Monday, June 17, 2019

Pedro R. Rivadeneira, Song of Anonymous


Poéme Chaotique I, image by Pedro R. Rivadeneira


Song of Anonymous (a nomadic novel)
   
     Section I          
      
         Pedro R. Rivadeneira
         (a work in progress)

I.

not about but, a bout

“Language shapes the way we think,
and determines what we can think about.”
                                                              Benjamin Lee Whorf

        
        “Now you will learn how something might have ended
that never even began,  that started in the middle and
stopped at no precise point, but faded into another fog.”
                                          Julio Cortázar, Around the Day in Eighty Worlds


“Blow wind blow, anon am I.”
                              Caroline Bergvall, Drift



. . . and the cold
                         the fog
the cold gray fog             seeping into everything
with bite and sting     knowing full well that the last word is the lost word
making the sting all the more pronounced     more precise
                                                                                still     here      soon   i’ll be gone from this place    my face    my countenance dissolved    erased    by fierce wind and sand    by rain eroded    in this manner    that is    by means of this stillness   this silent stillness    i somehow get along    without the aid of any illumination    i find my way around     in the gloom    the ever encroaching gloom     i hear    see myself in a room   writing a letter    over and over again    thus confirming my preconceived motions    faster than the speed of life     as it were    as if words could begin again and again what’s been left unsaid    undone    a tangle of beliefs    belief systems    arguments and counterarguments obstructing the view    i lie in the darkness telling my story      but to whom?    to what?                                                                                                             
                                                                                           it is this   this breeze   this thing that speaks now     this process that produces all utterances    the isolated words and sounds    grunts and wheezes     holding on to the fog     the dark silence      no      nothing to hold on to     not now   not a thought    ‘cause the last word is the lost word    why don’t they say so     say so? [ 1].
                                 
and then again   and still some more

i’ve been writing this letter    over and over again     starting out each time from a different location    a different angle    hoping to give skin to the passing of days trying to define a theme that would give it all some kind of meaning    a shadow projected against the backdrop of life . . . but then    my inability seemed meaningful enough    so     i let it all go    grow like a vine    wild and untrimmed which made its home in and all around me     never minding whatever plans had been made to put life in its proper place    by then it was too late    why    there were convolutions    involutions and counter-involutions as it began to extend its tendrils branching out in all directions    (in and all around me)    as curly-cues and swirling m(n)otions   shooting out shoots     with tendrils in tender twists and leaflets green and dark    gnarly roots grasping at what remains unseen
                                                                                           ever-same underneath distance and resistance dance into stream    since then     as far as far can be from the necessary despairs and possible reflections prepared for the day’s specificities  reversing into and out of heteronomy and gestures stretched    zealous enough thought    told itself if behavior is an –ism as noise is to extreme libidinized density . . . what remains in helpless glance    actually    retreating distance and a leafy knot   into unnecessary streets    more or less quiet    remained locked in seizure location    what tries to try for more     looking for pieces of scrap    through cracks fallen    leftovers from history’s workbenches    dust bins    garbage cans from which to construct a difference     a heavy knot    a nexus     knots of discontent this content was as if by dreams an intent   for pieces looking   perched on branching out glances home of different locations passing through days of trying retreating into disorder and this order as flooding comes first     alluvial readwriting       this meandering ode to imperfection                                                           
                   
                    whose story is this?
                                                it is a story of
                                                                      whose story this is 

                                     
                                             riding   writhing   writing  it’s trailing within writing as kinesthetic process    bodily function    an excretion    as is thinking a kind of action and reading alreadymade to move across the page   a plane   a practice    an inquiry as practice    lived to do so    it is lived

Theory and Praxis:Praxis and Theory:Theory/Praxis:Praxis/Theory:TheoPra:PraTheo:TheoPraryxis: PraryTheoxis:TheoParoxismicry:ParoxisTheomicry:crymiaroxisPraTheo:crymiaroxisTheoPra:eroTicParoxismic:eroTicParosismatic:TheoPraeroTic:eroTicPraTheo:
sysmicPraxTheor: eroTixraP:erraTicraP and messy:eroThicPraxis:eroThixPracis:aesTheTicPraxis:PestTheoraxis:ThisPeoraxis:
ThisEroticPractice  an Erratic TheoPraxis 

paroxismically writhing

                                             thi -                                         this                     -sssss                      prr -
                                                                            is                                  er-                                            
   ah-                                                        my
                                                                             tri-
                                                                             ck-
                                                                             le 
                                                                             dow-
                                                                             n
                                                                             the-
                                                                             ory  
                               peh-                                                                                                              
in practice     more like a bursting dam
              ehxs-                                                     flooding the gates                     prr-                         ah-
over flowing the walls of containment
and contentmeant                                                      
                                       spilling over the margins                                 mm-
                       -sis                       the flat white plains of endless pages                                            sss-
                                     crr-                 languaging (not languishing!)
      -arrr                                               doodling and laughing                                    mah-
                             suh                             sobbing and drooling                   dru-                      oo -
                                                                                  (not about but a bout)
                                                                i write as i please                                                     -ox
                          tih-                              my only constraints are financial
                                               as i am poor    that is to say                               sys-
meh-                                                              not privileged                           ssssss
no     this is not a joyous time
          nor is everything available to me
                                                                                 -iiiee
                              eh-                   least of all that upward mobility                uh-
              a                                             i’ve heard so much about                                   m
                  h                                        my shelf life is uncertain                                         m
                        h-                                         anonymity watches                          nnn
                             w                                                  washes over me,                                     e
                         u                               a content meant  context                                              e        
                                    h-                                   and means                             s  
                 c                                               as in     possible courses of action       s
               u                                        not about but       a bout:                    
                      h-                                   an about face without orders                       s
               th                     that disorders into off course                            ssssss  
                                            ah-                 a theory as practice and                                            an-
           p                                         a practice that articulates theories                                                 t           
         u                                                    for me a content                                                            ic-
       r-                                                                              context means                   e
                                 os-                              oscillating irregularly                        e
                   b                                           between systematicism and
                      e                                                  the a-systematic:
                    e                                                                                  turbubabulence:                ba
 rah-                                                          this brain’s a random number generator                                 bu
                                                                        an erratic percolator,                                       bab                       
      bub-                                                           bubbling with the messiness of the erotic                u
                   lin-                                   alluvial,                                                                              oovvv-
                             guh                 dragging the me kicking and screaming                           src-
             fah-                                              as far as far as the I can see                           a-
be                                                            and beyond                                                    tch
      e                                                       the I refracted,                                                                         ree                                          
        e                                    dissipating into the structures of language,                                  frahk
           yaw                                        its sounds, it’s rhythms,                                         tehd
                     nduh                           its polyphonic meanderings                       po-
       slaw-                                                       slipping between                          li-
pin-                                   arguing dentures gnashing!                                   ppy
                             guh                         (spoken like a true langeezer!)             gnah

                    lang-                            Languaging not languishing                          lang-
      whee-                                   i mean verbatim not verboten!              wan-
 zing                                                            wandering,                                    der

            wri-                      writing and thinking wanderfully directionless           lust       
                     th-                    along whatever path it deems necessary,        thin-
               inguh                 acousmatic sound poem writing,          kl-

par-                           parthenogenetically writhing                   inguh

                                   mul-                         i do indeed hear voices             hee-               
                                      tih-                 as i is a multitude,                             r
                                        too-               generated among other things                     r 
                               duh                                 by Routine                                         r   
                                      geh-    a unit generator that produces events                       r-
                                                                                                                               thuh
                                         nnn-            both regularly and at random                           li-              
                            reh-                 according to an algorhythm                              s
                                   eee-   creating a polyphonic texture of multiplicities:      s
                           tor                                                                                   s-
                                                                                      teh-
                                                                                  nnnin-
                                                                              guh!

