Boots make it all better

Flashback: Neil Young, 1971

Tonight at Writers Read

Thinking about Uranium in Canada in preparation for tonight's reading with Peter van Wyck and Julie Salverson. 7:30 at the York Amphitheatre, EV Building, Concordia University.

A thumb and a tongue

Flirrup and stir your poesy.

Thanks to Christian Bok. Christian's twitter feed is reason enough to sign up and Tweet.

Top Girls, Good Times

I wish I could see this version of Top Girls. We discussed the play in my Introduction to Creative Writing class today and it made me want to stage it myself...if I had time for such things (and no, I am not rereading it to prepare for the Thatcher movie...). Once I assigned the text I was worried that it wouldn't be relevant, but alas, it is still very relevant in so many ways. Or, is that nostalgia again? Are we just unable to see, even our art, a possible future? Is it back, back, even the avant garde, back to a time when...when? Even the most complicated times seem innocent, simple, looking back.

Sadly, in terms of women and power I'm not sure we've come very far at all.

This Friday at Concordia

Winter arrives

If you love the planet you're a radical

Say no to oil through the northern corridor. Most beautiful place on earth. So much more to do to develop this area in a sustainable way. Really, really hope the first nations can stick together and say no to this and yes to other forms of development...

Best Book Store Ever

Samuel Beckett: NOT I

MOUTH: . . . . out . . . into this world . . . this world . . . tiny little thing . . . before its time . . . in a godfor– . . . what? . . girl? . . yes . . . tiny little girl . . . into this . . . out into this . . . before her time . . . godforsaken hole called . . . called . . . no matter . . . parents unknown . . . unheard of . . . he having vanished . . . thin air . . . no sooner buttoned up his breeches . . . she similarly . . . eight months later . . . almost to the tick . . . so no love . . . spared that . . . no love such as normally vented on the . . . speechless infant . . . in the home . . . no . . . nor indeed for that matter any of any kind . . . no love of any kind . . . at any subsequent stage . . . so typical affair . . . nothing of any note till coming up to sixty when– . . . what? . . seventy?. . good God! . . coming up to seventy . . . wandering in a field . . . looking aimlessly for cowslips . . . to make a ball . . . a few steps then stop . . . stare into space . . . then on . . . a few more . . . stop and stare again . . . so on . . . drifting around . . . when suddenly . . . gradually . . . all went out . . . all that early April morning light . . . and she found herself in the--– . . . what? . . who? . . no! . . she! . . [Pause and movement 1.] . . . found herself in the dark . . . and if not exactly . . . insentient . . . insentient . . . for she could still hear the buzzing . . . so-called . . . in the ears . . . and a ray of light came and went . . . came and went . . . such as the moon might cast . . . drifting . . . in and out of cloud . . . but so dulled . . . feeling . . . feeling so dulled . . . she did not know . . . what position she was in . . . imagine! . . what position she was in! . . whether standing . . . or sitting . . . but the brain– . . . what?. . kneeling? . . yes . . . whether standing . . . or sitting . . . or kneeling . . . but the brain– . . . what? . . lying? . . yes . . whether standing . . . or sitting . . . or kneeling . . . or lying . . . but the brain still . . . still . . . in a way . . . for her first thought was . . . oh long after . . . sudden flash . . . brought up as she had been to believe . . . with the other waifs . . . in a merciful . . . [Brief laugh.] . . . God . . . [Good laugh.] . . . first thought was . . . oh long after . . . sudden flash . . . she was being punished . . . for her sins . . . a number of which then . . . further proof if proof were needed . . . flashed through her mind . . . one after another . . . then dismissed as foolish . . . oh long after . . . this thought dismissed . . . as she suddenly realized . . . gradually realized . . . she was not suffering . . . imagine! . . not suffering! . . indeed could not remember . . . off-hand . . . when she had suffered less . . . unless of course she was . . . meant to be suffering . . . ha! . . thought to be suffering . . . just as the odd time . . . in her life . . . when clearly intended to be having pleasure . . . she was in fact . . . having none . . . not the slightest . . . in which case of course . . . that notion of punishment . . . for some sin or other . . . or for the lot . . . or no particular reason . . . for its own sake . . . thing she understood perfectly . . . that notion of punishment . . . which had first occurred to her . . . brought up as she had been to believe . . . with the other waifs . . . in a merciful . . . [Brief laugh.] . . . God . . . [Good laugh.] . . . first occurred to her . . . then dismissed . . . as foolish . . . was perhaps not so foolish . . . after all . . . so on . . . all that . . . vain reasonings . . . till another thought . . . oh long after . . . sudden flash . . . . . very foolish really but– . . . what? . . the buzzing? . . yes . . . all the time buzzing . . . so-called . . . in the ears . . . though of course actually . . . not in the ears at all . . . in the skull . . . dull roar in the skull . . . and all the time this ray or beam . . . like moonbeam . . . but probably not . . . certainly not . . . always the same spot . . . now bright . . . now shrouded . . . but always the same spot . . . as no moon could . . . no . . . no moon . . . just all part of the same wish to . . . torment . . . though actually in point of fact . . . not in the least . . . not a twinge . . . so far . . . ha! . . so far . . . this other thought then . . . oh long after . . . sudden flash . . . very foolish really but so like her . . . in a way . . . that she might do well to . . . groan . . . on and off . . . writhe she could not . . . as if in actual agony . . . but could not . . . could not bring herself . . . some flaw in her make-up . . . incapable of deceit . . . or the machine . . . more likely the machine . . . so disconnected . . . never got the message . . . or powerless to respond . . . like numbed . . . couldn't make the sound . . . not any sound . . . no sound of any kind . . . no screaming for help for example . . . should she feel so inclined . . . scream . . . [Screams.] . . . then listen . . . [Silence.] . . . scream again . . . [Screams again.] . . . then listen again . . . [Silence.] . . . no . . . spared that . . . all silent as the grave . . . no part–. . . what? . . the buzzing? . . yes . . . all silent but for the buzzing . . . so-called . . . no part of her moving . . . that she could feel . . . just the eyelids . . . presumably . . . on and off . . . shut out the light . . . reflex they call it . . . no feeling of any kind . . . but the lids . . . even best of times . . . who feels them? . . opening . . . shutting . . . all that moisture . . .but the brain still . . . still sufficiently . . . oh very much so! . . at this stage . . . in control . . . under control . . . to question even this . . . for on that April morning . . . so it reasoned . . . that April morning . . . she fixing with her eye . . . a distant bell . . . as she hastened towards it . . . fixing it with her eye . . . lest it elude her . . . had not all gone out . . . all that light . . . of itself . . . without any . . . any. . . on her part . . . so on . . . so on it reasoned . . . vain questionings . . . and all dead still . . . sweet silent as the grave . . . when suddenly . . . gradually . . . she realiz–. . . what? . . the buzzing? . . yes . . . all dead still but for the buzzing . . . when suddenly she realized . . . words were– . . . what? . . who?. . no! . . she! . . [Pause and movement 2.] . . . realized . . . words were coming . . . imagine! . . . words were coming . . . a voice she did not recognize at first so long since it had sounded . . . then finally had to admit . . . could be none other . . . than her own . . . certain vowel sounds . . . she had never heard . . . elsewhere . . . so that people would stare . . . the rare occasions . . . once or twice a year . . . always winter some strange reason . . . stare at her uncom-prehending . . . and now this stream . . . steady stream . . . she who had never . . . on the contrary . . . practically speechless . . . all her days . . . how she survived! . . even shopping . . . out shopping . . . busy shopping centre . . . supermart . . . just hand in the list . . . with the bag . . . old black shopping bag . . . then stand there waiting . . . any length of time . . . middle of the throng . . . motionless . . . staring into space . . . mouth half open as usual . . . till it
