, based on a pattern that close study might study, a pattern that must be particular to these objects and their organization.

To assemble the tale story of his “subconscious mind,” Lopate relies on the relational terrain of the nuclear family. Modern psychoanalysis will be the source of his story of origins, which begins exactly where we might expect: in the top drawer of his long-married parents.

The story of origins

Lopate traces the “original top drawer” template back to his childhood, when he would sneak into his parents’ bedroom to “approach their large, dark mahogany dresser, with its altar top composed of the round reversible mirror, the wedding photograph, the stray hair-curlers, and the Chinese black-lacquered music box where my mother kept her Woolworth jewelry.” This is the scene of the original forbidden: the top drawer of the mahogany dresser with its brass handles and tripartite sectioning.

“What was so fascinating about rifling through their drawer?” he asks himself aloud, inviting us into the question. After all, the drawer was always slightly disappointing, packed with ordinary things. In his father’s section, Lopate found “objects of obscure masculine power . . . my father's leather traveling case, a shaving brush, a pair of suspenders, a wallet with photos of us, the children.” On his mother’s side of the drawer, he visited “her bloomers and her gypsy scarves.”

And then, there is there middle part, the section shared by his parents. . .

Utopia

The middle section is the mish-mash of his and hers, that random space created by marriage where two humans join their junk into what Lopate calls “no-man's-land, with elastic bands, garters, pipe cleaners.”

Ultimately, Lopate faces the question of what he sought as a child when rummaging through his parents’ dresser drawer. This question is not unfamiliar to novelists and poets. And part of what makes this essay shimmer is how Lopate addresses it —- which, I should add, is not the same as answering it, for we can address a question without answering it completely, and thus demonstrate our respect for the questions, themselves, which seems like a far more interesting use of one’s time than attempting to be definitive.

It seems that he found a deck of naked playing cards, but the problem with memory is how much we imagine the thing we are seeking, as if the seeking, itself, can give it life. In Lopate’s words:

The paragraph ends in a rather wonderful, multi-layered figuration: “The drawer recorded without explanation the ordinariness of this miracle that had given birth to me.”

Taboo and psychoanalsysis

Then, Lopate returns to his self-examination, using the story of the origins to pry apart his own ambiguities, initially leaning into Freud (calling himself an “Oedipal child”) and then heading straight for the Freudian forbidden:

Having acknowledged the totem and the taboo, and simultaneously carving an opening within the essay for sexual digression, Lopate lopes into the surprise of his concluding page. He returns to inventorying his own drawer: “I keep a box of prophylactics.”

The back of the drawer also has a small collection of “those ads handed to me in the street for massage parlors: Beautiful Girls - Complete Privacy - One Price. ... Tahitia — Gives You Just What You Ex-pect! and an awful color photo of two women in a bubble bath with a grinning curly-headed man.” Lopate keeps the ads “just in case, to be on the safe side,” though the ‘case’ and the ‘safe side’ have lost their explanatory power at this point, which is what the writer intended.

If you hoped that Lopate’s essayed inventory would clarify the intersection of keepsakes, superstition, taboo, and sentimentality, you will be perfectly disappointed. For: “Here is a squashed-up tube of diaphragm cream, with just enough in it for one more go.” This personal item, dripping its singular potential, belongs to his ex. “Kay must have left it behind, as she did this frayed pair of panties,” Lopate tells us, before addressing the reader directly in the most intimate way.

“Do you know we almost moved in together, before we broke up for the very last time?”

How could you know? And who are you, anyway, to be reading this very private examination of a top drawer in a dresser? Consider the dexterity with which Lopate mobilizes this sudden turn away from the inventory towards the direct, personal address which he will expand in this ending locution.

“And finally,” in case you need indication as to what this excavation of the “drawer” intended to accomplish, Lopate flags it.

The most forbidden thing is thinking about and missing Kay, an act which is provoked by opening the top drawer and writing his way through the objects that “all up some road not taken, some rejection of possibility.” There is that heart-shaped button, and his failure to love Kay in the way she had wanted (the way that risked meaning something to her)— namely, by “advertising my heart on my sleeve,” declaring himself openly to be with so-and-so, agreeing to fantasize that desire all the way through. Obviously, I’m quoting one of Lopate’s statements from the beginning, about those “half-digested desires” he mentions, desires to which he returns here… if only to emphasize the way the essay, itself , becomes the object declaring his heart on his sleeve— and it does so more permanently and irrevocably than any pun in the lover’s top-drawer reliquary.

Nothing could be more public than the page. Lopate’s cleverness comes from the way he enriches (and subverts perhaps) the ordinary heteronormative meaning of fidelity in this decision to honor Kay by essay. “I faithfully continue to wear her pin, in my top drawer,” he writes.

As for this post, to properly fill the circle, here is “A Coat” by Yeats: