woensdag 28 september 2016

the water element song for sylvia

The Water Element Song For Sylvia
[ Diane Wakoski / The Complete Greed, 1-13 ]

The fish
perhaps they are alewives
lie gasping
and dying on the edge of the lake.
The lake itself is choking
and turning into a swamp.
For 33 nights I have lain on the edge
of this decadent body of water
and asked myself questions.
For as many days
I have counted my attributes
and cultivated my serenity;
and now has come the time for explanation,
definitions being past
and formed by life itself,
character and blood taking their miserable toll of lives,
and I have wept silently
and spoken angrily to empty rooms
and tried to resist pain without blunting my other feelings.
Thus, I feel I must speak of, about, and to Sylvia,
who stuck her head in a gas oven
out of a similiar despair,
who wound two silver clocks at once
and found her hands broken under a hankerchief,
whose mouth hovered over a canyon in the West on a hot day
and refreshment near East jack-in-the-pulpits.
A river took her to breakfast.
She was a girl carrying the wind in her arms.

And I must speak of her beauty
and why she died,
breaking her own haunting words, like crackers into soup,
the breath, a thick silver spoon,
melting away in steaming liquid
and my urgency
is deep
and for myself,
a rough fish eating up the bottom of a lake,
a pledge, an affirmation, and a surly chin stuck out
at the world,
announcing my attention to survive.

you fine-grained piece of white bread,
you piece of lace in an attic dress,
you crystal glass in a beanery,
you satin slippers worn to hike through a muddy wood,
you deserved so much
and got so little,
or were so mistakingly used,
as many of us are.
But in a classic manner
you died in order not to perpetuate
this commonness.
So this is my day to affirm my survival
and my commonness.
I am thick Polish rye bread,
I am homespun muslin,
I am stoneware,
I am a pair of wellingtons,
I can/ I will survive
whether the man I love, who makes me calm on a windy day,
goes away or not.
I wont wont wont
even for poetry.
My children I have already given away,
and their lives are better without me.

For a woman
there is only one thing that makes sense:
a man who loves her faithfully & keeps her warm at night.
If he goes, her life does not go,
but it becomes a book wth none of the pages in the right order.

Listen, Sylvia, you beautiful red & bloody tulip in a hospital room, I know
how you felt,
how the weight of days without your husband was like steel bearings on
the eyelids,
I know how his denials & betrayals
made you feel your body was an empty stained test tube.
I know how you counted up your jam jars in the middle of the night
waiting for his footsteps.
I know how his gravity pulled on you like a diesel truck attached to yr lip,
how, like a planet pulled out of its orbit
by another body's perturbations,
you were flung out into empty space
and could not survive its long night of outer darkness.
But I wont wont wont
even for purity.

Sylvia, I want you to know what happened after you died -
poets wept with one eye & laughed with the other,
knowing you would no longer be there to astonish them with yr beautiful
your husband took another wife and left her to gas herself also.
publishers and relatives cleaned up on your dead sales,
for everyone wants to buy the book of a suicide,
Sylvia, they all loved you better dead
without your feelings there to chide them for their lack of humanity,
they could all talk about you when dead,
and not be contradicted by life.
Oh, Sylvia, I will never give any of them
those satisfactions:
no one will gloat over my body and say, "What a pity
she didnt
live /
she might have been a great poet."
no one will get the chance to be dramatic & remorseful
about not loving me enough,
they will have to prove their feelings while I'm living
or eat their own shit instead of shovelling it onto my grave,
no publisher or relative will clean up on my dead royalties because
I'll be living
and a man's work is as good when he's living as when he's dead/
I dont want to flutter to the pulse of the best-seller list
just because I'm a corpse,
and no mustached man will go to talk
late at night in bars about how wonderful I was/ he'll have
to prove it to me now
while I'm living.

