TELL*IF*OWN pt. 2--KNOCKING ON THE DUMMY'S HEAD

My only goal was to ape Frank O’Hara when I started writing. Maybe toss in a little Kenneth Koch. There was inertia to the New York School; I thought their breeziness could speak through me the way the skyscrapers, subways, and galleries spoke through them.

Then I got depressed during the end of college, and my writing fell apart. My attempts to echo O’Hara sounded hollow and out of sync, a bad ventriloquist act. Instead, I gravitated to the Language poets. I was angry at poetry, and I liked watching them eviscerate it. They’d crack open the dummy’s head—see? hollow—and go on with the performance anyway. I had a hard time with that second part.

This brings me back to the Laura Solomon quote I referenced in my last post: "sounds don't need words to have meaning but words need sounds / I mean I love meaning but I hate words I like sounds.” When I started reading the Language poets, I hated words too. And meaning. But both obsessed me. Some part of me felt I needed to pry meaning from words. I don’t know why. There was some freedom in that thought.

I’d jumble words on my computer for hours, hoping they’d dissolve, the way something blurs as you stare at it. But words always make sense when you line them up, even if the logic is disjointed. I’d blink, and meaning snapped into sharp focus.

***

Last week, DeWitt Brinson and I were discussing Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. DeWitt was talking about Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, in which the person is exposed to whatever causes their anxiety (“the dreaded event” according to the DSM IV) for prolonged periods. This, he said, “teach[es] the brain that the anxiety will subside on its own rather than needing to resort to a ‘ritual’.”

What rituals, what crutches, were DeWitt and I relying on to write? And how could we deprive ourselves of them? I mentioned a poem I’d just read from Ben Lerner’s Angle of Yaw:

"A person is phobic, that is, mentally imbalanced, when his fears fail to cancel out his other fears. The healthy, too, are terrified of heights, but equally terrified of depths, as terrified of dark as light, open spaces as closed. The phobic are overbold, not overly apprehensive, and must be conditioned to fear the opposite of what they fear. The difficulty of such a treatment lies in finding the counterbalancing terror. What is the opposite of a marketplace? A prime number? Blood? A spider?"

My fears, primarily, are sentimentality and inspiration. I see both as a trap. Sentimentality is a symptom of being buried too far in your own hole, an inability to weigh your own problems against those of the world. I fear inspiration (I call it "The Lightbulb Voice") because I don’t want to believe in it; if it’s real, how can you avoid dependence? Moreover, it implies some force exists outside us. A force that can shut us out.

I use theft in my writing to neutralize those fears, to defy inspiration and collage over sentimentality. It reassures me; I knock on the dummy’s head—see? hollow.

***

My GoogleVoice experiment made me really anxious. So I had to try it again.

I’m not quite sure where I’m going with the experiment, but it seems to channel some of what DeWitt and I talked about. In writing about past traumas, I'm confronting my fears of sentimentality, melodrama etc. The two poems I wrote are the most overtly autobiographical thing I’ve written in years. I hate them. But the fact that it churns my stomach means something. I think.

I wrote a new poem about a past trauma and, once again, locked myself in the bathroom. I turned on the faucet. I called my GoogleSelf and waited for it to go to voicemail. Then I read the script. I hung up. Dialed again. Read it a second time, with more confidence. And again. The third time, I read it fast. All in one breath.

I waited. When I checked GoogleVoice, ten minutes later, there were three different “translations” of my poems:

[I should note, again, that GoogleVoice transcripts are in shades of grey, the darkness representing Google's confidence in its transcription.]

"I remember chrome the room for the changed on the sideline next were. I didn't know what else to do. I can't remember which side of her later on when she cried to show up. I never saw anyone crowd like that. If you can shake it was an empty nester a crunch rattled it was were some she didn't cry. It was nothing I can't remember which I arrive late and I can't remember if her eyes were closed or staring. The Walter, bright yellow, Gaudy. There were on the cracks. Color would like to talk to the shade. I think now broken or the night. Maybe even but will turn black for us."

