For Auld Lang Syne, by Tom Browne in The Night Side of London (1902)
. . .
Happy New Year
4 Propositions for A Monetarist Theory of Time
  1. However it is measured
    time depends on expectations
    of trends in the supply.
  2. Because any observations
    are ‘clouded by problems’
    observed time changes in supply.
  3. Identification
    at one and the same
    time changes demand.
  4. The same demand making
    one time how much
    each is being observed.
- Alan Halsey, from
Sections Drawn Across The Vortex

. . .

Salve qui peut

In my fifties I began catching up with post-1960 English poetry Roy Fisher, J. H. Prynne, Bill Griffiths and last year I reached Alan Halsey, who quickly became a sentimental favorite.

Halsey's publications bolt around the field like a deranged beagle: drawings and collages; an anarcho-scholastic Robin Hood book and Shelley memorial; tossed-off proto-Flarf; cans of evaporated "Lives of the Poets" rolling out the condensery.... Happily for me, my favorite mode is one he started early, conveniently concentrated in Not Everything Remotely, and kept up, still going in his recent skinny-volume, Even if only out of:

it’s not as if meaning means
the imaginary something
something like ‘menagerie’
a hinge of exchange or henge
that hangs in the air and the air
as if obliged hangs itself

It could be called nonsense verse with an adult vocabulary, like the Zukofsky which reeled me in during my inflamed youth. Sometimes it packs the oomph of an adult nursery rhyme along Niedecker or Spicer lines (Halsey namechecks all three); mostly, though, it's lighter, Zukofsker, import dissolving into the clack of nudged semantic tiles on a slider puzzle of found (or pounded down the gullet) sounds:

Broken Mirror

Present fragment included as
the dream working up to it
is no small thing to be saved.
If there is a war there is

therefore an external world
and these books, there is a world ex-
tended, present fragment included,
one’s order is the mirror

of another one’s chaos. Man
the measure tidies up until
no more remains of the remains
to be seen written out on the irritable

surface. The secrets of the skin-
deep defeat us, we have perfect
recoil as the argument turns,
on the point of death indistinct

as our present perception
and possessions in troops
and troops all the same are
or have to be recalled.

Present fragment as the dream working
up to it is no small thing and nothing
like to be saved. If there is a war there is
therefore an external world and a world ex-

tended, present fragment included,
one’s order is the mirror of another one’s chaos.
Man the measure tidies up until no more remains
of the remains to be seen written out on

its irritable surface: the secrets of the skin-
deep fade among the souls of the souls
in infinite regression which like kings of Europe
with its multitudes and neighbouring tribes

fall out. Across that corner of the field
of vision which is England with its tax
on memory, its perfect recoil. In which the
argument turns on the point of death indistinct

as present perception and possessions in troops and
troops all the same are or have to be recalled.

Halsey's verses include "auguries," "emblems," "charms," and "spells," and to the receptive soul that's how they work not a splashy stunt like levitating the Pentagon but the soothing mundane magic of mumbled beads and mantras and whistling in the dark. Keeping us safe by keeping us surfaced.

A lot is "political poetry" in the only sense I really understand, the sense where political formulae happen to be stuck in there clanking and thumping and crooning catchy obscenities along with all the other semi-organic clutter which can only be gotten out of your head physically. When life puts nits in your mind's ear, you just got to balance your itsy-bitsy top hat on your scalp, tweezer up your teensy whip, and make flea circus out of that shit: flea aerialists triple-somersaulting, flea bareback deranged-beagle-riders, that line of political poetry.

Along that line, Halsey has an edge on Zukofsky, whose interest in political economics stopped at the end of the 1930s around the same time his terminology obsolesced. Whereas Halsey had the good fortune to start at the dawn of the Thatcherite/Reaganomics hell we still inhabit. It's made a crap world but a steady muse.

"An edge on Zukofsky" ain't a commercially viable location, though. Just like with poor ol' Zuk and poor ol' Beddoes, Halsey's enthusiasts will always be outnumbered by the indifferent and the irritated. That last might be even the reason I looked Halsey up; it's the kind of bad review which would make me want to read the target.

You tell me what kind of good review this is.