I wont wont wont
even for poetry.
Oh, no, Sylvia, they all stepped in
with their meaness and got fat on it
when you killed yourself
and I am too spiteful,
too angry,
too nasty to let the world
hypocritically walk on me.
If they want to slander me,
malign me,
treat me brutally,
or use me,
they'll have to do it in public
and with my sharp tongue
very much alive and chiding them
every minute of the way.
You might say I'm too bitchy,
my fiber's too common,
I'm peasant bread, not a delicate white roll.

When I think how many times
they have pushed me
and how close I have come to that cupboard of cyanide
I tremble with rage
at those persecutors.
Anger, anger, anger, I say,
rescue me:
let me fight:
Fatigue, do not cement me and throw me in the river;
Humiliation, if I lose what I love, do not cover my face with a black hood,
Sadness, do not crust me with the soot of your windows.
I wont wont wont
for anyone's pleasure.


Here is our problem, Sylvia:
how to feel enough anger to survive
and yet not to soil one's ability
to love,
how to love,
open oneself up,
be free,
and not be destroyed.
Is love always a body climbing over a
forbidden wall with a spotlight & machine gun on it?
Is honesty always suicide?
Would we all die like you,
if we were honest?


One pond
with one white duck
on a grey green day,
the waters muddy, not glassy & blue as I remember
the Pacific from my childhood.

And now a flock of ten white ducks
arranged like a slender skiff
moving in unison
as all the drops of water
make rhythmic formations & move
like one wave.

two wild coots,
their heads black, bodies brown and streaked with white,
red-winged blackbirds and crows
flying overhead,
all life seeks to perpetuate itself,
the birds spending their lives
searching for food
never storing
building new houses each year
life being day-to-day and never-ending search,
only we humans taking time out to wonder
whether we want to go on.

Sylvia, our brains got too big,
our feelings are ripe apples all over the
many-limbed body
ready to fall off,
ready to be shaken off,
leaving and empty tree.
Simple apple tree,
you can lose your fruit, your leaves,
live through winter,
and be another tree next spring, summer & fall.
Your beauty is
that simplicity,
that dumbness,
the insensitivity to pain,
the inability to think about pain,
that lack of need for a complex & changing identity.
There are schizophrenics, I think,
madmen who try to turn themselves
into trees
who stand for hours
holding their two meager branches out
hoping only to stand there through the seasons
being only trees
never having to come to terms with
knowledge or failure,
betrayal, or deceit,
one's own anger at inhumanity.
with your tongue of bellflowers & chocory,
wearing an apron of bees,
your white ankles like plover breasts flashing among field grass,
Sylvia, whose father called you a kitchen match & struck you to light up
his pipe,
Sylvia, whose mother used you as a needle to sew the family shrouds,
Sylvia, whose husband was the claw of a bear
and whose hand stole the honey under that apron of bees,
Sylvia, whose children were a cloud of gnats stinging you around the
eyes and mouth, irritating you when you wanted to read or speak,
oh, Sylvia, who lived in constant terror
of being ignored or left behind by the one man you loved,
Sylvia, whose life was like mine,
with its baby hands asking for love
and being slapped by fathers, mechanics & woodsmen,
whose fatigue is from trying to hold a house of bricks with no mortar
together -
as love & being loved
can hold our lives together
& sound in any weather -

I wont wont wont
go the way you did:
I wont die for love, poetry, truth, or a man who betrays me;
my grandparents were potato farmers
and I have a bit of the simple potato
in me.
I have been a tree in winter,
and I did not scream when the birds
flew out of my hair.

Living from day to day is a humiliating effort.
And for those of us
whose dignity
is like shoes to wear on a long walk,
the bare beeding feet of our failures
can give infection, gangrene, loss.

How can we recognize our failures
and not feel sorry for ourselves?
And what feeling
is less imbued with dignity
than self-pity?

