DAY 156 – once upon a time
DAY 1 – a visit to xxxxxxx; a meeting with xxxxxxx; inclement weather
DAY 67 – a long wait results in definitive plans for
DAY 116 – research and sore feet
DAY 123 – travelogue (silent film)
DAY 144 – the view from here, looking through Northwest windows
DAY 157 – in bed together, reading aloud from
[text on screen/more or less illegible]
Once upon a time, near the end of
In an old house, by a dark lake, there lived
And in this old house, by the dark lake,
there were hieroglyphs written in the language of
Mirror scars, half-moon shapes,
walking hand in hand at the water’s edge,
torn formations under foot
DAY 159 – what are these scars, how did they get there, and what do they sound like?
DAY 163 – initial attempt at translation
DAY 196 – a conversation regarding
DAY 201 – hardwood process, difficulty in naming
DAY 203 – several hours in the library reading the history of
DAY 211 – finished sanding today, ready to paint
DAY 256 – time spent this afternoon recovering silver
DAY 292 – an Express-Mail delivery, a wrong-number call
[scratched text on screen/a poem?]
absent and written
written without warning
in a quickly fading voice
in a moment almost gone
your hand on my body
my body beside me
in outline only
where am I the outline asks
DAY 296 – coming to terms with a new vocabulary, slowly
DAY 303 – chroma pharmakon
DAY 381 – sitting here this morning, writing this today: from a very great distance, seeing the faint outline of buildings through the slowly dissipating fog
DAY xxx – and at any given moment
hands and voices
Weena Perry and David Gatten
David Gatten 1996
cadence [from cadere, to fall] as opposed to the calculative and regularizing measure of the coercive author
To write poetry is measure-taking, understood in the strict sense of the word by which man first receives the measure for the breadth of his being. Man exists as a mortal. He is called mortal because he can die. To be able to die means: to be capable of death as death. Only man dies—and indeed continually, so long as he stays on this earth, so long as he dwells. His dwelling, however, rests in the poetic. Holderlin sees the nature of the “poetic” as the taking of the measure by which the measure-taking of human being is accomplished.
A strange measure for ordinary and in particular also for all merely scientific ideas, certainly not a palpable stick or rod but in truth simpler to handle than they, provided our hands do not abruptly grasp but are guided by gestures befitting the measure here to be taken. This is done by a taking which at no time clutches at the standard but rather takes it in a concentrated perception, a gathering taking-in, that remains a listening.
But why should this measure, which is so strange to us men of today, be addressed to man and imparted by the measure-taking of poetry? Because only this measure gauges the very nature of man. For man dwells by spanning the “on the earth” and “beneath the sky.” This “on” and “beneath” belong together. Their interplay is the span that man traverses at every moment insofar as he is and earthly being.
[Heidegger, “…Poetically Man Dwells…” in Poetry, Language, Thought trans. Albert Hofstadter (New York: Harper & Row, 1971), pp.221-23.]
While the countless tribes of common novels laboriously spin vails of mystery, only to complacently clear them up at last … yet the profounder emanations of the human mind, intended to illustrate all that can be humanly known of human life; these never unravel their own intricacies, and have no proper endings; but in imperfect, unanticipated, and disappointing sequels (as mutilated stumps), hurry to abrupt intermergings with the eternal tides of time and fate.
not as land looks on a map
but as seabord by men sailing
[Pound, “Canto 59,” The Cantos (New York: New Directions, 1970), p.324
A book should contain pure discoveries, glimpses of terra firma, though by shipwrecked mariners, and not the art of navigation by those who have never been out of sight of land.
I’ll put care where you are, on those streets I know as well (or better:
I have the advantage
I was a letter carrier, read postcards, lamped checks, talked at the back
I’ll meet you anywhere you say (the beer’s best—the pipes are kept
at the Anchor Inn (as the old captain called his bar,
with an old name.
You know it (at the heard of the Atlantic Supply wharf, “Piney’s wharf,”
it got called, from Ben’s magazine fame, Collier’s and all those
You see I can get away from the old measure of care: how your magazine
don’t raise me,
not even Hugh Hill, whose triangles
are so nicely made but the course he’s running
doesn’t strike me as good enough
to come home a winner (as the Bluenose so often did
after the Columbia was lost
(did you know, by the way,
that it was off Sable
that she did go down?
that a trawler, a few years back,
caught her nose,
and she came up long enough,
before the beam broke,
for the letters to be read, gold
on black? COLUMBIA
[Charles Olson, “Letter 5,” The Maximus Poems, ed. George F. Butterick (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), pp.26-27.]
one side of an email conversation
send various people bits of the work, and respond to their responses, without attribution, except maybe at the end.
mick, mitch, hooly, pete, maybe teddy and neil, maybe Scott McDonald?, Vincent?
epistolary, the idea of waiting for reply; the contrast with Evelyn and Mourdant; the idea of telepathy, anticipation, invention;
Melville and the Agatha story; Hawthorne;
citation; quotation, esp. poetry (Benjamin);