Noticed just walls and walls of Ginsberg in the Harold Washington Library, hereafter library, today.
David Markson has donated, likely it is donated, his book collection to The Strand.
Giving new meaning to getting rid of all this shit.
Giving older meaning to humbleness.
How could anyone be surprised. Even Newsweek has something to say.
So there’s an official opinion on the upper west.
Has New York produced a writer more humble than Markson.
Find a quiet place, use a humble pen.
You think of Mailer never throwing away a napkin he wiped cum off with. His papers are in Texas.
You think of youngins saving their emails.
Norman Mailer’s papers are in Texas.
I would more expect to caddie a foursome between West, Markson, Antin and Ginsberg than expect that Norman Mailer would send his papers to Texas.
Writers write, Readers read.
Joyce’s write, readers read.
There is not one copy of On The Road published after 1980 in the great library.
There are 13 copies of Ann Charter’s latest attempt.
Can any recent writer compete with Maya Angelou for the most copies in the library?
The passages at the end of Kundera’s Immortality on the futility of biography.
All taking place pool side.
Her volumes put King to shame.
Forget recent. Judging by the amount of Ginsberg and Angelou in the library, they should be bronzed.
It would go Shakespeare, Homer, Angelou, Virgil, Ginsberg.
There is more Allen Gisnberg in the library than J.K. Rowling and The Girl with the Golden Ashcroft combined.
There is exactly one copy of a Bret Easton Ellis book in the main library. A nearly unreadable — but not the way Kakutanimeant it was unreadable — copy of Glamorama. It’s falling apart, probably cummed on by a shrewd homeless guy when the Internet line was too long.
The rest of the Ellis (not nearly enough) is constantly within transit between libraries, due, or lost.
Like the books “behind” the counter at St. Mark’s Books or Moe’s or Apple: if you’re behind the counter you are in transit between libraries, due, or lost.
Antin and Markson, two writers who have perplexed form so much, they are nowhere to be found, lost, in transit between libraries, due, or shelved. Not even in reference.
As the spirit wanes, the form appears, Bukowski wrote in a poem called art.
Lost, lost, lost, lost.
I hold most of Antin’s library books at home. I’m never flagged to return them.
I would like to be flagged.
There’s 11 copies of Howl, and another 11 copies of the Howl that was put out like The Wastland with the Important Markings in the margins.
Who is reading this stuff?
9 copies of Ginsberg-Snyder correspondence.
11 copies of the early journals, the middle journals, the late journals, 13 copies all, copies of Ginsberg’s correspondence with his father, the selected poems, the complete poems, the super-complete poems.
Who is writing about this stuff? I know a half dozen scholars and they are all nearly finished with papers on Victorian pornography.
Thinking 100 years from now there will be no Ellis books in the library and all the smart people will be using the words alterity and Sasha Grey in the same blockquote.
Even if they’re actually doing it now.
Rexroth’s Street Sign in North Beach.
Markson imagined somewhere the Melville half-dollar.
Library I have given you everything and where is my Modern Library Edition of Antin?
I can’t play street drums on these decaying paperbacks.
Library Two Dollars and Forty Cents in overdue fines July Eleventh Two Thousand and Ten.
I can’t stand your purchasing department.
When will your dayworkers stop treating me like a hunchback.
An entire library row of the black and white City Lights pocket editions of Howl Reality Sandwiches and Plutonium Ode.
Like a baby grand.
Dream of a volume called: All the ways Allen Ginsberg was a dick to all the people and children he was a dick to.
Dream of a volume called: Maya Angelou: Very, very collected.
Why even in the library must I feel the stink of exchange.
Wilco will be at the South Bend Silver Hawks Stadium tonight. Immediately following the show, Tweedy will be in the back room at Corby’s, where he will take questions from underage St. Mary’s girls on the importance of the living eucharist in Joyce.
I found this on Lala (RIP) and couldn’t believe the sound. The first track on the record, Shifting Down (which comes before Diamond’s Shilo on my Classic Ipod) has a Blue Train the tune feel. Cecil plays the meanest chords at the beginning of Trane’s solo.
…never read Proust. The line reminds me of a Roth interview where he says something like, loosely quoting: ”when I was young I stayed away from Proust, I kept with Celine, I didn’t let Proust ruin me.”
In the Bowery memorizing the boards on the floor, paper all over the room, all the letters I can’t answer. This used to be home. Sculpt all day and then people come by in the late afternoon, drinking around the marble tabletop. Then we’d find some dinner. Last summer there were things like roaring big salads, hunks of chicken, tomatoes red on the lettuce. Strawberries and two kinds of wine. The soft white light afternoon through the paper shutters.
“I would write ads for deodorants or labels for catsup bottles, if I had to,” he told The Paris Review in 1967. “The miracle of turning inklings into thoughts and thoughts into words and words into metal and print and ink never palls for me.”
She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, he asked her, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable of thinking consecutively for sixty seconds? To submit himself to the criticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted its morality to policemen and its fine arts to impresarios?
Joyce: Mr. Duffy to Mrs. Sinico in “A Painful Case”
Leonardo DiCaprio plays Dom Cobb (the name sounds like it should evoke something—but what? Dummkopf?), who specializes in plunging into people’s “subconscious” minds while they sleep and extracting their corporate secrets. (I’m with Freud in preferring “unconscious.”) But his new client, Saito (Ken Watanabe), wants the impossible: for Cobb not to steal an idea but to plant one in a business rival’s head…..Cobb accepts the job because he longs to see his two little kids in the U.S. and is forbidden to return on account of a Crime to Be Revealed Later; and Saito says that with one phone call he can make the legal problems go away. (He just can.) Then Saito says what in this kind of thriller are magic words: “Assemble your team.”
