Points are beside the line : a review, flagrantly : Lyn and Paolo
Bow down to her on Sunday
Salute her when her birthday comes
Words are fundamentally inexhaustible in a way that human bodies are not. They may be returned to infinitely, so long as the word remains in print. In circulation. Human bodies are fundamentally inexhaustible in a way words are not. They live and pour off the page, across the mind and street, with a sensuality and a communicative power unheralded throughout the entire dictionary. The entire lexicon. A human body is a totipotent, incandescent, utterly obscure word. Its shelf life is limited. The word too will bend, melt, recycle, spawn, meet the abandon of the grave.
Relations – comparison – the in between. Here bodies, dictionaries, objects and states humble and unbowed, enter utter infinity not knowing what it isn’t and is. Between reader and writer, make no mistake, there is neither beginning nor end. And to point out that there is, THERE IS!, is to hold an incomplete and fragmentary view of reality, which is not the same as “to be wrong”. If done with a smile, this objection is a spring of joy, a box of tools, a bridge to Oakland. And I am pleasantly full of brilliantine shit.
For years I heard this song as a lovers cautionary tale. Then, this morning, still shocked by how Dylan sings “comes” as “cummmmzzzz” at the 66 Manchester live date, I enter the song differently. It’s about master/slave relations, it’s a song of a defeated, i.e. confirmed and then (to his horror) freed slave. So this freed slave’s tale is bitter, the master, of course, is both venerated and deplored. Despised. Does despising always come with an inverted erotic sheen?
Master/slave relations, then, and how they invade love, how they are a game we play with each other, those rotating empty slots we fill variously – until the game displaces reality, the actor becomes their role, and love has solidified, and broken into two. Listen to a love poem, a good one that arouses and sustains arousal, and the fluid yearning of love is exposed – the heart overflows, but doesn’t empty, refuses expectations of tiring – its vulnerability opens it, allows it to endlessly renew even as its appreciation and desire flow out. Love is this motionless flow. Almost a running-in-place on the treadmill or exercycle. Well, love has great stamina, we can salute that. I can. And of course punk rock starts with the deconstruction of this, with Richard Hell sneering that Love comes in spurts / Ohh it hurts and that’s sexy too (and sexy is to the side of love). Especially the sneer. Especially the spurts. Especially the hurts. And a negation of the love song, that’s a crucial part of the love song as tradition, as mode. It was fucking overlooked. Meaning it was there to be discovered. And it was a great discovery, because everyone had a ewww, why’d you pick that up? condescension and bafflement to this new shit. This is why we so love or loved punk rock. Its like, have you been there yet? Dumpster diving? Find a meal there, a torn skirt, but not a place to stay. Stay where? Where is?
The hint is that the writer and lover are homeless too, hence home-makers, our little beloved and discarded bound objects both. The hint is here. There are so many hints, and love is a hinting zone – take it, get it, got it, gone? Bend, break, bust, boom? Doesn’t the hint bend with supple flex? Doesn’t causality derail up close – turn mirage? A one way street so marked by its sign? A circus, an arousal, curiosity comes into play, acrobatic, but not of death, acrobatics of life, and so the clown shits, that's part of the play, someone steps on it, we laugh, been there, doing that. We get to madly careen, feel our own gravity, call into question our eyes, tricks are played on us - that wasn't shit, it was a little girl! - now she's taking photos, now I'm someone else, now - Hello there - we're gone. The mind cannot wrap around the show by trying, the tent is too big, there are several, we collide. Will the party pour out onto the streets?
The good game of slave and master, active and passive, stone and the ass that sits on it, when this displaces the infinite possibilities of the real – revealed in particular form as our cloud current desires (shift no matter how much the pattern is loved – loving the pattern itself a shift) – then love is reduced to the same hierarchical rigidity that determines so many work dynamics. my boss rides me. I do not ride my boss. Of course I do, I am a naughty boy. And its not the same, the distinction hinges on me recognizing, on her recognizing, its not the same. Me on top is driving the wrong way down the one-way. And one-way is only a fucking sign. So the game is a Foucault and Butler one – are there any cops around? But the cops go undercover, and if a car comes… its just like playing with metaphors – eventually someone gets hurt.
