____________________________________________________________________________________

Room ##

..... REPETITION IS TRUTH

.........................a textual square

.........The empty cup.

-----------------------------------------The silence.

.......................................The brightness.

The crunch of implication.

Piece of. The blot. Ignore it.

_______________________________________________________________________________

LETTER TO LEICESTER KYLE

12/12/2000

Leicester Kyle Residential:Calliope Rd, Millerton.Ph(03)782860

Postal: c/o Postal Agency, Ngakawau, Buller.

NEW ZEALAND.

Dear Leicester,

I have finally initiated a reply to your letter. I’m afraid I’ve been procrastinating – not because I didn’t want to reply or anything dramatic, but for a number of reasons. First: some news. Tamasin, as you might recall, is in Melbourne, and on Sunday I fare welled Dionne who was going with her boyfriend to (hopefully) reform The Nudie Suits in which she plays the Hawaiian guitar. Tamasin plays the violin and they all dream of doing well in music. This is good. But it saddens me somewhat. Not, of course, their musical ambitions, but that I am two daughters down: or at least, separated from! I get emails and some letters but it’s not quite the same. But there you are. One never gets used to being alive. I’m 52 and still learning and blundering!

After my initial success on eBay auctioning books etc I ran into the US elections which meant that most of my potential buyers were glued to their radios and TV sets while they replaced a corrupt regime with a slightly more corrupt one!

As to my “poetry career” I’ve never really thought of myself that way. I went through a period (about 1989 to 1995) when I got a great “buzz” from it all especially when I was “the poet” at the Shakespeare. But concomitant

completely neglecting in fact tragic consequences followed on from it (and the “blame” I give to myself as much as my b) in X’s reaction and even some deep hurt in the But drinking almost to my own death intensified the frisson, the sense almost of being godlike, and the adrenalin buzz. In fact I may have (unconsciously) been seeking some form of destruction (either by car, or arrest, or what you will). But it had to be me who was being applauded – nothing less. Me. It would never be enough just to listen to others. I still cant very well. I don’t want to fool myself on this one. I was then totally egocentric. But this arose at that time kind of crisis. My own father had painted but what was left of his total Energized by that and then by my leaving me I went through a deep which nearly lead to

Perhaps the University course I did helped move me into “reality” somewhat and I am thankful for that. When I say totally. I mean I suppose that my primal impulse was that. It would have been better had I had some “project”.

In this I’ve influenced somewhat by Scott Hamilton (in turn influenced by Smithyman). (I’ve just received the latest ABD but more later).

But I have never seen it as “life and death”. Also I would be lying if I didn’t admit

Also I’m well aware that rejection is more the norm re submissions. Witness poor old L’s 30 submissions to SPORT before he was published! His frenetic drive and hunger to be published. Good on him, I see he won a competition. So.

My difficulty is working into something that is meaningful without becoming dull realism or something tediously “poetic”. So thus I will begin on my various projects very soon. In fact writing that last sentence made me feel better about it!

Thanks for your kind words re my published “situation”: I see your “Sowry” thing is in Brief as its now called. I haven’t had time to scrutinize it but as you know I’m very keen on that one if it is like what I saw of it originally. I also like Scott’s stuff, and am glad for him. I went to Jack’s book launch and got his book, which I found, quite unlike his other stuff (as they were short excerpts etc) after his “Brunettes” book, it was very interesting. In fact I offered to review it in ABD (Jack and Geraets have agreed – no collusion there!). But his book “clashed “ with yours. They are so different in tone and import.

On further reading of “Anzac” I wasn’t sure: got a bit cross with it! But now I feel that it is fundamentally “bang on”. Jack strives more for (some degree) of indeterminancy. But what you are doing as I see it so far is to cleverly combine a certain sly humour with a high seriousness and also a use of often quite beautiful poetry “for its own sake”. I think also you quite readily bring in certain personal things so that the lives of others “ordinary” NZrs who turn out to be not always ordinary (and that’s a brilliant device using the “dash” to kind of accelerate the background on the lives of these people.) I like the way you move from the “mundane” (the people arriving and setting things up etc) to the “high” tone but that is off set somewhat by your personal “intrusion”. So overall I still like Anzac. I think Jack was deceived by the repetition which bothered me at first but I see how that reinforces what you have to say about Anzac as a ceremony, the implications of sacrifice, the “genuine” and the near hypocritical elements which are always there, and the sense of “it could be any where in N.Z. – in fact it is N.Z. in a sense. And it’s more than dawn ceremonies to commemorate very real tragedies (and the greater shadow of war – that great grim thing) and so on.

Once I’ve reviewed Jack’s book, which is more “complex” by design (but very good) I’ll have another and deeper read of your book. But up ‘till now I have found all of your books to be excellent. Taken as a body we are looking at some important literature.

To change the subject, I’ve joined

reason to procrastinate on my projects!

I went to a reading at the Temple about a month ago where R, O, and others were to read but I found that the whole feeling of it depressing so I left after about 50 minutes. It included a “grand Slam” but I don’t like competitions of that sort for poetry. Poets need to work at home alone and occasionally read in dignified surroundings: or at least with more time up one’s sleeve. There were some good poets there, but one, (a chap dangerously called X2!), was the previous month rather indifferent last time when I

Overall things are good. When the elections were on I put too many books up for auction and not many sold so had to pay a big bill of about US$90.00. I’ll now go and have some dinner (most of my vegetables come from the garden including potatoes) and talk to the cat and mull over G’s masterpiece (!) and re-read your book etc. But I’ll add things on to this letter: it’ll be interesting if I “discover” more about “Five Anzac Liturgies”. By the way I’m having some fascinating “conversations” with some people on the Poetics group (run by Bernstein but not all of his ilk by any means and I don’t think he would really wish it so either to be fair)

So I’ll knock off for now! You may or may not notice the commercial; break!

Hi! I’m back after a day. I haven’t looked at your Anzac so my finals summation shall have to wait. What Jack is doing at the moment is so very different from your work that I have been “crossing them” in my mind. I’m cooking dinner or chicken is being cooked I added some broccoli from the garden to yesterday’s dinner and I added some Italian parsley and some mushrooms in sauce and some basil. By the way I’m a fanatic when I do these for absolutely correct grammar and spelling etc unless I want to write poetry or add a deliberate “error”. The spell checker helps but I ignore stupid errors.

I want to say though that your “Sowry” thing is brilliant. At first one chuckles a bit derisively at Sowry’s grammar and bad spelling, but then I found it very moving. You’ve created a very powerful thing. The “incorrect” spelling etc makes the text relatively free from influence: it becomes more of an “innocent” text. While there are none: it certainly is like the “raw thing”. The impulse would be to correct it and publish it in the style of the day. But seeing this uncorrected thing we are closer to Sowry himself and his tragedies and tribulations, as well as the text being presented by you as a text. And the notes round the margins introduce that effect which will be or would be puzzling to many who se it (outside ABDW).

I’m pleased that Scott is in (although some paradoxes arise there),

My project is to 1) . 2) more structured I think I could at least experiment with writing more “programmatically”. Some thing roughly on the lines of William’s “Patterson”. Must go and consume my repast. Back soon (The process!)I’m back! I had chicken with mushrooms which I might heat up separately next time. I just listened to some Hayden (his Teresa Mass) but also read some Patterson (I’m up to about page 63). I have to admit that I feel a bit “left out” with you, Scott, Hamish, Jack and Simon all in Brief. It is good to be published. Still John G has agreed to me doing a review of Jack’s book. That will be difficult: but at least I do like it, unlike his “A Town Called Parataxis” which I couldnt’t see the point of. So, as well as doing the review, I’ll prepare this manuscript for the US (there are other potential publishers over there (and some here) and or I’ll continue with my Infinite Poem (which is predicated on an essay by Charles Bernstein. Also I’ll get into my “Panmure” or “Maungarei” project. I have actually always been interested in local

By local of course I’m ultimately talking about the world. The universe in fact. There is also the mystery. the (for me) eternal question mark hanging over our existence which a poet must keep alive: what are we, why are we here etc as in the famous great painting by Gauguin – an artist who has always fascinated me since I read “The Moon and Sixpence” by Somerset Maugham.

So after all that I’ll probably start playing

I went to Tiri Tiri Matanga Island with “J” whose returned from living in London and takes a great interest in nature: evolution, birds, various animals, classification, and various topics relative to science and philosophy. We saw some beautiful bird life there as the place is free of predators: the Saddleback, Kokako,Tui,Fantails,Terns,a Sky Lark and some Takahe as well as the native Robin and the Bellbird (which I may have seen or its a brilliant trip.

Suddenly this isn’t spell checking which is good in one way but I cant see how to activate it. I want control!

Anyway, I hope all is well with you, and I’ll look at “Anzac” again but I feel it does the job. I’ll read it with these disappointments which I feel at the moment...which to be honest I have thought of dropping writing as a bad joke. Maybe I simply lack ...But I shall rouse myself! Read some Nietzsche (can never spell his name).

