suchaswitch

Selected commentary

Below I will list some selections of my commentary from sundry websites:

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one – wrote/sent an art grant (“spines”), slept epically, & now finally time to jot notes under caveat’s article.

two – wrote/sent an art grant that won’t bend cargocult, but hopes poems are upped and stomached atypically.

three – suppose/want a library camp, with banker’s lamps, long tables, thesauruses, smoking okay, but no talking, shh…. (dear “courtney sherwood”: wanna?)

four – those blunt sentences aren’t art, nor are essayists ever moving. (hyperbole! (apology.))

five – post-mod needn’t be gobbledygook, poem forms not rickety and stanzaic. fluxus is us, if anything is. (dear “parker east”: hat-tip!)

six – drove past entry lane for fertility, sad to not see signs describing theme with a script, usually visionary and anticipate it, a prose “laureate” ought to write that welcoming, or was larry harvey feeling sick?

seven – toastmasters? debate teams? sudden salons, “nuck name” knuckle-tattoo games, “island style” poetry slams (happens at seattle’s regional). even book-animists must have funerals for paper’s impermanence.

eight – b. brumitt with plastic placard gig: still can be done (brilliant!), but adapt to what will stick, or be cool when taken down, then make more, just like great graffiti-ists.

nine – i did! i do! proud loud me! me! narratives: i accept your ego, but come to burn mine, or at least mutate it, keeps coming back.

ten – ego sculpture floored me: charring golden babies, guns and praying-hands. not really literary, but total poetry.

(POSTED ON BURNING BLOG ON 130203, RESPONDING (OBTUSELY-POETICALLY) TO CAVEAT MAGISTER’S POST ABOUT THE LACK OF LITERARY COMMUNITY AT BURNING MAN.)

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“I’m with Dawn, to attack any label saying we’re the same. but moreover i think it’s better to try to find connections, showing how one weirdo might be slightly similar to some other weirdo, particularly if severing the jut of generations.

Yet, if you’re not a weirdo, you indeed hide in the hideous “we”.”

“With seriousness, do feel you have friends? (art comraderies, i mean). I feel like I’m a mallard misplaced, see never feathers, only minnows with whom I cannot mate.”

(POSTED ON HTMLGiant ON 101012, RESPONDING TO MATTHEW SIMMONS WHO SAID HE DIDNT WANT TO READ ANYMORE OF “HOW WE LIVE TODAY”.)
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” The brimming thoughts, on the splay of paths, unsettle my opinions and tread toward anythingness. (It seems all us cheeping lame bohemes worry quite excessively!)On one route, we have some introverts, the Darger janitor imagining and delving, solo. I call this “deepening”. Don’t say it’s insignificant. How we develop our handwriting is a great analogy of it. Hardly any mind will guide its hand; even the great calligraphers and cartoonists have to submit to the differences in the way one’s hand comfortably holds a pen. We don’t pick places to make new frills, we refine our arches mindlessly, over time. (There is a new paradigm colonizing corners of the sciences: stochasticity).But indeed you could wreck this shifting wind, with the other path, the rigor of causality, how you don’t get anywhere without a map. You could talk about the limitations imposed by letterforms, the things we’ve learned from your quaint “dead father”. It could commence its scratchy clack, et-cetera et-cetera, et-cetera et-cetera, like a sullen whipporwill stuck in its sinister loop (hence my “anythingness”, which might as well be “nothingness”; or let’s click the “X” and pour a pot of tea, shut up and hum some fragments of our remembered melodies).Yes the inescapable beeping sounds around the peripheries of plazas shape us. Sometimes we flee, and yet, and yet, some of us are drawn to them. I’ve always wondered why people have opinions. Plurality is really a beautiful thing in our society. The Buddhists call it non-duality. They point out how much I worry. It means “all-one” as also it, tandemly, means “many”.When the psychologist suggests it might have been my mum, I heave with impatience and anxiety. Let’s talk about right now, the deepening we may do ahead of us.Most of us are a mix, methinks. We get deeper into ideals, which shift as our barns cluck, closets are sometimes ransacked, playlists picked, recursively causing us to spiral, a satellite or yinyang, a waveform oscillation. Whatever. We are whims, propelled by our peculiar opinions. What I like is to be able to assemble into a flock, in charismatic spasms; but still I keep my coxcomb, my queer majuscules, ever more ornate as habit drifts, yet still legible.”

(HTMLGiant, FOR A POST ON HTMLGIANT, RESPONDING TO KYLE MINOR’S THOUGHTS ON DAWKINS AND WHETHER LITERATURE FOLLOWS THE DEAD-ENDS OF DETERMINISM OR IS WINDY LIKE THE GALAPAGOS.)
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“this is a great idea, mister b, and i encourage it by all. back when i had bided in a city with thriving social scene, my pals and i would read aloud over countless pots of tea. now, more sullen and lonely in the high-desert’s paucity, these cameras can be our companions to share aliment with. strange how we simpleton cubicle dwellers, diode-lulled, have an ever-cresting capacity to shake hands, pass pipes, take celestial hikes. We just must coddle each occasion in front of the charge-coupled device.”

(HTMLGIANT, to Blake Butler for posting a video of him reading aloud from various things he’s read recently and been enthralled by).

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“i do not believe in fate, i am no determinist. biology is a strong science, but once we descend under its silver mesh of syllogism, into people-ology, we find ourself in a limitless chasm. a person is a person, not a category. a mewling neurochemistry does not discern anything (but indeed can, i personally admit, present difficulties). i like the label: “labelless”. it’s fine to call a shrill patriarch a jerk, but it’s sad so many are compelled to state apellations of causality. a mind is complex, a mind is not a mold, it is a cloud. and insteada coulda-shoulda’s, i wish we’d learn: when you see someone sad, hold their hand, say something lovely.”