"I remember crawled in the room for days shaped I'd like next door. I didn't know what else to do. I can't remember which, Sat or lay down. G graduation. I never saw anyone crying like that in shake. There's an empty nester a crime she rattled it was worse when she didn't cry. It's not that I can't remember which side of arrive late and I can't remember for either closed or stand the walls are bright yellow body but they were on the cracks a call. I would like to run through the shave. I think you know. Rodenberg tonight me if you can go in black for us."

"I remember her cold in the room per day shades. Ron had like Next, I didn't know what else to do. I can't remember which side of around later but she cried. Sheesh up. I never saw anyone crye-leike that she didn't shake. There's an empty nester were client you've rattled those words. And you didn't. It was nothing I can't remember which is out of her late and I can't remember for eyes were closed at staring walls are bright yellow gaudy, but they're on the cracks a problem with the light shone through the shape. I think now broken, burnt. Tonight makes even Coulter Black for."

I’m less certain where the GoogleVoice “translations” come in. DeWitt and I wanted to deprive ourselves of ritual. I wasn’t using theft anymore, but it felt like I swapped one ritual for another. A new way to neutralize my anxiety. Except for a few damning words, the translation has effectively mangled my poem out of shape.

But it’s those few words I come back to. And I keep trying the experiment to see which words will remain. Even after disemboweling the overall context and meaning of what I wrote, those words still haunt it defiantly.

Like I stopped talking, but the dummy didn’t.

TELL*IF*OWN

I was thinking a lot about translation the other day. I couldn’t think of anything new to write, so I ran the same poem through BabelFish over and over until it had traveled the globe.

I also recently signed up for Google Voice because I had a phone interview coming up, and I thought it may be a more stable option than my shitty cell phone.

One of the main features of Google Voice is that it transcribes your voicemails. This reminded me of a line I had read in Laura Solomon’s The Hermit (which I’m hoping to review soon): "sounds don't need words to have meaning but words need sounds / I mean I love meaning but I hate words I like sounds.” Again, this reminded me of translation (homophonic translation), though there was something more accidental about this. I thought, why not take the game "telephone" to its logical, digital conclusion?

So I called my GoogleSelf and left myself a voicemail. I read three poems from DeWitt Brinson, which were part of an ongoing collaboration between us, got the transcriptions, and sent them to DeWitt who, I think, liked them.

I began getting obsessed. I called my GoogleSelf again and again, leaving messages that were other people’s poems, Karl Popper, and, of course, the DSM IV. Here’s the GoogleVoice “translation” of the DSM entry for Obseessive Compulsive Disorder:

(note: GoogleVoice transcribes in shades of grey, the darkness of the text indicating how confident Google is in its own transcription)

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder,

any other sessions are compulsion

obsession, as defined by at 123 and 4

1. The content persistent thought imposes are images that are experience at sometime during the disturbed as intrusive and inappropriate and I called Mark anxiety or distress.

2. The box imposed under images are possibly excessive worries about real life problems.

3 The person attempts to ignore suppressed such imposes or images hoarded neutralize them, with some other thought, or action.

4. The person recognizes that the up session o'clock imposes are images our product of his or her own mind. Not imposed from without and thought exertion.

compulsion that the fine bought one and two

1 repetitive behaviors. E G handwashing ordering checking or mental. X. E. G. Crane come team. He didn't work so I will let the person feels driven to perform in response to an obsession, or according to the rules that must be applied. Originally

2 behaviors or mental acts are aimed at preventing or reducing stress or preventing some dreaded event 4 situation. However, these behaviors or mental acts either are not connected in a realistically with what they are designed to neutralize the prevent or clearly excessive.

Be at some point during the course of the disorder. The person and recognize that the obsessions are awesome dark festival unreasonable. Note this is not as like the children

C. If sessions are compulsion cause marked distress, our time consuming take more than one hour day significantly interfere with the person's normal routine. Occupational or academic functioning or usual social activities or relationships,

D if another access one disorders present the content of the obsessions a compulsion not restricted to a E G preoccupation with moving the presence of eating disorder hair pulling in the presence trip to Jewel mania. Concerned, with experience in the presence of Bobby this more pics disorder, preoccupation with drugs in the presence of the substance abuse this order, preoccupation with having serious illness in the presence of hi book Andrea, preoccupation with that so urgent or fantasy present air Delia, or guilty woman nations in the presence of major depression whatsoever.

