The Mountains Goats: Power in a Union

Power In A Union from JD on Vimeo.

Everybody knows I don't generally do the acoustic guitar guy rocking political jams deal but as a former member of SEIU 660 & the California Association of Psychiatric Technicians & a kid who benefited from great teachers I wanted to spend tonight saying WE ARE ON YOUR SIDE xo jd

Without trying to make a case for being cooler than I actually am (I should hope this blog will dispel any such notion of me being cool that may have lingered), I have been listening to the Mountain Goats for a really long time. I still remember going to Newberry Comics in Harvard Square to buy Hot Garden Stomp, on tape.  I saw MG for the first time Upstairs at the Middle East just after the album Full Force Galesburg came out (which according to Wikipedia was in 1997, also the year I graduated from High School). The long and short of it is that I really like John Darnielle, I also like Billy Bragg, and I suppose to most of this country I am a Commie Pinko nut ball, so the above video and this Mother Jones article make me very happy.

March

is quiet.

Giant forms
passing on the way up Mt St. Helen
western hills singing odes to Satan's starry looms

never was from Boston anymore
but waited all night near where Foster's cafeteria
Sutter and Polk
a stoned John Wieners harvested prophesies all night long

what streets made you lamb?

When The Haar Rolls In

This song appeared on my I-pod via a compilation CD that came with an issue of Mojo featuring the Kinks I bought at Trident Cafe/Bookstore in Boston over the Thanksgiving Holiday. Mojo calls these comps "mixes" which makes me long for the days of the mixed tape. As mixed tapes go this was a pretty good one; one other notables on it is Nick Lowe's The Rose of England. 

As for the Haar and accompanying video above, it sort of appeared out of the blue to me one day and continues to do so whenever I am in the mood for a long narrative complete with acoustic guitar backing. I like this video too. I have been watching a lot of driving movies: see both Radio On and Vanishing Point, this video fits in well with such a theme. Walking to work this morning amid the wet gray weather feeling a bit sentimental about being in the final days of working at the same place I have at been for the last six years (now that I have some distance from it) this song came on and suited the environment. I think about all the people I would make mix tapes for and the songs I would choose to hint at the things I don't see any reason to say anymore but still think sometimes:

And now I'm more concerned with keeping the neighbors cat out of the garden than I am with who you may or may not be fucking and who may be dancing a jig in the middle...

Toward a Bibliography of Place

An interview on Poetry Foundation.org called A Shifting Sense of Place: Four contemporary poets discuss where their work belongs in the world, by Jeremy Richards left me thinking there really isn't any general agreement about what is meant by Place and convinced me to continue to explore the topic here. I have said in the past that for me place is a process in which the writer/artist engages a location as an entity. The point being not simply the construction of a backdrop or setting to a series of events taking place, but the essential fact that each I/eye is constantly constructing, reevaluating, embracing, transferring, and negating within the geographic boundaries of here. I will go even further now and say that this is not a matter of just seeing but tending to your garden as well. Or as my 9th grade math teacher used to say: "not a spectator's sport." We have to be willing to allow the same amount of opposing vision to alter us as well or else we are not seeing, the act of writing about place is a two way street.

This is not to say there aren't useful insights into the process of place in Richard's interview:

"You slow down your pace, peeking under rocks, sneaking around corners, tiptoeing down alleyways that you never dared. As a poet, you search for whatever gives a place its muscle and bone. After I’ve written about a place, there’s a moment when it stands in newly stark relief, vulnerable and unveiled. If you look long enough, you’ll see stories pulsing there." -Patricia Smith

Unfortunately, I really don't see anything that might come out of the type of process she is talking about in her poem Hip-Hop Ghazal. The last interview with C.D Wright discusses an interesting difference between geography and chorography, and I think she is spot on when she says: "The mapping of the city is integral to the subject." But again there is little about her poem Lake Echo, Dear that speaks to such a mapping. Though these poems might speak to a Sense of Place, as Wright points out, this term is somewhat empty. The accompanying poems in this interview address identity informed by a place, the particulars of a landscape, or events but none of them are really grounded in any specific location. The problem with the term "sense of place" then is that it is incapable of expressing a relationship with location simply because it is too ambiguous. Place needs location to give it form.