(//a SynthDef, a kind of virtual instrument: time stretching granulator //with variable grain size overlaps, producing a polyphonic texture of //multiplicities

SynthDef(\warp1,{|bufnum, pointer,freqScale,windowSize, envbufnum,     overlaps, windowRandRatio, interp, amp, att, sus, rel, envAmp, start,                                        end, dur, wPos,panAmp, nfreq1, env, mix, room, damp, fmul|       

var signal;      

env = EnvGen.kr(Env.linen(att, sus, rel, envAmp), doneAction: 2);
//an envelope generator: controls attack, sustain, release and //amplitude of waveform, its shape: plays back break point envelopes.      
pointer = Line.kr(0, 1, 15);//points the position in the buffer 
wPos = LFNoise1.kr(nfreq1);//a noise generator that controls pan //position, a kind of random number geberator             
signal = Warp1.ar(1, bufnum, pointer,                              freqScale, windowSize, envbufnum, overlaps,                                 windowRandRatio, interp, amp);//a granular time stretching and //frequency shifter ugen       

Out.ar(0, Pan2.ar(FreeVerb.ar(signal, mix, room, damp, fmul), wPos, panAmp)) * env;  }).send(s), 

(//a Synth: an instanciation of the SynthDef warp1: time stretching //granulation of aiff file: "plosives": produces a polyphony of voices //at different frequencies, rhythms and tempos creating a polyphonic //texture     

var envAmp, wPos;     

thisThread.randSeed = 15;//determines where in the index list to //start                         

envAmp = Env(#[0.1, 1], #[12],\exp).asStream;     

r = Routine({{//a unit generator that generates events           

Synth(\warp1, [\bufnum, d.bufnum, \windowSize, 0.2, \freqScale, rrand(0.95, 1.1), \envbufnum, -1, \overlaps, rrand(0.1, 2), \windowRandRatio, 0.2, \interp, 4, \amp, 1, \att, 11, \sus, 3, \rel, 0, \envAmp, 0.5, \nfreq1, rrand(-0.25, 0.25), \panAmp, 1, \mix, 0.33,    \room, 0.5, \damp, 0.5, \fmul, 0.5]);
rrand(1.0,3).wait;}.loop}).play(SystemClock.sched(20.0,{r.stop})) 
); 
);

  What you are now reading is also an algorithm
algo e rítmico
not just mechanical emptiness but
an emptiness full of energy and meanings,
potentialities
a machine for making sense, dissonance
and dissidence

. . . form here isn’t something static but    rather     the consequence of the irregularly oscillating tide of order and disorder     integration and disintegration    semantic drifts   smears     trying to find a more spontaneous way of writing that will yield a more spontaneous sounding work    allowing for ambiguities     gray areas   form here means a web    a field of actions    a field of activities and connections     the events are sometimes autonomous    sometimes interdependent    intertwined      an entanglemeant    that is    a meaningful tangle of events       form is elastic   fluid    not a series of rigid structures relating to each other only by means of similarities and dissimilarities in linear fashion     it is rather    a web of relationships which may go back and forth in time    
                                                                       a landscape opens up in which a wilderness of  words     sounds and images spontaneously unfolds     a scrub     seen as if in a sudden flash of lightning revealing ravines and scraggly peaks with branches and twigs intertwined and dark gnarly roots grasping at what remains unseen     i catch glimpses    of the rocky  scraggly ravines below    in a flash of lightning    i get glimpses of a network of long   gnarly  fingery twigs  and branch-like limbs entwined   reaching   clutching at each other in a scrubby mass   mess   in organic fashion         the internal relations are not subject to rigid architectonic principles but to the wobbly    organic elasticity of a multidimensional web comparable perhaps to neural networks    where each node is the intersection of two or more strands    the messiness of a scrub if you will    the formal language does not reach the functional perfection of the relational network of geometry or mathematics   no    relations are not held together in it by any special signs but only by the haphazard    the contingent and disposition     i mean to say    the physical availability of reading and writing paths     of gestures and their feasibility on the instruments being written for in a particular piece     the structural elements     the nodes in the composition act more like chemical valences     strange attractors

together     some of these
issues     become like tissues;
drip-painting of thought
and sound
into matter of speech;
a network of dendrites
connecting,
electrochemically
resounding neurons fire
verbatim (not verboten!),
running into

foliage
over which a sequence
bridged is begotten
as wings of leaflets
lets wind of lack  be forgotten

a scrub of words and sentences
                                       crisscrossing each other

clawing at words  riding

listening to the hearing
                                 writing
                      writhing
                                  it’s trailing within

writing as kinesthetic  process
bodily function
an excretion
as is thinking a kind of action
and reading alreadymade
to move across the page
a plane, a practice
an inquiry as practice
lived to do so, it is lived
and then again and still some more

writing along so much so
such that enough is not enough

disintegration and
this integration

turbubabulent curlicues
involutions and counterinvolutions
meandertalltelling vineyarns yearning  
with a mouthful of words and sounds disintegrating
reintegrating in re-creation 
slippages sopping through fissures
and interstices encrusted with meanings rusted

up up up we go
we go up up ‘n up
we go wee!
we go up and up
up we go up we go wee!
up and up and aft we go
aft we go after weee!
go up ‘n aft we go after
each dip drop drip drop
drooping we go up and
after a bout about face
without orders
we go wee!
we go and
after we go
about
after a bout

this location and dislocation
starting again after about

mapping disorder and this order

as i was pounding in re-creation through speechlessness and speaking verborragia hemorrhaging bricollage    a composite    digressive possibilities whatchamacalliting into sounds     dismantling verbatim into day dreaming turbubabulent curlicues in re-creation    a shrapnel    meanings disordering and this ordering    meaning this here beginning as mishearings    electrochemically into this juncture    into      into trance-elation transacting a while    that is to say    looping round and round again the ongoing digression into my beyond   stumbling into clusters embedded contradictions refracted sense locus sounds rejecting explamutilations    then say to the whirr: where other whirls in conjecture without between someone shown under “I” this again starting location

            wanderlustfully
                                     writing
                                                    riding
                                               
                                                                    writhing
                                                                           it’s trailing within
                                                                              a path of inky trails

writing as a kind of drawing     
                                          painting   
                                                           collage and bricollage
                                   curlicues
digressive
                                                   irregularly oscillating
                          sentences
    words         
                       swerving       
                                     between referentiality and
                                                                            opacity

transparency and       
                                                                                materiality
     
                                )perception(
                                                                                                play with/between sense and non sense
                            

                                                       the weight of words
  their sounds
                   rhythms
                                  and frequencies
                                                             timbre and visual appearance
oscillating irregularly between
                                           presence and absence

the spaces between letters and words
within letters
the interstices

the look of graphemes
the look of morphemes
the way they look in print

the visual aspects of

the look and sound of syllables
syllables and phonemes
e.g., as seen in computer generated images
of spectral analyses of sounds

exploring the space   
the area       between signifier and signified

combining      juxtaposing  words in different ways
     exploding grammar and syntax  
seeking new relationships

an irregular oscillation between meaning and meaninglessness
sense and non-sense
opacity and transparency
order and disorder . . .
                                    
charging language with possibilities of meanings

not by destroying meanings but by creating new ones
among the various units of language

a changeling channeling the unfamiliar

sign flotsam
discombobulation:

                       some jetsam to recall

not about but  a bout
                                                           
                                                               an about face without orders
                                       that disorders into off course                                                                            
                                                writing as kinesthetic  process,
                                                       bodily function,
                                                                an excretion,
                               as is thinking a kind of action
                                                              and reading alreadymade
                                                       to move across the page,
                                                                   in any direction,
                                              a plane, a practice,
                                                             an inquiry as practice,
                                                                     lived to do so, it is lived,
                                                    and then again and still some more
                                                    writing along
                                                      reading and
                                                       so much so
                                                       such that enough is not enough
                                                       if texts are maps,
                                    what kind of a map is a poem?
                                                                           turbubabulent
                                                    curlicues involutions and counterinvolutions
                                                      meandertalltelling vineyarns yearning  
                                           with a mouthful of words and sounds disintegrating
            and reintegrating in re-creation slippages sopping through fissures and interstices
                                                 encrusted with meanings rusted
                   mapping disorder and this order . . .


                    and yet again     and still some more
                       was it manifest destiny that led us down the dull highways of suburban days     or was God only kidding?    and who am i kidding?    here i am    standing by the river   eating rice pudding from a plastic cup with half a spoon    the other half     lost   broke off when i opened the package    too much glue or something . . . roundish   chubby    grey-brown sparrow cautiously approaches curious    wants to know what’s in it for him    but the rain’s starting up again    no time for intros      and pleasantries     gotta go     there’s lightning too and the wind’s picking up     no way to spend the summer   this     security guard for the old and lonely    a dead end    terminal for myriad pointless lives whose only purpose has been to do what they’re told    to conform    good boy     good girl     good little worker     good little consumer   here’s your punishment     here’s your reward     and here’s your punishment again    just what is it i’m guarding?    who’s gonna wanna  mess with these guys?   i mean   the proverbial sword hangs from a very precarious thread above each and everyone of their scraggly    whining heads     so this is what i just wanna get by gets you!?     huh?    bones and joints creak     lungs wheeze and skins itch in conjunction it seems    an awkward ballet of coughs and who’s? and what’s? and didn’t i tell yas    and you should of seen ‘ems ricketting past my confounded senses    and  meanwhile
                                                                                        the lights from the other shore reflected     reaching out across the brisk water    refracted     forming sporadic    glassy    ruffled bridges . . . in these solitary    isolated moments    one must feel fortunate    relief really   the journey which words cannot hold    the descriptions becoming journeys themselves    eddying trajectories in the course of an action the hand cannot control     i mean


                Does anyone know?
how life is worn? meant to be?
(and then some more as if coasting along . . .)

i wait for the rain to stop
but it keeps on coming . . . and to have
such feelings, hushed and brisky,

rustling like grass at one’s ankles,
tickling between the toes. One
waits for music as it goes,

to tell us where and when
the flow begins and ends,
the loose ends really.

