SOME KIND OF COMPULSION AT PLAY
“What the metaphysics of the industrial revolutions demands is that anything that can be exploited, must be. Some kind of compulsion is at play. An insatiability.”
— Hunter Bolin, “Unworldliness: A Pathology of Humankind (On Günther Anders’s Negative Anthropology)”
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The libido of late capitalism numbs the imagination. Contemporary novels reflect this paucity of ecstasy, the continuous desolation of being ravished by nothingness, consumed by the undertone of our planned obsolescence. In the era of Televangelical Materialism, the soul is sold to a screen and heaven (or eternity) is an impulse purchase. We don’t even get to argue about what “nous” might mean before handing it along to the wealthy prophets of prosperity and abundance.
“Been to America, been to Europe, it's the same shit.” Clearly, as that wise Canadian known as Destroyer noted, “the idea of the world is no good”:
The terrain is no good / The sea's blasted poem / A twinkle in the guitar player's eye
Cue synthesizer / Cue guitar / Cue synthesizer Wherever you are
At which point I defer/refer to one of my favorite parking lot choreographies in the annals of music video:
“Like everything that's come before, you are gone.”
Several times at AWP, these lyrics met me in the chaos of seeing beloved humans—and missing countless others— at that room known as the Book Fair, averring: “I look around the room, we are a room of pit ponies / Drowning forever in a sea of love ”
There are many ways to drown, and one reckons with this each time drowning occurs differently. I am hungry for writing that reflects the ordinary strangeness of revolutionary conditions, like the shock of remembrance that becomes a presence. At a rest area in Mississippi yesterday, the invitation of clover growing too fast for the mowers, and then reading something that prompted a memory of a similar day in adolescence, when the Mary Kay sales rep parked her pink Cadillac in our driveway and my mom invited her into the kitchen. Her name was Michelle Pearson, she was a “missionary”: a person who lived off the love of others and God’s will, as she put it, in her white fur coat and Tammy Faye eyelashes. Michelle asked money to fund a mission trip to "save the children of Africa" who were "starving without Bibles." I cannot forget that scene, and how it speaks to the nihilism of the present.
INTERLUDE WHEREIN LIBRARY CARDS ARE THE ONLY PASSPORT THAT SHOULD MATTER
THE CHASMS I NEED
“His writing dares to convey so little that it confronts us with the true chasm of ellipsis…”
— Andres Neuman (translated by Robin Myers) on Kafka in an essay on hunger artists for Franz
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On the road yesterday, passed a dead armadillo which resembled my soul and thought how quickly it all becomes rearview. No one talked about tracking a thing in the rear view before autos. We look back longer at this speed I think.
RIP soul. I shall return with a roadside cross for you. Shall shawl that cross with plethoras of those eternal plastic flowers which promise to last “forever” and are therefore all we can really know of heaven besides radium and cockroaches.
Two books that have been stellar company today:
Disintegration Made Plain and Easy, a poetry collection by Kiik Araki-Kawaguchi from Piżama Press
Unsavory Thoughts, a prosodic creature by Thomas Walton from Sagging Meniscus
Tant pis, I cannot share any of Kiik’s poems yet because the collection will be released in May, but I can encourage you to pre-order it—which I am actively doing.
As for Thomas’ book, it is new and waiting and utterly bingeworthy. Even the epigraphs are tantalizing:
“The Buzzcocks combined punk with a sort of sentimentalism,” I thought to myself while driving yesterday.
“Thomas Walton had my complete attention from the get-go, with the fantastic use he makes of the “preface” as a site of temporal frottage,” I say to you now— enclovered, still admiring the injunction of the titular.
Here you are then: a little pharmakos from Thomas. “A little medicine to make us sick, a little poison to make us well,” which made me think of a part in Swann’s Way, in James Grieve’s translation of Proust, where the speaker says:
Only the day before, had I not wanted to avoid upsetting Gilberte, I would have settled for infrequent meetings with her; but now these could no longer have satisfied me, and my conditions would have been different. For in love, unlike war, the more one is defeated, the more one imposes very harsh conditions; and one constantly tries to make them harsher—if one is actually in a position to impose any, that is.
Acknowledging that he is “not in this position” with Gilberte, Proust’s speaker says he is determined not to go back to the Swann house. Alas, the pharmakos doesn't serve its function where reverie and love are concerned; for there is “a new pain”:
I also went on telling myself that Gilberte did not love me, that I had known this for ages, that I could see her whenever I liked, and that, if I preferred not to see her, I would eventually forget her. But these thoughts, like a medication that has no effect on certain disorders, were quite ineffectual against what came intermittently to my mind: those two close silhouettes of Gilberte and that young man, stepping slowly along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. This was a new pain, but one that would eventually fade and disappear in its turn; it was an image which one day would come back to my mind with all its noxious power neutralized, like those deadly poisons that can be handled without danger, or the small piece of dynamite one can use to light a cigarette without fear of being blown up. For the time being, though, there was another force in me, fighting for all it was worth against the pernicious impulse that kept showing me, without the slightest alteration, Gilberte walking through the twilight: working against memory, trying to withstand its repeated onslaughts, there was the quiet and helpful endeavor of imagination. The force of memory went on showing the pair walking down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, along with other irksome images from the past….
And it is spring, the season before the summering which commits me to my annual Proust re-reading. So many summers of my life are saturated by Proust’s presence, his metaphors and reversals. Friends come and go but Proustian summers manage to remain and continue like the metaphysical baller, himself.
Cue my brain at the rest stop again:
Cue violin sonata for the award-winning rest area in upper Louisiana where I learned that many people are praying for me and other sinners at the RV place! Was also told to “expect excellence from the Lord”! Fantastic slogan-riffing occurring out here. Bavardage with eschaton!
Cue Tristan Tzara’s lament, “The Death of Guillaume Apollinaire”, as translated by Mary Ann Caws and marked up with my sublimated ardors and envy of avian creatures that transgress borders continually:
In sum, dim sum, bright green—- and everything that begins in “This quiet”, as with this with poem by Gunter Grass translated by Michael Hamburger and Middleton, shared by Tom Snarsky. All of it so wrong, and so beautiful.
Cue synthesizer.
And you, wherever U R —