There’s a long-form article on The Room in Harper’s this month.
Wiseau’s most mystifying decision was to film The Room’s several rooftop vingnettes against a panoramic green screen, on which a shimmering digital vista was later badly composited. Wiseau’s insistence on filming The Room with two cameras is a triple-play rarity in modern filmmaking: at once financially improvident, visually unsatisfying, and definitvely unnecessary.
The size and number of the rats in Panama City, when I passed through, truly astonished me. I saw one of them sunning himself beside the swimming pool. And another was looking at me from the wainscoting of a restaurant as I was eating a fruit salad. Also, on an electric wire which slanted upward into a banana tree, I saw a whole rat-troupe go back and forth, harvesting. They ran the wire twenty times or more without a single collision. My suggestion is that you put birth control chemicals in the baits. Poisons will never work (for Malthusian reasons; reduce the population somewhat and it only increases more vigorously). But several years of contraception may eliminate your rat problem.
I saw on a thankfully mute television today ESPN, The Worldwide Leader in Sports, dissecting an umpire snafu that befell a Dodger’s pitcher last night. Up came the slick graphic screens designed by Risdee fratboys, with the language copy written by the douchebags of Brown, with the sportscasters in their monkey suits who would be doing more for the common good if they were at GS trading hog futures, talking seriously about the rule book, with the periods, Rule 8.8.67, like it’s the date of a Dead Bootleg, and serious and arch legal language, on why the umpires were wrong.
"The far out fringe has been very in this week. Another member is Arman, one of the rare French artists to find favor in New York at the moment. Andy Warhol considers him one of the most indifferent of Frenchman.
It is getting harder and harder for artists to come up with something original in the way of invitations, but those deisgned by Arman for his show deserve an award of some kind. He has spelled out his name and the pertinent data in tiny metallic letters and imprisoned them in a plastic ice cube. Real cool.”
Betty Harris, There’s a Break in the Road (backed up by the furiously funky Meters, found on soul sides.)
This track is not necessarily off the hook as much as it is a vintage Burberry rain coat that is on the hook of a closet on the 6th floor of a 9th avenue walkup in the 40s, and the tenant just lost his job and has mice and no hot water and it’s the first rain of the fall when he sees this sick raincoat he found cheap at a UES thrift store whose revenue supports breast cancer research and when he steps outside with it on he knows he’s going to be the coolest guy in Times Square in about 6 minutes.
Bruce, Mary’s Place. Love this tune. Every time it gets to the part where he’s waiting for the shout from the crowd (turn it up) I wonder if he performed this when he did Born to Run over on Madison and Damen, and I remember again how sorrow filled I am that, whether he did Mary’s Place or not, I missed that show.
0. For the third year in a row I sneak in without really trying to. Gotta stop buying tickets for this thing, but I like supporting it.
1. We locate the central tickets for beverages area. A man wearing white bucks stripped of all their southern charm yells in my direction “hey, Metahead, when are Kings of Leon in 2004 going on?” I say “6:15, stage B. The Balance Stage.” He says, “Thanks!”
“There is a kind of amnesia to do with the cinema. One doesn’t know what one has seen, what it’s worth, whether it is good or not, what one should think of it. People you know, you trust, have a different view from yours, a totally difficult conclusion about the film from ours. Everything has lost its credibility in this business”—Baudrillard in conversation with Mike Gane, 1991, from Baurdillard Live.
Like SFJ says the Complete In a Silent Way Sessions are somehow better than what actually got released. Usually Miles’ alt. tracks, spanning his whole career, are slightly less good than what got released. Miles was meticulous.
The sweetest track from this session, outside of weird overlong Dual Mr. Anthony Tillmon Williams Process is Frelon Brun.
Listen to the pocket put down there. That is a beautiful baby being put down, the pocket of men who just got paid.
I can never figure out who is playing on this later Miles stuff and I can’t be bothered, I just call everyone Cannonball Adderley in my head.
Someone is using an electric piano to make a grungy two-note riff that the Pixies will make with a guitar, later.
Then the ensemble lays down the Frelon Brun theme and it has the polite angularity of the great second quartet themes on E.S.P., Sorcerer and Nefertiti.
Has anyone but Miles and his people written more themes that can be boiled down to: Oh, well excuse me, miss.
Then it moves into measures of low tone solo, Williams hanging on the cymbal. This low tone soloist chalks up the tones that Miles will be allowed to chose from in some kind of aural place that sounds like puffed rice. This is the shit that Cage worked his whole life for, happening in real time. This is macrobiotic music.
Miles takes it for there. Thank you for the notes, he says, going in the opposite direction, natch.
I always wonder how bored Miles was at this point and if anyone has ever made more beautiful sounds when bored.
Two extra-musical thoughts:
1) Who can afford this shit? These million dollar box sets. Where do people put them when they get them? What is the intended audience for these things? Is this as inaccessible to the real world as, say, the complete Bruckner symphonies.
2) Would the “complete sessions” of anything exist without CD techmaulogy? Would “box sets” have been allowed on record? On tape? What came first, CDs or Box Sets?