as

When Orpheus knotted the tie, he kicked the boat off, bad poems
were always easier to write than good . Like chapeled
loves hounding the day. Or stupid eleven o'clocks with
no one in them, and themes that buried themselves in books,
or eventide mornings with sown words
of tractors and detective novels, or girls you didn't really want
and vicarious lives of various lovers and their severals sons, never mind their daughters. When all the saps wore sentiment green and were blue and tabloid. That was how you made a poem , looking for the hard voice , letting go of the trite one.

Some summer evening she came to me, a surprise around
the sunrise, and she tangled green with her forest,
and mine of course, our genitals forest caught in the free
play of her belly. she snorted up at us when we was done!
Gosh we had made the mountain come! it was faith
and fides coming to us, the mountain you know that story, now
come here and let me ___ Yes, slide my hand , cup
it , cup my hand , under your breast, watermelon style of kisses and weaves . Gentle Orpheus be my song, she said, Come my dancer, Hung me tight. We hung all night. We hung all night. A song of medieval proportion and delight.

I found her body outside on the porch, note I say the
porch not the portico of some diamond ring, and her
painting body lay in my head, on my chest for weeks. I recall lying under it after we had 'made love'. As if we could make anything! and imagine saying we 'made' love, as if we could make
love do anything at all, when he, as always, was calling the shots.
I learned how to write in those days doing the impossible. Rhymes of her feet, metrics of her nose, grading of her body from toes to teeth. Her amber flesh and iambic pavement was
the sole body on which I trod . Dreaming of the song
of duty later in the night. Her hand froze on the table. She had
travelled the distance. She eyed the moment, knowing it had come like a snow man to kiss her, free her, and make her bridge quieter.

Was that really her name in a prose honesty of desire that could not be said? I loved the way she prosed my name against her thighs holding my hand as she said it.

Orpheus was bold in those days!
and ampersand Eurydice was a cheeky girl!!
in the halve nights and whole wakes of their date and dime .


Now if desire wasn't hidden in that then I am the king's
meow he said lapping her eyes to the night. Midriff knights
of bay and faith was her love her desire .

You are happy .

' limit'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  __________________________________________

 

 

 

If capitalism is the exterior limit of all societies, this is because capitalism for its part has no exterior limit, but only an interior limit that is capital itself and that it does not encounter, but reproduces by always displacing it.

                                    “Anti-Oedipus” p.230-3_____________________________________-

...'which today we call neurosis...'

___________________________________________________________


"The Hamlet dilemma, which today we call neurosis, seems to me to be a symbolic expression or manifestation of man’s plight when caught between the turn of the tides. There comes a moment when action and inaction seem alike futile, when the heart is black and empty and to consult it yields nothing. At such moments those who have lived by illusion find themselves



high and dry, thrown up on the shore like the wrack of the sea, there to disintegrate and be swallowed up by the elemental forces. Whole worlds can go to bits like that, living out what you would call a “biological death,” a death which Gutkind calls the Mamser world of unreality and confusion, the ghostly world of Hamlet, the Avitchi of the Buddhists, which is none other than a world of “effects.”

 Here the unreal world of ideas, dogmas, superstitions, hopes, illusions flounders in one continuous nightmare–a reality more vivid than anything known in life because life had been nothing but a long evasion, a sleep."

||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

Henry Miller to Anais Nin, 1937

_an idea

Francisco Goya, Yard with Lunatics c.1793-1794

There are some beautiful pages in Michel Foucault’s Madness and Civilization about Goya :

‘Goya’s Idiot who shrieks and twists his shoulder to escape from the nothingness that imprisons him—is this the birth of the first man and his first movement toward liberty, or the last convulsion of the last dying man? (281)’

Michel Foucault, Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason, translated by Richard Howard (Vintage Books/Random House, New York, 1988 (1965))

it’s probably a good idea to supplement this idea of Foucault’s with those  in A/O/ to wit the schizoanalytic adventure revises or rethinks the notions invented and considered by Fou in Madness and civilization__________there’s a kind of back an’ forth of ideas …; then a question arises, do these ideas change each other? in ideas

                                                       
 as in poetry and painting the poems that came after or around the same are affected and affectin’ those before and after them. time is disjoined by these crossovers/ in a sense                                                            then there’s no time in ideas /and poetry. affects/ percepts….. I dont mean to suggest that, I mean I dont mean to say the actual painting of \Goya is changed by say, Picasso’s                                            