Methinks, “It takes
more mistakes, more purely
random chances, more chaos

and irrelevance to produce the epic
than the sordid yarn”[2] The castle
in dreams perhaps, and thereof, etc.,

just as all writing is a kind of fiction,
and the friction too of such imprecise
knowledge; the mopetions weitch

lead us back and astray,
and back again, on the trail
to a world “I” never knew.

May i begin again?
This story? Collecting rubble along the wayfe
‘n nubbles too that i may circumvent

what it is is so atrocious as to not look
but sideways ‘n vent whatever anguish
it is so revents me insides. It romps

me de adentro pa fueraside,
and errors as markers
as we survive yet another day

once more in the fray neglected.
And to you too, this is of concern, “for
every atom belonging to me,

as good belongs to you”. [3]
And so begins, “and now begins”
a wish or two upon the dust,

this vieja cuesta ‘rriba
and then some more as if
“nowadays, amongst those with

the wit to realize their predicament,
a more sophisticated spirituality prevails;
an infinite nonsensicalism replacing

and displacing all, so that, one day,
when all we here are dust,
particle and wave-form,

those who follow us will see
just that as a deal more
continuity than ever we deserved.” [4]

Cookin’ up a storm. The
wind passing through my fingers,
the water is a music as music

never to be aprehended;
A chorus of voices diluted
drip dropping, splashing and gurgling

in the gloom. Thought
i’d make it again to
the basement door and check it out,

see what i can find:
if Freud is still smoking
that fat ol’ cigar, or Barney

Rubble still bowls with boulders.
As it is, gotta go, bible belters
say so, and so too, their opposition

a position too awkward
to continue primping (and pimping),
pruning till the clams fall asleep . . .

Asunder. Bugging me like this.
Is sleep a kind of “is”?
Been between heart throb and discontent,

as the contents of a storm
massaged my innards, my emptiness;
a greenish light spinning, pushing

its way through, past my window,
a train passing in the distance
overshadowed by the wailing

siren of a fire engine.
Allegro ma non troppo.
Tongue ram mit rückstop.

Flowers in a bed,
happily everafter,
let’s see what i’ve been missing:

1)     a whole lot of kissing,
2)     hugs and fucks galore . . .
i thought of myself

as part of a crystal,
one of its smooth, inscrutable
facets, waiting to complete,

and be completed by others
whose façades i’ve never seen,
known. And so it was,

and is no longer: my
information’s theories gone awry,
passé and passed up,

once more, part
of the noise of a trajectory,
the rattling of which

fills these empty hallways with
a multiplicity of rhythms;
an intricate texture

of yesses and nos
and possibly maybes,
the impenetrable coat of mail

reality wears for breakfast,
lunch and supper. You are
told  to walk a straight line,

but the line keeps on getting crooked,
and it’s no use consulting the authorities,
who continue to insist it ain’t so

while scolding you for it,
since day one – but you insist
on searching out a different kind of talk,

a different kind of walk
which you can call your own . . .
At this point, it is impossible

to keep  on going, likewise,
it is impossible to stop,
to give it all a Blanchotian twist,

or was it tryst? But it is here
we part company really. Some
on the other hand, may prefer

to call it a Beckett like gesture,
a la “Malone Dies”. Me?
i don’t give a shit either way,

the police state of mind,
thank you very much sir,
madam, but no thanks.

Thinking a bout that piece again,
the old superball trick
on rusty, uptight  piano strings,

saw Fred van Hove do it,
not just a month ago,
with Johannes Bauer on trombone

hopping and dancing, skipping along,
while Suzie Ibarra laid down the percussion
like a fucking hail storm.

They brought life back to
this half dead place,
unafraid to be who and what

they are in sounds so stormy,
so calm and minute, so
intricate and swirling,

i thought the joy, at one point,
would burst the house in two.
The rain is over now,

but not yet the storm. The wind
coming down from the north-west
across the river, continues to pelt away

at the building’s concrete and brick façade.
Out of decay, running out,
up and about, a bout rot,

committed to decide
a trajectory, the furrows
of a commitment

meant to commit
the most decisive of gestures,
bringing forth a moment, a movement,

a stream, a gushing force
kidding around, among
rocks and in meadows,

a forest of dreams
as it were, where one is in waiting
as time stands still,

to write in this emptiness,
i mean, into “it”, bringing about
an about face, a kind of wilderness

that leaves one agape. . .
Looking at watch again, searching,
hear the sound of your voice, husky,

and gray blue eyes smiling,
hair braided up and  tied
into two tight symmetrical buns

at either side of your marvelous head,
as you dance to that gritty saxophone wailing,
enjoying moments gone by

making yours the sounds that swirl round us
in a  haze of smoke and  laughter.
Be bop music and the fizz fizz too,

that’s my thingamajig changing
the titles again. Firm
taught body rocking air

into quivering strains,
now i’ve got it, now you don’t,
the subterranean homesick blues

one’s breath breaks, secretive,
persuasive, the good nights
velvet blue on pink horizons.

But, “I’m not one of those guys!”,
Hear her voice
thinking through music’s

sequential squealing grit and guilt,
i looky a mina saxophone
home, a husky western style

i found astounded, the drying leaves
and memories of you dancing
abrasive, shoulda known

what? what! say what?!
What you say breaks through
the falling as autumn approaches

and just now, “i” spoke
in a new key, what leads you
where? And just so, the undertow

i said, and back down again into sleep,
the velvet red of roses
backing up the green, upper cold

and downward draft, the news
paper’s smiling, gloomy faces eclipsed
out of thought, (“what dreams you have!”)

no later than sooner got up
misplaced activity of ringing
bright dappled and new,

seems like summer with a twist
of exhilaration, a tendril
of past regrets and sunlight

all wrapped up into one tender
braid curling round one’s memories
the way smoke swirls up

from a  heap of leaves and dried twigs.
i mean, having something to say,
and saying it again, not knowing what,

or how or why, but saying it anyway;
a density manifested in the dull days
of suburban highways gone astray . . .

Starting up again and no time for
writing indifference and a thousand platitudes,
got the rhythm and blues,  don’tcha know?

for whatchamacallit and crumpled
symbols pounding the dust
of behavior’s isms. But no

just when i thought there was
nothing left between us but
a sea of silence, this playful wilderness

creeps up on me; the sound
of an all consuming wave,
the way a rustling breeze

takes over the scenery
which once seemed so wooden,
and flowers bloom everywhere,

for simplicity’s sake.
And that’s just fine. But
what of those sounds

hitherto unimagined? It’s true,
“I can no longer remember the time when first
we began to fade from each other’s view”.[5]

However, i do remember very well
the first time we met. You walked in
on sunlight it seemed,

though it was late at night. i know not why
i saw you that way . . . i mean,
it’s not my fault, honest! Yup, “everything

was like something else”, “and behind the trees,

the light lingered on like a dream” it says here,
i know, i’m an idiot, but, as i told you
before, i can’t help it . . . Oh! but

these are notes written on whatever
margins allow for such scribbling! The
spaces between ideas i once thought

were of consequence, in time
grew and grew out of proportion,
until determination no longer seemed possible,

and now, “one walks with a carefree gait
as if among mild fields, oblivious of
where the melodies and harmonies lie”.