(HTMLGiant, FOR A POST ABOUT WHETHER PLATH’S DEPRESSION WAS INHERENT, OR RAISED BY A MEAN MAN, AND WHETHER WE SHOULD EVEN PONDER)

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“yes, it has been weird to notice people approaching noise and atonality from an artistic perspective again. Now when will they get into bass clarinets and sarangi and the koto? (actually there is an astounding amount of multi-track multi-instrument music now too. a pity it doesn’t approach symphonies like it once did)”

(FACEBOOK, COMMENT TO KONSTANTIN ABOUT ELECTRONIC MUSIC BECOMING NORMALIZED BY COLLEGE-KIDS).

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“I been spewing passel after passel of pollen from this censerswung poppy, sailing the dust city effervescence that wafts over strangers, not touching ground till your soft pate reminds me — pillows have I always had, just courage not nascent enough to poke cotyledon leaf through the shell of the seed. Thanks for being the monkey, in many ways you paint a pineal peacock upon me. XOXOMM”

(FACEBOOK, TO BEN TURNER, GRACE AFTER BM)

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“Fie! you resident bellwether builder! You ambient alarmist! Cook ether to swirl so much it pinnacles prisms! Make mungcakes into buckyshapes! I lament my lack of Brent, oh fie! you beardie engineer! You almost make me want my two-and-a-half-weeks back, if I amn’t seeing double B, but you must earn such rancor by sewi…ng stockings of lichen bling, crocheting cyanobacterial bibs, adorning ears with emerald mini fernfronds, moss glasses, lupine petticoat, i want your phototroph couture on the cover of cinnamon-bark-ink magazines! Now take that task and give me reason to come visit, dammit! Or else come with me to Iran. One burner said “break em out”. I’d need a lot of handholding for that.”

(FACEBOOK, TO BRENT BUCKNUM, HE WAS OUT OF TOWN, ON AN ARTIST RESIDENCY INSTALLING “CLIMATE CLOCKS” IN SAN JOSE, WHILE I HAD COME TO VACATION BACK IN THE FABULOUS BAY)

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“If Signor Copernicus Christ hadn’t handled my first-burn by bunking me beside your sonorous urn, I’d anyway’ve sought out such clangor, as soon as someone said gong or gamelan. So you see, to ignite it alongside you, to sway geishalike to your plinkplonk, I am helpless when I admire you! There are no adjectives in your ineffable stew, you reverberating throng, you ceaseless ode of punctuation! A tirade of splayed semicolons, I adore you! ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;,>” (FACEBOOK, TO GAMELAN X, A BAND I UNINTENTIONALLY CAMPED WITH AT A GLAMOROUS ART FESTIVAL)

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“– Methinks this all is excellent(*).A TED-talk by some frantic wine-journalist motormouth has provoked me recently — “use everything” (regarding communication technologies), and this is just it, Janey. All your business-reply-envelopes should be returned adorned. Your back while biking might blink like a mobile marquee. Facilitator Butler recently waved his favorites into the electronic ethers — why not incant that out of your car? My pals and I used to stage “Sudden Salon”s outside the rapid transit station (after ire at enduring an awful open-mike in Berk, too much grey-hair poetry-therapy…) I am enamored of the “my name is” adhesives, and there is never enough to say about stencils. Why not wheatpaste your collages and canvasses? (Jack Smith: “Burn the Museums!”) I loathe when poets cease their prosody after all their stanzas are complete. Every inch of the urban earth must be covered with glitter! Don’t you have that itch? The answer is more art!(*) A CAVEAT:– Mehates all that scribble, unreadable!What is your percentage comprehension of urban graffiti? Most of it is run by juveniles. Why have poets and graphic designers only rarely sought to reclaim this stunning art? The mural has become too sickening, all of the rainbow’s colors swirl, and psychedelia becomes brown, a murk, a headache! Single artists (rarely offered garage door canvasses) must take back the planar sharpie map from pubescent brats and hippy community do-gooders! And damn it, what can be done to invoke the cry: “avoid being illegible (unless enchantingly visual!)”? “(HTMLGIANT, RESPONDING TO JANEY SMITHS CRY FOR MORE LITERARY GRAFFITI)

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“dont hold your breath. i’ve got fragments in a folder regarding prior murders, abductions, heinous former housemates, a dog i watched die in the road. all important pith, but sometimes it all lingers. burning man most meant to me the dare to act, to be unafraid to be sincere, to eschew fear — so maybe something new can occur and you can be my spur. i’ve already been thinking about titles.”

(FACEBOOK, TO ARTHUR COLEMAN AFTER SERENDIPITOUSLY MEETING HIM)

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“Though this wet rock has some sunder for a fate, and that any beacon or vector of our humanism has a hope of eternal survival is a fallacy, all talk of trajectory treads on becoming trite… Right?Yet, I posit peace, make our efface endure no stress. Let’s quit the violence and rape of land and skincolor dichotomy. Let’s figure out better ways to hold each others’ hands, not just curtsy and coitus and commentboxes on blogs.” (HTMLGiant, IN RESPONSE TO UTOPIANISM OF TECHNOLOGICAL GROWTH AND YET ITS IMPLICATIONS IF EXTENDED TOWARD ART)