was back in her hand . . . the bag back in her hand . . . then pay and go . . . not as much as good-bye . . . how she survived! . . and now this stream . . . not catching the half of it . . . not the quarter . . . no idea . . . what she was saying . . . imagine! . . no idea what she was saying! . . till she began trying to . . . delude herself . . . it was not hers at all . . . not her voice at all . . . and no doubt would have . . . vital she should . . . was on the point . . . after long efforts . . . when suddenly she felt . . . gradually she felt . . . her lips moving . . . imagine! . . her lips moving! . . as of course till then she had not . . . and not alone the lips . . . the cheeks . . . the jaws . . . the whole face . . . all those– . . what?. . the tongue? . . yes . . . the tongue in the mouth . . . all those contortions without which . . . no speech possible . . . and yet in the ordinary way . . . not felt at all . . . so intent one is . . . on what one is saying . . . the whole being . . . hanging on its words . . . so that not only she had . . . had she . . . not only had she . . . to give up . . . admit hers alone . . . her voice alone . . . but this other awful thought . . . oh long after . . . sudden flash . . . even more awful if possible . . . that feeling was coming back . . . imagine! . . feeling coming back! . . starting at the top . . . then working down . . . the whole machine . . . but no . . . spared that . . . the mouth alone . . . so far . . . ha! . . so far . . . then thinking . . . oh long after . . . sudden flash . . . it can't go on . . . all this . . . all that . . . steady stream . . . straining to hear . . . make some-thing of it . . . and her own thoughts . . . make something of them . . . all– . . . what? . . the buzzing? . . yes . . . all the time the buzzing . . . so-called . . . all that together . . . imagine! . . whole body like gone . . . just the mouth . . . lips . . . cheeks . . . jaws . . . never– . . . what?. . tongue? . . yes . . . lips. . . cheeks . . . jaws . . . tongue . . . never still a second . . . mouth on fire . . . stream of words . . . in her ear . . . practically in her ear . . . not catching the half . . . not the quarter . . . no idea what she's saying . . . imagine! . . no idea what she's saying! . . and can't stop . . . no stopping it . . . she who but a moment before . . . but a moment! . . could not make a sound . . . no sound of any kind . . . now can't stop . . . imagine! . . can't stop the stream . . . and the whole brain begging . . . something begging in the brain . . . begging the mouth to stop . . . pause a moment . . . if only for a moment . . . and no response . . . as if it hadn’t heard . . . or couldn’t . . . couldn't pause a second . . . like maddened . . . all that together . . . straining to hear . . . piece it together . . . and the brain . . . raving away on its own . . . trying to make sense of it . . . or make it stop . . . or in the past . . . dragging up the past . . . flashes from all over . . . walks mostly . . . walking all her days . . . day after day . . . a few steps then stop . . . stare into space . . . then on . . . a few more . . . stop and stare again . . . so on . . . drifting around . . . day after day . . . or that time she cried . . . the one time she could remember . . . since she was a baby . . . must have cried as a baby . . . perhaps not . . . not essential to life . . . just the birth cry to get her going . . . breathing . . . then no more till this . . . old hag already . . . sitting staring at her hand . . . where was it? . . Croker's Acres . . . one evening on the way home . . . home! . . a little mound in Croker's Acres . . . dusk . . . sitting staring at her hand . . . there in her lap . . . palm upward . . . suddenly saw it wet . . . the palm . . . tears presumably . . . hers presumably . . . no one else for miles . . . no sound . . . just the tears . . . sat and watched them dry . . . all over in a second . . . or grabbing at straw . . . the brain . . . flickering away on its own . . . quick grab and on. . . nothing there . . . on to the next . . . bad as the voice . . . worse . . . as little sense . . . all that together . . . can't– . . . what? . . the buzzing? . . yes . . . all the time the buzzing . . . dull roar like falls . . . and the beam . . . flickering on and off . . . starting to move around . . . like moonbeam but not . . . all part of the same . . . keep an eye on that too . . . corner of the eye . . . all that together . . . can't go on . . . God is love . . . she'll be purged . . . back in the field . . . morning sun . . . April . . . sink face down in the grass . . . nothing but the larks . . . so on . . . grabbing at the