I have continued the letter. I’m back! It’s strange, but for the first time in a long time I have been feeling a little “down”. There’s a feeling that I wont get the things done that I want to. This month I may have to forgo or shorten Jack’s review, but if I can get someone else to review it I will. I went out book buying and mucking about with Jim the Ant (whose not particularly interested in Literature) and in our visit to Onehunga I picked up “American Poetry Since 1950” (includes Williams, Pound, H.D., Charles Reznikoff, Langston Hughes,

…Ronald Johnson (very intriguing writer), Robert Kelly, Gustaf Sobin, Susan Howe, Clark Coolidge, and Michael Palmer. But most of these people were relatively neglected in their own lives. Eliot Weinberger (the editor) says:

“Of the poets now deceased, more than half died with most of their work unpublished or out of print. Yet, within a few years of their deaths, nearly all of them were recognized as having been among the central poets of their time. Most are now decked with critical apparatus from the academy – book-length studies, biographies, annotated texts, collections of letters, bibliographies – and some of them have become the models of the new generations of establishment poets to imitate. (Meanwhile those laureled in life seem to have vanished from their graves:read the lists of those prize-winners of decades past.) For the poets of the opposition the first condition of immortality is death... [They were] ...outside the outside. All of them are innovators, those who make it like new. Nearly all have devised idiosyncratic forms of prosody or musical composition, and have introduced worlds of historical, mythological, political, scientific, biological and scientific matter into their poems...”

I’m not sure if this cheers me up or not! But reality kicks in: this is the way thing are. Ron makes a big thing about “Dead Poets” (and I think that deep down he is a

As to “making it new” Geraets is sticking his neck out a bit. Especially in view of the above. Sure it’s hard to come up with something fundamentally new and renewing (everything seems to have been tried). But people just do! Not many of course. Your stuff is unique a) in the sense that each person is naturally unique b) you avoid imitating too much (which is not always bad – I mean “imitating” or being “derivative (Duncan announced that he was derivative, and deliberately so) c) the concept and act of doing the Sowry and presenting it in this manner. a) and c) merge somewhat. Also I think, and this applies to many writers, the totality of what you (one) does builds to a kind of philosophy and or is a reflection of that person’s outlook or philosophy. It looks as though Geraets is wanting writing that “questions” beyond itself so to speak.

Loney referenced perhaps too much to himself and the problem of “Postmodernism” (which I think was good in a way except that there wasn’t a sufficiently vigorous response to his monologue. Whose “fault”?). or perhaps not too much.....On the other side of the coin, its amazing how vitipurative certain critics and writers become of what Brief etc are doing.

So I’m feeling rather more sanguine. Even if my garden is clogged with weeds and even if I just picked two corn cobbs only to find that they were useless after I had stripped them. Even if I feel I have so much to read. And so on. A minor crisis at this point. It will be solved by action. By me getting on with my projects (which makes me wonder if I should abandon the book “game” and see if I could survive financially. In fact it might be more time-efficient to work part-time somewhere and devote majority of other time to writing and reading. Books

After all, like you, I do feel that I am a writer even if I I fell like a writer: so I’m a writer? Yes/ No? Well, what do I really want? spend the rest of my life not doing what I most feel is most productive and intersting ( joyable and fu illing as against “work” per se or “grind” (although grind is ok if it is part of that fulfilment). There is some (possibly moral perative) (which is at least inked back to being part of the human “socious” to use Bernstein ase); of the creative act and its consum

creativity is a kind of sexual intercourse of the mind,

the “spirit”, the heart and body, and the universe. Art (I use this term in the usive sense) seems to me to be linked somehow to our higher purpose (even more so than the accummulation of endless scientific “facts”). In this I don’t deny the importance science (utilized responsibly). e.g. the Maori way living “through the land “ has not been understood enough. ourselves have (to repeat an old chestnut) have become alienated: that our notion of “progress” needs a close watch. whatever it is, or whether it’s possible, I feel that writers and artists or Artists to use a more inclusive vital. Just as for the Maori certain ceremonies a way, Anzac is. In a wider way we may never be able to divorce so called destructive things from the orderly or “good” things. So I like the idea of graffitti, or the idea that

Art is not confined galleries: literature or to journals or even any media form. concept of life itself as art and so on...

Well, its raining now: after there being days of dry weather (altho cloudy) so that the soil was becoming quite dessicated. So this morning I watered the garden! But it will probably clear soon and we’ll get hot weather so the extra water wont hurt.

Will definitely send you another report after I re-read “Anzac” but provisionally I give it the thumbs up.Thanks for everything so far Leicester. My next move shall be to work on my manuscript then my (ridiculously titled) Infinite Poem. The M.S. will at least clarify things for me.

My warmest regards, Richard.