E this is service is not due to the direct physiological festival Austin. E G Drug of Abuse for medication or general medical condition.

After 5 P F With 4 insight gift for the most part of the time during the current episode the person does not recognize that the obsessions an important part got that one reasonable.

The novelty wore off, but I felt like there was still more I could wring (*ring*) out of this experience. This morning, I shut myself in the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and left myself a voicemail recounting certain traumas in my life. I was shocked at how hard it was to speak about things I thought I had pretty much dealt with. It left me shaky, like I drank six cups of coffee on an empty stomach.

I sat in front of the computer, waiting for the transcription to finish. When it did, predictably, the translation bore no resemblance to what I had said. It was a relief in a sense. Like my secret was safe. I had told someone, and when they spoke it back, they got it all wrong. But part of me felt angry. I called myself again and again with the same secret. Each time, I got gibberish in return.

shiver shiver

(made with "The Color Of..." )

Judge Me By My Outputter

Everyone loves me now
but what about after
when my snout is wrinkle worn
and my sphincter is open all day
dragging the ground
mucking up the tiny love
hole the Monkees crawled out
with their fine hit songs

Nevermind why I love you

I rub my jelly all
over his cold davy jones

Now he's yawping like crazy

Chew on that
you old sorry fat
know-it-all

This is a letter to myself
if I ever grow old or start dieing

Never forget this day
reeked with old sphincters

Davey Jones born Dec. 30, 1945 (65 years old)
Michael Nesmith born Dec. 30, 1947 (63 years old)
Peter Tork born February 13, 1942 (69 years old)
Micky Dolenz born March 8, 1945 (66 years old)

A Piddling Distinction That May Nonetheless Be Useful

We should, perhaps, stop talking about “hybrid” texts. “Hybrid” implies things being linked in such a way that their parts are traceable, if not functionally distinct. A hybrid car can run on gas OR electricity. It’s a term that looks backwards, towards its differing origins--a mule is a combination of a horse and a donkey. We know this. And if we didn’t, we could figure it out.

I propose that we speak, instead, of “mongrel” texts. “Mongrel” focuses on the indefinable ancestry of the piece. It forces us to grapple with what is before us, instead of tracing neat lines toward what preceded it.

Finally, the term “hybrid” not only looks towards the past—it sees no future. Hybrids are sterile; the mule cannot reproduce. The mongrel is only the beginning.

Intersections, Tangents, Asymptotes, and Parallels

routine/ritual, the here and the there, otherworldly, looking looking looking for something, the difference between observing and searching, between passive vessel and can someone actively engage in compulsion, is one possessed, or, worse still, an automaton, to align inner and outer worlds, a sphere of order and symmetry to ward off death or to ward off life, repeating again and again, scientific method or skipping record, narration or still life, if one is always absorbing, creation is regurgitation, rapture and the Pavlovian response, symptoms vs. side effects, the always reaching, tapering, falling away, the bell curve and the dismissed outliers, any two points defining a line, intersections, tangents, asymptotes, and parallels, oracles & extrapolations, syllogisms & boxes, windows & windows & windows & windows, inspired, infected, narration as prognosis, prognosis as manifesto, manifesto as order, order as disorder, fracture forgetting and i think i misspoke, read stage directions as monologue, because picking a scab is something to do, a confusion of cause and effect

Routine, Ritual, and Robots

Professor Hallisey stood before the student, arm outstretched. The student immediately raised his arm, clasped the professor’s hand, and shook it. This, the professor explained, was magic.

In Confucianism, he went on, "ritual" does not have the same religious overtone as in the West—it generally refers to daily routines—but is, nonetheless, magical. If one has a proper understanding of a given ritual, as well as the correct intentions/spirit (known as “Ren”) the ritual will complete itself. The handshake was just one example. Moreover, ritual has a ripple effect. In Confucius’ time, it was said that if the emperor merely sat correctly upon his throne, the kingdom would rule itself.