The loudness of it approaches us yet,
“like yon mad machinery left to crank away
at the sky” . . . And then, “I wanders away

like a friendly dromedary, trudging through
a lily pond, or sadness wanders off
like a child getting lost”. But you were

“telling me this story about how the
witch got lost in the woods and
wound up getting devoured

by a  pack of mushrooms”,
or  some kind of fungus anyway, this ditty
like fate in a fortune cookie

eaten away by thoughts,
rats! anyway you look at it
you loose, my turn away

any and then some more
as we go along down the bend
but “you” never functions that way . . .

                                                                                                                *
Still in the undertow,
and my question to you  is . . .
Writing indifference and

a thousand platitudes again.
Later on, complaints are felt
down the sunset streets with

green and cream colored awnings.
For eyelids. A song is heard
a midst the chatting, to be continued

in a  turbulent flow as incremental repetitions
and seemingly endless permutations. Wondering
about the assumption whether the empirical mind

can get to the bottom of things by means of careful and
patient analysis, thus adding to the maddening effect,
the general hilarity, as the case may be, of what

always remains under construction. Rearranging
the sequence of events and casting doubt on order
- any order - all of which can safely be said to be legion.

These pages, taken by themselves,
may well sound pompous and wooden,
strange or warily experimental-for-experimental’s sake,

sentimental even. But it was, is, a way,
a kind of resistance to the gray, dank corner we’ve been assigned,
this part of oblivion one can call one’s own, this even though the battering wind

continues to remind me of the frailty of our existence    open    vulnerable to a world largely unknown    and the thrashing sleet confirms    again and again    the fact of one’s mortality    as it pelts the flesh of my cheeks    bright red with frost bite    whereupon having finished my rounds about the buildings and environs    the parking lot being the farthest reaching stretch     i return    lumbering    through the icy sludge to the office

on whose desk awaits “scrap(e)”     a frantically fidgety     fricative composition for solo cello    full of plosives    nasals and trills    tapping and flapping    groping and scraping its way along the something to say    with scraps of discarded sounds as  its mainstay     i’ve been reluctantly working on     all this fueled by Misses Doyle’s chocolate chip cookies and extra strong coffee    the nice little old lady on the seventh floor whom     curiously enough    is curious about what i’m doing down here in my cubicle    this little box for the chronically     the systematically     the terminally unloved
                                   
         reluctance

what a word     where’s it come from    how’d it originate?    re-luc-tance    re luck dance read:  luck dance: the paratactic character of moments    the stroboscopic nature of the mind   perception     attention flickering on and off     attempting to trick reality into giving away its secrets while ostensibly     we weren’t watching    so much whistling in the dark   fidgeting    inquieto     como un viento irrascible     seeking out perhaps    mischien the peace of non being   or a twist down into the dark warmth of the somatic   the impulsive    the moment at which    in which    the somatic becoming desire incarnate    jots down in a  reckless scribble     the impulses in a code of writing inscribed into the material itself    electromagnetic impulses codified  into groups of ones and zeros impressed upon the hard drive’s magnetic coating     matter unbound    upon     within which matter itself materializing its desire to be     to be  seen    to be heard     makes itself felt    put together out of bits and pieces    leftovers really    scrap   the discarded    fragmented collage and bricollage-like: put together with whatever materials happen to be lying around what units of thought    what?     seems to be coming around ‘n round once more    starting out each time from a different location     a different angle     and winding up again at some beginning the development of which gets lost in yet another mad digression arriving at the same place again which is     that we have only ourselves with which to know the world    ourselves      our senses      attention    thought and language with which to conduct the task     even as we know that ineluctably     everything slips away into silence at last     such that the utterance is made to seem but a pointless act    as some had thought     but it was the utterance which     by way of relief     made the silence possible
                                    palpable 
                                                                                  culled from the void
as it were    as if words could stop the gap    the hemorrhaging     the eternal wound    the gaping rift    the discontinuity between ourselves and the world     the cosmos  whathaveya    the whatchamacallit     as they say     a bunch of suffering  Cartesians   we the lot of  us    the lost     painted ourselves into a corner with our systematic thinking and now     look where it’s got us     writhing in unfreedom      here      stuck in indecision collapsing into undecidability    the pointer on the map    “You are here”     where is that? what?     when?    stuck in the self same ever present presence of an ahistorical moment    a feedback loop    they call it     all that’s left us now     it seems     is to throw a big temper tantrum    against life     the cosmos     the everything and whatever     you know God and all that     God wagging his tail     tongue lolling     dripping with indifference
                                                                                                                                           and very often     i doze off for a while and the radio’s voices and static mix in with my head and do something to my dreams     as i sit here     in my post    drooling on my sleeve    in my stupid guard’s uniform    the polyester oppressive to the flesh    the radio voices and static     as i was saying     seeming to be the way we talk to ourselves in our heads    in our sleep    the disembodied voices from the radio yacking     an externalized version of the perpetual    the eternal internal monologues we have going on all the time    it seems the radio’s disembodied voices    chiding    reassuring    fearful    avuncular    advising patching up the self    plugging up the leaks with noisy static    trying to comfort ourselves with whatever scraps of belief we manage to muster up    the lot of us scavenging    hopelessly helpless in our attempts to stop the gap between ourselves and each other     the enemy     the fearful enemies     each other    we are    it seems    this so fearful     and therefore utterly boring lot    enemies to each other    caged in by our plans    the endless scheming    the systematic calculating and manipulation of how things should be
               but  everything is in passing     nothing is permanent    it says here    except maybe    the passing itself     a concrete metaphor of which is the nearby    onrushing river  seeming to be the true reality of time    our time    which threatens nature and history alike     it says here    to save them    we have no recourse but to rely on memory    the human capacity to preserve what’s past    dead     in our lives     the act of remembrance and that which society puts away in its darkest corners     as antiquated     obsolete    is often a moment of freedom from which to criticize society itself     a good place from which to criticize the present is what the present itself considers past    what is thrown out as useless can be society’s strongest critic     it says here     to appear as being out of fashion is the form that uselessness takes on in a society that abhors the old and aging    a society that denies its own past    its own history    a past littered with ruins
                                                                                                              this me the lopsided existence    scurrying around on (l)edges    the dust of dark corners and meaning’s rust    from odd job to odd job    watching askance as the trains go by    the missed boats sailing off into promising    new horizons    washed up    passed up    passé relegated to the silence     the muteness of so much accumulated suffering    stifled by a pain so intense     AAAHHHHHMMMMM!!!! UUUUNNNNN!!!ABLE!! to shed one miserable tear  as a procession of gray and blue hairs back from a game of bridge    shuffling in from the cold with a chorus of hellos     how do you dos and colder than a witches tit!    ambles past my dumbfounded senses     choked as i am     with a hole in my stomach as reminder of what lies ahead     the ever-expanding perimeter of a pool of gloom    the internal cohesion of confusion     con fusion i.e., with fusion    will soon be coming    coming and going ‘cause now is never the right time . . .

Buried alive:
                                                                               
           bric-a-brac
        bricks layering in the dark
the lid closed down upon you
and now       there’s no turning back

       afterall only which is
                               to say again
                                                  was the task that we had a skin even as we know all too well ourselves to be a theme and then some more starting location    a (l)edge from which to know a world relegated to silence buried alive in a hole of how do you do and gray blues so intense packing up the lopsided watching askance scurrying past a history littered with ruins
                this again starting location    the point at which another digression begins a path to be followed away into and to be again some (l)edge from which to
                                                                 not enough stomach    belly as remainder of     belying
                                                                                        an expanding perimeter
          in down    there’s no looking up    sliding down that upward mobility some literary critic once said would soon be coming     coming and going ‘cause now is never the right time

                                             wordssssssss
                                    a
                                                                                                                kim-
bo,
                                                                                                                         ma-
chine
slot
                                                                                                                        wear-
iness
speak-
ing
in
knots
which
                                                                        is
to
                            say

what a cul de sac!