PS. I’m still writing this letter! Just report that I feel more positive now re the poetry scene etc It seems I’ve been fooled by the old demons of ego (in the wrong place). It’s a trap this business. I’ve been looking through “Brief” and the work there overall doesn’t look greatly more what I am doing .Nor is it any . I’m resolved to push on with

is a fatal one. Asking to be published here and there and relying or is futile. One must have a determination to life.

that may include doing eative iting only “you” the writer can say when to stop. I refuse to iticise: the is to do, to act, to

One beautiful, passionate woman, is worth all the literature and Nobel Prizes and fame. I went for a walk around the waterfront (near Mission Bay) today. I oyed that. And I had time to water the garden later as it was light almost until nine. so all I have to do is to print your

Hope all is well with you in Buller and your cat and your strange neighbours! Keep a safe house open. So I have to write about

Also the sense of how marvelous everything is overall! By love too, I mean my children. And I remember I used to read and reread “Texts and etexts” by Aldous Huxley. There

the lonely, the seriously old and ick (or young and very ill) than love...your “Anzac” thinks about (so called) ordinary people”. It has at least compassion. But irony. Y’s work e.g. seems to me to lack lyric intensity and

.....................................................................................................................................................................

“…we are setting out to create new worlds, new beings, new modes of consciousness.”

Surely I must be saying something? I cant see myself except in inexplicable glimpses…I wrote too much too quickly. Words alone were not enough. Surely I –

Off? …the apple red and it –

....................................................................

“… a little vague, because images always cohere. By nature, there’s a sort of magnetism. You have an image over here, it’s going to attach itself to similar images. It’s simply a matter of the way words work. There’s usually a sort of magnetism.”

…with a furrowed visage, which as yet could hardly be termed…

…heterogeneous garb…

…deformity…with so percussive a force…

( . . . . )

a textual square reading “black Block”, in which he aligns himself with the supremacist project as an artist depicting

( . . . . . )

“…a model of order, even if set in a space which is full of doubt.”

-----------------------------------

......There are also thrice five rolls about changing forms.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

…except by acquiescing…

foreboded….

……. a textual square………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Pivots on…has the spirit any place in the world?

[In the pub by 3.pm.]

Pick......... Bright.......... Ignorant blot.

Begins to generate the new – new linkages.

….. where are we, if not in the foot of death’s scream?!!

reanimate ethical

irrespective

tentatively postulated

.............................................................................................................................................

cold moving coldness / cacophony of quivers (circles) or sparks in dark

and oxymoronic vision of flowing ice in sparkle / transilluminates dark supple silence

when the chuncks again as he edged until crevasses plunged / the viol stroke not so bad as Winter plays in bone leaves and bone speech and the spectre of sand / vast ones without cause except the creeping of old force the steps are heard and who and the cause of cold coagulant / until there is a new kind of death sprung out of coal and basalt of every sparkle shivering / and something there / the cruel creaking cold in the masses of the thinking things

[makes notes at this point on why you are doing this…]

he moves as one moves in the queer effect of a backward electric crab whose grin pierces the vast collection of glints or dints as if you had been an other…

cracked one… over and over…

Night orgasmed: it wasn’t lightless, its neon and its street lights gave out an artificial and polluted light.

All the noises grew along with the silence.

About two blocks straight on she came to a dark object. She saw that it was a tower.

_________________________

Would that the gods grant me now to be my book!

........................................................

§ Are there additional sources of

quark flavour

violation beyond those already

predicted within

the Standard Model?

___________________________________________________________________________________

surprised that someone else knew about them—

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

then I miss the other strands of this complicated web, and

wonder how, like a spider, I was able to string the seem-

ingly immeasurable distance, for example, from Ovid’s

Tristia to the poems of ‘Abd al-Rahman, exiled to North

Africa from his home in Spain. It is not only a matter of

fortuitous connections. Books are transformed by the

sequence in which they are read. Don Quixote read after

Kim and Don Quixote read after Huckleberry Finn are two

different books, both coloured by the reader’s experience

of journeys, friendship and adventures. Each of these

kaleidoscope volumes never cease to change; each new

reading lends it yet another twist, a different pattern.

Perhaps every library is ultimately inconceivable,

because, like the mind, it reflects upon itself, multiplying

geometrically with each new reflection. And yet, from a

library of solid books we expect a rigour that we forgive

.............................in the library of the mind.

creativity is a kind of sexual intercourse of the mind

the cruel creaking cold in the masses of the thinking things

---------------Nature loves to hide.

Nothing touches, but, clutching, devours.

None grow rich in the sea.

Bleached of identity.

The empty cup.............. The log.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Why did I see anything?

________________________________________________________

..........FRIENDLY BUYING ATMOSPHERE!!!!!!

