a page describing ones day-to-day doings, in sincere, exacting detail; a page of love and remorse.
Name: Tom Lee
I'm named Tom. I will swap two red suckers for a blue one. I'm as honest as the day is long, and will be found making hay in the sunshine. I will sooner eat meat than mustard and have the bull by its horns. I have bitten off more than I can chew from the bone of contention
banalasanything
bastardseverywhere
iheartinkpen
iwishyoucouldtalk
liminal blues
pattybumcracky
plastic astrid in the bistro being nasty
sperm
striker mckeys
swimswam
thisistoday
today
October 2007
September 2007
August 2007
July 2007
June 2007
May 2007
April 2007
March 2007
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Living Arrangements: John Ashbery, Mike Parr, W. G. Seblad, and they're texts. (does flogging a dead horse not come to mind? and that whole play on their/they're, ugh, so 1980s) ...I would like to research a series of texts (yawn) that are problematic when considering issues of autobiography, identity, and the self. It might be appropriate (why not do something inappropriate you bore) to introduce the texts now and then return to them later: the poetry of John Ashbery, Mike Parr's self-portraiture, and the literature of W. G. Seblad. (haven't we heard enough about these guys already) no we've heard enough from you already bracket man!... ...undecidability (eeek!) imposes, or can be seen to impose a degree of responsibility on us as readers and writers, or readers as writers, and vice versa, of texts, but not just of texts... ...how does one (in the context perhaps how does, three?) as a writer/reader and an identity (identities) that is similarly undecidable, establish a level (spirt level? level 7?) of identification, intimacy, with the supposed creator of a text, who is also created by it... ...Ashbery (is fat) interests me, one of the reasons Ashbery demands my interest, is because he is so adamant in claiming that his poems are devoid of autobiographical detail - it is convenient, for the moment, for me to think of him claiming such things. His poems, in most cases (wet cases?) - except for a selection of very interesting instances which it would be my task to dwell on - his poetry seems indicative of such claims. However, this should not result in the question, questions, being side stepped altogether... ...If Ashbery's (pet dog was caught in a fence) is not in any sense autobiographical, then what type of identity or identities are then created - assuming that in order for a reader/writer to respond to a text intimately (s/he needs to rub it slowly?) or even responsibly, some type of identity, some identities will have to be recognised/created, even if, and in particular when, autobiographical writing per se isn't specific subject matter... ...If we read Ashbery, or a certain Ashbery, (you and...your dad?) as an autobiographical poet, whatever that may mean, or if we use slippages within his work where the skeleton of an identity is there for us to throw paint on, what innovative possibilities does this allow for when considering supposed autobiographical writing in general, writing in general?... ...This could lead to further questions (my favourite) regarding the discrepancy between intention and reaction, the play between revealing and concealing; that we are often most revealing when we don't intend to be, however - and this is a line that i wish to retrace - this doesn't cauterise reader/writer accountability... ...Lies (now mis-using the word, now the words inherent, or rather conditional mis-use becomes apparent) are what makes the truth (im)possible. Thus, in the instances of Ashbery, it could be read that the lack of an ostensible identity is what makes identities possible, identity always having to be corrected, excused, made-up, plural. And the question begins to look like not so much 'whether or not?' but 'what? and 'why not?' - 'why not?' as both a query and an affirmation... ...For a moment I will permit my self a brief correction: my concern is not so much he re-interpretation of Ashbery as being autobiographical, or to search out cryptic meaning within his work (though this isn't entirely not the question either), but to use the attitude, what evidence there is of one, in-between writer and textual manifestation, to look for peculiar aspects from where to initiate my research... ...The idea of creating identities accidentally, something we can attribute to a certain reading of Ashbery's work, is an interesting point from which to consider the attempted self portraiture of Mike Parr (in relation to the word 'attempt', I hope I have made it clear by now that any type of self revelation is always an attempt, always to come). Self-portraiture and self-mutilation - a telling couple: what does one have to endure to express an identity? how do we witness ourselves? witness for the witness? And what relationship does Parr’s etching bear with writing in general? Writing, a continual process of cutting away, scaring and renewal, that leaves us with spectral traces of identities… …Whereas it might be considered innovative or naïve to dredge for the remnants of certain identities in Ashbery’s poetry, W. G. Sebald’s writing is more directly engaged with such questions. If it was said that Ashbery’s poetry is a noisy disavowal of identity—a writing to prevent an identity from happening—then Sebald might be said to mourn the (im)possibility of such an identity. It would be foolish and somewhat contradictory to suggest Ashbery and Sebald, the works of those writers, could be happily aligned. However, I think that the tension produced from considering them as in some why congruent does provide opportunity for ‘creative terrain’ on which to conduct my research… …What might this ‘creative terrain’ begin to look like? Explaining myself so far I have largely relied on rhetoric, which finds it’s way easily—and not necessarily without place—into proposals… …The first thing that comes to mind are close readings of a selection of Ashbery’s poems—poems that are most apparently concerned with coming to terms with autobiographical cinders, or poems that Ashbery has—reluctantly!—alluded to as being ‘partly autobiographical’ in various interviews. Comparisons with poems that are perhaps more conventionally autobiographical would follow. I also plan to consider aspects of his poetry that have been left more or less untouched in critical readings. This would include the relationship between Ashbery’s poems and their titles, what this might reveal about the process of naming, of a certain textual personality, not without purchase when considering the question of personality in general. There is also the interesting matter of the in-between of autobiography and biography: What role do epigraphs play in Ashbery’s work? And how can Ashbery’s criticism of other writers contribute to our understanding of his own work?