It certainly isn't going to pretend that the peculiar satisfaction of these peculiar needs is particularly admirable or ideologically sound. Donald Rumsfeld was just as dependent on the dictionary and just as prone to dissolve sense in pattern. I suppose I would go so far as to posit that some nonsense verse is less toxic and more restorative than others and that the writer and readers of Through the Looking Glass are somehow better than Humpty Dumpty and the Red Queen. I wouldn't go so far as to claim that they're better than Alice.


Michael Orlando writes:

Thanks for the Beddoes link, I've thought that about HM since I was intoduced to him via a Chinese backdoor by Schafer.

. . .

Consider the source

Assessing a sentimental favorite entails some self-assessment.

. . .

Science news

EL CERRITO, CA - Several hours before dawn, this hipster enclave hosted its latest innovation: the first public trial of a new approach to California's devastating drought.

After a brief transition signalled by translucent green curds, tap water was replaced with streams of guacamole. Constructed through a public-private partnership between local government and a nearby grocery chain, a novel cascade of steel rollers provided both hot and cold running guacamole to wary residents.

Normal service was restored by 5:30 AM.

. . .

Innavaidavavision Honey statement

. . .

Post-production Comment: Selma (2014)

Conspicuously absent from its where-are-they-now summing-ups: the Voting Rights Act.

. . .

Genre note

Although auteurs like M. John Harrison will always fit old clips into new montages, the all-out fixup novel served as loyal attendent to the commercial market for short stories and novellas and did not survive its patron.

While fiction magazines withered, academia doubled-down on publish-or-perish. Journal and books lists exploded, culture took its course, and for several decades humanities' new-book-shelves have been as loaded with fixups as a 1950s paperback rack.

Of course, not all the tactics of their original home were carted over. Lacking the pretense of organic character-focused narrative, no fixing-up scholar need attempt the reconstructive surgery of Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler. Isaac Asimov's Foundation is the model: elucidation and proof of millenia-spanning psychohistory through chapters on Theocritus's Idyll 15, Eliza Heywood's Distress'd Orphan, and Grand Theft Auto V's soundtrack. As the man says, "ideal for tales of epic sweep through time and space."

. . .

Addendum to "Appearance of a World"

A [science fiction] wealthy with metaphors does not tend to constitute a world, but instead floats in its own air.
- adapted from Daniel Albright, Lyricality in English Literature

. . .

Realism : An Anthology, 2

I find little profit in the jealous conflict waged as to the values of the so-called realistic and romantic schools; save that it has brought out some good criticism, and that every such warfare is stimulating to both sides. Otherwise, it is chiefly an expression of one's taste or distaste for certain writers, or his opinion that too persistent fashions should in their turns give way. Often it is a dispute or confusion as to the meaning of a word. For who can doubt that art, to be of worth, must never be an abject copyist yet should have its basis in life as it is and things as they are,— or that impassioned speech and action must be natural even in their intensity?

- "A Critical Estimate of Mrs. Stoddard's Novels"
by Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1901

“Let us treat the men and women well : treat them as if they were real : perhaps they are.”

- epigraph to Two Men by Elizabeth Stoddard

“You do not like novels?”

“No; nor fairy stories, nor poetry.”

“Not a literal novel, like ‘Jane Eyre’?”

“Literal! Charlotte Bronte cheated her readers in a new way. She threw a glamour over the burnt porridge even, at the Lowood school, and the seed­cake which Jane shared with Helen Burns. Did red and white furniture ever look anywhere else as it did at ‘Thomfield’? Haven't we all red and white articles which have never stirred us beyond the commonplace?”

“The glamour of genius.”

“Genius casts its glamour over ordinary things: we who have none say there is a discrepancy between the real and the ideal.”

“But life must be illustrated.”

“It can not be; the text ruins the attempt.”

“Does not passion illustrate it?”

“I do not know.”

“Somebody says; ‘Nothing is so practical as the ideal, which is ever at hand to uphold and better the real,’ and I believe it.”

“Shoal water,” cried Parke from the bow.

“We are among the rocks, Jason,” said Philippa, bending over the side.