so much accumulated suffering    perhaps    in the
stifling gloom     seldom said again some more
                          words so much so    such that enough is not enough     
after all
only which again was the task    that we have a skin even as we know all too well    yes that is to say    yes     ourselves to be a theme and then some more as if coasting along
                                                                                                   this starting location    an edge from
which to know a word     a  world relegated to silence     buried alive in the whole mess of how do you dos gray and blue so intense passing up the lopsided watching askance    that is to say    sideways     out of the corner of one’s eye    scurrying past a history littered with garbage    yes    that’s it    a garbage heap    a garbage dump    the heap of trouble we’re in    that’s it    which is to say    say what so much accumulated dust    the rusty dust of meaning’s lot as flotsam is the so much more to say
                                                                                                               but i don’t    know    and where i am    is    a kind of burgeoning activity    a path that leads but can’t be identified    a kind of acousmatic sound poem    the fuzzy buzzy birds    the radio buzzy birds screaming squirmishing    stratosphere’s staticky whistletones teasing    nagging at me like gnats for days on end    and what is there to say    i mean    what is there to say    here to say    here to stay    here to stray away and continue scavenging for ideas and things    no ideas but in thongs is the motto of the day it seems     no ideas but in thugs    thugs in thongs    throngs of ‘em regurgitating what has been said and done    that’s been done before  that’s been said before    scavenging    the lot of us    the bored    boring lot of us done    scavenging for whatever crumbs of affection and attention we can lay our needy hands on    the boring lot of us condemned it seems    to repeat     to repeat    as i was saying    to repeat what’s been said and done one more time    and again    and then some more    and then again some more which is to say    this historical tedium    the tedium of history’s litany gone astray     the long and tedious litany of history gone astray    as i was saying    the boring lot of us condemned it seems    to repeat    regurgitate    reproduce    sorry   so melancholically so   and re-reproduce   as i was saying   so mechanically so   so sorry the boring lot of us so condemned it seems     to reproduce the same old power plays   patterns and schemes    to reproduce it seems     society’s dominant ideology    that is   the ideology of domination   to manipulate and control    the tedious bunch we   this humanity    all too human in our inhumanity    the boring lot of us    that is to say   all too inhuman in our humanity    this   we   it seems    that is to say    us    the contemptible lot stuck in a rut of our own making    the labyrinth of cages we force upon ourselves and each other in our daily interactions    condemned as we are to repeat   sorry   so sorry reproduce     i mean    that is to say    with our daily actions it seems   repeat the same hellish same story    nauseating hellish sameness of abuse and misuse    the same sorry so sorry lot of us bored as we are with ourselves and each other stuck in a rut of our own making it seems     bored with each other and who we are    the biting    nasty gossip   the endless talk about nothing    the noise   the backstabbing    the scheming   the incessant monologue of fear    the gnawing   yes   the gnawing in one’s skull    crows cawing away in the sky    crows clawing away in the skull    the tedious bluntness of it all    like a dull ache behind the eyes   the violence    sorry    it is so sorry it is so    the numbing tedium of the ongoing daily violence and its nauseating cycle of fear and destruction    it is so it is so sorry    this vicious cycle of threats and counter threats and counter counter threats and insecurities   this vicious cycle    as i was saying    into which we are born and so-called educated  by our progenitors and our so-called educators    whose cruelty against defenseless children goes largely unnoticed    condemned it seems    that is to say   the boring lot    condemned to attack    defend and attack again and then some more    and then again    and then again some more    stuck as we are in this system    that is to say this way of thinking    which over the centuries     thousands of years    has become a habit    and over the centuries     thousands of years we’ve become habituated to this habit stuck as we are    trapped    caught    boxed in as we are   in this relentless   this ruthless way of thinking   snagged as we are    by the indifferent machinery of its logic stifled by the coldness of its reason    pinned down by its ruthless instrumentality   and seeing how these authoritarian   these oppressive structures are reproduced on a daily basis    at the smallest    most local levels    in our heads     that is to say    our so called human heads    on to the greater structures of institutions    corporations    entire societies and governments    from left to right    through the extreme center   i think       of the river      and its relentless motion     its ongoing ruthless motion
                                                                                                                                                 and very often i can’t hear anything out side    given over as i am to my fantasies   my dreams and thoughts    my thoughts of the river and the lives it has taken    the horror of it    that is to say   the river itself    the horror of it   that monstrous body of water    the thousands    millions of tons of onrushing jade colored water    pushing forward toward the falls    the thought of being  swallowed up and dragged down into its murky depths
                                                                                                                  here in my cubicle    my little box    very often    i can’t hear the sounds of the storm outside    the thrashing wind and sleet     as i’m often intensely absorbed    concentrated on writing “scrap(e)”    a dreadfully desperate attempt at composition for solo cello   full of screechy   scrapy   whinny sounds    or dozing off into sleep    into the depths of the winter night    into sleep dreaming    or intensely occupied with my fantasies     as i was saying    with my thoughts of the river outside    and very often i can’t even tell when someone is coming in through the front door and surprises me in one of my obscure reveries     one of my    as i was saying     fantasies of walking off into    first up to my knees     then    waist deep plunging into the icy water of the rushing river   into    as i was saying   the cold murky force of its relentless logic
                            the horrendous logic of the whole thing    the   ruthless self organizing    self perpetuating  logic of the whole thing   and which   with mechanical force    pushes us forth    inexorably    in a series     a concatenation of catastrophes    expanding     inexorably     as i was saying   with the mechanical ruthlessness of its logic    expanding    in seemingly exponential fashion    in a series of catastrophic events    leading us    it would seem    eventually    toward total disaster
                                                                                                              and suddenly finding myself face to face with Mrs. Doyle     who    smiling    asks me how i’m doing    and would i like something to eat or something to drink    and the horrendously wrenching contrast between the kindness of her smiling face and my despondent gloominess    twists my insides with guilt and self consciousness    a shame that washes over me like a freezing cold shower making the river outside look more and more appealing by the second
                                                                                                 and very often   as i’m standing outside by the river eating my rice pudding or my tapioca pudding    with half a plastic spoon    or even a whole plastic spoon    i think about the river and its relentless motion and staring into its translucent turbulence    i think of the lives    the bodies it has taken both willing and unwilling    away    down into its cold jade colored darkness    the countless broken lives    the silenced broken souls it has taken into its fold    perhaps even mercifully    like no mother    no lover ever could    and who’s stories remain forever untold    i think of those countless broken lives    those broken souls    who’s now no longer struggling bodies    the river    in its relentless passage    has engulfed and with brutal indifference dragged down    as i’ve already said    into its murky depths and with the ruthless force of thousands   millions of tons of freezing water   perhaps pinned into a corner somewhere    some dark rocky crack    rift    and with brutal force    as i was saying that helpless    that hapless  now  lifeless body   the life crushed out of it by the thousands    the millions of tons of freezing water    lies boxed in   in its final resting place
   
but no    i think to myself     that is to say    i say to myself    there is no final resting place in this    the river    for even as i think to myself    that is to say   i speak to myself ceaselessly so    the river    in its endless flow    with utterly brutal force    continues to pummel away at that now lifeless body    which lies boxed in    helplessly pinned down in a crevasse somewhere below   and the river   as i’ve already mentioned   with brutal force continues to pound away at the lifeless flesh    and over the course of weeks   or perhaps even a few days   erodes   eats away at the now frigid tissues    tearing away bits and pieces    even chunks of what is perhaps a flesh in nearly crystallized state   over the course of weeks    or perhaps just a few  days    strips away the flesh in patches   swaths of skin peeled off    then the fatty tissues below    then the muscle tissues and sinews eroded    peeled away    as i was saying     and in a matter of weeks     or perhaps    just a few days   such that only the bare bones are left    upon which the river continues in its relentless process of demolition     to pound and grind away     rub and chafe at the cold bones below  and over the course of weeks and months    the incessant grinding and pounding slowly but surely   turns the bones into clay or mud   which    as i may have already said   over the course of months   or perhaps just a few weeks    is washed away downriver    the bones lying in a mortar of rock    pounded upon by a gigantic pestle of millions of tons of icy water    day after day    ground into a fine dust    that is to say    pulverized    now turned into clay or mud    such that whatever person     whatever life there was   is now erased   washed away downriver    every last bit    every last particle dragged away inexorably toward the falls’ very edge
                                                                                                               a ledge broken off   from which to begin again    alleged beginnings it is said    commence here where nothing   it seemed there was left to be said    as  stray sections foiled    streaming my own interests messy into musical mishearings   ends    ruins from logic    a kind of oneiric logic   accidental other territories   resisting ideology    reproduced enough such that enough and then again words langwise    langwedge    langwheezing    a langeezer whimsically languaging    saying verbatim in places as “i” was pounding in re-creation through speechlessness and speaking verborragia   hemorrhaging bricollage like    a composite material    (p)articulate matter digressing into possibilities whatchamacalliting into sounds   dismantling verbatim into day dreaming turbubabulent curlicues in re-creation   a shrapnel   meanings disordering and this ordering    meaning this here beginning as mishearings    electrochemically into this juncture into      intro trance-elation transacting a while    that is to say   looping round and round again the ongoing digression into my beyond    stumbling into clusters embedded   contradictions refracted sense locus sounds rejecting explamutilations  and then say to the whirr   where other whirls in conjecture without between something shown under “i”
               arriving at the same edge again    writing this again starting location    a skin to be theme all some more and then    enough is not enough to be theme in dislocation which is   that we have only ourselves with which to know the world    each other    language thought and perception with which to conduct the task   even as we know that ineluctably    everything slips away into silence at last    only that silence wasn’t as bad as some had thought
    as final  
                   
                it was silence    after all     that made the utterance possible
                    audible
                                                           