  • “Emerson’s manysidedness:
    (snort if you’re not),
    a heart’s labelless,
    but tough to swagger in congress.
    Every autobiography,
    I am, I have, I like,
    isn’t it all trite?
    We’re effed if we efface our name.
    Zens empty, yet
    emeralds deface on the teevee,
    just be yourself, bobby,
    don’t worry.” (HTMLGiant)
  • caffeine causes proteins that bind adenosine to accumulate.caffeine blocks these proteins, mimics the adenosine,
    that’s how it “does its thing”.
    no one knows what happens next, in neurons downstream.and every day it diminishes your potency,
    coaxing you to pour another pot of tea,
    need more molecules blocking those extra new proteins,
    the threshold always ascending.take a week off. five days.
    you’ll have headaches.
    take a pill, an advil, sleep it off.
    do some other drugs.five is all it takes,
    the limbo bar goes up again,
    the protein level comes down again.when you begin again
    a single sip and you’ll feel stoned.
    i promise you this.
    (ON HTMLGIANT, 101117, PART ONE OF A RESPONSE TO SOMEONE SAYING THEY CAN’T GET CAFFEINE TO WORK ANYMORE, WITHIN A POST BY SEAN LOVELACE ASKING IF CAFFEINE IS IMPORTANT TO A WRITER)
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    see impromptu poem above,
    my intake goes up and up and then i have to stop.tea, it contains theanine,
    a calming and focusing thing,
    a molecule that won’t let your hyperventilate.But careful with those catechins, those tannins,
    brew tea too hot and four or five pots will have you hurt,
    a sinister stomach.but drink as much with coffee?
    you’d be delirious and panicky.(in the aforementioned “week off” in my other post in this thread,
    i mention heinous headaches.
    in a post-caffeine comedown,
    i can’t write.
    it’s shit.
    then take another tea (or wait out the week)
    and everything zooms,
    the words dance, keyboard keys bounce,
    the cursive “f” with my fountain pen
    ascends and descends and then
    intersects elegantly,
    my sentiments speckle eloquently.
    it’s a drug, dear, don’t join their denial,
    and most of the west seems to be hooked.)PS > Pendell sez Samuel
    Johnson poured pot after pot,
    relentlessly, or
    rather the maid did.
    A manic addict, with tics.
    maybe i’m on my way to go join him.
    (ON HTMLGIANT, 101117, PART TWO OF A RESPONSE TO A POST BY SEAN LOVELACE ASKING ABOUT OUR CAFFEINE INTAKE AND ITS RELATION TO WRITING.)
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    “I too eschew blue,
    Look at all those pantaloons, so deep and reckless!
    One would only warily wave around similar trousers of verdure.Black is at the other end, fake object, drab.
    Slink into some wine, an olive, tan ink like teddybear!
    Everything with measure.”

