We assume here that there have been Inter-Dialogic leaps on both sides. Yet, if these are two emotionally vulnerable, emotionally unstable individuals, what has been communicated from brain to brain cannot sink in and be assimilated the right way. This is especially the case if booze is involved, which confuses boundaries and senses of proportions and forces things to flow in a warped direction. That warpage gives 1488 an eerie glow, and an edge (hinging it back to what I used to call post-avant poetry) of strange dimensions and unclean leaps, unclean (less-than-wholesome) consciousness. What emerges is an ambiance of the ensign visionary deadness, employed to define Apparition Poems as a literary text. The significance of the linoleum floor as a symbol is that it works as a synecdoche of all the different forms of warpage on offer here— alcoholism, emotional desperation, overactive imaginations, and (perhaps most tragically) Inter-Dialogic leaps which suggest both some purity of intention and some genuine psycho-affective chemistry, but which are getting trampled by the inhumanity of the landscape these characters inhabit. Linoleum floors are cold, un-homely, homogeneous surfaces, which reflect (also) the coldness (deadness) of the complete severance between the two in question. The warm, companionable, sensuous side of drunken-heartedness— vino veritas, also— is being buried by consciousness which can no longer have stable reactions, so that what has been learned from the requisite Inter-Dialogic leaps knitting soul to soul cannot be recalled and skillfully employed the right way. It may be the case that the muse of 1488 knows this, and that it accounts for her severance of the relationship. If so, the protagonist has a ways and means of accessing a note of pure pathos, which resounds in the poem, even as he also reveals that his assumed mastery of his muse’s heart, and what it has in it (“all that ever was/of drunkenness”), has to be false, because he seems not to know the reason for the sudden severance, which should be clear to him. When Inter-Dialogism is nullified by subjectivist interests, consciousness can fester and transform itself into all shapes and sizes of narcissistic delusion, even as the protagonist in 1488 attempts to reach beyond his narcissism, bring circumstances back to life.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Emotions and Inter-Dialogism
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Melopoeia and Time
One of the oddities here
is that melopoeia, and melopoeiac tension/release games, compensate for the
frustration of the protagonist’s circular Inter-Dialogic interaction with time
as an impersonal force, impinging on his consciousness. The music manifests in
clusters, which is one accustomed manner/mode of melopoeiac practice, and in
end-rhymes as well. The Inter-Dialogic tension here— the knowledge that
anthropomorphized time “wants,” in an impersonal fashion, to co-opt and destroy
everything I, as an individual, either have or have created— makes it so that
the poem, which begins with “I want” and finishes with “I wants,” has in it a
sense of metaphysical exploration of combined interactions between personal and
impersonal forces, what has perceptible bounds and what does not. The problem
with the poem anthropomorphizing Time is that the poet’s instinct to do so,
though it jibes with his aesthetic intentions, must nonetheless be riddled with
the doubts and inconsistencies of consciousness reaching too far past itself,
and its own empirical understanding. The principles of pure reason— Kant’s top
rung of what human cognition can achieve— can only speak of Time as an
intuitive force in human consciousness, and not strictly knowable past that. We
do not know if Time-forces inhere in the universe which manifest some form of
consciousness or personality (this being a correlative to God-forces addressed in 1613). They might. To the extent that the poem sketches (briefly, and in a poetic fragment) a semantic and melopoeiac circle in space, where the end and the beginning are
rough parallels, what is suggested is a sense of stalemate with an impersonal
force which cannot help but touch us, in both Inter-Dialogic interactions and
out, while also manifesting evidence that no consciousness can inhere in it,
and the personal and the impersonal become so hopelessly intermixed that the
poem gets lost in its own music. To be lost in melopoeia, while also dry iced
by an I-it perspective, makes the poem its own kind of hybrid, built of parts
which ache to transcend their limitations and know what is not readily known,
even as what is shown to consciousness here is frightening, frustrating, and fragmented.