                                                 
  *   *   *


an unpleasant machine it was    is    this    no better than a hand cranked meat grinder proceeding each time at a fairly brisk pace   then    yet still not knowing how or when    not writing what one knows but writing toward    into uncertainty    crablike    backing into it    perhaps then knowing not knowing and what “i” means in this context   belonging perhaps to these turbulent motions
                                                  can we see it without words?   do words block the    view?    if words are the view    what lies beyond?    behind?     behind beyond   what to write in    on     what?    and     in what language?     not the mother tongue    but     the other tongue
                              the nothing of tissues i was flaunting    be still    me    frozen hard    they are before   be before the thing has no word    maybe to hear    perhaps to listen    a word here     a little story    small    this was a writing    is    better still    better be still    this was a waiting   is   for the rusty places
                                                                                 as final    this    the utterance made    into the silence    the last    after fall    slipping away into everything   made possible    at starting location audible    arriving at enough    this location not enough can be seen crablike   as possible   even as we know    left to be said   what    say what?   logic from daydream location     thought as streaming dislocation
                                                                                                                                                                       driving down the highway along the river   the sunlight again gleaming on the water’s rippling surface    no    not glasslike    not like-anything i know   or anything like light on water gripping    dripping    grippling    dribbling    along and.     across   the border    the trees which just a few days ago still clung to summer’s edge    have now turned    overnight    into yellow    then a tide of browns    ochers and reds   along the river’s distant    opposite shore     igniting feelings which     are better left unsaid
                                                                                                                                                     the story began somewhere    i knows    but soon got lost among many others    and i is hard pressed to say which one matters most    though it seems    the turbulence    the mayhem    the energy generated by them all is what counts    what’s worth telling about    and behind it    behind the writing   that upon which and against which the writing writes   resisting the indagations    where pen and pencil are like daggers with ever blunted points    prying at the surface of things as i tries to gather    in a few gestures    the facts and events into a landscape which might give it all some kind of sense   wherein even the senseless has its place
                                                                      “Mi annoio. Voglio morire.”[6]                       
                                                                                                                                                yeah   i know    i’ve told you all this before    but that’s just the point    the point before and after is present here     in the here and now of writing along    mapping disorder and this order    compelled   egged on by the chaos outside and the indifference within     curious about the places   the spaces    the surfaces    the point     the line     the surface    (a membrane?)   where the world outside  meets the indifference inside    i mean “inside”    just as I mean “outside” (gotta get back to this inside/outside dichotomy later    turn the whole thing upside down inside out and round ‘n round    no such thing    really  no such “thing”  no such “thingliness of the thing” really    but    it’s an entertaining notion    really . . . ) that is metaphorically
                             and thinking that maybe    the indifference within    i means    the chaos without    is really proportional to the callousness inside    a kind of butterfly effect as they call it   or a feedback loop that generates more disorder even as we desperately struggle to freeze-dry reality into a tidy    clean    elegantly packaged explanation    pretty as the truth tied at both ends    as it were    as if words were the connective tissue that  glues everything together thus keeping us in contact with.    this even though    in time the glue hardens and thickens    becomes brittle and lifeless    cracking as the seams come undone    crackling
                                                 and writing these lines    these strands which are entwined in a rough irregular manner    together forming a loose web of associations    dead ends   disjunctures and inconsistencies    a porous texture characterized by fissures    gaps and blemishes irregularities and discontinuities   a kind of texture comparable perhaps to geological formations and other messy    turbulent processes seen in nature    a thorny and often cacophonous writing employing a strategy of excess     an inconsistent ode to imperfection    the purpose of which is to create a singularity    a locus of difference    in effect     a kind of scrub    a noisy weed garden that resists the ever present and totalizing inundation of useless information society generates to distract and drown out the troublesome moral implications of its existence   namely    the violence by which society constitutes    maintains and enforces itself upon us    weapons of mass distraction    a kind of negative feedback loop intolerant of any new and dissenting information and which can be characterized by the following motto   “I know what I like, I like what I know”     or to put it another way:
                                               
                                                                “In chaos terms, the systems that operate on collusion and automatism
                                                are obviously not creative open systems. Rather, their behavior is dominated
                                                by a relatively small number of negative feedback loops. The countless small
                                                loops [ . . . ] are not an expression of creative degrees of freedom, but represent
                                                microloops locked together  in a way that creates one big obsessive repetitive
                                                loop that chaos scientists call a limit cycle.
                                                                Limit-cycle systems are those that cut themselves off from the flux of
                                                the external world because a great part of their internal energy is devoted to
                                                resisting change  and perpetuating relatively mechanical patterns of behavior.
                                                To survive in such rigid and comparatively closed systems, everyone must resign
                                                a little - or often a great deal - of their individuality by blending into the automatism.
                                                Those who rise ‘to the top’ in such systems are generally the ones who use
                                                empty phrases, those mindless formulas that keep the mechanism of collusion
                                                together.
                                                                Limit cycles are the systems that make us feel powerless. They are
                                                the ones we want to change but can’t because they appear to resist all our efforts.
                                                These systems are everywhere  in society.”[7]

that’s what i was talking about    la noia     annoyed     irritable     irritated by boredom that is to say    the incessant production of boredom    the incessant ranting and raving of the ratings and polls    the forced cheerfulness coming from the media
                                                           
                                          that enforced cheerfulness 
                                                                                                                                     those weapons of mass turbation that keep us chasing the proverbial carrot dangling from a stick     you know what i like, you like what i know     desire on the run   yearning    chasing    as i was saying    after the proverbial carrot    the promise of a fulfillment that never comes   no better than hamsters the lot of us    on the proverbial     as i was saying    treadmill    all this in the midst of an endless barrage of images of destruction    wars    murders    torture    exploitation    disease and disasters of all sorts   the all around nastiness humanity is capable of producing reduced    down to the level of mindless entertainment the never ending tautologies    as i was saying    and human suffering    as not seen in the vacuous smile of the celeb on the red carpet swaying    those brilliant    perfectly aligned pearly whites gleaming    forming an implacable wall of denial . . .
                                                                 
                         what a celeb is
                                                                                what does a celeb really celebrate?
    the ongoing and numbing
         production of vanity    stupidity and ignorance    that’s what!
                                                                           whaaat? don’tcha know? I have thoughts and feelings too!?” sexily purrs the celeb squirming in her surgically enhanced bodily charms a jiggling    the meat hard pressed against an open blouse steaming
              why   don’tcha know?    she’s America’s Bridgit Bardot!    a ruthless reduction of the subject to a hand-full of poses:    hip    slightly jutting left   contra posto    hands on hips    knowing glance sideways    now a smile     shift to other leg    flinging hair across face in defiance    smile again knowingly and then again and still some more     clutching left shoulder with right hand    feigning shyness     grin    crossing legs in childish pose arms and hands as before    long black lashes on high   tan cheekbones jutting    which is to say and then again    commissure of mouth smirking    head bent sideways hesitant   face slightly downwards then in profile    fleshy bust protruding and knowing glance a gleaming some more and then again     and still some more again and so on so forth    which is to say    and then again some more    show a little tits    a little ass    smirk    bare and grin it and do it all over again    and still some more and then again    which is to say
                                                               