                                                                         later working of not dissimilar ideas yet our eyes ’ perception is change. How I read a poem is changed by the poems I’ve read already… thus those other poems are too                                       affected… there’s an idea in literary theory, that what we read’s always already been read… now that’s interesting cause is it read behind our bacK? Call it: Reading Behind our back . A perceptual consideration… none of which is bad, but increases our possibilities…

------------------------------------------

~ my brother Rimbaud, who is a girl

--- Dear Ariane, my brother Rimbaud, who is a girl, asked me to send
you a message, because she is weeping day and night now,
she asked me to send you this message,

"there is no castration, there is none, that is the point of the
movement started by others, and she, Ariane and the others are
deluded and deceiving the Others of the Other, she is like so many a
good meaning but wrong, maybe dangerously in errance to be passing
on such doctrine. It is not her fault, that she does not understand
what she is saying and doing. God bless her, but God help her
clients, whoever they are, even more. Lastly, I suggest that she and
her fellow priests quit their profession."

I know it sounds nuts, but she was sobbing and crying for days after
she read what you said, and also some of the others . Rimbaudboyo is
a homeosexual who is not into homo castrato, so she would not bear
the sort of theory and doctrine you are spreading.

I am her only self that speaks in a normal language and I was a
student of another sort of thinking, but anyhow. I had to say this
to get it off my chest. No hard feelings, .

O PPS I might as well say, I am not homosexual. But what does it
matter, it is not necessarily, like somethng in the family.


________________________________

you think

______________



You think your son is in France now? Yes, Rachel. Her name is Rachel, my seconde(d) one ~.

______________________________________---

some

 I think some of the se idea expressed below from A/O are useful things to keep in mind in what you call the more difficult passages in Hart Crane's The Bridge and his other poems.




Yet it has been a long time since Engels demonstrated, already
apropos of Balzac, how an author is great



 because he cannot prevent
himself from tracing flows and causing them to circulate, flows that split
asunder the catholic and despotic signifier of his work, and that
necessarily nourish a revolutionary machine on the horizon.


 That is
what style is, or rather the absence of style—asyntactic, agrammatical:
the moment when language is no longer defined by what it says, even
less by what makes it a signifying thing, but by what causes it to move,
to flow, and to explode—desire.

 For literature is like schizophrenia: a
process and not a goal, a production and not an expression.


133 a/o ENG








 from 243

T                       he extreme importance of J.-F. Lyotard's recent book is due to its
position as the first generalized critique of the signifier. In his most
general proposition, in fact, he shows that the signifier is overtaken
toward the outside by figurative images, just as it is ovvertaken toward
the inside by the pure figures that compose it—or, more decisively, by
"the figural" that comes to short-circuit the signifier's coded gaps,
inserting itself between them, and working under the conditions of
identity of their elements.

 In language and in writing itself, sometimes
the letters as breaks, as shattered partial objects—and sometimes the
words as undivided flows, as nondecomposable blocks, or full bodies
having a tonic value—constitute assignifying signs that deliver themselves
over to the order of desire: rushes of breath and cries.

 (In
particular, formal investigations concerning manual or printed writing
change their meaning according to whether the characteristics of the
letters and the qualities of the words are in the service of a signifier,
whose effects they express following exegetical rules; or whether, on the
contrary, they break through this wall so as to set flows in motion, and
establish breaks that overflow or rupture the sign's conditions of
identity, and that cause books within "the book" to flow and to
disintegrate, entering into multiple configurations whose possibilities
were already the object of the typographical exercises of Mallarme—
always passing underneath the signifier, filing through the wall: which
again shows that the death of writing is infinite, so long as it arises and
arrives from within.)

370
                                   ---------------------But on
the other, the schizorevolutionary, pole, the value of art is no longer
measured except in terms of the decoded and deterritorial-ized flows
that it causes to circulate beneath a signifier reduced to silence, beneath
the conditions of identity of the parameters, across a structure reduced to
impotence; a writing with pneumatic, electronic, or gaseous indifferent
supports, and that appears all the more difficult and intellectual to
intellectuals as it is accessible to the infirm, the illiterate, and the
schizos, embracing all that flows and counterfiows, the gushings of
mercy and pity knowing nothing of meanings and aims (the Artaud
experiment, the Burroughs experiment). It is here that art accedes to its

authentic modernity, which simply consists in liberating what was present in art

from its beginnings, but was hidden underneath aims and objects, even if

aesthetic, and underneath recodings or axiomatics: the pure process that fulfills

itself, and that never ceases to reach fulfillment as it proceeds—art as

"experimentation."*

Crane's work in its most intense motors passes over and by what can be explained.
====================================