Friday, August 28, 2015
Kierkegaard and Dry Ice
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Dry Ice
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Menace and Foreboding
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Brain Symmetry
Monday, August 24, 2015
Irony and the Elegies
I.
The Junior Prom deposited me (and fifteen
others) on the floor of her basement. I could
barely see daylight at the time, and at three in
the morning I began to prowl. I was too scared
to turn on any lights. She emerged like a mermaid
from seaweed. I needed comfort, she enjoyed my
need. We had gone out— she was bitter. The whole
dialogue happened in shadows. No one was hooking
up in the other room, either. You spiteful little princess.
Whether off the bathroom counter
or the back of your hand, darling,
your unusual vehemence that
winter night, cob-webbed by
half-real figures, was animated by an
unfair advantage, which stooges threw
at you to keep you loopy as you
died piece-meal. All I had
was incomprehensible fury and a
broken heart— when I hit the floor
to play fire-starter, opened
the little snifter, curled your finger
twice in the right direction; darkness—
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Inter-Dialogism
Saturday, August 22, 2015
Camouflage
Friday, August 21, 2015
Neptune Games
Thursday, August 20, 2015
The Prelude: Underwater Moods
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Neptune in Pisces: Creepy, Lurid, Macabre
When I was a teenager, I learned the basics of astrology quite thoroughly. It took me fifteen years, into my thirties, to come to grips with what for me became an obvious fact, hewn right into my birth chart: astrology does not always literally work. The archetypes, however, are interesting: for me, the strongest are Pisces, Scorpio, Gemini, and Libra. Virgo occupies its own second tier, and the rest are semi-scrubs. As for what works in my own natal chart: Scorpio rising, Mercury in Capricorn in the third house, and Mars in Gemini in the eighth. The rest is poppycock. If anyone cares: my real sun sign in Scorpio (I’m a double Scorp), and my Venus is most assuredly in Pisces, one reason this
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Shelley's Semi-Empiricism
Monday, August 17, 2015
Visions 5: Deals
All piled into
the house on Woodlawn.
They had me do all
the old jokes, as though
I were a wind-up
toy. Most of them had
never been in the
house before. It was
about to be abandoned
anyway; but my
mind still clings
to it. I smoked pot there
for the first time.
I got on the road to my
first hook-up at
a party, & I punched a
Hulk Hogan
poster’s crotch. Now even
this pile-up was
fifteen years ago. The shed
in the back was
filled with smoke, as were we—
& no one who was there that night, high,
hasn’t been abased. Wisdom has its
palaces that look more like park benches.
Youth’s privilege is to be in love with
life. I was in love with life that night, too—
the crush of strange kids in an Abington
house, movements towards more weed.
We sat on a curb and planned more
mischief. The Universe had some mischief
planned for us, too. For those of us who
live on the curb and nowhere else— a requiem.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Visions Pt. 4: The Chap
Saturday, August 15, 2015
Visions Pt. 3: Drive
Friday, August 14, 2015
Visions of Innocence/Experience Pt. 2
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Visions of Innocence/Experience Pt. 1
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
The Mysteries of Music
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
I-Thou/I-It: 60/40 split
Monday, August 10, 2015
Trish: Neo-Romanticism
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Trish: The Creatrix
not talk to each other. I either
had to have her totally or not
at all. There would be no grey
for us. Was this karma for the
manner in which I treated
Lisa? Closing shift: Roger came
to pick up Trish. I heaved against
the glass doors before the manager
came to let us out. Romantic poems
were being written, informed by a
kind of desperation. I read Donne
for a Penn class and extrapolated
his stance (metaphysics abridging
Romanticism) and remembered
that first night, in which Trish
and I read “The Ecstasy” to each
other. Now, she horded her body
where I could not see. I have my
own conceits, I thought to myself,
walking home from Penn in rain.
Spring rains; Trish returns. She
seems chastened. There is a part
of her that needs me. It is a part
of her that she rebels against, so
that her manner towards me takes
the form of an interior war made exterior.