                                                           sexy means . . . thing,
           the thingliness  of the thing,

           tidy little package,
           pretty as the truth
           tied at both ends
                                                                                                                      cathode-licks    i tell ya   the lot of us    entranced by the taste-less    smell-less    touch-less    insubstantial flickering flow of images of wealth and debauchery     violence   glamour and senseless luxury
                                                                                                                     and
thinking how the history of humanity is really the history of boredom    a great    endless bottomless boredom    incommensurable    beginningless ontological boredom (if you’ve ever lived in the Hague
you’d know exactly wot i’m talking about,
exactly wot i mean,
the global village idiots,
the tedium is the message of the media
such that meaning means business
and business means . . . as usual,
                                                 secure behind their miles thick dikes and lulled into complacency  by their ever so perfect welfare state   and all the while, ruthlessly exploiting the hapless foreign workers that wander into their way,
  sway . . . )
                                       the boredom    as i was saying    humanity left here    by some device divine or otherwise    annoyed     on this planet left    here    as i’ve already said    in a kind of solitary confinement    left here on this insignificant spec of dust    to stew and rot away   in this prison    this labyrinth of fear and confusion     in our    on our     own   of our own     of our own making
                    stranded     as i was saying    left to our own devices    and try as we may to distract ourselves from this state . . .
                                               . . . until the advent of television (vision from afar, distant vision, remote vision: an obliterating eye blasting us with . . .) and its incessant production of boredom     where nothing means everything  and everything means nothing     nothing at all     yet still entranced by the magic of . . .
                                                                                                            cathodelicks   the lot of us    entranced by the flickering images    weapons of mass distraction . . .
envy    resentment . . . envious you say?     naw    don’t think so   just wish i had one tenth    one hundredth    one thousandth of their wealth    could pay off my debts    get myself out of this financial mess     then write them a love letter or two ‘n make their heads spin    the pen being mightier than the sword    i’m told    my little Excalibur here     cutting and slashing to and fro    poking its way along . . . all rights reversed!    steal back what they took with impunity    our time    our misdirected desires
      gone astray     all the while singing a little song

“We could take the money home
                         Sit around the family throne
My old dog could chew his bone,
For two weeks we could appease the Almighty
Just making easy money!” [8]
                                      
                                                                                                   all this    as i was saying    a dispersal a doodling    scribbling motion with which to create a cartography    as is all writing a kind of trace     a trace of itself first and foremost    composed not of units but of dimensions or rather    directions in motion     no beginning and no end    but always a middle   a meddling    a muddling from which to grow and from which to overspill    stuttering   spilling over toward a book    a text made up of planes    lines    motions and commotions energies energy fields and textures (no, not chapters) which connect   communicate with one another through fissures and gaps    turbubabulent    a turbulent motion from which to go on[9]
          through    através    atravesando otra véz    as I was saying    incompleteness    a single sentence full of  interruptions    derivations and digressions    deviations from which the story began only to branch out  again     a flow of waking    walking and writing with pauses    pieces    a text    a composition    as I was writing “as I was saying ‘I’ ”    made up of incompleteness    exposing the incompleteness of thoughts and things    perceptions of our experience of them     the incompleteness of our experience of them
                                                                                                                                                                                yeah sure how things    sounds    are related    connected to each other    but also    how things sounds    are not related    connected to each other and what happens in the interstices the spaces in between    listening to the scrap where the scrape once was avoiding any orientation toward a culmination point or external end always detachable, connectable, reversible, modifiable with multiple entryways and exits, now straggling but then with sudden gushes[10]
                                   writing as kinesthetic process where such motions    actions    are a mapping    mapping disorder and this order    which is to say    scribbling between the lines   a babbling between the rigid order of so much thinking
                                                                             connected by conjunctions a swirling motion    sifting through the cracks     scribbling the moments away    scrape scrap scribbling and scratching between the notions and scrape scrap scribbling in the something to say
                         is it spite       vindictiveness     that keeps me going?       or am i slowly but surely turning into a machine     helplessly churning out
                                                                                   words     outwords      phrases      verbal formulae     thinking indeed that i am thinking      churning about in an increasingly limited pool of ideas and habits?
                                                          the repertoire of things to do    say     think and feel shrinking day by day     as the dominant order increasingly takes over our lives      consolidates its hold on us     choking the life out of us     forcing us into a straightjacket of debts and emptiness     the screws steadily tightened
                 thinking indeed that i am thinking   day by day        a society in which more and more people want to be told what they want    need      a polymorphous iron lady clamping down on us with even and steady pressure       compressing us down into a one dimensional existence
my life increasingly limited    compressed by the
                            the thought
                                                           wordthought machines jabbering in the dark light of a red dream gone astray    as the corporate mentality gains upon us day by day
                                                                                                       its hold on our lives forcing us into an increasingly limited repertoire of things to say    think    feel . . . relationships as simulationships just another technojock
                                                                                with the machine to show for it
“I am unwritten” croons     croaks    creaks    squeals the latest corporate pop “sensation”
but that statement itself is scripted     advertisement     another lie     propaganda     no different from those politicians who say they stand for freedom and democracy while at the same time wheeling and dealing with the corporations they serve . . . distracto-people hanging out    wasting our time
                                             have i addressed the issues yet?    yeah   the Great American Novel fell by the way side    spilled     sifting through the cracks and where   still   we wait     for permission    in the dark       for permission  to be free    Nietchste  Foucault    Deleuze and Guattari    giving us the go ahead   it’s OK son    girl    you can write     think what ever you want    it’s OK     you know   nomadic thinking   writing      be a wolf man     it’s OK    oh is that OK? Sir   Madam?        well geeez thanks   i’m glad you approve    what would we do without it?
               you will be allowed to speak    live   but only after every outlet has    been obstructed[11]
                                                          you will be allowed to live     speak even     but only after every desire has been blocked and diverted    we are  after all  a freedom loving   democratic society and we want you to be happy    happy doing our bidding      you are obliged to be happy doing our bidding     you will be happy doing our bidding we will oblige you to be hap     or in any case . . . to do our bidding . . .
                                                                                 throwing out flames and shooting out shoots   an intensive trait starts looking    working for itself      a hallucinatory perception    synesthesia    perverse mutation   or play of images and sounds     soundimages and imagisounds    shaking loose     challenging the signifier’s hegemony and the grid of preconceived notions we’re stultified by from the inside out and vice versa     vice     as in addiction
                                   a movement     a motion     wiping away the graph paper mind set
scribbling the moments away    scratching between the notions   scrape scrap scribbling away    in the something to say   connected by conjunctions and then again   regaining one’s freedom from the dominant competence of teachers    language   expertise (and expert tease)     a digression of course and off course     a flow without purpose    using short term memory   and short term ideas    even when reading  and re-reading  using long-term memory of long-term concepts    the unconscious as a-centered system     oscillating irregularly between systematicism and the a-systematic   

what is a wolf anyway?   
an animal
what is an animal?
and who’s to say?
say what?

what’s left to say

applying a system to the kinesthetic process   the scribbling    the scribbling goes on   the etching    the scratching   word as form   shape     sound complex    the itching goes on and on as does the inscribing   the scribbling within
                                                                         an external monologue ingested and so    internalized       digested and then excreted and so    externalized   as nothing is lost    no   nothing    no thing is lost   all is transformed somehow into lust    the dust of lust and then some more rust    no thing to be spared    once more gone and still   
                                                                                                                                                 forlorn

there is no inside and     there’s no outside     there never was a dichotomy to rebel against     only enclosures and exposures
                                                          enclosed spaces and more exposed places  pockets  caves and houses   planes and fields and pauses    convex areas and concave spaces    enclaves and convex caverns    bubbles    pockets and pick pocket hockets
                                                                                                                                                 places and spaces readily available to perception     sight   hearing and smell       taste and touch     
and spaces    processes (thoughts  gurglings  emotions and desirings) not so easily available to the senses
                   telling “it” like it is
                                              is like telling it is like it is
                                                                                   telling wha? wa?
                                                                                                            as language is my witness       no longer knowing who or what i am    what purpose i serve in this life       all that guides me now is trauma       this catastrophic process i’ve become
                                                                                                                   all this i’m thinking     as i’m driving the van      the van i rented     down the highway    heading north past the Niagara exit     toward . . . searching for a place     a different kind of space     all this as i’m driving down the highway    along the river toward North Campus     heading out of town      and as the highway begins to veer off      away from the river’s edge      a glint catches my eye      my left eye     to be precise     peripherally     i catch a glimpse      chunks of ice       drifting down river     toward the island      where the river’s bend begins    
jagged     white      grayish-white shapes      puzzle-like    slowly swirling round and round     caught in a whirlpool     near the river’s elbow     where the bend begins      blindly searching each others’ edges     shapes      erratically bumping into each other       never quite    fitting in     

* * *

Footnotes


[1] Verlaine, Tom,  “Elevation”,  “Marquee Moon”, Television, 1977 Elektra/Asylum Records.

[2] Banks, Iain, “A Song of Stone,” Abacus, London, 1997.

[3] Whitman, Walt,  Song of Myself,”  Leaves of Grass,  1993, Modern Library Edition.