I say this all not to call for a static definition of place, but more as an excuse to explore the idea of place as a literary event further. In this regard it makes sense to me to start with a rough bibliography of writers for whom there is a clearly expressed level of attention given to ones surroundings, the results of which greatly contributes to the significance of their work. The list below is by no means definitive. There are no doubt a great many more writers who should be included (either those who I am ignorant of or who I have just not done enough reading on to say anything significant), however, I don't doubt that the writers that are listed belong in this conversation. They are presented in a basic chronology, and other than the question of who seems to have done what first, there is no implied comment of merit in the order I have chosen.

The Place Reader:

William Blake: London is the center space of his focus into the mythological universe he envisioned. see Milton: Between South Molton Street & Stratford Place/ Putting us somewhere on Davies or Oxford Street if I am reading this map correctly. Where Blake lived before and after his ill fated move to Felpham (the only time in his life when he was not living in London).  (Johnson: 234)

Henry David Thoreau: Walden The greatest spiritual ecologist of early American writers. See Gerrit Lansing's short essay on Thoreau in the book A February Sheaf:  "…Thoreau made of his daily and local experience a rich mythological fabric, a cosmos as complex and individual as any system of totemic classification." My inclusion of Thoreau here is perhaps odd seeing as he is the only writer's who was not drawing from an urban source, but I think that there is significant reason to consider his Eco-conscious focus as a vital contribution to the writing of place. Check out an interesting essay by Eco Poetics editor Johnathan Skinner: Thoughts on Things: Poetics of The Third Landscape.

Charles Baudelaire: Paris Spleen: (Paris) Place through the imaginative engagement of Paris' poor huddled masses.

James Joyce: Ulysses: (Dublin) The first novel to explore the relationship between place (Dublin) and body,  as characters follow a course of mythological events through time and space.

(The map that Valdimir Nabokov drew based on the routes taken in Ulysses for a lecture he gave: Image source)

Fernando Pessoa: The Book of Disquiet. (Lisbon) More reading to be done here but I've read enough of BOD to see that location is the doorway into Pessoa's internal universe:

     "I love the stillness of early summer evening’s downtown, and especially the stillness made more still by contrast, on the streets that seethe with activity by day. Rua do Arsenal, Rua Da Alfandega, the sad streets extending eastward from where the Rua Da Alfandega ends, the entire stretch along the quiet docks-- all of this comforts me with sadness when on these evenings I enter the solitude of their ensemble..." #3*

     "Walking on these streets, until the night falls, my life feels to me like the life they have. By day they're full of meaningless activity; by night they're full of a meaningless lack of it... There is no difference between me and these streets, save they being streets and I a soul... There is an equal abstract destiny for men and for things; both have an equally indifferent designation in the algebra of the world's mystery." #3*

"Eternal tourist of ourselves, there is no landscape but what we are." #123*

*All quotes from Book of Disquiet: 2003 Penguin Classics Edition: Translation by Richard Zenith

Guy Debord: Founder of Pyscogeography: loosely defined as the examination of urban space on human behavior.Coming as it did out of the French Situationist movement, Pyscogeography has perhaps had more influence on performance art than literature best seen in the basic method of the pyscogeographer, the dérive;  a pedestrian exercise of one or more people who allow the spaces to dictate their movement. Though not really where my interest lay, there are a number of  pyscogeographic inspired groups. Flash Mob was one contemporary manifestation of this trend, in San Francisco there is a  group called SFZero a sort of social network of groups who post challenges to be conducted within the city in an attempt to redefine space. The completion of said challenges earns teams points. Some of the groups listed on their web site have names like: Bart Psychogeographical Association or Society for Nihilistic Intent and Disruptive Efforts. I  have a hard time getting over the the idea of "Play" in this branch of pyscogeography, though Debord's contribution to the examination of place is undeniable.

Two of the more interesting results of pyscogeography are listed further down in the writing of Iain Sinclair and the films of Patrick Keller. For anyone interested in both James Joyce and Psycogeography you may want to visit the site Joyce Walks: In their own words: ...a psychogeographical tool which generates walking maps based on routes from James Joyce's Ulysses in any city in the world using Google Maps. The system prints maps to be used as the basis of walks exploring the city of your choice and generates mashups using your pictures and videos documenting these walks to share with other users.

