Tuesday, April 29, 2003

These are the very first blog pictures of my Empire of Dr. Bienke which is the hypernovel philosophical garden for the purpose of endless digression on the kind of things I like to talk about which I have built in my head somewhere down the end of Texxas and being early blog pictures are most likely aimed to cyberspace trash and that being the case I ain't so worried about the composition. These are pictures like Robert Rauchenburg hung up in the rafters of Black Mountain College so that John Cage could write songs about them. Pictures like Hollywood acetate rotted. In these pictures you can dimly glimpse the dead body of Cassie Dale resembling k d holmes in that Sam Raimi flick. Cassie's dead body hung up in a mesquite tree and scantily clad in the kind of suggestive lingerie that when I was a boy I would wonderingly scope in the back of my Granny's movie magazines. Connectivity has its limits. When we speak of interactive books we sometimes lose in our minds the interactvity of books always immanent, which is to say books lie inert only because we have been trained to let them do so, trained to regard them as big rocks belonging to somebody else which we skirt with trepidation, when they are rather perhaps little girls waiting to dance. Black Mountain College where Albers was carrying on the Bauhaus tradition was the silent loop playing in my Daddy's head with reference to Nacogdoches and in Beaty's too, I'm guessing, or Paula's anyway. But for me Nacogdoches has hummed with novel. My sound of novel is sort of peculiar in other peoples ears, I have learned this, but they haven't listened quite as eccentrically as I. The hum of novel began in Nacogdoches in that house up on East Austin where first I came on Daddy tuning his radio receiver through the white noise. "What you doing?" I asked. "Listening for Koo Kowlick," he said. 7:17:58 PM    comment []

Here I seem to be in ghost blog land which is to say below is my very first posting that I had thought lost and I have no idea if it can be now saved or whether any of these words in this little box I write in will ever see light of cyberspace. Endless futility and digression characterise my life and so is it any wonder that I theorize a literature of futility and digression? I'm just trying to mess up the mirror so that I can recognize myself. The thing is that it seems to me I might as well write stories for the void of the net as write stories on the trash and throw them away downstairs which is the other notion I've been turning in my head. Poems on pop cans for the collectors of pop cans that patrol the streets hereabouts. 6:00:05 PM    comment []