    (HTMLGIANT)
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    “”leaves of grass”, “naked lunch”, “the surrealist manifesto”, “paris spleen”, “pierre”.
    To which version do we refer?
    it’s upsetting and confusing, but who cares.
    (BB said very recently, up just one post, somewhere,
    “all words are words”.)Titles to me, beyond being labels, which i eschew, or try to,
    are opportunities to track the phylogeny, endlessly.
    I use a peculiar number system, denoting dates,
    (if I ever publish, editors will scrape it off presumably),
    YYMMDD (it snaps order on computer).
    To every edit is appended another six figures.
    A friend wondered:
    should he input it to a cookie-box toy decoder to try and decipher?
    Some might snook: sloppy! Shut up if no finality!
    But really, though I will die,
    this breath after breath allows life,
    some hindu hoodoo looper evolution.
    I love it, the cut-up, the cover version, collaboration, the mixtape, the jazz “tease”,
    the variation form.” (HTMLGIANT)
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    “the responses remind, how teen me, in the nineties, would hunt, with a hunch, the alternative, indie, obscurity, that something grand is out there, there just has to be. started with samplers, penpal mixtapes, sometimes any affordable ad in a zine. then i’d focus on one or two labels, with total trust, until i arrive at a scant band or three, so superlative, think i must, must have everything emanating, oh yeah, this is the one. soon samplers seemed juvenile, needn’t spend time searching no maw. (though there always was more lunch money i could, in anorexia, reserve). mixtapes i cared more that I’d make, and scarcely touched those I got back in the trade. // sure wish that that-then fervor might have also seeped toward lit (or film! fah, i was such a fickle aesthete! thank you MTV and perhaps a still-undiagnosed ADD). I can’t read literary mags, i want to, i can’t, i haven’t the attention span, i quit things easily, same with collections of short stories.” (HTMLGIANT)
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    “– a ritual: i choose a new record once weekly, play on repeat, starts to seep, i soon know its innards. and then on the weekend, use a winamp plugin to alter the pitch and/or speed, play it slow shrill and loud, or deep and frenetic. everything is relative. I commented earlier of my love of the variation form, fuck cold finality. it disarms the mind to find newness or imploding truth, uncover intricacies. this is what makes me an Anything-ist. One only needs the right angle for appreciation.” (HTMLGIANT)
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    “I’ve been calling myself a closet-case. I have consistently stroked poetry clandestinely for sixteen years, but only under three years ago did I actually tell a single soul, having (ahem) won two prizes from an esteemed literary University (despite studying science). It still feels flutterlike to put it to talk, and I think the lack of peers makes it more volatile also, (hence here I am, a blinking somber beacon), and so seeing some of these shrews shred on some of these other threads makes me ponder a retreat to carapace. Please, I’m no hippy (but if you looked at me, you’d laugh), but some of us (I posit: all?) yearn for holding hands. That a high-five is a surrogate, to some, for real intimate “i like you” and embrace — it’s no different from all the humansyncrosies that plague our integer society. I swallow my ire, but still invite you to help tend the dwindling twinkling fire.An adage I’ve assembled: “getting older is getting over being embarassed”. I find this easier and easier the closer I come to being killed. Still, this is no way to wave to the world; we need love and encouragement. I have a theory about “the sad person in the corner of the party” but this post is already too long, what with you twitterflies and finger-pointing at those who self-aggrandize.” (HTMLGIANT)
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    “an interesting antecedent to opinion is our individual incidental histories, strange and inexplicable stumbles — what makes me me is just circumstance, and we can’t get too lost in our own or others’ pasts, though the soil and seed imprint us, like the memories we attach to songs.For instance, to ride Reynard’s sentence, “ineffable” always makes me think Kim Gordon, at her peak of poetics, a moment in my life where I really opened up to idiosyncrasy. “Ineffable” means “spiritual”, meaning “stop talking about her sexuality and chill out to that delightful rhythmic drone in the jam-out section”.” (HTMLGIANT)
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    “don’t we endure these pervasive frivolities everywhere? show me one forum or open plaza where we don’t say to ourselves “why so many dummies?”! it always comes to a choice: sit still and swallow it, or else stay at home. (yet it seems this silly “mean week” is an encouragement to get out your gong, or irascible laserpointer to shine in their eyes from inside your sleeve.) okay i’ll compromise: i have occasionally slipped people notes with sweet complaints, afterwards, an activism that won’t give me Agita like this ceaseless fistshaking.” (HTMLGIANT, in response to croaking post, asking poet introducers to “shut the fuck up” and poets to “read the poems”)
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    “I live in the high dez of E-Washington; we had some ice-age-floods some thou ago plus-plus, coulees carved into basalt by the rushing catastrophe of Missoula’s breached glacier-plug. Makes me question the category of ecosystem. Even now, all our weird wine (Mouvedre! Tempranillo! Lemberger! Primitivo!) is post-glacier irrigated. But yes, you’ve pointed out an inefficient luxury: they aint growin grapes with that sick cyan swimmin square, and safe to say they neither have invited any neighbors over! But if you want to talk enviro-uh-oh… we gotta talk about those plastic chairs, we gotta talk about all these cars, we gotta talk about ZZZZZIP the friendly electron and the sinister cancer he causes hindus who have to unsafely strip out precious metals from our outmoded silicon terminals.” (HTMLGIANT, in response to a post complaining about a swimming pool in the desert and how we will die thirsty because of it).
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    well a lot of blakes bullets self-efface, actually. Like, look above at trey’s mistake, thinking chapbooks are eschewed by blake. or the “online invitations” irony.i agree MM (wait that’s me! oh fine, you were here first), i want love, moreover on mean week. i can’t even Eff it, i just keep pouring the rosepetal tea and breathe deep. (HTMLGIANT, a post that got edited by the moderators into a funny string of repeating the word “monster” with various punctuations. weird.)
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    “why are we so schizo? do the writers and workers of culturally-distant nations too endure this ridiculous race against ‘ourselves’? i’m reading reading (a locked-groove inattentivity while parsing a slender paragraph) a Buddhist because I can’t manage my own mania, can’t quite get my cock in my mouth, tail in my teeth, and those silly mahnks say so much of our mental anguish is modern. (of course, “consumption” is an awful stain on centuries of patriarchy, pre-machines; but that provokes digression).glad to hear some of you use your leisure with no illusions. i myself am much too sleepy, stay up all night under Houdini, then crash and can’t wake up even if i drug myself, these days, these sick and flashy days.”(HTMLGIANT, IN RESPONSE TO ROXANE GAY’S COMEDY OF HOW WE RACE OURSELVES TO BE MORE BUSY”)

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    “i think you’re fine, your realization’s right on. Be brave, insist you’re you, own your emotions, anything’s possible! I used to eschew the eastern zen et-cet, thinking it was watery, afraid those beliefs beckoned we transcend our individual personage (i thought clearing the mind meant being blank; yuck!)… but lately i’ve been learning that it’s about accepting your wholeness, embracing the bad and understanding it. Personally I think my label “bad” (e.g., your “guilt-of-feeling”) has been societally-contrived.” (XXX, ON ALEXIS ORGERA’S BLOG)