- Two Men by Elizabeth Stoddard, 1865


As everyone before me has said, Elizabeth Stoddard is a unique writer. Something about her approach kept me reaching towards Carol Emshwiller as a comparison point. She writes her characters too deep from the inside to permit introspection, from the outside like specimens in a jar, and as far above them as a reteller of myths, all as facets of a single unshakeable attitude rather than a toolbox of techniques.

. . .

James Joyce as generative procedural writer

SUPERSTITION. 1. ... religion without morality. ... 4. Over-nicety; exactness too scrupulous.
- A Dictionary of the English Language by Samuel Johnson
A view held in late antiquity is that the use of the words superstitiō ‘superstition’ and superstitiōsus ‘superstitious’ with reference to religion derives from the idea that such practices were superfluous or redundant.
- Oxford English Dictionary

January 31, 1930: At last J.J. has recommenced work on Work in Progress. The de luxe edition by ? soon to come out about the old lady A.L.P. I think. Another about the city (H.C.E. building Dublin). Five volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica on his sofa. He has made a list of 30 towns, New York, Vienna, Budapest, and Mrs. Fleischman has read out the articles on some of these. I ‘finish’ Vienna and read Christiania and Bucharest. Whenever I come to a name (of a street, suburb, park, etc.) I pause. Joyce thinks. If he can Anglicize the word, i.e. make a pun on it, Mrs. F. records the name or its deformation in the notebook. Thus ‘Slotspark’ (I think) at Christiana becomes Sluts’ park. He collects all queer names in this way and will soon have a notebook full of them. The system seems bad for (1) there is little hope of the reader knowing all these names most seem new even to Joyce himself, and certainly are to me. And supposing the reader, knowing the fragment dealt with towns, took the trouble to look up the Encyclopedia, would he hit on the Joyce has selected? (2) The insertion of these puns is bound to lead the reader away from the basic text, to create divagations and the work is hard enough anyhow! The good method would be to write out a page of plain English and then rejuvenate dull words by injection of new (and appropriate) meanings. What he is doing is too easy to do and too hard to understand.

April 28, 1930: His method is more mechanical than ever. For the ‘town references,’ he scoured all the capital towns in the Encyclopedia and recorded in his black notebook all the ‘punnable’ names of streets, buildings, city-founders. Copenhagen, Budapest, Oslo, Rio I read to him. Unfortunately he made the entries in his black notebook himself and when he wanted to use them, the reader found them illegible.

- Reflections on James Joyce: Stuart Gilbert’s Paris Journal,
ed. Thomas F. Staley & Randolph Lewis

Joyce lost his faith but kept his superstition. And proselytized. By constructing reality effects which transform from red herring to vital clew on research and re-reading, Joyce fed the generic allures of puzzle-mystery and conspiracy theory into formalist realism, and thereby trained a generation of Joyceans into an everything-connects superstition of their own.

But while in the midst of serializing those carefully cross-wired diagrams of sub-sub-trivia across Ulysses, he began to immerse them in pointedly redundant anti-reality effects. "Cyclops" may be scrupulous about something, but whatever it is ain't "meanness." And after his increasingly bouncing babes were carted to the printshop and carted back again, he would improvise riffs across the proofsheets, snatching any chance to strengthen the scribbly cross-hatched fabric of the book or merely to, like the god of creation, wake up bleary-eyed and say Fuck me what was I doing last night?

On reading a letter from his daughter Milly, who had just turned 15 on 15 June, Bloom says ‘Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too.’ More to the point, Joyce’s revision in proof gives the letter 15 sentences. But every editorial attempt to ‘correct’ Milly’s adolescent syntax and punctuation, by reverting to earlier versions, has of course changed the count and obscured the point. So too, the passage in which Bloom reflects on the rate at which an object falls to earth (‘thirty-two feet per second’) is heavily revised in print to make it the 32nd sentence in the paragraph, where reversion to earlier readings, as in the 1984 edition, obscures that convergence of sign and sense. On page 88, Joyce added in proof a sentence of eight words to expand a newspaper death notice. It reads: ‘Aged 88, after a long and tedious illness.’ To page 77 he added in proof the phrase ‘seventh heaven’; and on page 360, Bloom meditates on cycles.
- Bibliography & the Sociology of Texts by D. F. McKenzie

What this showed McKenzie and John Kidd was that James Joyce thought his books too brittle to survive a page break. What it shows me is an unquenchable thirst for suspicious coincidence. Such details might have struck some unknown peculiar reader of the first edition, as they happened to strike the first edition's known peculiar writer; peculiar readers of later editions will presumably be struck by plenty of details of their own. Throw enough and someone will be struck. And who knows but that many of the belated recognitions of 1950s and 1960s Joyceans were just as casually opportunistic? If Joyce considered each precious intersection vital, wouldn't he have included them in his first drafts and poured them into the ears of his authorized explicators?