straw . . . straining to hear . . . the odd word . . . make some sense of it . . . whole body like gone . . . just the mouth . . . like maddened . . . and can't stop . . . no stopping it . . . something she– . . . something she had to– . . . what? . . who? . . no! . . she! . . [Pause and movement 3.] . . . something she had to–. . . what? . . the buzzing? . . yes . . . all the time the buzzing . . . dull roar . . . in the skull . . . and the beam . . . ferreting around . . . painless . . . so far . . . ha! . . so far . . . then thinking . . . oh long after . . . sudden flash . . . perhaps something she had to . . . had to . . . tell . . . could that be it? . . something she had to . . . tell . . . tiny little thing . . . before its time . . . godforsaken hole . . . no love . . . spared that . . . speechless all her days . . . practically speechless . . . how she survived! . . that time in court . . . what had she to say for herself . . . guilty or not guilty . . . stand up woman . . . speak up woman . . . stood there staring into space . . . mouth half open as usual . . . waiting to be led away . . . glad of the hand on her arm . . . now this . . . some-thing she had to tell . . . could that be it? . . something that would tell . . . how it was . . . how she– . . . what? . . had been? . . yes . . . something that would tell how it had been . . . how she had lived . . . lived on and on . . . guilty or not . . . on and on . . . to be sixty . . . something she– . . . what? . . seventy? . . good God! . . on and on to be seventy . . . something she didn't know herself . . . wouldn't know if she heard . . . then forgiven . . . God is love . . . tender mercies . . . new every morning . . . back in the field . . . April morning . . . face in the grass . . . nothing but the larks . . . pick it up there . . . get on with it from there . . . another few– . . . what? . . not that? . . nothing to do with that? . . nothing she could tell? . . all right . . . nothing she could tell . . . try something else . . . think of something else . . . oh long after . . . sudden flash . . . not that either . . . all right . . . something else again . . . so on . . . hit on it in the end . . . think everything keep on long enough . . . then forgiven . . . back in the– . . . what? . . not that either? . . nothing to do with that either? . . nothing she could think? . . all right . . . nothing she could tell . . . nothing she could think . . . nothing she– . . what? . . who? . . no! . . she! . . [Pause and movement 4.] . . . tiny little thing . . . out before its time . . . godforsaken hole . . . no love . . . spared that . . . speechless all her days . . . practically speechless . . . even to herself . . . never out loud . . . but not completely . . . sometimes sudden urge . . . once or twice a year . . . always winter some strange reason . . . the long evenings . . . hours of darkness . . . sudden urge to . . . tell . . . then rush out stop the first she saw . . . nearest lavatory . . . start pouring it out . . . steady stream . . . mad stuff . . . half the vowels wrong . . . no one could follow . . . till she saw the stare she was getting . . . then die of shame . . . crawl back in . . . once or twice a year . . . always winter some strange reason . . . long hours of darkness . . . now this . . . this . . . quicker and quicker . . . the words . . . the brain . . . flickering away like mad . . . quick grab and on . . . nothing there . . . on somewhere else . . . try somewhere else . . . all the time something begging . . . something in her begging . . . begging it all to stop . . . unanswered . . . prayer unanswered . . . or unheard . . . too faint . . . so on . . . keep on . . . trying . . . not knowing what . . . what she was trying . . . what to try . . . whole body like gone . . . just the mouth . . . like maddened . . . so on . . . keep– . . . what? . . the buzzing? . . yes . . . all the time the buzzing . . . dull roar like falls . . . in the skull . . . and the beam . . . poking around . . . painless . . . so far . . . ha! . . so far . . . all that . . . keep on . . . not knowing what . . . what she was– . . . what? . . who? . . no! . . she! . . SHE! . . [Pause.] . . . what she was trying . . . what to try . . . no matter . . . keep on . . . [Curtain starts down.] . . . hit on it in the end . . . then back . . . God is love . . . tender mercies . . . new every morning . . . back in the field . . . April morning . . . face in the grass . . . nothing but the larks . . . pick it up–