  • “ML(&MS), “no amount of show(biz) redeems bad writing”…I can imagine plenty of ways to turn insipid writing into something amusing, read aloud. But I suppose the author who wrote it would not be one to caricature it.but, what a wonderful idea: vid-blog project-thingy-contest, find the dullest, then an editor assigns it to their favorite readers to try and get those schmatta’s to catch on fire.But anyway, back to reality — an awful author will never know it until you throw tomatoes. gonnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggggggggg……………………,,,,,,,,,,,,,¸¸¸¸¸¸¸ֵֵֵֵֵֵֵֵ֦֦֦֦֦֦” (HTMLGIANT, IN RESPONSE TO A POST ABOUT POOR SKILLS OF AUTHOR READINGS)
  • “i don’t keep company at many readings (uh, i dwell in a desert), but, thirsty for anything, (i like the bit about the deer), i go to my coffee-pusher pal’s establishment and endure awful musics, but always bring something I can do with my hands (in my case bookbinding). I’d love to write while poor performers test my patience, but then I can’t even pretend that I’m listening. maybe, matthew, it’s time to learn to knit and purl, knit and purl. but yes, your aggravation swims in my sympathy. I think we need more weirdos, personally. I can’t wait to one day see this sequin’d Yelvington.” (HTMLGIANT, AGAIN IN RESPONSE TO A POST ABOUT BEING BORED BY BAD AUTHOR READINGS)
  • “i’m with trey, drew is being a dweeb. On pre-postdoc frolic in Europe last year, at the Manchester Museum, I came across the big exhibit of birds, and nearly shit myself at all the names, all the colors, all the habitats, all the adaptations, all the onomatopoeia, BLOOMIN’ ONOMATOPOEIA, BABY!!!True, allusions to the thou-thou insect species would be much better, but damn they are ugly, creepy. Better yet, what if I barded of all the myriad microorganisms, the fungal spores we can’t match up with fruiting bodies, the slipper-shaped pollen-grains, the radiation-resistant “bugs” (a dumb colloquialism that caught on, i confess) that grow in the cooling tanks of nuke-reactors, the mid-oceanic vent bacteria photosynthesizing by the lava’s light from seafloor-spreading? Poetic in concept, but were I to write them into a poem, you folks would flame it worse than deserved by oblique quotes from Barthes.Fuck you I’m keeping my motmot, my mallard, my avocet, and you can go write about lady gaga, okay?” (HTMLGIANT, IN RESPONSE TO DREW KALBACH WANTING TO BAN BIRDS FROM POETRY, PROBABLY TOUNGE-IN-CHEEK, BUT FEAR NOT I CAME TO OUR FEATHERED FRIENDS’ DEFENSE!)
  • “(okay i’ll do it. mean feels weird but whatever, you’re all but begging)i’m still new, here at HG and in the land of lettres, but been writing awhile, until recently not too seriously (seriously, who is grave or sober about their writing? yuck you fucking emmeffays, j/k, maybe, no i don’t know, i don’t know you, you’re all okay, eff it, i can’t be mean). but i am internally/momentarily pissed at you-all for two primary things:– you all are so talented with words, with sentiments, yet you comment conversationally, in drab. where’s your prosody? flamboyant rainbow of syllables? Eff you, go write your taupe complaint-comments, or witty litty in-jokes in some therapy blog or pop culture column. If you’re so smart, be didactic and teach those of us who havent read every author. (some so do, true). If you’re so emotional about some quip, ornament that shit, please, with iridescent colored cupcake sugar, or else antifreeze or some substituted monoamine.– goddamn it you read so much, or say so. at first i’m jealous but then i hate you for it. it’s impossible to read everything. you can’t even come close. That Zachary guy goes apeshit at the library (yet writes terse turds), you suck hickeys in the neck of nepotic contemporary journals/blogs/blurbs, but why won’t anyone hold my hand, say “there there, you must first read all of Melville, Marvin Mooney can wait”, or at least tell us which tryptamine you’re on.”(HTMLGIANT, IN RESPONSE TO BLAKE BUTLER ASKING US TO STEP UP THE MEANNESS ON “MEAN WEEK”)
  • “i abjectijust went-and-got all the cohen i could handle (like, last week, means me), and i appreciate your foreboding preference for an older else, of course. and this post-rabbinic blahblah, yes, yet has not earned an eminence worthy of any literary eon. But I swooned at his style, thought he’s so smart, has superlative politics, unafraid to alliterate or push prosody, is not so thick as Effing Finegan’s Wake (opines this frazzled porcupine). Maybe indeed there are other better ambles, but most of my since-this-summer peruse of today’s supplicants to the muse (i confess i’m new) has sat sad. I scorn the flat-or-thick prose post-Dahlberg, see nothing dynamic. I hate this all-or-none. Philip glass I fall asleep, Stravinsky and I cannot concentrate. but cheers, darbs, tell us bout tristram when you’re done!” (ABJECTIBLOG, IN RESPONSE TO DARBY’S DISMISSAL OF COHEN’S WITZ)
  • an audio interview somewhere has cohen saying, the tempos of yiddish have been a big influence, you see it in the classic comedians, the jabber and joking self-deprecation, a willing humility to think fast, lash sharp tongue, be unabashed, but assert no one’s perfect.i’d intended this month to use that nanowrimo endeavor to try writing about my imprisoned pal activists, the hikers ironically locked up in Persia (free ’em dammit), but I started to speak of myself, of my Jew heritage, and now it’s taken a left turn: right now I’m shedding my scorn, of how I ALMOST could have spoken yiddish (my father’s first language), but suburban america has killed it. it makes me quite sad. (Dammit that klezmer’s good folk music).I’m honestly no Jew scholar, (my whole point above is that suburbia destroys the culture and heritage (of anyone, so sad to see Chinese children too view their immigrant parents as alien, embarassing, as my Dad once did when he had emigrated)), but I would posit maybe this: perhaps what you (Kyle Minor) have observed has to do with the Talmud?For those unfamiliar, the Talmud is the set of rabbinical discussions that have been compiled, discussing Jewish law and ethics and philosophy. It’s extremely interesting, dialectic, includes layers of contradicting viewpoints, and may actually be the true focus of Judaism (not for suburbanite loudmouths like me), and perhaps it is that scholarly & philosophic tradition, which does not seem to assert anything finite (as a text) but humbly compiles every possible opinion, lets you decide, which is quite different from the “gospel” go-forth-and-tell-em-all aspect of the Christian Testament. Many (real) Jews will tell you the Old Testament is boring, in comparison to the Talmud.
    (HTMLGIANT, 101109 RESPONDING TO KYLE MINOR’S INTERESTING POST POINTING OUT HOW THERE ARE SO MANY EXCELLENT JEWISH LITERARY AUTHORS BUT HARDLY ANY CHRISTIAN ONES)

    ► ► ►
    you: “every song has a secret conga version”me: feeling slick, seeing this, like that coconut milk. (recently learned thai iced tea is better veegs, with aforementioned frothy sweet white coconut). do you seriously imagine these conga versions? Personally I always thought it bongos, bongos-flutes-and-handclaps, but I’m with you, I want Esquivel alive, to cover quadrophonically the popsongs of today.Did you just read Drew dreams birds to be banned? bullshit! I take your hawk to stroke its tufts. Does it too know night’s name?”

