Archive for January, 2009

media / links / pages / comments / polls

i came across the term ‘dog days’ a long time ago in the christina stead novel for love alone, wherein a cantankerous aunt says something like ‘we’re in the dog days of summer’… i looked up the term & i think (if i remember correctly) it referred to the sirius constellation, the dog star, & how this became prominent during the hottest part of the year. interestingly i think it only has relevance in the northern hemisphere (?) & so stead’s use of the term has a couple of meanings when her characters are so obviously placed in australia (while also so obviously being somewhat different to the run-of-the-mill australian).

it has been so hot though. (44 predicted today – 111 if you’re on the old scale…)

& the other day on the way back from canberra i had just one cd on because i couldn’t change it without stopping. the augie march song ‘dogsday’ must have played 4 times. unsure how he’s using the ‘dog’ reference (i haven’t studied the lyric) but it’s a beautiful song.

this live verion isn’t the best but it’s the only one i could find: augie march – dogsday

focus

‘I should become more intense. It may have an interesting, even dramatic, effect on my writing.’

Michael Dransfield. Journal d’un homme vide: 10.20pm, March 30, 1967

 

& then, from the 1968 Journal, August 20, 

‘When did I lose my identity?’

 

perhaps somewhere in between the two entries, taking that trip towards ‘intensity’…

 

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success & the malcontents

 

for chris brennan

 

even publishing weft poem in the

contretemps of undergrad: not

unimpressed

 

(unimpressed you reflecting on nixon

as minister, token-ring metaphor for

dying, farrago of your nimble hands

 

unimpressed to kiss one clucky alsakan

mineral exploration company

on the lips, thinking tame animals,

viscera, the magnitude & whatever

 

unimpressed by spice girls quasi-

nkotb reunions – belated hugs post

the post-office encounter, unimpressed)

 

then defining ‘horsey set’ online we

nebulise, form a preppy junta: ǝןıɯs

capacity to stew

 

world peace is boring ineluctable as urban

dining-strip debate my phone charged &

facilitates the workshop in cow-breeding

i love you like liberalism like australian

democracy you’re so celery cool in the

rental-fridge only buddhism gets in the way

painted hippy discourse on some walls i’m

fallible a handmade mailbox tilted to gravel

red under blue the sunset a bomb going off

out of reach just fascism in europe like an

anarchic state how about power & resistance

meant to water your fern parquet geese on the

mall floor poked out your eye just lolling there

in the afternoon

i saw a bell shakespeare production of Hamlet once – the only one i’ve ever seen. i can’t even recall a movie version. in this production the actor playing hamlet gave particular emphasis to a word. it was the word ‘words’, the second half of a response uttered when hamlet is asked what he is reading. it’s the beginning of his descent into madness, sure. for no other reason would one say one is simply reading ‘words’. it makes a mockery of the meaning that language [can] signify. & yet it’s humorous on many levels: the play itself is just words, & we are somewhat silly to indulge it the time; but also, the emphasis i saw given to the repeated ‘words’ was sarcastic – you, the interlocutor, know i am reading words, thus my response is perfectly null & void, &, i myself (hamlet) know i am reading words, & i am mocking you becuase your question provides the chance to do so – it is part of a grander idea i have in mind [plot / narrative / death]. the point is, how much credit can we give to conclusive statements that are born aphoristically? these things are just words too, part of some grander plan or not. the ownership of sentiment is vague at best.

there was, possibly still is, a Respect program in my local region, spearheaded by well-meaning members of the communiy. i allowed it space in the way that one ignores such movements that are well-intentioned but don’t seem to touch upon things vital. but someone did voice to me that perhaps this group’s interest was semantically warped – did ‘respect’, as they saw it, mean respect for other’s private property? were they trying to encourage the younger generation to ‘respect’ the goods the older had accumulated? i was surprised. damn, & then adorno writes:

‘…it is part of morality not to be at home in one’s home. This gives some indication of the difficult relationship in which the individual now stands to his property, as long as he still possesses anything at all. The trick is to keep in view, & to express, the fact that private property no longer belongs to one, in the sense that consumer goods have become potentially so abundant that no individual has the right to cling to principle of their limitation; but that one must nevertheless have possessions, if one is not to sink into that dependence and need which serves the blind perpetuation of property relations. But the thesis of this paradox leads to destruction, a loveless disregard for things which necessarily turns against people too; & the antithesis, no sooner uttered, is an ideology for those wishing with a bad conscience to keep what they have. Wrong life cannot be lived rightly.’

is that final sentence (emboldened by me) seductively true? if not, if we see through it or around it, why end with it? the preceeding logic is logical enough i suppose. these are the ‘words, words’ uttered for a potential multiplicity of purposes. like hamlet’s shady sarcasm it’s kinda good to see.

the other day

sure, the poetics of space is a virtually impenetrable text, but now we find there is merit in approaching the everyday spaces from a different angle. we calmly pull a fold-up chair over to that nook in the backyard that is never used, & sit there, observing the odd way light falls on a corrugated shed, the curious manner in which fleeting sounds are added to the daily mix from this vantage. we pull a few pillows & a blanket into the bathroom, sleep where it’s hard & cool, measuring out random drips. we’ll venture into the man-hole because it’s there for a reason – take stock of the hidden assortment of dirt, mini-marsupials, & newspapers from the 20s. something is gained perhaps & yes then when i walk through the gate & out to get something from the car, i feel wonderful. just appreciating the feel of dry grass scathing feet. placing your cheek right down to the concrete warmth, observing, awaiting the ants. it’s all hopeful.

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according to noveau

thought grooves are happy. insurance agent against phenomena

goes like leavened bread outputs breakfast cereal with his sunset.

upsurge. an in-house profiling disseminates the hatred / lust something

or other, calculated addresses increment to groups of LED flip plugs.

into antennas: the primal scene the case-based likening of stupidity.

staged a kinetic movement drama; set-design by mork. media ignores

content phased by a seamless elipse, brokered off-shore, pissweak.

 

one text to another seeds laughter, motorised sensuality affords us this

saturation-point, expect not to know what to expect. foggy girls in glasses.

water on the face illumines your t-shirt, spikes across the jogging shoes

swerve to spare life-formulaic. a screened descent to push out the utter

visuals once made for looking, feeling & hot for heat – as trapped in

epic studio space with a packet of minties as the whole jazz age

wishes it could be. me. the cat at the door. staff observing

window content over a gilt shoulder. energy drink.

christmas day 08

p1010174

 

port fairy, portland (home of the portland poet) & tuross. but now, back home, back to the blog, the phd, the writing…

oh yeah:

adam fieled reviews fourW nineteen.

my review of jen craford’s bad appendix is in the latest famous reporter.

 

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