Charles Olson: All of it. The Maximus poems are an enormous body of work that I have no authority to talk to. For people looking for a way into Olson though, I would suggest starting with his prose: The Human Universe, read in conjunction with Mayan Letters will provide the main theoretical thrust of his work: ego dominated Western civilization has lost connection with the natural world. Just as D.H. Lawrence was drawn to Etruscan civilization and Mesoamerican Myth, Olson also saw in Mayan civilization a non dualistic alternative, and a possible pathway to reestablishing an "original nature" (a term I have borrowed from eastern mysticism). There is also The Post Office: which for me was the first “ah ha!” moment with Olson, for any prose writer/reader with an interest in history I would start here. The essay on Projective Verse rounds out this list and provides the necessary understanding of Olsonian poetics needed to travel 128 into Polis.

José Lezama Lima: Paradiso: the masterpiece of the Cuban Neo-baroque movement is a world contained within Havana. Where Borges wrote about the Aleph, Lezama Lima made one of his own

Guillermo Cabrera Infante: Three Trapped Tigers (Havana): Place as a "scene" . Centering around the nightlife scene of Pre-revolutionary Cuba it's characters travel different career routes and amorous trysts,  drinking, listening to music and playing elaborate linguistic pranks.

Also Check out the movie Cabrera Infante and his brother made called PM:

Italio Calvino: Invisible Cities: The maker in the eternal city:

"The city, however does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lighting rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls."
(1974 Translation: William Weaver)

                                                                                             

Iain Sinclair: Lud Heat and Suicide Bridge are two long poems focusing on East London; I discovered Sinclair through Allan Moore whose graphic novel From Hell borrows heavily from Sinclair’s work. There are a number of novels worth investigating as well: Down River and Whitechapel Scarlet Tracings are perhaps the most significant but Sinclair’s more recent writing is non fiction: Lights out for the territory: 9 Excursions in the secret history of London and London Orbital are two examples of his more recent pedestrian investigation of London.

W.G Sebald: The Rings of Saturn: A walking journey through England that discuses the history of each area and the events that take place during the trip.

George Stanley : A San Francisco born poet currently living in Vancouver, Stanley was a student of Jack Spicer and Robert Duncan in the 1960s and was heavily influenced by Charles Olson. His poem San Francisco is Gone is a an incredible vision that combines family history with past structures re-imagined over a contemporary landscape. 

Film: 

Patrick Keller: London and Robinson in Space are excellent. A third film called Robinson in Ruins came out in November of 2010 but has not been made available in the US yet. The first two movies are narrated by Paul Scofield, the anonymous voice that gives the viewer a first person account of a man named Robinson as he  walks through places seen through the eye of Keller’s still framed visions of London and greater England.

...
There is plenty more to be said about the writers above and just what, if any, idea can be constructed on the topic and process of place. I will end here by saying that in working on this preliminary bibliography it occurred to me that much of the writing dealing with place has come from the avant-garde/experimental arts. If  we hold that the vanguard has traditionally shunned conservation in favor of creating bold new paths, only intent on change, then why is place a reoccurring theme among many of the same artists? Though new techniques justify an avant-garde label, much of that technique (at least in the list above) has served to explore and document rather than smash.

Some Thoughts on Bolaño's 2666

"The mention of Trakl made Amalfitano think, as he went through the motions of teaching a class, about a drugstore near where he lived in Barcelona, a place he used to go when he needed medicine for Rosa. One of the employees was a young pharmacist, barley out of his teens, extremely thin and with big glasses, who would sit up at night reading a book when the pharmacy was open twenty-four hours. One night, while the kid was scanning the shelves, Amalfitano asked him what books he liked and what book he was reading, just to make conversation. Without turning, the pharmacist answered that he liked books like The Metamorphosis, Bartleby, A Simple Heart, A Christmas Carol. And then he said that he was reading Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Leaving aside the fact that A Simple Heart and A Christmas Carol were stories, not books, there was something revelatory about the taste of this bookish young pharmacist, who in another life might have been Trakl or who in this life might still be writing poems as desperate as those of his distant Austrian counterpart, and who clearly and inarguably preferred minor works to major ones. He chose The Metamorphosis over The Trial, he chose Bartleby over Moby Dick, he chose A Simple Heart over Bouvard and Pécuchet, and A Christmas Carol over Tale of Two Cities or The Pickwick Papers. What a Sad paradox, thought Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown. They choose the prefect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters to spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against that something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench." 