    (ALEXIS ORGERA’S BLOG, REGARDING COCONUT-MILK, AND A LINE FROM HER RECENT POEM IN SIXTH FINCH)

    ► ► ►
    meems (can i call you that? i had a college friend Miriam who forbade that nick, and it’s been sitting patiently for someone else ever since!),(a) thanks for the mutual bird love on the H.G., yawp!(b) late for the lab this morning, today’s backpack-on-check,things-in-the-pockets-check,all-systems-go,board-the-bike…yikes,gotta-read-that-before-i-go PROCRASTINATION-DISTRACTION, I had been itinerantly sifting through the three new editions of Pendell’s excellent ethnobotany plant-poesis timeless tomes, and came across the absinthe section. Better than Wikipedia, get thee some Pharmakopoeia (or was it Pharmakognosis, or -dynamis?). My Oak pals also make it, but I was on a strict tea diet at the time. Now I pine. (Mmm. pine would go nice with the anise, no?)(c) i’ve yet to track down into the deep annals of your blog, or comment chronology, but I notice you have a loping style, i love it! (i) do you do this ‘all the time’? (ii) does it mirror how you think? (iii) I’m reading Cohen now (“heaven of others”), and I’m loving it, loving it, loving it, but noticing he has a similar meander. I can catch his arch, and it’s colorful, but I think that that must aggravate others. (iv) in an interview Cohen said something to the extent that this communication mannerism comes from the linguistic patterns of the Yiddish language, as evidenced in the punchy emo comedy of old classic n’Yawk stand-ups. It made me feel nice, to have my malady named, to find its fountain, perhaps. (v) if you do indeed use such hyperattentivity in style ‘all the time’, have you also wondered from whence you’ve inherited it?(d) this should be an email, but i can’t say so much on my crazyphone and i can’t use my Gmail while at work.

    (Mimi’s Thought Collision blog, in response to a post about absinthe, and following her supportive reply to my HTMLGIANT defense of birds)

    ► ► ►
    Hi STM, thanks for this, this was very apt today, as right now (uh ironic chuckle which i must suppress), you and your article are a part of my chronic procrastination. i say “i procrastinate” to people; they then say, “oh everybody”. i hang my head, think, i wonder how much i must whimper to get someone to hold my hand through this, understand the gravity.i do too do the “creative” writing stuff, and everything you’ve said is pertinent to it, but actually my struggles are because I’m primarily a scientist. After a fruitful stretch of experiments, I am tasked with a whole other sort of writing to do. This is the real part of our career, to tell all, to communicate our conclusions, to put out hypothesis. Yet I find I can’t do it. Ordinarily, in my leisure creations, I am compositionally allusive, alliterative, lyric. But instead science must be concise. It’s left me frigid.I wonder too, about your Moleskine Omen, to warn against writing. I once was proud to have straddled that schism — science vs art, right vs left brain, it’s all been psychologically accepted, right?. Am I a blasphemy, bipolar, the center of some venn diagram? (I’d quote King Crimson but it’s cliche). I no longer care, I think poetry’s poisoned me, because of my fast imagination, I cannot function. Over the microbiology manuscript, I obsess, I re-edit, I can’t write these science sentences, they’re too terse. (“Analysis paralysis”? Please give your mother my thanks.) I become numb, expend entire days, entire weeks, I could be fired for getting paid to read your article when I’m supposed to be writing!I struggle and freeze and take each day singly (always demolishing it) and at the end, on the teary bike ride to home, through the wind at 3 am, i hope tomorrow will be different.I must admit I was disappointed with your essay’s ending. I hoped for some savior sentence, some nugget to nudge at us, even if it gleamed disingenuously in a pyrite promise. But people don’t escape this. (it makes me think we ARE fated.) While you think of Wallace, I think of Rimbaud: if we manage to not wreck ourself, will pressing the other button make us become boring? I enjoy my off-target verbosity. I refuse to relinquish it. But shit I need some sleep. Thank you for your straightened sentences, I wish I could write such matchsticks myself, complete this damn manuscript and get rest!

    (101118, AT RUMPUS, RESPONDING TO AN ESSAY BY SAM TWYFORD-MOORE ABOUT THE ASSOCIATION OF WRITING WITH DEPRESSION)