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

The crunch of FRIENDLY implication.

=========================================================================

Why did I make my eyes guilty?

=======================================================

Leicester Kyle Residential:Calliope Rd,millerton.Ph(03)782860

Postal: c/o Postal Agency, Ngakawau, Buller.

NEW ZEALAND.

Dear Leicester,

I have finally initiated a reply to your letter. I’m afraid I’ve been procrastinating – not because I didn’t want to reply or anything dramatic, but for a number of reasons. First: some news. Tamasin, as you might recall, is in Melbourne, and on Sunday I fare welled Dionne who was going with her boyfriend to (hopefully) reform The Nudie Suits in which she plays the Hawaiian guitar. Tamasin plays the violin and they all dream of doing well in music. This is good. But it saddens me somewhat. Not, of course, their musical ambitions, but that I am two daughters down: or at least, separated from! I get emails and some letters but it’s not quite the same. But there you are. One never gets used to being alive. I’m 52 and still learning and blundering!

After my initial success on eBay auctioning books etc I ran into the US elections which meant that most of my potential buyers were glued to their radios and TV sets while they replaced a corrupt regime with a slightly more corrupt one!

As to my “poetry career” I’ve never really thought of myself that way. I went through a period (about 1989 to 1995) when I got a great “buzz” from it all especially when I was “the poet” at the Shakespeare. But concomitant with that was the imbibing of a lot of the sacred ichor and

-----------------------------------------

Late and overfull is the vengeance of that early book, and distant is the penalty for the time of sin…

There are also thrice five books of changing forms.

...........It is so safe not to love.

…so strange, so inward twisted, that he grew into his own strangeness…

His staff was of every colour, impossible to distinguish, and too bright to gaze upon. But his voice was clear as crystal…

….Tuhituhia ki to ngakau no te mea e kore koe e mahue I a au a maku e whakaaka…

‘Inscribe this in your heart, for I will not forsake you, and I will teach you.’

Many had been maddened by their perceived troubles into a gay despair.

It is coming out of nothing, straight at you, and echoing into the past.

silhouette, of submarine

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

The deeps are cold:

In that darkness camaraderie does not hold:

..........................................................................................................................

Names were much more than labels, they were sacred.

...........................................................................................................................

An infant was not considered a human until it was named. The assignment of a name to a newborn baby was therefore an urgent matter. An infant was not regarded as a unique individual, but as the fresh embodiment of a dead person’s soul. All that was required to complete the reincarnation process was to assign to the baby a deceased person’s name.

We argued, unremittingly, about, what was for me the ambiguous state of being. But my son sees only that he KNOWS he has a soul. That after death he will become some other being. Thus a kind of eternal life. But he doesn’t like religion as such. I say he only thinks he knows, but there is no way I can get him to consider that that he doesn’t know, or that humans are only kind of higher animal and so on. The argument is futile. Each has to respect the other’s belief. Otherwise each person cannot live together with another with whom one has close ties. Such is the ideal state, or the idea of it. At the extreme, such a view could be that the other person was evil, and had to be destroyed. From my direction I have to see that others have right to their views, strange as I may find them…………….

Or move, stunned by their own grandeur.

Is an intensely uncomfortable writer…driven…like a street preacher…

His aesthetic primitivism embodies his wounded search for a primordial wholeness.

i am what i am who are you and how is your house i am in the middle of the middle of the beginning of a beginning and i am a …what am i and am i and what might i who was might i become i am and am I in the beginning was i who are you and who is that man i am sad and i is also i is …

surprised that—

then I miss the other strands of this complicated web, and

wonder how, like a spider, I was able to string the seem-

ingly immeasurable distance, for example, from Ovid’s

Tristia to the poems of ‘Abd al-Rahman, exiled to North

Africa from his home in Spain. It is not only a matter of

fortuitous connections. Books are transformed by the

sequence in which they are read. Don Quixote read after

Kim and Don Quixote read after Huckleberry Finn are two

different books, both coloured by the

kaleidoscope volumes never cease to change; each new

reading lends it yet another .

because, like the mind, it reflects upon itself, multiplying

geometrically in wildernesses of screaming mirrors with each new reflection.

And yet, from a library of solid books we expect a rigour that we forgive

in the library of the mind.

______________________________________________________________________________

creativity is a kind of sexual intercourse of the mind

______________________________________________________________________________

that produce acoustic substance

throughout his listening space

“Trapped with Lamia in the Palace of Tongues…”

…changing forms…[my] changing forms…

WHILE A FIST OF COLD SQUEEZES THE FIRE AT THE CORE OF THE WORLD…

Identification with the momentous aesthetic primitivism instant.

