Monday, June 15, 2020
Saturday, June 13, 2020
I took the dog out for his evening walk around 9:40. We went around the house and down the hill toward the storm runoff that leads to the creek and our neighborhood park. The sky wasn't yet fully dark: more of a lavender grey against which the tops of the old, tall trees were silhouetted in black. The slope behind our next door neighbor's house, with its carefully trimmed lawn, glittered with fireflies, which would shine on for a second here and there, left, right, low to the ground or six feet above it, then shine off, unpredictably. There, between the trees, it was almost totally dark, but I could vaguely see a stain down the slope, which resolved (though without losing any of its vagueness) into a stag. I was startled by it for a second, the time to make out what that black void was among the glittering fireflies, before I more intuited than saw it turn and run away.
Such brief moments of beauty can appear in our lives unprepared, unexpected, with no connection to any other moments before or after; this can make them heartbreakingly perfect but also useless, unprocessable.
(It is impossible to convey in words the precise quality of that scene: a verbal description at best relates to the thing described as a transcription of a jazz solo might relate to having heard it in person. But ideally it can become the score based on which the readers play their own music. Is it relevant to add that I was listening, on headphones, to L.T.J. Bukem's "Coolin' Out" -- not the most poetically resonant track, granted; "Devil's Theme," which kicked in a few minutes later, would have been more aesthetically right -- or that we are during COVID?)
Here are two photos I took minutes later, as we walked, on the street now, back from the park:
Such brief moments of beauty can appear in our lives unprepared, unexpected, with no connection to any other moments before or after; this can make them heartbreakingly perfect but also useless, unprocessable.
(It is impossible to convey in words the precise quality of that scene: a verbal description at best relates to the thing described as a transcription of a jazz solo might relate to having heard it in person. But ideally it can become the score based on which the readers play their own music. Is it relevant to add that I was listening, on headphones, to L.T.J. Bukem's "Coolin' Out" -- not the most poetically resonant track, granted; "Devil's Theme," which kicked in a few minutes later, would have been more aesthetically right -- or that we are during COVID?)
Here are two photos I took minutes later, as we walked, on the street now, back from the park:
Thursday, May 21, 2020
Sunday, August 27, 2017
Kirby's Wilderness of Building
[Note: this article was written for the catalog of the 2015 exhibition, Comic Book Apocalypse: The Graphic World of Jack Kirby, curated by Charles Hatfield and Ben Saunders at the art gallery of California State University, Northridge. That catalog is now out of print. I am reposting the article here to celebrate the 100th anniversary of Jack Kirby's birth.]
Outer
space is much too close. Or rather
(since space extends everywhere), its furniture, its stage props are. Past a great spinning wheel, the
technological purpose of which is hard to fathom—it looks partly like a state-of-the-art
waterwheel ferrying, ensconced in each of its compartments, a sphere of some
kind (a planetoid, perhaps?), partly like an arcing array of electronic
circuits—rough-hewn asteroids hurtle by.
They are so near that the imagination boggles at why gravity doesn’t
bring them crashing in. Or, perhaps, it
will? That seems unlikely, however: down on the glistening terrace of a municipal
building designed in retro style (it rather recalls Earth visions of modernist
architecture from the 1950s or ‘60s, and we’re in the future, aren’t we?) the
inhabitants of the city stroll about unconcerned.
Monday, August 21, 2017
An exchange with Brian Aldiss
I have just learned that Brian Aldiss passed away two days ago, at the age of 92. I will not recap here his achievements, or wax enthusiastically about his books, though I could, at length. As a brief memorial, I will post excerpts from an email correspondence I had with him between April and June 2015. His generosity in answering questions from a reader was exemplary. Since these were answers to a scholarly inquiry, I feel that their publication here, as an interview of sorts, is appropriate.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
An Apocryphal Canto
Teaching Dante in Core this semester, I decided we'd all had enough with expository papers, so I'm
having my students add their own extra circles to Hell. Once they're written, I
plan to collect them under the title Hell's Hidden Rooms: The Apocryphal
Cantos (though my students prefer Schwartz's Inferno). Here's one I
composed as a pilot.
The Eighth Circle, Twelfth Pouch. The
Pedants, who cannot keep from spitting into their cups.