Après experience!

'Aquas de Marco' by Elis Regina

Have to add this version by Holly Cole. Quite a different kettle of notes.

Visual delights

Sometime Lemon Hound contributor derek beaulieu

1115 / 2:47: Pages from Emma Rouleau on Vimeo.

Natalie Zina Walschots talks to Sachiko Murakami

NZW: The timeline for Project Rebuild has been incredibly compressed. I first heard of the project at the beginning on July 6th , and a physical version of the project, the book Rebuild, was launched at the Pilot on September 7th, a mere two months after the original invitations to renovate were sent out. What was it like working under such a compressed timeline? How was a book produced so quickly?

How does the website, Project Rebuild, function differently/independently of the book, Rebuild? What came first, the plan to writ ea book or the plan to design a website?

SM: ProjectRebuild.ca and the book, Rebuild, are separate but interconnected entities. Here’s how it all went down.

Erica Baum's 'Dog Ear'

Embedded in our current moment is the unique opportunity to interrogate the manner in which we conceive of what it means to read. A materiality that was once self-evident - i.e., you read a book, or a sign, or a magazine - in the relationship between a text and the act of reading has receded into the ephemeral cloud of digital storage and display. Engagement with a text, and indeed any solid definition of what constitutes a text, has been uprooted and made unstable by the advent of digital readers, word processors and computer screens. Certainly this is no original claim, and it has been made more incisively and eloquently, but it bears keeping in mind when encountering Erica Baum's Dog Ear.

In Baum's introduction Kenneth Goldsmith traces a portion of the poetic genealogy of Dog Ear - in Pound's "radiant node(s)", Burroughs' Fold-ins and Porter's Founds - and expresses the precarious position of the dog ear as physical bi-product of the reading process, that being "[contingent] upon the de/formation of a physical page, the dog ear's obsolescence was assured in the digital age" (iii). Goldsmith also gestures toward the obliquely digital process by which one may read Baum's plates, by having at least two paths to take through each text, relating their leonine-like structure to a sort of precursor to hypertext. For Goldsmith this process articulates current tensions in any definition of reading, stating that, "For Baum, the act of reading is up for grabs ... What is the best path?" (iv). The end result of Goldsmith's line of inquiry is the conclusion that Baum, "[by] spotlighting the way language describes information systems in analog media ... makes us aware of how that same language is used in computing ... the language our operating systems employ comes from a pre-digital age - desktops, folders, web pages" (vii - viii).

Beatrice Gross, in her essay that follows Baum's plates, picks up a thread that Goldsmith alludes to briefly in his introduction, that Baum "has selected these dog ears equally for their visual and literary merits" (vii). Gross explicates the manner in which the conception of these pieces, as equally visual and literary, obfuscates the divide between these two traditionally disparate realms, stating that "Baum's dog ears make signifier and signified coincide perfectly in one fold, drawing our attention simultaneously to their visual and linguistic features" (64). This simultaneity, for Gross, has resonance in the piece's engagement with form and content as well, stating that Baum's "printed landscapes - where found verses and embodied geometry conspire to create a nagging unity of matter and meaning - expose the irrelevance of the disjunction between form and content ... the photographs allegorize their very inseparability" (68).

Beyond the salient points regarding Dog Ear's visual and literary merits put forward by Goldsmith and Gross, Baum's work engages and reconfigures the traditional mode of reading poetry. The visual structure of the poems make explicit the poetic convention of "the turn"; what was once an implicit gesture of expression here becomes physically manifest in the right-angled turn of the phrase to move down the page (should one choose to read the poems around the fold). A plate such as "Not to Wear Stockings" may read, "Your sister is not [] to wear stockings / gravely, and the [] the earth was / stairs", the right turn actualizing, on the page, an internal turn of the line not unlike the blank space of a caesura. Gross's assertion that the work refutes dissection into its literary and visual components proves to be true through this marriage of poetic convention and structure.

By non-prescriptively presenting texts that are open to multiple paths of reading Baum's plates expose an instability lurking beneath any encounter with a text: a choice, whether actively or passively made by the reader, determines how the content of a text is to be consumed. How any reader navigates a single text, involves decisions on how to manage the information given by the text. This process of information management exists implicitly in reading traditional modes of writing, in consuming the content on a physical page, but is made more visible in the digital age, wherein information is leveled and made more malleable by its digital composition. The beauty and grace of Baum's work is in its simple and elegant conception, regarding a traditional mode of reading/manipulating a text - the dog ear - with an eye to the contemporary age. Baum's awareness reveals how, as Goldsmith asserts, new technologies are in direct dialogue with, and are reliant on, previous modes of creation and reading.