[4] Banks, Iain, “A Song of Stone,” London: Abacus, 1997.

[5] Ashbery, John,  “Flow Chart,”  The Noonday Press a division of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 19 Union Square West, New York 10003, 1991.

[6] Weaver, Williams, Introduction to Boredom by Alberto Moravia,  translation by Angus Davidson, The New York Review of Books, 1755 Broadway, New York, NY 10019, p. vi.

[7] Briggs, John and Peat, F. David, Seven Life Lessons of Chaos: Spiritual Wisdom from the Science of Change, HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022, pp. 39 – 40.

[8] King Crimson, Easy Money, (Fripp, Wetton, Palmer-James), Larks’ Tongues in Aspic, released on Island Records, March 23, 1973.

 [9] Deleuze, Gilles and Guattari, Felix,  “One or Several Woves?” in A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, translation and Foreword by Brian Massumi, (University of Minnesotta Press, 111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290, Minneapolis, MN 55401- 2520, Eleventh printing 2005).

[10] Idem.

[11] Idem.

Acknowledgement

               Some sections of Song of Anonymous are composites made of bits and pieces taken from other texts, whether in the form of a direct quote or as paraphrases, which, when put together in collage or bricollage fashion, constitute the narrator’s voice or rather, his or her many voices. A list of these sources is provided below.

1) Adorno, Th. W., “La posición del narrador en la novela contemporánea,” Notas Sobre Literatura, Obra Completa, 11, De la edición de bolsillo, Ediciones Akal, S.A., 2003, Sector Foresta, 1, 28760 Tres Cantos, Madrid, España.  My translation.
(Adorno, Theodor W., “The Position of the Narrator in the Contemporary Novel,” Notes on Literature, Complete Works, 11, From the pocket editions, Ediciones Akal, S.A., 2003, Sector Foresta, 1, 28760 Tres Cantos, Madrid, España.  My translation.)
________________, “La forma en la nueva música,” Escritos Musicales III, Escritos Musicales I – III, Obra Completa, 16, Ediciones Akal, S.A., 2006, Sector Foresta, 1, 28760 Tres Cantos, Madrid, España. My translation.
_______________, “Form in New Music,” Musical Writings III, Musical Writings I – III, Complete Works, 16, Ediciones Akal, S.A., 2006, Sector Foresta, 1, 28760 Tres Cantos, Madrid, España. My translation.).

2) Andrews, Bruce, Paradise and Method: Poetics and Praxis, Northwestern University Press, Evanston, Illinois 60208-4210, 1996.

3) Artaud, Antonin, “Artaud the Momo,” Watchfiends & Rack Screams: Works From The Final Period, Ed. And trans. By Clayton Eshleman and Bernard Bador, Boston, Exact Change, 1995.

4) Ashbery, John, April Galleons, Viking Penguin Inc., 40 West 23rd Street, New York, New York, 10010, U.S.A., 1987.

---------------------, Collected Poems 1956 – 1987, ed., Mark Ford, The Library of America, Literary Classics of the United States, Inc., New York, N.Y., 2008.

5) Austin, James H., Zen and the Brain, MIT Press paperback edition, The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, London, England, fifth printing 2000.

6) Barthes, Roland, “Writing and the Novel,” Writing Degree Zero, trans. Annette Lavers and Colin Smith, Hill and Wang, 1977.

7) Bataille, Georges, “Oresteia,” The Impossible,  trans. Robert Hurley, City Lights Books, San Francisco, 1991.

8) Beckett, Samuel, “The Unamable,” Volume II, Novels, The Grove Centennial Edition, series editor, Paul Auster, Grove Press, 841 Broadway, New York, NY, 10003, 2006.

9) Bernhard, Thomas, Gargoyles, trans. Richard and Clara Winston, The University of Chicago Press, 1986.
__________________, Gathering Evidence: A Memoire and My Prizes, translated from the German by Carol Brown Janeway, Second Vintage International Edition, November 2011.
__________________, Old Masters: A Comedy, translated from the German by Ewald Osers, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 1992.
__________________, The Loser, translated from the German by Jack Dawson, Afterword by Mark M. Anderson, Vintage International, Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, October 2006.

10) Bernstein, Charles, “Artifice of Absorption,” A Poetics, Harvard University Press, 1992.
_______________,  “Hearing Voices,” in The Sound of Poetry, the Poetry of Sound edited by Marjorie Perloff and Craig Dworkin, University of Chicago Press, Chicago and London 2009.

11) Bonca, Cornel, Don Delillo’s White Noise: The Natural Language of the Species, in White Noise: Text and Criticism, Don Dellilo, ed. Mark Osteen (New York: Viking critical library, Published by the Penguin Group 1998).

12) Cope, David, Computers and Musical Style, A-R Editions, Inc., 801 Deming Way, Madison Wisconsin 53717-1903, 1991.

13) Cortazar, Julio, “Rayuela,” Vigesioséptima Edición Setiembre de 1989, Sudamericana/Planeta (Editores) S.A., Humberto I 545, Buenos Aires.

14) Joyce, James, Finnegans Wake, introduction by John Bishop, Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A., 1999.

15) Krishnamurti, Jiddu, Krishnamurti’s Notebook, Krishnamurti Publications of America, P. Box 1560, Ojai, CA 93024, 2003.

16) Deleuze, Gilles, Guattari, Felix, “Becoming Intense, Becoming Animal, Becoming Imperceptible,” A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, Translation and Forward by Brian Massumi, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 2009.

17) Dworkin, Craig, “The Stutter of Form,” in The Sound of Poetry, the Poetry of Sound edited by Marjorie Perloff and Craig Dworkin, University of Chicago Press, Chicago and London 2009.

18) Ehresman, David E., Wessel, David L., Perception of Timbral Analogies, IRCAM, 31 rue Saint-Merri, F-75004, Paris and, Department of Psychology, Michigan State University, East Lansing, Michigan 48824, U.S.A.

19) Flowers, Brandon, “Spaceman,” Day & Age, The Killers, Island Records, 2008.

20) Gallup, Smith, Tolhurst, “Charlotte Sometimes,” Standing on a Beach, The Cure, Elektra Records, 1986.

21) Goldsmith, Kenneth, “Introduction,” in Uncreative Writing: Managing Language in the Digital Age, New York: Columbia University Press 2011.
_______________, “Language as Material,” in Uncreative Writing: Managing Language in    the Digital Age, New York: Columbia University Press 2011.
_______________, “Revenge of the Text,” in Uncreative Writing: Managing Language in    the Digital Age, New York: Columbia University Press 2011.

22) McCaffery, Steve, Prior to Meaning: The Protosementic and Poetics, Northwestern University Press, Evanston, Illinois 60208-4210, 2001.

23) Paulson, William R., “Literature and the Division of Knowledge,” The Noise of Culture: Literary Texts in a World of Information, Cornell University Press, 1988.

24) Perloff, Marjorie, “After Language Poetry: Innovation and Its Theoretical Discontents,” in Differentials: Poetry, Poetics, Pedagogy, Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press 2004.
____________, “Language Poetry and the Lyric Subject: Ron Silliman’s Albany, Susan Howe’s Buffalo in Differentials: Poetry, Poetics, Pedagogy, Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press 2004.
____________, “Unoriginal Genius: An Introduction,in Unoriginal Genius: Poetry by Other Means in the New Century, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press 2010.

25) Ramone, Joey, “I Wanna be Sedated,” performed by The Ramones, Sire records, September 21, 1978.

26) Roads, Curtis, Microsound, First MIT Press paperback edition, 2004, The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, London, England.

27) Roads, Curtis, The Computer Music Tutorial, The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, London, England, 1996.

28) Rowe, Robert, Interactive Music Systems: Machine Listening and Composiing, The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, London, England, 1993.

29) Serres, Michel, “Rats’ Meals – Cascades,” The Parasite, trans. Lawrence R. Schehr, University of Minnesotta Press, Minneapolis, London, 2007.

30) Silliman, Ron, “Who Speaks: Ventriloquism and the Self in the Poetry Reading” in Close Listening: Poetry and the Performed Word, ed. Charles Bernstein, New York, New York, Oxford University Press 1998).

31) Stevens, Wallace, Collected Poetry and Prose, The Library of America, 1996.

32) Watten, Barrett, Questions of Poetics: Language Writing and Consequences, University of Iowa Press, Iowa City 52242, 2016.

33) Wörner, Karl H., Stockhausen: Life and Work, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, California, 1976.

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