The contingent and ephemeral hold all we can reach of the necessary and eternal; we mold meaning from the pleasantly stinking loam of chance such Good News can't be carried in rice-paperish porcelain; its vehicle should be built to survive chipping; should, ideally, become self-healing....

Or so I gather from the cheerfully incorporated bloopers and wide-world-of-kitchen-sinks ("Frightful stench, isn't it? Just too awful for words") method of Finnegans Wake, and from Joyce's remarks when questioned by a friendlier sort than Gilbert: his hope that a random reader in some far-off location would trip across a regional reference (my own muddy MO! my own K.C. jowls, they sure are wise!) and feel peculiarly addressed. In this work, at least, the readerly goal writerly assumed doesn't seem to have been full mastery mulching libraries and and acquaintances so rapidly, odds are slim that Joyce himself would recall much source material after a month but frequent recognition.

(Why a lad or lassie from Baton Rouge or Bucharest should bother to position themselves so as to encounter these happy accidents would be an unfriendly question to ask any author, I think, and at any rate went unanswered.)

Absolute control remaining unreachable, the artist might endeavor to maximize happy accidents. During my first reading of Finnegans Wake in 1980, I found a history of the Beatles, and, if we choose to take auctorial intention into account, this would be as the author intended. Most attempts to adapt Joyce's works to other media have been miserable things. The relative success of John Cage's slick and cheesy Roaratorio depends on chance, but isn't happenstance.

James Joyce as cartoonist

Flaubert's invention of detached formalist realism had the (possibly unanticipated) effect of rallying readerly sentiments against the all-powerful know-it-all artificer and toward his deluded, destructive protagonists. Eventually, in Trois Contes, he worked out of this particular bind by letting his protagonist retain her delusions (with Joyce following suit in "Clay"). But his less detached-realistic works avoided the question altogether. We can easily picture the endearingly idiotic tenacity of Bouvard and Pécuchet as a one-joke comic strip like "Little Sammy Sneeze" or "The Family Upstairs" or "That's My Pop!" Lines on paper don't sense pain as we know it.

Joyce found a way to join forces with himself. Even on my first, unaided reading, I felt rightness in the increasingly grotesque gigantism of Ulysses, and when I return to the book, that (possibly unanticipated) affective response is what I want to relive: an alliance with breathing ugly-as-life almost-humans repeatedly smacked down under floods of mocking inflation and bouncing up again ignorant as corks and damaged as new. Yes, the two male leads are having one of the worst days of their lives, presumably at the behest of some author. But because The Author in Our Face has directed our attention to his louder, noisier, and impotent assaults, the result is less like a vivisection than like a mixed-animation heroic epic of "Duck Amuck" starring Laurel and Hardy.

I've never managed a similarly direct response to Finnegans Wake, although I keep hoping. It looks like giants all the way down. Faced with a foundational secular religious document, I want Krazy Kat and I get Jack Kirby's New Gods.

James Joyce as boring old guy

James Joyce and Louis Zukofsky share an odd career pattern: a hermetic retreat into and outrageous expansion of the nuclear family, attempting to fit all space-time into an already crowded apartment.

The "cocooning" idiom bugged me from the start. A cocoon isn't a cozy retreat or celebration of stasis. By definition, cocooning occurs with intent to split. Maybe it's appropriate for them, though?


Previous vocational guidance: Joyce as science fiction writer; Joyce as life coach.

. . .

