Monday, June 22, 2015

Rooted (revisited)


The following is the contents of a booklet I produced for my exhibition as part of a Firstdraft residency in 2013, the physical results of which can be viewed here: http://firstdraft.org.au/exhibitions/rooted/. Accompanying the booklet was a spoken-word CD, which perhaps resolved the work more fully, some of which can be listened to here: https://soundcloud.com/user4697775. My writing has changed, become less abject, but there are some themes that I have come back round to that I began to flesh out with this work. I have also included a few (excellent) action shots taken by Charles Dennington at the opening, his work can be found here: http://charlesdennington.com/


















Photos from the opening, by Charles Dennington: 




Saturday, June 20, 2015

and I felt it

It forced it, came by chance, it was a product of its environment,
and its environment only,
It had no nature, it knew no nature, no nature knew it,
only an environment,
It was thought that it was thought,
the cynical idealism once referred to at the heart of sociopolitical solutions to the resolution of culture (once and for all, of all it was only once)
It didn't make a great deal of sense...
It had it resting on its interpretation,
which was as good as its very sense.
It sounded like a riddle,
so heavily weighted, so heavily rooted, was it in the prosaic.
I had no gift for riddles, for their interpretation, for their formulation, 
for that you had to have ownership of some sense transferable between beings, where I had started out whole, without debt and without sin.
The writing as almost simply automatic,
except that it was never simply anything... 
automatism spoke never to the greater number, thus, I may as well have been shouting into thick air.
The product was as the product would do, would be,
with the greater of the objects either before or in front of me, never strictly on top of me, as much as I could never quite meet their beginnings or their ends.
Some people had a hand in writing like this wrote,
the skill had since eluded me...
I was in the wrong place when speaking to my place,
it was something that never, or perhaps should not have concerned me.
Transcendence was too marginal an exploit,
now my hand never left the page, dragging on in it own way —emptied of its gestation and now owed crudely only to the earth, subdued and submitted like the potentiality of all children of men, of men. 
(Falling right into its own maturation and independent cycle of looking and being without.)
I could not follow it and I could not stop it, somehow.
I thought it would never happen again.
It was like a love that I could all but control,
his eyes and his stupidity for not taking hold when it took hold, 
the adoption of masculinity, only ever adopting the own borne fruit of their ambition and their assaults on the world of women. 
Taking some time, my own time, drying out,
as much as I know what had happened in a few short moments, irrevocably.
I did it all out of spite,
to get out of spite, to get out despite whatever it was that was holding me back, forcing me to leave.
It was strange what I was doing,
as if I could help it, as if I could help, 
as if I could stop for the life of me, for the life of me.
It happened again and it was at the centre,
It informed my being and my certainty,
and belonged, not to me, 
oh it happened again, alright, as much as I had made my realm the purely political,
It happened again despite me and because of me,
and I felt it.

Sunday, June 7, 2015

(Tiergarten) About Face

What is East and whatever is West
Obscured by a geopolitical forest of tears

What is right and whatever is left
Obscured by a forest of geopolitical tears.

Much talk of expropriation...


Much talk of semiotics and the poetry of the market
Without much to show for it,
No signifiers,
Significant to and of nothing.


If I have finally found a way
To express how I express myself
I have hit upon a compromise
And found nothing.


Data resounding,
An organisational tool or member
Meaningful as the forest for the trees
Against the backdrop of the source-language
Almost redemptively speaking only to its habitat
Book/Buch/Boek/Beech
(Wood)

Carving out runes...
Can't quite imagine the mind before it
Incessantly to ply a trade in an attempt to ravage it,
On the other hand, the unbearable purity
Of solitary acts of disgrace.


Needing an answer for my exhaustion
Having everything to answer for my exhaustion
The last and best strategies
Of defensive corruption

I just needed a friend...
Someone who would love me plainly,
With only the most moderate adulteration,
In these times when the extreme
Is not the extreme.

I do not feel as though I have ever had my chance yet
Which seems an approximation of life,
Happiest when avoiding the known and the thought
For the sake of the desired.


Fashionable incarnations of countered interruptions
Of state and civility
Falling densely to the floor amidst the relevant onlookers
There to be looked-on, relevant
Preening an orthodoxy
Of tertiary production of primacy.

Repetition, refrain,
It never happened when it happened
1968
—which made it enough
(and no more)—
to really build a career on,
No more or less reprehensible
For being so cynically idealistic.

About face:
I was.
No more or less reprehensible
For being so cynically idealistic.

About face:
As though not the one has ever been the one and the same,
The merging of relevant faults into a moderate extreme
Of blank visibility,
And the self-perpetuating logic of representation.

Poetry and the market.
Semiotics without a hand,
The manual-mechanic
:its iterations
:its overcoming.
Precision undermining description
With dense interpretations of surfaces
Now aware of their own superfluity.

Consciousness.

Bodily projections:
About face:
Refraction.
Codes and algorithms.

Market needing a new word for itself...
Something divorced from its etymology,
The word that governs consumption
Without meaningful exchange.

I need a meaningful exchange,
But I have not
The raw symbolism of the market
An overabundance and overuse of overwords
That have escaped their origin,
No more or less reprehensible

For being so cynically idealistic.