    ► ► ►
    I’m interested in your “answers” end, yes,
    give us some pragmatic magic!A thought, an essay
    once rubbed me the wrong way,
    “against multiculturalism”…
    the author preferring the prefix “cross-“;
    it had attacked insularity.pardon me, but would you like to dance with me?
    (and may i call you madam, or ma’am,
    shall i say hey, or yo, or just ask outright,
    how might i not rub you wrongly?
    (this sitch is ever apparent
    when trying to jibe and be genial
    with the transgendered.))& yet i whimpered,
    wanting to be amiable and kind to all people,
    respecting and even querying
    the unfamiliar homes from which they came;
    always understanding how our outwardness is arbitrary.
    (yes my frizzlock flyaways, even,
    yet certainly selected, unlike my pale pallor.
    &yet-yet: though
    I actually just let them “be”,
    similar to the bowl-“fro”
    its pull to be full,
    oh please allow it to be round,
    like a mahogany halo!
    Wow!)I worry, or wonder, and want to hear your “answer” end —
    could the egalitarian writer, wanting
    to hark love for the other,
    be spurned instead: “you you’re white,
    you know nothin
    bout how we feel walkin
    down the streets
    fullo poe lease!!”This is the problem of multiculturalism (methinks?):
    a group getting obliquely eyed,
    or worse, ignored, can have allies
    but still must assert its pride.
    To speak about the problem,
    to describe and circumscribe,
    might mean we must draw lines,
    using silly titles,
    black dark queer African
    color nigger motherfucker?I hate it.
    I want the problem dead and away.
    But to hold my head high like Condoleeza Rice,
    insisting, unless asked, that it’s trivial & over,
    she so cordial and genial,
    shouldn’t she be angry?
    Aren’t those labels and lines important?
    Am I asshole to quote Beatles, speak of rainbows?Actually, I never thought nor looked,
    but Rox, or others, I ask:
    is there a whole body of philosophy
    strictly about the interracial peoples,
    something forward-thinking, not lamenting,
    aiming for labellessness?
    Such situations really get at the heart of it all.
    I would like that a lot.
    I am an anarchist I guess.I admire that “cross-culturalism”,
    nice nomenclature,
    as it asks us to still talk about it.
    Ever done a contra-dance?
    You lose your partner really quickly,
    end up holding the elbows of old ladies unexpectedly.
    But my big worry is:
    as such, an orgy of handshakes,
    hodgepodge of cultural allusions,
    does it dilute the rich language,
    annihilate heritage?Is there value in the “whole package”?
    Or are we hippies, people, lovers, minds,
    pepper, diamond, oboe, kudzu
    sharp, full, infecting, lovely?

    (IMPROMPTU POEM ON HTMLGIANT, 101206, RESPONSE TO A VERY THOUGHTFUL POST BY ROXANE GAY ABOUT RACISM IN PUBLISHING)

    ► ► ►
    Your protagonist seems wonderfully idiosyncratic. Hooray.I believe personally that authors ought write only to quell the passionate self that can’t sit still inside, can’t stop quivering with words and ideas and wonderings and fears and affirmations and fervor, appreciation and remembrances, wishes that the “done” was different. The audience is a thing we people LIVE at, not write at. If you live (whether watching, or interacting, or just letting the heat and weight of it pummel and melt you) FOR others and TO others and UNDER others, then the writing will erupt out. I presume you are deft enough to carry a small notebook always, to jot those magma moments, they happen fast, and they are the seeds of giante majestic avocado trees.On most “issues” (eg, your perceived identity, and what you might do about it), debate can be interminable, there is no easy answer, it’s the ceaseless swing of a pendulum, even your internal searches for a firm opinion. Much of it is just perspective. I’m reading Zen now: some say all thoughts are wasteful, anyway! Personally I love such contradiction and duality, how things can first seem one way, a honey factory, humming and zooming, superlative; and then, on the contrary, on a snowy day, shadowy maybe, whoah, what a wasteland, a desolate cracked epic ancient hive. If you are finding that the lines aren’t straight, then that is a splendid thing about which to write. Spell out your vascillations, take your character on a kayak around the river’s meanders.And if you still keep thinking about what others will think, then perhaps try to challenge the possibility of impulsive first opinions, perhaps churn all your too-black elements into too-white situations — I surmise it would froth up a lovely cupcake cream.

    (COMMENTING AT THE NERDY NEGRESS, 101206)

    ► ► ►
    “tim that also flops; see the pointy prow that parts the water? you stick a missile in your missive when you say “gimme gimme”, (methinks).the they who bop in poverty have a special liberty. a cello is not a pinnacle. one can concoct an interleaving textile with the things they’ve found, it only takes practice and imagination. Oulipans instantly understand constraint — it is not some penury but rather a forced coherency, idiosyncrasy, an honesty a lot less contrived than all that pre-fab couch-and-curtain semi-American upholstery.(yet of course, as in all, there is too a lot of shit)”

    HAMPTON HOOTS AT HTMLGIANT, BLESSING THE SLICK MAG SHE’LL SOON BE FOR SALE IN, WHILE ASKING THE ANTHROPOLOGY OF MONEY-GUILT, MONEY-APOLOGY. ONE TIM CHIRPS ALONG, A SAD SONG SAYING AINT ART ALTERED IF PENNILESS?, 101208

    ► ► ►
    Yes I think that this is it: What will cause someone to be so smitten by the muse? Why me, why you; yet why not ABCDEFG and most of our alphabetical stand-in-line society?But there is also a humanism and sympathy and hope for an open humanity, a handholding sort. In black caverns it gets called socialism, but good cultist Jeez would certainly have approved.The SF Diggers really said a lot of it well, however hippy-stylized were their words. For better un-slang prose, see “Deep Tried Frees”, a wonderfully lit-worthy essay interpreting the aforementioned, mostly masterminded by the man who discovered Bill B, the secret lost beat.As for other cultures, there might be a taboo or two, but in many sudden lotterylike situations, money is always money, we all have our fantasies. The largest cultural difference between the West and the rest is the breakdown of the family. Many foreigners send back every penny, whereas I still haven’t even bought a button from the campaign to aid my friends being held hostage in Iran. (Fattal and I once tried to revive Kaliflower for a new generation, actually).I hope you all don’t hate me. Seriously, be good to one another, be honest, be open that anyone is anyone. And think about how nice it is to have community. There is plenty of “free” that goes on WITHIN the family, but otherwise there is a mystical spirit responsible, a sparkle we call charity, we call music, we call serendipity.

    AND THEN I GO ON, ELABORATE MORE ABOUT MY OWN ANARCHISM/COMMUNALISM/KINDNESS, AND BRAVELY NAMEDROP MY BEST COMPATRIOTS, HECK NO ONE WILL UNDERSTAND ME ANYWAY, HTMLGIANT, 101208

    ► ► ►
    “√ an irony it is, reading a long lament about literary phlegm & its contagion, wagged with prattling comments!