In Catholicism, "ritual" has nearly the opposite meaning. To begin with, there is no "ripple effect" originating from the individual—the ritual holds no power, save to please God, and any consequences thereafter emanate from Him. More importantly, one’s intentions don’t factor in; the importance of the ritual lies only in its external performance. Indeed, historically, you could pay others to do your praying for you.

In Catholicism, then, it seems that the perfect ritual would be perfectly executed and endlessly reproducible. It would be robotic. And, in fact, such a robot exists.

On a recent Radiolab podcast, they covered the following story (I’m reducing it to the barest summary): in 1652, King Philip II’s son was badly injured; the King promised God that if He performed a miracle by saving Philip’s son, Philip would perform a miracle for Him. Philip’s son recovered, and to show his thanks, King Philip commissioned a renowned clockmaker to create a tiny robotic version of a long-dead monk who supposedly had the power to heal the sick.

The robot is ghostly. Tiny feet poke out from its frock as it walks about, raising and lowering a crucifix, its mouth silently opening and closing. Scholars have speculated about why King Philip commissioned the “monkbot,” but the consensus seems to be that he wanted to create a sort of 'prayer machine' to pay eternal tribute to God.

What, then, is the line between routine and ritual? In Confucianism, assuming one has the proper intentions/spirit, routine is elevated to ritual, and one’s daily life could become a series of magical acts. I immediately wonder if those who suffer from OCD would be considered to have improper "Ren," or if they would be like Mickey Mouse in Fantasia, the magician caught in the feedback loop of his own powers. In Catholicism, it’s more complicated. While I don’t mean to imply that Catholics believe that one cannot honor God through daily routine, there is a rift between the secular world and the world of ritual—no matter how much I strive to make the act meaningful, I cannot consecrate the Eucharist by shaving (though it may be worth a try).

As a final note, I’d like to discuss “Jaberwacky”. Jabberwacky is a chatbot, an artificial intelligence program that not only responds to you, but actually learns from what you say. It seemed like an interesting venue to meld the Confucian idea of ritual as human interaction versus the Catholic idea of ritual as a merely external performance. Here is a short excerpt (it went on for much longer) from my conversation with Jabberwacky:

User: Do you forgive me?

Jabberwacky: Yes. It's not your fault at all, don't worry.

User: Do you forgive me?

Jabberwacky: Yes. You are forgiven.

User: Do you forgive me?

Jabberwacky: Yes, do you forgive me?

User: Do you forgive me?

Jabberwacky: I forgive you for being mean to me.

User: Do you forgive me?

Jabberwacky: Do you forgive me?

Symmetry

Why is symmetry beautiful? It is comprehensible. That which is symmetrical is necessarily contained and can, therefore, be contained. Objectified. It is static; it is dead. Or at least not living. What is the line between death and still-life?

RED LETTER {X}

[red missed aches] asks a question about the interplay between image and caption. and how the space between them is a holding lodge for RED LETTER {X}. as in X, XX, XXX, the eyes of the dead. the mark of the incorrect, crux & cross, etc. but red.

here is the glow of RED LETTER {X}.

RED LETTER {X} is where caption sutured image and found pleasure, but virtually.
RED LETTER {X} is the shut eye of a "luminous genitalia"
RED LETTER {X} simultaneously guides and repels-- the way reading poetry, reading anything at all signals outward and inward. forces the body to look there {X} but not really there at all,meaning is virtual.
RED LETTER {X} is "obvious, banal, repeated a thousand times, yet almost always silent"
RED LETTER {X} is like Kate Durbin's O

in the future, our genitals will be larger and incandescent. the light like RED LETTER {X}, but virtual.
in the future, our young will be born rays of light and be fed directly into the TV.
our bodies will secrete text spontaneously, but virtually.
everything clinging to RED LETTER {X} like the seeming inter-phase between meaning and pleasure.


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--Bhanu Kapil on Camille Roy's Sherwood Forest
--Foucault's This is Not a Pipe