For years I’ve wondered when democracy, which I have been repeatedly told I live in – will invade the workplace. Fuck invade, I am ready for democracy to so much as knock on the door and be ignored by the receptionist.
This excessively set and untroubled sedimentation is why I don’t read most novels, don’t watch most films – the ossification of the narrative flow by the exclusionary and binding logic of plot, its incessant demand for investment, its vortex of winnowing, its fixation on hurrying the fuck up and “cum” – it can be interesting, but its tiring. It comes in spurts. Does our masturbatory, voyeur culture urge us to jack off culturally as much as possible, and pay for the tissue? How high is this throne, how easily can I – sipping chamomile tea at 11:11AM in the fucking morning, step off it?
Opinions too are noun states that pass. Judgments their own cloud current, until I seed the clouds. And seed the cows. And the serfs. Until I am so invested in snow I buy a snow-maker, and dancy dance my little god of enterprise dance on my own private Disneyland.
So, for me to add that plot is also richly revealing, that plot can slow down and ride you sweet between the nasty, can even up and leave but come running back before you feel too jilted and get cold, that plot is an endlessly inventive and impossible to ignore lover, that even identifying with plot, with its trap, with enjoying being trapped, and being free to spring the trap at any time during that enjoyment, is not only possible, but probably necessary strategy, that this pure outside itself is polarizing and reductive, is also besides the point, unless done with a smile, dropping the need to be right, dropping the need for others to be wrong, the fear and loathing and desire opinions birth, words birth – the whole sandcastle of…
Of what? It slipped away. Thief in the night. Proof in the pudding. Cuz there is no speaking of G_d? The whole’s habit of eliding its “w”?
Salute her when her birthday comes
Words are fundamentally inexhaustible in a way that human bodies are not. They may be returned to infinitely, so long as the word remains in print. In circulation. Human bodies are fundamentally inexhaustible in a way words are not. They live and pour off the page, across the mind and street, with a sensuality and a communicative power unheralded throughout the entire dictionary. The entire lexicon. A human body is a totipotent, incandescent, utterly obscure word. Its shelf life is limited. The word too will bend, melt, recycle, spawn, meet the abandon of the grave.
Relations – comparison – the in between. Here bodies, dictionaries, objects and states humble and unbowed, enter utter infinity not knowing what it isn’t and is. Between reader and writer, make no mistake, there is neither beginning nor end. And to point out that there is, THERE IS!, is to hold an incomplete and fragmentary view of reality, which is not the same as “to be wrong”. If done with a smile, this objection is a spring of joy, a box of tools, a bridge to Oakland. And I am pleasantly full of brilliantine shit.
For years I heard this song as a lovers cautionary tale. Then, this morning, still shocked by how Dylan sings “comes” as “cummmmzzzz” at the 66 Manchester live date, I enter the song differently. It’s about master/slave relations, it’s a song of a defeated, i.e. confirmed and then (to his horror) freed slave. So this freed slave’s tale is bitter, the master, of course, is both venerated and deplored. Despised. Does despising always come with an inverted erotic sheen?