Pushing
open the gate that led from the room
where unhappy souls had been kept awake
by endless paperwork, pointless tasks, gloom,
(having
asked for bread, we were given cake
made from cornstarch and ketchup; wanting
sun,
we were told to sit still and consume more
cake),
my
vision opened out to a coffered hall, not outdone
by the one by the man of Urbino. Sitting,
standing,
conversing, witty, women and men, every one
making noises – their discourse – resounding
from some kind of horn: oboes, trumpet,
a shawm, clarinets, bassoons, french horns
rounding,
trombones,
a tuba (sometimes they’d thump it),
recorders and piccoli and a great flute,
every one poking from – where? Not the rump,
it
wasn’t like Barbariccia! Alas, if by their fruits
ye shall know them, then know that it was – the
navel.
From what seemed a Babel of indiscriminate
toots
with
time there emerged a symphonic fable
of pride injured, pain at imagined slights
decisions made round wooden tables
people’s
blindness to extraspeluncular lights.
Such sweetness emerged from the conduits
umbilical
and such grace I perceived in their execution
of rites
that
I did not notice, at first, their odd habits prandial.
They seemed to be drinking moonlight, some
spirit
of truth, of wisdom mythico-mystical;
yet
each time they quaffed, with slyness implicit
their mouths left behind a slight drop, a
thin trail,
a small mucous swirl in the cup, or they’d
lick it.
Then,
taking a mighty pull, they’d offer the ale
to their partner in tippling and tooting, who
did the same. In the end – so I thought, and I
paled –
it
must all be one swill; yes, the whole happy crew
was supping from one keg of beer, not having
realized
its leaven was human. So tasty the brew
seemed
to them that they fed it to smaller-sized
tooters, with less fulsome navels from which
tiny woodwinds and brass had only begun to
arise;
trying
the mug on for size, these soon felt the itch
to dribble along with the rest. Whereupon,
from his flute, one found his pitch
and
declared in doggerel, getting his rhyme on:
“To the minnows, I shine like the Ichthus
Heliodiplodokus – Pound’s
very paragon
of a
poem, by which Louis Agassiz hoped to focus
the finishing graduate. ‘Here’s a sunfish –
look!
Please, no more hocus-pocus!
You
cannot possibly make a book
from five book reviews and two
articles. Even allowing you cook
your
data, and stew
with a jigger of new theoretical wine,
you will still smell vinegar in the brew –
even
packaged by Princeton, it’s brine.’”
Next another strode up with an instrument
stuck out from her belly that shimmered in
kind;
I
could not tell from its strange integument
was it an oboe, euphonium, drum, an aeolian
chime?
Every moment, it altered its temperament,
not to
mention its key and its rhyme.
The cup she offered looked sweet, but the
backwash
was bitter. “I can take you to Cocytus for a
good time –
I got
friends there – we can picnic, pack a brioche – “
But my Master said: “Bite that brioche, and
Proserpina
will pity you. Find something better to
nosh.”
The
last soul I saw wore a concertina
that pushed and was pulled without help from
the hands;
his chin in the air, he spat not just in vina,
but
everywhere, really – quite into the stands.
O wonder! The arcs his drool made formed a
mass
In the air; the product, a castle of strands
that
hovered an instant, then slid back into his glass.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Tinsel and the Torture-Net Artifice
I
The photographs that
follow are patently not “authentic,” nor indeed are they photographs. Both are fictional devices set in place to
give the fiction itself the veneer of authenticity. As far as characterization is concerned, the
villains are pantomime cut-outs, and the hero’s only attributes are strength,
good looks, compassion, and moral principles that prompt him to take a stand
against injustice. That is as
complicated as it gets. The hero, pitted
against ever more morally corrupt antagonists and placed in ever more tangled
and ambiguous situations, remains impossibly strong. You know the type: you might even, in your more honest moments,
detect a strain of it in yourself. He
delights in “doubling.” The medium can
turn things into language and language into a thing. Mirages, hollow signs of the heat-glow, are
taken for objects and people; objects and people are taken for mirages. The casting and consuming of voices are
sometimes done by mouths and ears alone, but mostly they are done through
technology. He has no past, no sexual
identity, no complexities. Their real
content may still remain invisible, hiding in the light.
II
The argument may seem
stunningly naïve. Things are never that
neat and tidy. Politics is present, but
it is treated with disdain. What could
they have to tell him about the revolution anyway? All it has meant for them is a change of name
on the placard beside their hovels and of the uniform worn by the police who
swing their truncheon at them.
