, and as for insights, i have re-embraced the trajectory of timing as both forward-moving and back-burning, a re-cognition of the re-petition suggested by Sigmund as a compulsive propulsion of the melancholic I amand embrace that toobut it is life (and death) rather than projects that have situated me within my subject-poem yet again (though that too is timing, opportune or tragic, take your pick)the ruptured text, the marking of the edges of the void, the attraction and repulsion of the ache of loss necessitates itself, rears up and roars itself, meeks and moans, insinuates itself into one’s own (my own) experience of loss and losing (yet again) – hypertext? fer reals now. these texts are hyper in deed… manic, frenetic, frantic… moving all over the map like memory does, jumping in and out of tale and tone and never letting the sentence or the story end, completely. just keep moving keep it moving if we can keep it from closing we can keep it from the end…is near. is here! Continue reading final, finally
the first video work i made, i made from footage of kelsey’s funeral set to a soundtrack of billy idol.
My mom comes and brings a vhs recorded with Kelsey’s memorial service. Why do we call it hers? Ours, about Kels (’over my dead body’). None of us have ever watched it. I take it to school, turn off the monitor and dub it to DVD. Then watch it one night in my basement studio, lights off, lying on the futon, blanket on.
i didn’t know – and couldn’t be bothered to learn – how to rip right from the DVD. so i filmed it again on my (cracked) computer screen, mini dv camera balanced on a beer bottle and a stack of books – as am, often, i. an aesthetic was born: lo-fi, rascuache and hand-made-for-youtube style.
Editing. The more I clip and playback the further the distance between the white-faced 23 year old with the hollow eyes and skeletal shadows and the me that’s like, ‘hey Chris can you do me a favor? Film me dancing around and singing to billy idol? It’s kinda weird but it’s to edit over the film from the funeral… you know, ‘hey little sister, what have you done?’
i’m into all the the youtube tropes – the music videos, the narcissistic (self-conscious) metubes, the i.movie edits, the bedroom girls – and i can claim my interest’s academic (it is – somewhat – so i do) but the youtube context (which is a separate theatre from the one i set to screen these works in) also works to disable any academic reading (comments & responses).
You can, with your little hands, drag me into your grave -you have the right — I myself who am joined with you, I let myself go — but if you wish, the two of us, let us make… an alliance -a hymen, magnifcent – and the life left in me I will use to…- so not mother then?ceremony – coffin – etc.there we saw (the father) the whole material side – which lets us tell ourselves at need – ah! well yes! it is all there – no fear for me thinking of something else (the reformation of his spirit, which is eternal – can wait (granted but eternity through my life)_____father -shape his spirit (he absent, alas! as we would have shaped him better present but sometimes when it all seems to be going too well – as an ideal – cry out – in the mother’s tone, she who has become attentive – This is not enoughI want him, him – and not me –
my dad first introduced me to eric whitacre on the westernmost tip of portugal, in april of 2004, more or less 5 weeks before the cabrillo college chorus sang ‘i thank you god for most this amazing day’ at my sister’s funeral.
despite pervasive feelings of low-level guilt associated with my hiatus from the texts of this hyper space // it occurs to me that this too is the context of my involvement with Mallarmé’s tombeau… and hiswe startwe start againwe move in on it, towards poeticizing it, to shape the shape of it (but it bleeds/escapes embodiment)the timeline moves (and movies) like a ribbon (anachronistically: film reels), i take her dv camera out one day and tape (billy has a word for these words, what was it? i must ask him when he returns) the drive out to the cliff (but you must wait for this, for me to upload/edit/upload and move back again (yet forward) in time to week one : timing (which is its context too, and atmosphere as well)to here: which is where context exploded into realtime, into space (and escape):Contextualizing (time and place)“more soon”
or: ordinary Poem
It is true – you have struck me and you have chosen your wound well –
– etc. – but
today i rode mom’s bike down to seabright beach after swimming with Paitra, after the chaos and fire of the 4th, last night – to meet David, lying in the sand – “looks like the fog’s coming in, though, you still gonna be down there?
/yeah, I’ll be with my Harry Potter til my nipples freeze
/alright then see you then” – I brought the Tombeau, but found I couldn’t read it then.
to everything turn turn turn…
his two eyes are watching me, they are enough – already taken by absence and the gulf –
bring everything to this?
David read to me from HP and the Half Blood Prince instead. I watched the currents of wind and fog rush in and over us from the south, til the sun diluted into mist and we crept up the beach to bikes and the Seabright Brewery.
This time: today, after, after, last, coming in, still, til, then, then, then, time, already, current, over, til, past tenses.
Pour un tombeau d’Anatole/For Anatole’s tomb :Patrick McGuinness, trans.
(first. this is not a poem, and Mallarmé did not call it anything in particular (though it calls/calls out)… Rather: “notes towards a poem.” and these: away from (the
poem). Not a work in progress: progressing where? But processioning, processing. Professing. “Less something finished than something unbegun” (writes the translator). Scraps of almosts– returning again (and never) to the crux of it– oh impossible empty. Time, and Again.)
there is a time in Existence in which we will find each other again, if not a place –
– and if you doubt that the world will be the witness, supposing I live to be old enough —
où nous nous retrouverons
désolé, je ne parle pas le français. but i am drawn to equivalencies, so-called.
your future which has taken refuge in me. how can I (can I) begin to move my hands around, gesticulate the way this resonates within me. Your future :nowhere/nothing/not. Thus:
your future (for ‘you,’ futureless subject, are neither either…)
Thus far: first, progress, procession, processing, -ing, finished, unbegun, almost, returning, time, again, time, again, old, future, begin, futureless.