Roberto Bolaño 2666

Translation: Natasha Wimmer

       Been reading 2666. I'm not done yet and want to hold off on writing more about it until I've finished, but it's at least safe for me to say I think this is exactly the type of book that Amalfitano suspects people are afraid of. The type of thing that contemporary American literature normally refuses to publish, mostly out of fear that readers will be intimidated by the page count alone not to mention the continual references to obscure poets (of all people!). As much as the industry can, they belittle this type of book every chance they get and call on the writers of serious entertainment fiction to back them up (Jonathan Franzen and Jonathan Safran Foer I am looking at you). This relationship serves both writer and industry well, since both can reassure each other of the seeming integrity of their decision to yield to the market in determining what should and should not be selected for publication. Their argument goes something like this: The market demands predictability, most readers are only interested in solidly constructed entertainment, they are giving a large portion of their valuable time to do something that will provided them no material return for their energy spent so this fucking book better be worth it buddy cause I could be watching House right now. So how, you ask, is Bolaño being published? It's a fair question, and maybe part of the answer is that I am just another intellectual who thinks the sky is falling every time I look at a best seller list, or maybe even today amid the destruction of language via the Twitter newspeak (40 characters or less or you will pay!) a few authors manage to slip gigantic packages of subversion through the cracks. It may also have something to do with the misleading theme of a self-deprecating artistic vanguard which is in actuality more a joke on the establishment than it is on those who take a chance. I'm thinking of Savage Detectives here specifically but the issue has its moment in 2666 as well when the same Amalfatino gives his brilliant monologue on the relationship between the Mexican intellectual and the state. How else is it possible than that critics would praise Bolaño despite his clear indictment of the establishment and his endlessly intertwining sentences that shift through theme and clause before trailing off altogether on even longer diversion only to wind up somewhere else completely but still somehow exactly where you are suppose to be? But Bolaño can also read the way I always wanted genre fiction to read, like Joe Strummer had written it instead of writing Straight to Hell. Or to be more clear, it's quite possibly Bolaño wrote the perfect novel for the globalization era; a new Hearts of Darkness for our time. His popularity in this regard doesn't seem to be a mystery. He is not afraid of narrative or any other formal literary convention and proves himself more than capable of telling a story (aptly handled by his translator), but unlike some other contemporary novelists, his willingness to follow "the rules" is not an apology for wanting to use art to grapple with something much bigger. In fact, both compliment the other quite well and even save each other from cliches that can weigh each fraction down (the shit heel objectivity of realism and the utter farce of pure art). So maybe the sky is not falling and culture isn't dying, or perhaps the "social (realist?) novel" and the "experimental novel" really do need each other more than MFA programs and publishers would like everyone to think. Just as the horrific story of how hundreds of women were brutally murdered amid an industrial nightmare on the border between northern and southern hemispheres is the key to the secrete of this world (as one character muses early on in 2666), poetry (and by poetry I mean something other than what you think I mean)  can offer the hope needed to travel through hell.

No Year

Not feeling any great deal of excitement for the coming year. sorry.  Decided not to make any commitment toward trying to improve the self or condition. These energies seem better spent learning to feel content with what there is. Hope is only a thing with feathers, and as such difficult to catch and will often fly away when you are not looking. There will be no new job, no new writing, no new body, no new mind set, no new projects, no new future, no new place. In 2011 there will only be the sound of being, which I suppose if you are inclined toward Zenisms, would sound something like water moving through a small stream in a mossy forest. If you are not a zen master this may appear to be resignation or apathy, but your western ego driven logic lies to your mind. What is often called action is really only the sound of the same car crashing repeatedly into the same wall. 