All the noises grew along with the silence.

About two blocks straight on she came to a dark object. She saw that it was a tower.

They migrate, it’s not just my reading, or my understanding of my reading (limited as that is) –for after all, I forget much of it – but the words migrate…albeit with my assistance…is there any thing in this other than I like doing it? Shift and migrate, slip and slide, decay etc…

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter

Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter

Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter

………… what am i …in the middle …what am … in the beginning …i am………you…

a risky and radically subjective form of writing

‘…I only know that I have composed many, and that everything in me is song…’

…he loved the symbols, the shape of them, the shapes…

engage with [the] livingness

......................................................................................................................................

------------------------------------A FIST OF COLD

........................................

The crunch of implication

----------------------------------------

On further reading of “Anzac” I wasn’t sure: got a bit cross with it! But now I feel that it is fundamentally “bang on”. Jack strives more for (some degree) of indeterminacy. But what you are doing as I see it so far is to cleverly combine a certain sly humour with a high seriousness and also a use of often quite beautiful poetry “for its own sake”. I think also you quite readily bring in certain personal things so that the lives of others “ordinary” NZrs who turn out to be not always ordinary (and that’s a brilliant device using the “dash” to kind of accelerate the background on the lives of these people.) I like the way you move from the “mundane” (the people arriving and setting things up etc) to the “high” tone but that is off set somewhat by your personal “intrusion”. So overall I still like Anzac

The other…

… re-enters the water by melting…

It is as if Hughes had been endlessly re-drafting the same poem.

.......................................................................................................................................................................

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,eyes guilty?

The problem was or is, why was I writing? Or, if I have theme or theory, what underlying theoretic do I have? What am I saying? What is the big or little idea? Is it sufficient simply to write? Surely I need to be adding to Art or Humanity or The World, or indeed The Word? Surely I must be saying something? I cant see myself except in inexplicable glimpses…I wrote too much too quickly. Words alone were not enough. Surely I –

...................................................................................................................................................................

……whispering, clicking, exploding, and clotting the poem…

body hunched slightly forward.

As he twisted.

‘Quite a different sort of art form, which attained a high level of development, was story telling. Eskimo tales were based on a rich body of folklore and historical traditions supplemented by the actual experiences and observations of the narrators themselves. Thye were expressed in a language which, despite its regional variations, was as rich as any other in concepts dealing with natural phenomena, sentiments, ideas, and the experiences of daily life. Eskimo languages are even more amenable than most to expressing subtle shades of meaning. This ability derives from what is sometimes referred to as their ‘synthetic’ structure… Since there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of…the number of variations arising … from the possible…is very large, if not incalculable.’

…bleached…

…as if these things, these words, were sculptural physicals of forms, as if their validity of veracity was the very ink or mark or shape of them; their marked and tenuous existence sighted or heard, as in ‘Briggflatts’ , by Basil Bunting, where each chink or chop of a cold chisel cutting a name or word on headstone is “timed to a lark’s twitter; and there arises a seeming solidity which becomes also a “real”, almost edible, consumable, thing; or a generator of ‘music’, or kind of magic, or meaning, whose meaning, howver deeply or complexly described, we can never comprehend, or consume, or eat, or penetrate…

The otter…

…re-enters the water by melting…

..............................................................................................................

creativity is a kind of sexual intercourse of the mind

....................BEGINNING IS MY IN MY END

Stories were thought to be true, no matter how fantastic they might appear to be to an outsider.

..............FRIENDLY BUYING ATMOSPHERE!!!!!

So Philosophical Investigations entered English philosophy as something both baffling and exhilarating, on account of its.

- - -

This is the time of long nights and short days.

surprised that someone else knew about them—

- - - -

then I miss the other strands of this complicated web, and

wonder how, like a spider, I was able to string the seem-

ingly immeasurable distance, for example, from Ovid’s

Tristia to the poems of each new

reading lends it yet another twist, a different pattern.

Perhaps every library is ultimately inconceivable,

because, like the mind, it reflects upon itself, multiplying

geometrically with each new reflection. And yet, from a

library of solid books we expect a rigour that we forgive

in the library of the mind.

...............................................

you suck, you ignorant fuck!

THERE HAD BEEN SO MANY SYSTEMS AND THEY HAD ALL SO MANIFESTLY FAILED

....................................................................................................................................

…the inception…only one of the thousands against the huge sun of the ovum…

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

IN MY IN MY IS MY

So ‘Philosophical Investigations’ entered English philosophy as something both baffling and exhilarating, on account of its…

“Where everything is fugitive and found, and luminous…”

to create

“… BOTH BAFFLING

AND

EXHILERATING …”

Who are you who so fill my heart with your absence?