Sylvia, you would not fall into that
weeping well
of abandoned women,
so you floated away down some other river.
But I wont go with you:
you, ring-necked loon,
beautyiful thine-noted flute,
cup of Li Po's wine,
girl with butterflies tattooed on your palm.
Your purity
which is a kind of poetry
is not real
is not human
and if my life & the pains I have taken with it
are to mean anything,
I want them to speak for love,
for strength,
for surviving pain and using the knowledge
of it
to be compassionate to others.

I am as thin as a sheet of cellophane
this year.
I have no more innocent resistance.
I am dry and almost past tears.
while I do not admire them
I will cling to my flaws:
my easy anger,
my selfish refusal to give that one possession I have left
(my life)
and my spiteful desire to be alive
to see my enemies suffer the natural consequences of their own
meanness, stupidity & inhumanity.

Sylvia, I wont wont wont die.
I will not give anyone the pleasure
of my voluntary death,
tho it would be a relief to get it all
over with,
not to be alive in case the man I love so much
leaves me again,
not to be here fighting the battles of honesty & historical confusion.
not to have to suffer being alone or rejected or poor one more time,
I will go on even if I shred my own thin cellophane self ragged
in my sleep at night
because I want to believe
this pain & suffering have meant something,
that I can inspire someone to love me
long and faithfully,
and that my words, my life, may give someone
courage to go on.

I wont wont wont die
even for relief.
I wont let the other poets cry with one eye and laugh with the other
or relieve anyone of my searching hard but honest questions about them.
I wont wont wont
and let the world off easy.
Love is fighting the battle,
even when you think you might lose.
I will go on,
for love is the water that cannot be used up,
though it be transformed
from lake
to swamp,
to sweat,
to tears,
to bloody underground stream.

Sylvia, when you are dead
no one really weeps for you;
they weep for themselves.
this fish wont die
in the gasping lake today.
water is life.
in any

maandag 26 september 2016

naamloos meer (teju cole)

‘In het holst van de nacht luister je soms op een manier die wellicht niet inspireert tot schrijven of interpreteren, maar die het gehoor scherpt of je doet geloven dat zich onder de aardse werkelijkheid een naamloos meer bevindt, en dat er plaatsen zijn waar de grond niet stevig genoeg is zodat je plotseling een duik kunt maken in de onderaardse waarheid.’

Vertrouwde en vreemde dingen, Teju Cole; p. 112-113.

dinsdag 20 september 2016

aliens & anorexia

p. 51: ‘There is a tendency among romantic people to see their lives as grids and mazes, unfolding through an erratic but connected set of lines. These randomly occurring series of casualties may be retrospectively observed to form a pattern…’

p. 81: ‘There is this rhetoric that everyone buys into about things needing to come out [..]. As if, beneath the onion-skin of personalities, there lies the gleaming uncorrupted Human Soul.’

Uit Chris Kraus' Aliens & Anorexia (Semiotext(e) Native Agents, 2013).

dinsdag 13 september 2016

i love dick

semiotext(e) native agents, 2006
[ for the record: dit is een samenraapsel van aantekeningen die ik maakte terwijl ik I Love Dick van Chris Kraus voor de tweede keer las. i like it like this ]


Ik ben nu even gestopt met lezen omdat ik blijf nadenken over iets dat Chris, of eerder Dick, zei: Mannen verpesten nog steeds het leven van vrouwen. Ja, Dick beweert het en Chris denkt er over na, en over de man die (volgens haar) haar leven verpestte. (Zo nu en dan zegt Dick wel iets zinnigs maar dat maakt ‘m niet minder hufterig.)

