Friday, October 31, 2008


The copula "da" comes at the end of a declarative statement, and varies according to the regional dialect spoken. (As you can see, Obama is winning in most of Japan as well.)

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Chapter Three, Part Three

“I’m blind!” the attendant screamed. “I don’t think I have much choice in the matter.” “There’s no time for a doctor.” This situation is so obvious that I sometimes have the vague hope it may even filter through to Hitler himself, and that he may have second thoughts about starting a war. But this is probably pure wishful thinking on my part. For Hitler is irrational and simply shuts his eyes to anything he does not want to see. Nor did he add that there might never be time for a doctor again. “No, certainly not,” Dr. Solovaichick replied. After all, it is almost the essence of an experiment that the observations can be described with the concepts of classical physics. Watkins did not know the man. Dr. Solovaichick was not entirely satisfied. “I think you may find it difficult to apply your analogy to physics. For my part, I can readily agree with the positivists about the things they want, but not about the things they reject. Let me explain.” 

“Get away from me! Don’t touch me.” Jerking free, the attendant fumbled his way into the shack on the lot. After we had been looking for possible experimental mistakes for some time, I said to Dr. Solovaichik: “Isn’t it odd that, throughout this discussion, no one should have mentioned quantum theory? We behave as if the electrically charged particles were an object like an electrically charged oil droplet, or like a pith ball in an old electroscope. We quite unthinkingly use the concepts of classical physics, as if we had never heard of the limitations of these concepts and of uncertainty relations. Isn’t that bound to lead to errors?” Tom did not wait to see more. Despite the convulsion of scientific life at home and abroad caused by Hitler’s rise to power, atomic physics developed with astonishing rapidity. He knew that in seconds, before he could get it turned around, it might be so much twisted metallic junk. “Because they are objects. Without objects there can be no objective science. And what objects are is determined by such categories as substance, causality, etc. If you renounce the strict application of these categories, then you also renounce the possibility of experience in general.” He headed for the shelter, running all the way.

Friday, October 17, 2008

Here and

Are your feet are having difficulty finding the ground?

Or perhaps not.

I do not feel self-righteous, do you?
And, if it is not impolite, how do you do it?

I saw a ladder, hung with

upon which

to and fro

To say my heart is broken is, to be honest, yet another example of my melodramatic tendencies.

And it was at this moment, when the clouds obscured the sun, that we knew that we discovered, the secret of the tower. It, appearing so unbalanced, held only by a few fragments, yet…

And it was at this moment, when my heart became guilty of this or that thing, that it cracked in another place

And it was at the moment, when the clouds obscured my heart, when the tower became my spine, my leaning the wind

And it was

And it, and it

Remember, the hypothesis is no better than the information that goes into generating it, and is, like the latter, a thing that goes to and fro.

We are all unsettled here, we are all walking down roads, dusty or muddy, we are following the footprints of the Stephen’s island wren and just ahead, the bonobo. We are not self-righteous, for all right thinking, all self, has been vanished. We are heartbroken, and perhaps melodramatic. We are dying, for that is what happens when one becomes alive.

We live in different places, some free of ghosts and in air thick with the detritus.

We love time, for she will finally take us, and this is what we are walking for—to be caught up in what is time, in her amours. All arms and legs and blessed daggers.

Ah. that.

Monday, October 6, 2008

Appropriation: 2 Case Studies

#1: The Richard Mutt Case (Marcel Duchamp, 1917)

They say any artist paying six dollars may exhibit.

Mr. Richard Mutt sent in a fountain. Without discussion this article disappeared and was never exhibited.

What were the grounds for refusing Mr. Mutt's fountain:

1. Some contend it was immoral, vulgar.

2. Others, it was plagiarism, a plain piece of plumbing.

Now Mr. Mutt's fountain is not immoral, that is absurd, no more than a bath tub is immoral. It is a fixture that you see every day in plumbers' show windows.

Whether Mr. Mutt with his own hands made the fountain or not has no importance. He CHOSE it. He took an ordinary article of life, placed it so that its useful significance disappeared under a new title and point of view – created a new thought for that object.

As for plumbing, that is absurd. The only works of art America has given are her plumbing and her bridges.

#2: The For Godot Case (Stephen McLaughlin, 2008)

So I started a collection of poet names. Once I had around 1500, I asked my friend Jim Carpenter to send me a batch of 5,000 poems composed by Erika T. Carter, his ludicrously advanced poetry generation software. These poems aren't simply random cutups of randomly selected texts. As you can see by reading them, they each have a thematic & stylistic unity unparalleled (so far as I know) in the field of algorithmic poetry generation. As numerous commenters have noted, it's difficult to tell whether some of these things were written by man or machine. Surprisingly, many of the poems in the magazine are actually 'good.' Sort of.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

And a Good Day To You!

(Note: I am listening to Neverwhere and the Thirteenth Tale and watching The Grave of the Fireflies. The rest I am actually reading.)

It is fun to make networks--so much fun. You should try it in a bus, you should try it in a rush, you should try it here and there…

Anyone else feeling bereft?

For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer...
For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.

For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.

For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life...

I am trying to trap cats hither and yon. Cats make me think of language a lot—the language of research where some organisms are called invasive species. When you use this language you turn the individual member of the species into a vermin (for isn’t invasive species really the same as saying vermin?) This is how you make it less of your issue. This is how you make it ok to poison, infect, trap, and shoot these vermin. Oh it annoys me. The moral onus moves from the people who caused the problem to the creature that was dragged along on ships, dumped and left, managed to survive.

Would you rent a house that disturbed you? I can still smell fear—it is urinous.

I finished Kiss of the Yogini. It is quite interesting. Everywhere is the yogini—but she is sublimated as things become more orthodox. It is written from a male point of view. So although Smith claims that the sublimation and erasure of the Yogini (mother, seizer, sakti) is problematic, I never sense what it is to be the woman who is the stand in for the supernatural dakinis, and seizers and goddesses. She is always the agent of fear or desire, of power, but never a yogini—the human females used in lieu of them inside her own skin. Or at least not until the final chapter, when he mentions that yoginis are often treated in the way witches are in the west. Hmmm.

Taken by a seizer, it can be a small child, it can cause a disease, she is a seizer and a bird as well. Can that be?


Each phase of a child dies, and the child that was that phase dies to some extent—as all of the particles that make up our cells are replaced in regular sequence as we age so the child that was is replaced by the child that is, and that child replaced by the child that will be.

the forms.

It is perhaps not a particular sad thing, I suppose, a healthy child that develops normally, but it is what time is and I get very sad sometimes. When my first was a day old I knew his perfection would not last through the basic brutalization that is life. Or at least this is how I felt then. Everything is so messy. I cannot keep things orderly and neat.

a door opens

We have photos and films of our little babies, then older and older. There is an imprint.

into the yard

The photos for sale in antique shops: imprints of the dead imprints. I know an artist who paints these people with flowers for hats and.

wooden cherry scent

Should I be with my children at every moment, soaking up their being before it disappears and becomes a new being?

I watched you as you disappeared

What do I lose by doing this by myself? And what I have I become in each moment?

She is a seizer and a bird, she is the yogini, she is to whom I offer myself, she is Kali, goddess of time. I understand her detached violence, her brutal churning of the world’s blood, her dance on the dead, or perhaps not dead, Siva. And her tenderness.

oh shit. fuckit. I’m done.

On the road, scrabblemouth. I save my emblems for the end. Little babies hold my hand, when it is time, when the apocalypse is here, I’ll shoot you.

(Quotes by Christopher Smart, Cormac McCarthy, Tom Waits)