after entertaining erotic thoughts about guillotines during the day, the night rewarded me with a memorable scene. simply put: i was trying to hitch a lift, one hand shaped into the generic upwards thumb gesture, the other clasping the hair of my decapitated head. i was still able to see from the vantage point where my eye's usually would have been. i noted how white the bone of my spine looked, nestled in the blue and red cords dangling from my neck. there is an interesting point to be explored, made-up, here with regards to vision, if anyone would care to make it - i've got an eggplant, caspicum, caper, and stewed tomato salad to finsih.
a muscle man walks across nights pleasant dome, nearby there is nothing and it dies. notting of the childish naivety whose gaze at day break should be to lie? happiness drips onto the chair, her arms, tied to balloons float about her skull: 'get out! get out! let the summer be revealed, I will sleep alone.' when I was young I was drawn to sleeping on my parents floor in our house on top of the hill; adults divide as heaven glues itself with momentary modesty to the nighttime thicket. for her hate was weakest, she could only humor me, and her expression was most courteous, when crying her way home.
dear all, as i suspected fate has stuck it's ugly nose into my business and torn my plans from me like coils from the guts of a datsun. mill's grandmother (peg) died this morning, mill and her family are flying back to australia tonight. the return flight is booked for wednesday next week, our flight for tunisia leaves on tuesday night. more than anything i feel sick, i feel futile, i feel numb and electricly depressed - i can't help thinking mum's dreams might have somehow forwarned this pitful state. as a result the gap between my imagined return home and an actual return home has been deleated. i feel this has signaled the end of mine and mill's relationship, and further my time here, the prospect of doing much seems repulsive and the prospect of returning to family and friends post haste seems appealing. regardless i will forge on to tunisia, where i can only suppose my feeling of solitude will deepen. i have little desire to entertain any vaguely romatic notions with the hypothetic end looming like great dark cloud above the horizon. checking my inbox before writing this i looked over the flight confirmations, the pang in my heart in still resounding so that i'm misfiring nearly every letter i attempt to type. i've sent an email to STA asking for details on how i go about changing the dates of my flight home. despite the hopelessness that may be evident in the content of this email, i am still together, held in parts by bits of tape, as it were. hopefully the next day or so will clear things up a little but right now it feels i've just walked out of a very long movie into the bright of day. i'll find an upside, much love, tom.
Dear -, ...and the last of the rain dries from my shoulders. My two hands are removed from the cup by someone else's not in the frame. The weakest moments drip out of my skull like ash shaken from a sandle. A man behind me finishes his coffee and rubs his glasses. Candles ignite and break, the ground is covered in snow and mucus. The only stones left bare seem to rise. A baby cries because of her first teeth, my mother's hair turns grey, she washes my towels. We are what we make of each other; fish caught in nets. Poorly formed fragments gutted and dangled in empty dim rooms. I want to sit on that step over and over again until I hear you whistle and walk forth from the bushes, an inflamed plank in your hand and a look in your eyes suggestive of more wine and a cigarettes.
The empty mask is taken away and replaced with a super funny girl. Perfect, the woman with no name stands out of focus. This year she will wrap a brick in toilet paper and imagine it disolving for fifty years. Love comes out of the darkened drain and it feels new and delicious as though it were tender baby vegitables smothered in butter. Your hair is a weapon. Your doll talks to you. You hide your tears and become a tear yourself when you curl up on the blue linen. We hear the lemons thud in the mornings first wind. We hear small five dollar notes sing and watch them dance. Walk towards the camera. Do you feel like someone has been calved out of your middle and the dew on your pie collects, you fancy yourself a new man, now that the kitchen bench is done.
A man walks into a room. In what ways is this
autobiographical, he thinks. Poor walls let in the sound
of traffic. Doom, frozen on the computer,
an old glass of ginger ale, mint leaves
black. Peace for a while as he reads the paper,
then his thoughts converge with lust and the need to hear
an ABBA song. Details on a note reading,
her impression intensified by the words she chose,
chance, rhuematoid athritis, game. There was a brass plaque
outside the surgery, distortion. Your a
thin black needle, or a card with no picture on the surface.
This is the new me, mostly
- and i said to mars, come closer so i can touch you with my finger.
Happy noises remove the lasting sheet of pleasure from underneath my body.
Octagons fall, fall, fall from my side and land next to the ducklings,
they are building a house in the thicket. A stuffed jackdaw adopts the same pose
it has for many days, impaled against the industrial backdrop.
Matilda raises her voice in the silence, Grahame do you think that the bridge
is draped across the water? We begin
work on the dome in May, our squashed eyes will emit a dull secondary fragrance
we might liken to steel. But now our attention
is focused on the darkening afternoon, and a solitary sheep
picking out feed from between the wet variegated thistles.
Me, trampoline
Bees buzz around his ears, men stare at him.
'What a stupid hat, can I take it off?' and it was
a stupid hat, white and puffy, like his lies
or the initial milk in his tea.
'That's just something I have to do, I mean
I will do it.' It seems the kitchen job may be useful after all.
Life is still
a party for me, except that I have no emails, you
know that I mean don't you, no emails.
Your neck once smelt like a gun.
Between the houses it smells
of boarding school cordial and rolled apricots.
We found a snake coiled on the gravel at smoko.
Sad marshmellows in the trashcan dominate every inch of newspread.
When it tried to remove me I sprayed it with blue dye then said,
on the step with the squashed melon and the paper,
weeds grow through the bricks, birds twitter,
the lame one eyes your boiled egg. Your lego boat went missing,
and your brothers velcro wallet sits in his drawer.
Must you wear that mask, must you wear that mask....
a realistic waxwork of raw meat beset by vermin. The weather continues,
a little blond boy is hit by a stone.
Someone places a cabbage on a fence post and peels back their rubber,
we hide the special cups that are dirty,
our phlegm glistens on the boot: 'Or we could do something of that kind.'
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