Take for instance the Japanese Maple seeds I got from T's mother's garden in Washington state over Christmas. Getting home Sunday afternoon, after an early morning flight the first things I did was plant a few of them in different environments to see what would happen. I never sleep well the night before flying. Though I am often tired, I toss and turn for hours begging sleep to take me, but when it does my dreams are anxiety ridden catastrophes that leave me feeling more tired than if I had just spent the night awake waiting for the sun to rise. Some of  this stems from a paranoia about missing my flight (something I have done more than once), another part of it has to do with packing and making sure I remember everything I need, then there is the matter of navigating the process that awaits me upon arrival at the airport the next day where a body must move through an endless stream of verifications and interrogations in order to ensure the comfort and safety of all passengers. As a result, I often arrive home feeling as if I am caught between worlds, the place I was and the place I am. In order to secure my own passage completely I always feel the need to ground myself by reestablishing a root connection between both places- some type of tangible proof of the other spaces existence. Thus the need to begin planting immediately. A few of the seeds are spread outside in unused portions of the garden or an outside container and another couple more in small containers inside, and one more placed inside a Wardian case (a gift from T). When I am done, there is only the sound of waiting that moves through the apartment suggesting the fate of these sown seeds in the unnoticed movements of the day. If I have read the signs correctly there will one day be one of these long after I am gone:

 

There is more than one unacknowledged legislator here. 

Perhaps Herzog could clearly depict the struggle that is inherit in this process, the ultimate tearing and reconstruction from which new life springs as a matter of fates colliding. His characters obsession's are often a desire to live this process out to its ultimate conclusion either in mastering it for their own purposes (they, as the ghost of Ahab would no doubt tell them if they were keen to listen for such voices, can not), or in surrendering to it.  They are endlessly replaying the myth of Icarus in the form of conquistadors like Aguirre, or Fitzcalraldo. Timothy Treadwell seeks his own liberation and sanctification in his Grizzly activism. But  Herzog is also capable of turning his gaze inward toward his own megalomania that becomes clear in the Antarctic series, and even with his relationship to Klaus Kinski. Throughout his work there is a battle of wills between two forces of nature, both demanding one another's submission. By doing so, they only confirm their autonomy by revealing the fragile balance that exist between homeostasis and chaos. 

2011 will only mark a period of time, it will seem neither remarkable nor significant until another 100 years have passed. This is the curse of our free will. We have the ability to order the universe into segments but exchanged for understanding the implications of what we do we do the moment our actions occur as events.

Feliz Cumpleaños José Lezama Lima

December 19th 2010 is the centennial of Cuban born writer  
José Lezama Lima:

December 19th 1910 to August 9th 1976

is raising a drink to this person whose writing has the ability to split your head open and draw out from within it the language of infinite origin:

I encountered the word potens, which according to Plutarch represented in priestly Tuscan the "if possible," the infinite possibility we later observe in the virgo potens of Catholicism -- or, how to engender a god by supernatural means -- and I came to the conclusion that it was that infinite possibility that the image must embody. And since the greatest of infinite possibilities is resurrection, poetry -- the image -- had to express its most encompassing dimension, which is precisely, resurrection. It was then that I gained the perspective that I set against the Heidggerian theory of man-for-death proposing a concept of poetry that establishes the prodigious causality of being-for resurrection...So, if you asked me to give a definition of poetry...I would have to do it in these terms: it is the image attained by the man of resurrection.

Translation by James Irby 

    In Mexico he felt strange and aloof. The gods of light drifted off when they saw that that was a subterranean world, a world of chthonian deities. The Mexican had gone back to the ancient concept of the Greek World: hell was at the center of the earth, and the voices of the dead rose up through fissures in the earth. On his first morning in Mexico, looking into the bathroom mirror he could barely decipher the face on the glass. The mist, locked in a foggy blue from the beginnings of the earth, impeded his image's advance. He thought himself the victim of a spell. With a towel he wiped the fog off the mirror, but still he could not arrest the image in its reproductive play. He moved the towel from right to left and as soon as he reached the edges the mirror would cloud over again. With that first terror of his first Mexican morning, the land apparently wanted to open up its mystery and its spell to him.

From Paradiso; Translation by Gregory Rabassa