Ik heb er moeite mee om iemand die anderen beschuldigt van het verpesten van zijn/haar leven serieus te nemen, mij is altijd verteld dat je gekwetst voelen een keuze is, en die pijn vervolgens jouw eigen schuld. Jeweetwel, dat idee. Maar dat idee haalt (o.a.) het idee van racisme, seksimse onderuit, en het laat geen argument heel. Dat idee zorgt ervoor dat je je nooit zou hoeven te verontschuldigen omdat je je dingen (beschuldigingen) zelf aantrekt (als een kledingstuk? Het past? Ik trek ‘m aan? Dat gezegde. Wie de .. past trekke ‘m aan. Ik ben ‘m kwijt, ik heb een hekel aan gezegdes, laatmaarzitten.) en is dus eigenlijk een techniek jezelf te beschermen tegen conflict en is dus eigenlijk hufterig. Bovendien. Als iemand iets tegen jou zegt, in-your-face, dan is dat persoonlijk bedoeld en is het onmogelijk een dergelijke opmerking te negeren. Je zou kunnen zeggen dat het je niet past maar wie is er niet gevoelig voor kritiek? En dat is ook niet erg. En nadenken, over kritiek of opmerkingen of beschuldigingen nadenken is ook niet erg. Het is wat mij betreft simpelweg een belediging (of: bewijs van gemakzucht, kortzichtigheid?/ maar dat zal wel aan mij liggen) te beweren dat niemand anders ooit schuld heeft aan dingen, dat alle verantwoordelijkheid ligt bij de gekwetste, want dat is onmogelijk. Onmogelijk. En niet waar.

Hoewel ik het er dus niet mee eens ben dat een mens volledige controle kan hebben (dat geldt voor zowel buiten als binnen het hoofd) zit dat idee in mijn systeem gebakken, hoe graag ik ’t ook los wil bikken, kwijt wil, en vond ik dit idee lastig. Maar ook weer niet want ik weet: Dick heeft gelijk: mannen verpesten nog steeds het leven van vrouwen. Dit heeft geen uitleg of voorbeelden nodig. En ik vind het stoer dat Chris vervolgens nagaat of haar dat zelf is overkomen. (Natuurlijk, ze is intelligent en ooit voelde een leraar zich daar ongemakkelijk bij. Hij nam haar niet serieus, suggereerde dat ze misschien meer geld kon verdienen met haar lijf dan met haar brein.)

Ik vind I Love Dick 't best als ik alleen Chris lees; haar gedachten haar ideeën haar fouten haar verlangens haar verleden haar heden. Die Chris begint de boventoon te voeren zodra, noem het toeval, ze haar man heeft verlaten.


lebowski publishers, 2016
Maar waarom vind ik I Love Dick zo goed? omdat Chris nadenkt en dingen zegt die niet makkelijk te zeggen zijn, het boek verbergt niets en is zo slim en fuck dit is moeilijk want ik kan het niet zeggen met woorden die niets meer betekenen (superlatieven zijn saai), ik kan alleen zeggen dat ik ervan houd omdat er onbedwingbare angsten, verlangens ter sprake komen, en grote ideeën en vage vermoedens; omdat er heel veel vrouwen worden genoemd die denken of schrijven of hebben geschreven of ooit nadachten; en omdat het aandacht besteedt aan dingen die ik belangrijk vind: ideeën, geschiedenis, de holocaust, kunst, psychiatrie, literatuur, taal. Taal! Mensen in mijn omgeving weten niet langer wat ze bedoelen met woorden, ze zouden net zo goed een ander woord kunnen gebruiken en voor hun gevoel hetzelfde beweren, maar zo werkt dat niet en dat maakt me zo boos, want ik blijf maar zoeken naar nieuwe woorden, zinnen, ideeën, of wellicht bedoel ik gewoon verdieping. De wereld mag van mij steeds groter worden, ook al is die niet altijd even mooi of makkelijk of herkenbaar. En dat is wat ik zo waardeer aan Chris Kraus en I Love Dick, het laat zich niet tegenhouden door grenzen of lelijke/ moeilijke dingen. Niet alleen in dat leven van Chris in I Love Dick, het boek zelf is natuurlijk ook niet te vangen, (zoveel is wel duidelijk dunkt mij) en ik weet niet wát het is (ik heb het nu over genre), maar dat is niet belangrijk, het boek dat hier ligt is belangrijk, de tekst die is gemaakt, de woorden gedacht/ getypt, whatever, het is er en het is belangrijk.