Beyond its concept, the poetry of Dog Ear acquits itself well, which is a testament to both Baum's concept and her curation skills. A poem such as "Corpse" reads evocatively as both

to the corpse I had worn away

the lips In a stirred and

a bright arousing

struggle hopeless

had move

or

to the corpse I

the lips In a

a bright

struggle

had

had worn away

stirred and

arousing

hopeless

move

In each case the poem generated by the path of reading loosely gestures toward a similar theme, but with subtle and strong differences. The second reading introduces a closeness the corpse that does not exist in the first; in the first reading the speaker identifies with the corpse as either their own or a corpse that they have acted on, "to the corpse I had worn away", whereas the second posits the speaker as the lips of the corpse, "to the corpse I / the lips In a / a bright / struggle". The movement between these two positions is a subtle but powerful movement which alters the sympathy of the reader considerably.

Baum's texts, however, actually present themselves in a less clearly delineated manner than this streamlined reading; half-words and solitary letters scatter along the fold, disappearing beneath the surface of the overturned page. What could be construed as a problematic element to the reading process, incomplete words resulting in fractured semantic meaning-making, allows Baum's work to both visually and literally account for the incompleteness inherent in any text. This fragmented condition also offers an invitation for the reader to complete the hanging words and phrases, further moving the relation of the reader to the text away from passive receptiveness toward a more active role in the generation of its meaning. The reader is free to generate and substitute words that the fragments on the page allude to. Baum's poems exist in a quantum state, vacillating between any infinite number of readings when completed by the activity of the reader.

The instability of the text proves itself to be somewhat of a misnomer in Baum's plates. The poems present themselves equally visually and textually, open themselves to be read in many different manners that engage the reader actively in a non-prescriptive manner. Baum's work stands not as a mortified text nostalgic for the prematurely buried artifact of the book, but rather as an inclusive and generative gesture that illuminates the genealogy of contemporary engagements with writing.

Baum, Erica. Dog Ear. Brooklyn: Ugly Duckling Press, 2011.

----------

Ben Hynes, Montreal

Synapse: Second Reading of the Season

This one is going to be amazing. And for the record, we have already partially lined up our readers and laid out the themes of next semester's readings. Stay tuned for that. Concordia has it all going on with the reading series. Between Synapse, Writers Read, and The Pilot...oh, and we are big fans of The Atwater Series as well.

Are you curious about what happens at Synapse? Take a listen to a few of our past readers:
Melissa Bull
Candice Maddy
Emma Healy

from The Mirror, thanks

DECEPTIVELY CONTAINED: Davis

Photo by THEO COTE

Lydia Davis break

Short story writer Lydia Davis, a direct literary descendant of post-modernist great Donald Barthelme, reads at Concordia’s York Amphitheatre (1515 Ste-Catherine W.) this Friday, Nov. 4, 7:30 Concordia’s Writers Read series.

The 2003 MacArthur fellow, whose collected stories were published in 2009, is a writer’s writer, as is often said of authors who deftly master language, structure and character at once.

Davis has also earned recognition for her work as a translator, having successfully tackled Proust and Flaubert, to name a few. She has said that the exercise of suppressing her style in order to better express someone else’s affords her a vacation from her own writing, and then ultimately strengthens her prose.

“Davis is a singular voice in contemporary literature,” says Sina Queyras, who coordinated the event. “Her collection Break it Down broke down the structure and fixity of the traditional short story for a generation of writers. Many writers have been influenced by Lydia Davis, but there is only one Lydia Davis. Her stories appear on the horizon like ice bergs, with shocking clarity: beautiful, sleek, deceptively contained.”

—YANIYA LEE

Draps pour tous!

This Friday @ Concordia

Amy Winehouse

Absolute obsession

The ghost of bp Nichol

Wishful thinking on Queen Street

If you're in Toronto come out to the Coach House launch at the dance cave on Bloor.

In which the Hound imitates a mic stand

For Michael Nardone. The next Synapse reading will have a real mic stand. Promise.

Michael Nardone's piece was incredible, by the way. I did my best not to respond as the lines were read, but they were great. Surprising. 

Aspect Ratio

Ongoing series of Montreal shots, particularly focusing on the northeast corner of the plateau.