Master/slave relations, then, and how they invade love, how they are a game we play with each other, those rotating empty slots we fill variously – until the game displaces reality, the actor becomes their role, and love has solidified, and broken into two. Listen to a love poem, a good one that arouses and sustains arousal, and the fluid yearning of love is exposed – the heart overflows, but doesn’t empty, refuses expectations of tiring – its vulnerability opens it, allows it to endlessly renew even as its appreciation and desire flow out. Love is this motionless flow. Almost a running-in-place on the treadmill or exercycle. Well, love has great stamina, we can salute that. I can. And of course punk rock starts with the deconstruction of this, with Richard Hell sneering that Love comes in spurts / Ohh it hurts and that’s sexy too (and sexy is to the side of love). Especially the sneer. Especially the spurts. Especially the hurts. And a negation of the love song, that’s a crucial part of the love song as tradition, as mode. It was fucking overlooked. Meaning it was there to be discovered. And it was a great discovery, because everyone had a ewww, why’d you pick that up? condescension and bafflement to this new shit. This is why we so love or loved punk rock. Its like, have you been there yet? Dumpster diving? Find a meal there, a torn skirt, but not a place to stay. Stay where? Where is?
The hint is that the writer and lover are homeless too, hence home-makers, our little beloved and discarded bound objects both. The hint is here. There are so many hints, and love is a hinting zone – take it, get it, got it, gone? Bend, break, bust, boom? Doesn’t the hint bend with supple flex? Doesn’t causality derail up close – turn mirage? A one way street so marked by its sign? A circus, an arousal, curiosity comes into play, acrobatic, but not of death, acrobatics of life, and so the clown shits, that's part of the play, someone steps on it, we laugh, been there, doing that. We get to madly careen, feel our own gravity, call into question our eyes, tricks are played on us - that wasn't shit, it was a little girl! - now she's taking photos, now I'm someone else, now - Hello there - we're gone. The mind cannot wrap around the show by trying, the tent is too big, there are several, we collide. Will the party pour out onto the streets?
The good game of slave and master, active and passive, stone and the ass that sits on it, when this displaces the infinite possibilities of the real – revealed in particular form as our cloud current desires (shift no matter how much the pattern is loved – loving the pattern itself a shift) – then love is reduced to the same hierarchical rigidity that determines so many work dynamics. my boss rides me. I do not ride my boss. Of course I do, I am a naughty boy. And its not the same, the distinction hinges on me recognizing, on her recognizing, its not the same. Me on top is driving the wrong way down the one-way. And one-way is only a fucking sign. So the game is a Foucault and Butler one – are there any cops around? But the cops go undercover, and if a car comes… its just like playing with metaphors – eventually someone gets hurt.
For years I’ve wondered when democracy, which I have been repeatedly told I live in – will invade the workplace. Fuck invade, I am ready for democracy to so much as knock on the door and be ignored by the receptionist.
This excessively set and untroubled sedimentation is why I don’t read most novels, don’t watch most films – the ossification of the narrative flow by the exclusionary and binding logic of plot, its incessant demand for investment, its vortex of winnowing, its fixation on hurrying the fuck up and “cum” – it can be interesting, but its tiring. It comes in spurts. Does our masturbatory, voyeur culture urge us to jack off culturally as much as possible, and pay for the tissue? How high is this throne, how easily can I – sipping chamomile tea at 11:11AM in the fucking morning, step off it?
Opinions too are noun states that pass. Judgments their own cloud current, until I seed the clouds. And seed the cows. And the serfs. Until I am so invested in snow I buy a snow-maker, and dancy dance my little god of enterprise dance on my own private Disneyland.
So, for me to add that plot is also richly revealing, that plot can slow down and ride you sweet between the nasty, can even up and leave but come running back before you feel too jilted and get cold, that plot is an endlessly inventive and impossible to ignore lover, that even identifying with plot, with its trap, with enjoying being trapped, and being free to spring the trap at any time during that enjoyment, is not only possible, but probably necessary strategy, that this pure outside itself is polarizing and reductive, is also besides the point, unless done with a smile, dropping the need to be right, dropping the need for others to be wrong, the fear and loathing and desire opinions birth, words birth – the whole sandcastle of…
Of what? It slipped away. Thief in the night. Proof in the pudding. Cuz there is no speaking of G_d? The whole’s habit of eliding its “w”?
posted by Kyle at 12:03 PM
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