I WROTE THIS PART WHILE DRINKING SCHNAPPS:
This book is horizontal. It STTRREEETTCHESSSS like this, like “places I kept returning to…” (like blankness, the humming torments of unfaithful memory–there are no fucking page numbers in this book!), like yawning, like when “I maneuver down the hollow.”
This book is dedicated “To all those I’ve lied to.” Lie as confession, as taunt, as storyteller, as shaman, as word, as truly, truly sanctification.
This book has photos, many photos (49 total images, I think). This is a book of juxtaposition. These photos, I think several things…
Sometimes they are defectless, organic, blooming in the furrows between the pages.
Sometimes they are forced, even arranged (a textbook for photographic concepts: wide angle, Z-Axis, Directing the Eye).
Sometimes they are neither, the best way, open to me, to my synapse fire, to oddness and strangeness and blur….
[“I do not fit in myself”]
[“Lee. Don’t touch nothing.”]
[“It was wet from the river, it clung to your body.”]
3rd person objective. The camera eye (literally). Layered with internal monologue, the interior voice. A talking photo. A thoughtful photo. What are you doing? The first photo is emptiness. The last photo is emptiness. There was nowhere to go, as long as I was myself. You want me to say Sebald, but fuck Sebald (sorry, I don’t mean that). My point is: This isn’t Sebald. This is Fuel-can eating fist sleeping bag dick, Moby Dick. Who is he? I want to say right now on this blog he is not aware that the loss of communal life, the degradation and dehumanization of collective work as a result of capitalist division of labor, and the severance of human relations from social activity have stupefied him. She was a bad actress, but there was no movie, there was no acting. I would like to light my velvet pipe, stuff it with velvet tobacco, lean back, and say to you now that only sophistry could infer the “existence” of nonbeing. The nothingness which fascinates recent literary folks/analysts is a myth of declining capitalist society, and I should know. I got your tower ivory. The earth is black and buckled.
A SCENE FROM TUESDAY:
I finished the Andrew Zornoza book and it had me thinking. It was a small animal gnawing my shin, a teething, bloody type of thinking. I had class in five minutes and my head felt like the way men lay on a loading dock. You know how reading can be a cave (writing too, and Percodan). I didn’t know how I was going to use these feelings from Zornoza’s book in my class. I mean I wanted to do something.
So I took the class down to the BSU art museum and told them to touch something, to reach out and teach a piece of art, a painting or a sculpture. The BSU museum contains Warhol and Greek statues and Jesus bleeding all over lush crosses and all those museum necessities. The response was interesting:
14% Immediately walked up and touched a piece of art (no alarms went off, if you were wondering)
36% Just stood there. They paced, mumbled, leaned close to the art, or faked it, but I didn’t see one make physical contact. (Admittedly, the museum was filled with cameras, temperature indicators, one lanky cop, and a gaggle of student museum workers, all in red shirts)
20% Said they touched the art, but were in different rooms. The BSU museum is large.
28% Refused to touch the art.
1% Told me I was an idiot.
1% Left the class-in-progress and walked home.
[Only two students were caught touching the art. Both were simply told, “Don’t touch the art.”]
We walked back to our classroom. The sky looked like a scrapbook full of mutilated novels. It rained, hard.
THIS IS WHERE I PLACE THE BOOK COVER INTO A HILLSIDE ABOVE A BUS ACCIDENT:
LANGUAGE AND IDEAS:
In my bag I carried a comic book, black cover: The Death of Superman. I thought if I had to I could always sell it. Eventually I used the cardboard backing to sit on when it was raining.
(The role of art, utilitarian versus art’s sake)
The lights of the town flickered through the leaves, dim gold spangles on the water.
Later that night, there is some crying and a dream. The dream is that these two men are connected with several aluminum umbilical cords. The cords grow tighter and pull them closer together. They begin to make love. When they are about to finish one pulls away because suddenly he is aware that one of them will strangle the other.
(Freudian dilemma, society versus self)
SHOULD YOU READ THIS BOOK?
Yes. Three times. Here is the last page, pretty great way to end things indeed.