Who fill the entire world with your absence?

….were though to be true….

…..outsider………………………

suddenly they, they…

‘It’s horrible when faces change so much and you cant recognize them.”

creativity is a kind of sexual intercourse of the mind

“Trapped with Lamia in the Palace of Tongues…”

"I devoted my interest to the church’s mysterious world of low arches, thick walls, the smell of eternity, the colored sunlight quivering above the strangest vegetation of medieval paintings and carved figures on ceilings and walls. There was everything that one’s imagination could desire — angels, saints, dragons, prophets, devils, humans."

................................................................................................................................................

jeffamarie (1 month ago) Show Hide

to you... see the problem is, you're looking for entertainment in this music. not all music is for partying and getting drunk to.

yea, that's my problem.. I like to be entertained by music, not put to sleep by it. See, unlike you, I don't need a sedative before I sleep..its easy.

Tecpriester (4 months ago) Show Hide

Einfach wunderschön :)

mars7272 (4 months ago) Show Hide

Majestic;Glorious;Divine. So many adjectives to describe Bach.

Thorgal20 (4 months ago) Show Hide

powerful, pathetic, dark, magnificant. This gentleman was the origins of metal. also Wagner, Beethoven, 5/5 that's for sure

surprised that someone else knew about them—

then I miss the other strands of this complicated web, and

wonder how, like a spider, I was able to string the seem-

ingly immeasurable distance, for example, from Ovid’s

Tristia to the poems ultimately inconceivable,

because reflects upon itself multiplying

geometrically each new and yet from a

library of solid we expect rigour we forgive

in the library of minds

pligana (5 months ago) Show Hide

Amazing! Bach is unique!!!! 5*****!!!!

negativecreep420 (5 months ago) Show Hide

you suck, there would be NO modern music without this you ignorant fuck

urchin34 (4 weeks ago) Show Hide

actualy if this was never made im pretty sure people would still make music by now. but i do LOVE bach!! his harpsichord pieces are amazing!!!

There is no one who hears when someone cries in the darkness. But why dos that cry exist?

……..something something something something something something something something something something something something ……..

IN MY IN MY IS MY BEGINNING’S END

………. The Question …. revere The Question…

..........T I M E

-------------We are all guilty of murder. Not that we all commit it, but tat we are collectively guilty. We are

linked, and there is no escaping our isolated togetherness – our guilt is both comprised of omission and commission. Silently or by our voices or our acts we commit. Our partness is our apartness, and being “ hurt … into poetry” cannot absolve us.

And yet there seems such saints of innocence in a child; …. how does this horror arise?

“Trapped with Lamia in the Palace of Tongues…”

Physicists hope that the LHC will help answer the most

fundamental questions in

physics, questions concerning

the basic laws governing the interactions and forces among the elementary objects, the

deep structure of space and

time, especially regarding the

intersection of quantum mechanics and general

relativity,

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

It would never be enough just to listen to others. I still cant very well. I don’t want to fool myself on this one. I was then totally egocentric. But this arose at that time following my father’s (and father in law’s) deaths and a kind of crisis. My own father had painted some paintings, but what was left of his total life? Energized by that and then by my wife’s leaving me I went through a deep personal

creativity is a kind of sexual intercourse of the mind

_______________________

where current theories and

knowledge are unclear or break

down altogether. These issues include, at least:^[10]

...........................................................................................................................................................

complicated web, and

wonder how, like a spider, I was able to string the seem-

ingly immeasurable distance, for example, from Ovid’s

Tristia to the poems ultimately inconceivable,

because reflects upon itself multiplying

§ Is the Higgs mechanism for generating elementary particle

masses via electroweak symmetry breaking indeed

realised in nature?^[11] It is anticipated that the collider will

either demonstrate or rule out

the existence of the elusive

Higgs boson(s), completing the Standard Model.^[12][13][14]

§ Is supersymmetry, an extension of the Standard

odel and Poincaré symmetry,

realised in nature, implying that

all known particles have

supersymmetric partners?

^[15][16][17] These may clear up the

mystery of dark matter.

§ Are there extra dimensions,^[18]

as predicted by various models

inspired by string theory, and

can we detect them?

Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter

..................................................

you suck, you ignorant fuck!

..................................................

"I devoted my interest to the church’s mysterious world of low arches, thick walls, the smell of eternity, the colored sunlight quivering above the strangest vegetation of medieval paintings and carved figures on ceilings and walls. There was everything that one’s imagination could desire — angels, saints, dragons, prophets, devils, humans."

Other questions are:

§ Are electromagnetism, the strong nuclear force and the weak nuclear force just different manifestations of a single unified force, as predicted by various Grand Unification Theories?