Friendship may bring about emotional awakening and cultural
enlightenment, but politically it brings cynicism. The authority may be grounded in the divine,
but it is established and consolidated through technology. Terrified at first, he eventually digs up the
floorboards and finds a record player. The
holy world of spirits collapses once we see the mechanisms at work behind
it. But overall these are rearguard
actions in a larger losing battle. The
enforcers of the prohibition law get drunk.
Blood falls from the animals not as a libation, but rather “to be made
into I don’t know what—food, drugs, jewels, explosives.” Sometimes the interruptions are innocuous;
sometimes they are not. Full and empty
spectacle make move and counter-move against one another, but the empty wins
out in the long run. Too right.
III
He seems drawn to these
places like a dowser’s stick to subterranean water. Even spaces not designed for burial turn into
tombs when he steps into them. At best
this relationship is fraught; at worst it goes disastrously wrong. In whose name? Whose legacy demands this? The secret, once more, has been disguised in
a name and transplanted across the world to throw its pursuers off the fact
that it was right at home the whole time.
This is the pattern set by the crypt, pulsed out in its coded
broadcasts. To keep it safe he buries it
inside his crypt and carries it around for all his life, showing and hiding it,
saying it without saying it. Radio
messages shuttle back and forth: from
rocket to moon-surface to ground control and back again. Here, too, time zones are overlaid. Here, too, the sun is intensely
scrutinized. Here, too, is
abandonment. We should learn something
from this. What? Who knows where the signals will end up, or
what they will end up meaning?
IV
Let’s believe this for
now. It is as though language, like the
microphone, were shying away from the message it is carrying. The relations here are complex, to say the
least. Those who can discern the rhythms
can step into them and operate in their blind spots. In his zone of near-silence, he injects
language into a flower. It is
constructed with a rocket scientist’s skill for routing, plotting elliptical
paths of departure and return. It stacks
up layers of meaning like so many pancakes, toy bricks, sheets of acetate. And yet, as they were last time, they will be
disappointed. The event field is
unconsummated; and language fails to deliver.
The voice that carries the secret remains inaudible even as it is
amplified. It may terrorize the heroes,
burn their ears, but it stops short of destroying their world by naming the
event as event. The scene is ridiculous and totally
implausible. This stage set sacrifices
him on its hollow altar, leaving him trapped inside an empty, perforated
drum. Naming him, her voice removes his
name. Perhaps she is not wrong.
V
Let’s start where we
left off: he is killed. What happens next? What became of the original we do not find
out. The home he returns to was not the
home he left. These gifts are all poisoned,
booby-trapped. He may get away with it,
but its specter will haunt his line for generations. Their departures and returns follow the path
of time. It is in his blood. He must sweat it, because even animals pick
it up. While doing this, he is hit by a
car. “My good deed for the day,” he
tells himself. They decline, but he
insists. The volcano eventually erupts,
blowing into the sky a column of smoke more than thirty thousand feet
high. Their memories of it have been
absolutely wiped, erased. Where is this
new detour through secrets and sunflowers leading us? My artifice is as good as nature. My artifice is better than nature, he is saying now. For him, everything is a copy. What lies at its core?
VI
This process is dark,
sometimes shocking, in many respects catastrophic. It is certainly sad. When there is duplication, comedy
results. A person being manipulated like
an automaton by another person is funny.
Repetition takes place in the field of time. Here, though, the fall has become more than
simply a pratfall. Time and again he
turns his head to tell people to look where they are going and then crashes
into whatever is in his path. That he is
always falling, relapsing, messing up, is a sign of his awkward relationship
not only with the material world but also with the divine one. Gravity, like repetition, opens up the
dimension of time. In comedy this option
is removed. An awareness of one’s own
fakeness can have disastrous consequences.
The meeting was never going to happen.
Eventually, it gets played out in the field of art, the most
self-conscious of all environments. To
turn water into wine would be a miracle.
Some peace and quiet to smoke his pipe would be nice.
VII
Even when parchments
have been overlaid and treasure unearthed, significant portions of it remain
uncovered. It divides into three parts
which circulate through time and space.
This is more than simply an extended plot device, of course. “Tomorrow I shall be famous!” he cries. What about his other descendants? He had three sons. This is extremely dubious practice, to say
the least. All literature is
pirated. Every act of reading is its own
kind of remaking of a work. The second
scene moves at a quicker pace.
(after
Tom McCarthy)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)