    √√ at first i thought i thought this ten years thence, then started squirming, Lily-like, learning you too share my recent turnoff tendency, aiming instead for mindfulness.

    √√√ Ye HG smarties tacitly shrink and irk me, having scarcely read and struggling to, yet it matters not: beyond Mister Minor it’s otherwise impossible! Give up and follow your prosody-nose.

    √√√√ Profusion-pollution: I accept its ceaselessness if it is:{comedic, the-kindly-kind-of-inflammatory, guru-encouragement-homework-assignment, pro-otherness-thus-various, pepped-didactics}. more,more,more of all of this, but cork the rest of the fraying ephemeral rah,rah,rah!”

    (IN RESPONSE TO A LONGWINDED/GOOD LAMENT ABOUT OUR CURRENT GLUTTONY SOCIETY, on HTMLGIANT, 110114)


    ► ► ►
    thanks i think
    this narcolept has been asleep.
    strong jarring or harmony color, combined with the oblique,
    makes something in an analysts mind blip, become awake,
    better than an essay, graph or fact, nothing to say.

    when will the act become a wholesome cult?

    we can om or hum, or heave in the museum,
    and push brush, clack the iron arms in staccato rhythm
    to quell the idleness that the street soot makes,
    and look, pleasant detritus that the beat
    reverberates, like a leaflet
    which we paw and try to apprehend,
    but perhaps was dropped
    as my helpless head keeps compelled by gravity,
    any way to molt away reality.

    (COMMENT-POEM IN RESPONSE TO AN HTMLGIANT POST BY CHRISTOPHER HIGGS, A VISUAL ESSAY OF MODERNIST PAINTINGS, 110729)

► ► ►

  • BIOCHEMIST (NON)COMMERCIAL BREAK:
    (I apologize, I went overboard but I study something related)
    “Why Kale is nutricious”:
    mutations are from irreparable breaks in your DNA. (I don’t know much about cancer so i can’t comment on why sometimes it stimulates tumors, but i could speculate that breaks occur at regulatory elements, throwing cell division out of whack)… these breaks are basically chemically severed bonds. nuclear type radiation, i also don’t know too much about radiation, alpha particles and beta particles, i forget… but it’s similar to UV except that radiation can pass thru many materials. and carcinogens are just chemicals which get inside you, but all of them will do the same things — not only can they break bonds, but they create oxidants. We usually talk about ROS in science, which stands for Reactive Oxygen Species, and is a class of molecules which include peroxides, superoxide, hydroxyl radicals, and singlet oxygen. peroxides can come in many forms, the simplest being H2O2 (the stuff you pour on your cuts), and a complex example being a lipd peroxide. a lipid peroxide forms when ROS oxidizes the lipids in your cell membranes. that doesn’t immediately break a bond, as I had mentioned earlier, but it will lead to breaking the *membrane*. when a cell loses its membrane’s ability to separate, the cell is DEAD DEAD DEAD. (everything then can leak out). The bad part about ROS is that most of the reactions they cause (breaking DNA bonds, breaking protein/enzyme bonds, compromising membrane integrity) creates ANOTHER ROS molecule afterwards, so it’s a self-propagating effect. this is why ROS can wreak havoc on a cell. Our cells have a bit of native ANTIOXIDANT molecules, (which basically neutralize ROS), glutathione being one of them… but PLANTS have the most. why? because plants (and algae and cyanobacteria) perform OXYGENIC PHOTOSYNTHESIS. This is the dominant form of photosynthesis which uses water, H2O, as an electron-donor (the electrons then get passed through a chain of intermediary moleules, almost like a wire, and in the process create conditions which provide the energy for cells to make energy-storing molecules (you probably know about ATP, but carbohydrates, lipids, proteins too…)…. when photosynthesis gets its electrons from H2O, there is O2 left over. It’s a byproduct. But O2 (molecular oxygen) is OXIDIZING (hence its namesake), it’s one of the best oxidizers, in fact O2 accepts electrons from that wire-concept-process, which happens in your mitochondria, reforming water. The problem is that O2 is so good at accepting electrons, it can (accidentally?) do it prematurely, when it’s close to certain molecules. One molecule that can be a donor to O2 is EXCITED CHLOROPHYLL, the plant pigment that powers photosynthesis. This only happens when it’s illuminated, the excited energy (from sunlight) usually hops from chlorophyll to chlorophyll, but it can also hop (and bring an electron with it) over to O2!!! And then what happens? ROS, free radicals, wreak havoc on all sorts of important molecules, as described above! So plants have a particular problem whereby they are really susceptible to ROS formation. Hence PLANTS HAVE LOTS OF ANTIOXIDANTS!! and, which parts of the plants are the best? the photosynthetic parts, THE LEAVES! This is why eating leafy green is good for us, and also why they are a good source of vitamins. Some other organisms happen to have a lot of antioxidants too, probably because they evolved around something that makes a lot of ROS. I WANT TO KNOW THE MICROBIOLOGY ABOUT KOMBUCHA TOO! But there isn’t much known, indeed. I bet that the microbes which comprise the Kombucha community involve some which make ROS, and then some of the other microbes make antioxidants to protect themselves against it.
    This (non)commercial biochemistry lesson was brought to you by Rainbox Chard, the cyanobacterium Arthrospira maxima (mis-identified as Spirulina), the letter A, and the number 8.
    XOXOMM.
    (POSTED 110315 on AYLA NEREO’S FACEBOOK, RESPONDING TO A LINK ABOUT KOMBUCHA AND KELP AND OTHER FOODS TO PROTECT AGAINST RADIATION)

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