blackmarketbutter » Colby

Poetry has its limits

colby — Thu, 27 May 2010 04:29:43 +0000

poetry has its limits
edges of expression
edge of (understanding/subjectivity/existence)
wheres my fix?
theres my fix
post-existence addiction as some human condition
there is no solution as there is no problem

time spent
thinking poetry
magnetic absurdism
mean-
ingful
as sensation
and chance

Okay, but really, now that I have your attention: wait, I have to
tell you this in reverse. Or maybe beforehand and then with a final execution in the
end, for once you execute this, your attention will be so complete that you will not
even be able to take this in. Okay, well, basically: you will close your eyes, then type
your thoughts, alright maybe it’ll start out banal, or shit, but keep writing, it will flow
surprisingly well, and just let it go, the concentration kind of maintains itself in
someway its like the writing itself takes over your mind and even now you can see
the future keys light up like some invisible map of the keyboard and your confidence
in its execution and it man oh man it floats so well and can’t you see how nice it
would be if two people hooked up, closed their eyes and just typed at eachother and
would be hit by some kind of buzzer or just come out when they do and enter it so
that each sees it once their brain has been leeched for that moment that would be nice
that I could like imagine that it could all be so nice this technology this infinite
instantaneous Ginsberg howl Munch scream ah he sounds so nice Ginsberg he lays it
out like so nice i fucking love it and realising i love it i somehow realise (maybe
further, maybe remember) my love of Patti (no maybe it is further, this feels new I
guess, something true) then that takes me to how I want to make that zine, some
publication, and then that reminds me of our talent nights, or open mic nights, that
would be nice I want to do that. Hubert Selby Jr rants of infinity.
Ah I went and looked for Pynchon but Ginsbergs relentless “mulak!” gets the better of
me, its fucking good. I love it, its a screaming, moaning, expression of beauty of
crazy mad meaningful/less endless fun danger joy i want it all in my one my only one
to the sky and into some hole and out again and keep rolling it got me yeah it got me.
But yeah I came back to talk about this kind of expression, the freedom of it. But then
strangely simultaneously I was thinking about Pynchon expression, biographies as
presentations, histories, short thoughts, ideas, fucking anything as some kind
expression, even nice, reserved writing about what’s going on, just like the kind of
realism with drawing I was thinking just the careful examination of our world with
words is a fascinating exercise. Endless in itself. You could endlessly talk simply of
what has gone on around you, what you are seeing, feeling, thinking, its fucking fun
you could go on forever.

Ennui

colby — Thu, 20 May 2010 06:25:17 +0000

Ernest Hemingway worked as a journalist for the Kansas City Star. Here is the style sheet he used.

Kansas City Star Style Sheet

His robotic hypnotism to the spoken word’s expression is like a moaning awkward tone that depicts like nothing else the impossibility of our expression. His spoken commas, periods, pauses and literal pauses have the power of an incantation and I am in fascination of his channeling. This is seeing the muse spoken. I aw. Aw. Aw man, its dropping me. Look at this. This is it. The one. Hemingway is a curse. Smite me. Curse me. Incant me. Voodoo drums blood in my eyes. Rip maw rip hit me up. Dedication. Dedication.
Tapping in
Tap me in
Concentration. Agitation. Contemplation.
Production, they’ve stolen production. Productivity of pain. Pain as muse and unspoken unspeakables the rapturous destruction listen to the incantation this is the only productivity and its pure its pure see this is the painful curse. It’s the Hemingway curse. Let me die but I must live and this is life in death and death in life. I’m a two-way spectre and the pain is dissonant and alternate ringing round and in to out. They’ve stolen my productivity. They’ve made it theirs. Its something I owe it to somebody else it’s a compensation for our original sin it’s the debt owed as a member of this social contract we’re partakers and now there is distance. There’s always distance.

You haven’t stopped running; and, whatever distance you think you have put between you and you, you still leave behind new statues of salt.
- Andre Breton

French translation dubbed over the original sound of Hemingways’ Spanish.

Those Kafka ghosts are inevitable but they’re nothing but the ghosts of distance. Distance is the most devilish thing I’ve ever encountered, and scares me wide-eyed awake quite often. The distance between you and your audience, you and your friends, you and your lover even in an embrace, you and your mother, you and life, you and yourself, theres always distance and its terrifying but irrefutable, indestructable. These are the ghosts. They reveal themselves in our attempts to reconcile it but thats no argument against it and clearly Kafka never meant it as anything like that for he still wrote a few times a day, Milenas letters coming in bouts of twos and threes, though likely not quite as prodigious as his, though we’ll never know, but still the input and output in some kind of dialogical race that he must have known felt damn nice. Even ghosts have rhythm

- Colby