The golden age of postmodernism is fifty-six

The most ephemeral of unremunerative essays outlasts the most highly-priced products of my or anyone else's dayjob. Stream-dipping consistently outdraws source-immersion. Whatever melts into air fastest wins.


no dry ice in the house

My first lover and I tried to work our way through The Joy of Sex (a gift) and I can testify that even wet ice has its delights. (Unbeknownst to us, we were also working our way through Goodbye, Columbus, first editioned the year we were fucking born, which just goes to show why people hate nonephemeral writing.)

yes work is sublimation (but is it of the freudian or endothermic variety?)

David Auerbach efficiently condenses Georg Simmel: "money will always be there as a reminder that it will all be torn down soon enough."

. . .

Google News that stays Google News

Disruptive scholarship entrepreneurs Ferguson & Kerschen pass along, quickly and eyes averted, Anselm Dovetonsils's latest, including a double-exposed author photo:

Google's brand new logo: Analysis. Return to video. Video settings. Please Log in to update your video settings. More video. Recommended. null. French tourist 'just an actress' - null.

The Oxbridge Roots of Analytic Philosophy

Suppose we take it that the truth of moral judgments is relative, but that the truth of judgments about the objects and properties that populate the physical world is not. Then what are we to make of the following argument?

Grass is green or murder is not wrong. Murder is wrong.

Therefore, grass is green.

The argument is clearly valid. But it is not clear how it could be, since the second premise is only relatively true and the conclusion is absolutely true.

- Michael P. Lynch, "Truth Relativism and Truth Pluralism",
A Companion to Relativism, ed. Steven D. Hales (2011)

California summer lawn


Josh Lukin objects:

Wait, do logical disjuncts even work that way? I remember trying a clever move like that in my high school geometry class and being told that they did not.

I thought it was intended as an example of fallacious reasoning until I reached "clearly valid."

standard format for examples for critiquing classical logic (disjunctive syllogism) re problems with 'relevance' (e.g. connection of some kind between the disjuncts)

. . .
Majestic Buttons' hearts like a wheel
"Sex Drive"
The Embarrassment, 1980
Scott's Trans Am has the windows down
But he's in a jam when a girl's around
He yells hey get outta my way
I haven't had any sex all day
Stops at the curb and he opens the hood
He's on the main drag and he thinks that's good
He thinks that's good

I'm going on a sex drive
Sex drive

Jim took the bus the engine is missing
He drives for the lust of Sarah's kissing
If Jim gets his way and the bus makes a trip
He'll have a highway lay with none of the lip
None of the lip

I'm going on a sex drive
Sex drive

Mr. Braun drove out of town
Taking his wife he took his wife
He took his wife

Other motorvatin' anthems by the Embos:
"Two Cars", "Wellsville",
"Drive Me to the Park", "Death Travels West"

Ba-lue Mun-deii Ba-lues-Are : Ahead of her bleeding edge

I walk: with the darting absorption of a true-blue myopic, I quick-march, amble, or browse. The MBAs' distinction between being "driven" (good!) and "being driven" (bad!) eludes me. I bought my first car at twenty-nine solely so as to endure a daily three-plus-hours commute on New England highways, and through my commuting years those hours remained a stinking stew of adrenaline-spiked terror (fiery mangles on a shoulder; semi spinning like a reaper cross the lanes; furniture launching from the back of a pickup) and adrenaline-spiked rage (as said, New England), melded by a roux of boredom, loneliness, self-loathing, and lust.

I taste a similar New England commute in Rosmarie Waldrop's The Road Is Everywhere or Stop This Body, her roux given more body by premonitions which, as a sterilized male, I lacked. Aside from a one-sentence earworm, I also lacked the gumption needed to treat this distended emergency as food for meditation, as anything other than an aberrance to be quarantined from the remaining slivers of life as rigorously as possible.

Although I understood the political value of the comparison, Gore's "superhighway" metaphor struck me as inapt. Whereas Waldrop's far-sightedness was able to anticipate a well-attested similarity which I, even now, have trouble seeing.

from The Road Is Everywhere or Stop This Body
Rosmarie Waldrop, 1978
the onrush of clutter cross-purposes
the tangled motion the web and there's
my mouth in cahoots with
the offensive of the open
diffuses the possibility
of residue
I veer toward the endless
distractions of the foreground
even while clamoring
for wholeness

. . . before . . .. . . after . . .