§ Why is gravity so many orders of magnitude weaker than the other three fundamental forces? See also Hierarchy problem.

§ Are there additional sources of quark flavour violation beyond those already predicted within the Standard Model?

§ Why are there apparent violations of the symmetry between matter and antimatter? See also CP violation.

§ What was the nature of the quark-gluon plasma in the early universe? This will be investigated by ion collisions in ALICE.

.........................................................................................................................................................................

The problem was or is, why was I writing? Or, if I have theme or theory, what underlying theoretic do I have? What am I saying? What is the big or little idea? Is it sufficient simply to write? Surely I need to be adding to Art or Humanity or The World, or indeed The Word? Surely I must be saying something? I cant see myself except in inexplicable glimpses…I wrote too much too quickly. Words alone were not enough. Surely I –

REPETITION IS TRUTH

The beautiful mystery and madness of science! As if it could all be worked out! The poetry of numbers! The wonderful folly! HA! HA! HO!!

negativecreep420 (5 months ago) Show Hide

you suck, there would be NO modern music without this you ignorant fuck

_______________________

Wolfgang Laib finds spirituality in the simplicity of everyday, organic substances—milk, pollen, beeswax, rice—that provide sustenance or engender life. In 1975 he created his first Milkstone in what has become an ongoing series of elemental sculptures. A rectangular block of polished white marble containing a slight depression on its upper surface, the piece is filled with a thin layer of milk to foster the illusion of a solid form. Though an inert object, this sculpture requires ritualistic participation. Laib performs the first act of pouring the milk when the piece is displayed, but after this initial gesture, the collector or museum staff must clean and refill the stone each day it is on view.

___________________________________________________________________________________

.........................................................................................................................................................................

What am I saying? What is the big or little idea? Surely I –

Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter Delicious peanut butter

____________________________

Loney referenced perhaps too much to himself and the problem of “Postmodernism” (which I think was good in a way except that there wasn’t a sufficiently vigorous response to his monologue. Whose “fault”?). or perhaps not too much.....On the other side of the coin, its amazing how vitipurative certain critics and writers become of what Brief etc are doing.

a textual square

The empty cup.

The silence.

The brightness.

you suck, you ignorant fuck!

Ritual plays a central role in all of Laib's highly reductive art. He lives in a remote region of Germany's Black Forest, communing with the natural world outside his house as a painter would work in his or her studio. During the spring and summer months he collects pollen, including dandelion, hazelnut, pine, buttercup, and moss varieties, from the fields surrounding his home. He displays this laboriously gathered material in simple glass jars or sifts it through sheets of muslin directly onto the floor to create large, square fields of spectacular color. He also molds the brilliantly pigmented dust into cones, as in The Five Mountains Not to Climb On. Though intimate in scale and intensely fragile, this hazelnut pollen sculpture alludes to the monumentality suggested by its title. The notion that there is infinitude in the infinitesimal is beautifully manifest in Laib's spare but highly aesthetic practice.

Wolfgang Laib lives and works in Germany.

.....................................................................................................................................................................

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

IN MY IN MY IN MY IN MY IS MY BEGINNING’S END

)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((())))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((*****************************************

**********************************************************************

**********************************************************************

**********************************************************************

**********************************************************************

The problem was or is, why was I writing? Or, if I have theme or theory, what underlying theoretic do I have? What am I saying? What is the big or little idea? Is it sufficient simply to write? Surely I need to be adding to Art or Humanity or The World, or indeed The Word? Surely I must be saying something? I cant see myself except in inexplicable glimpses… Words alone were not enough. Surely I –

*********************************

REPETITION IS TRUTH

*********************************************************************************

negativecreep420 (5 months ago) Show Hide

you suck, there would be NO modern music without this you ignorant fuck

complicated web, and

wonder how, like a spider, I was able to string the seem-

ingly immeasurable distance, for example, from Ovid’s

Tristia to the poems ultimately inconceivable,

because reflects upon itself multiplying

Have I talked to you of the Blackness lately?

inexplicable glimpses… inexplicable glimpses… inexplicable glimpses… inexplicable gl

____________________________

Loney referenced perhaps too much to himself and the problem of “Postmodernism” (which I think was good in a way except that there wasn’t a sufficiently vigorous response to his monologue. Whose “fault”?). or perhaps not too much.....On the other side of the coin, its amazing how vitipurative certain critics and writers become of what Brief etc are doing.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Terror is the purest emotion.

______________________________________________________________________________

the inception…only one of thousands against the huge sun of the ovum…

.............................................................a textual square

The empty cup.

The silence.

The brightness.

....................................................................................................................................................................