Entry 702 — Another by John Vieira

April 1st, 2012

All I can say about this one at the moment is that it’s delightful.  (It’s terrific, too–both visimage and poem.)  I hope when my brain is working better to say something more cogent about it.  Meanwhile, I’m grateful to have ssomething I like as much to fill this entry with.  I’m as sleepy/ blodgy as ever, by the way, but yesterday I got 400 words of my next column for Small Press Review done, and I expect to get another 400 or more done on it today, so I’m not quite non-functional.  And I do feel mildly optimistic about existence.

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Januweary

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Entry 701 — Odd ‘n’ Ends

March 31st, 2012

I just made my latest three columns for Small Press Review available for reading in my pages section: November/December 2011, January/February 2012, March/April 2012.  They’re worth a look, I think.

Meanwhile, I have a little more to say about John Vieira’s still life: that it seems to me to celebrate the miracle of exuberant life, its exploding out of just about nothing, not only simple lines, but out of no color beyond the simplest one, black.  I think if John had somehow used color in his piece, he would have lessened its effect by half or more.  I might add that while I consider life a miracle, I don’t consider it more of a miracle than whatever it is that stones do.  (One of my earliest epigrams is, “Stones are as alive as we: their moments are just not so luridly constricted as ours.” Or something like that.)

Now my cat story–from an e.mail to my friend Linda, which I later put into my diary entry of Wednesday: “A mostly white cat has been living in this house since around 6 this morning. Was at my door when I went out for the paper—I backed up and she (I think it’s a she) walked in and investigated the entire house while I went about my early morning business. I petted her a few times. She accepted the attention without making anything much of it. Finally, I went back to bed, hoping for more sleep. She jumped up beside me, and suddenly became a purring bedcat. Since then she’s spent time asleep in a box in my computer room while I worked, and asleep next to me when I later tried for a second nap in my bed. Weird. I had seen her twice before around my lanai. About a week ago, I surprised her at night when I arrived on my bike at my lanai door, and opened the door to put my bike in. Suddenly she was at my feet scrambling to get out of my way. I guess she had been in my lanai—there is an open screen into it. But then she started to dart back into the lanai through the open screen, which isn’t far from the door. She changed her mind and left. But today it’s as though she decided I could her be her slave—or one of her slaves–who knows why. I think she’s the neighborhood cat Monica told me about—Monica being the woman in Gertrude’s house whose name I may have wrong. I’m not sure what to do. She hasn’t asked for food or water. She right now is on my bed, asleep on my pillow.”

It is now four days later.  The cat is still spending most of its time in my house.  She never asked for food or used the litter box, probably taking care of litter box duties outside.  But today I discovered that yesterday she had gotten into some food Linda brought me that her fussy cat, Morgan, won’t eat, so I left out a dish of it for her, and shut the other food up in my cupboard.  Ideally, I could get out of feeding her, letting her get food from whoever has been feeding her to this point.  She seems quite healthy and well-fed.

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Entry 700 — A Still Life by John Vieira

March 30th, 2012

When people wonder if anyone in the group of artists I’m associated with is at the level of–say–Ginsberg, Frank O’Hara, Berryman (as Geof Huth recently did in a return comment to one of mine at his blog the other day), one of the artists I think of who seems to me to make such wondering absurd (here as poet and visimagists rather than as visual poet) is John Vieira: there are at least ten of us equal or better than the two major minor poets and one minor major poet mentioned.  Yes, I include myself, even though I do realize that one cannot properly evaluate one’s own work since much of what one thinks one put into it may not be there for others (even if helped to see it).  Or flaws one is sure one didn’t put into it may be there for others.  Alas, my work isn’t considered worth showing up by the establishment, and my friends are all polite, so I’ll probably never learn the truth.

Anyway, here’s a sample of John’s recent work, a package of which arrived in the mail today, just in time to give me something related to poeticks for this entry.  I was going to write about a cat.  I still will, but not today.

One reason I love this still life of John’s is that I couldn’t quickly figure out what seemed so good about it.  It’s pears as I don’t believe anyone else has ever captured them, but there’s more to it than that.  Something of haiku simplicity and depth is there.  The pears seems to me to just tumble off the line John has rendered them out of into being, too deliciously quickly to obscure one another.  John’s poem about them matches their simplicity, and heightens the spirit of the drawing without repeating it.

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Entry 699 — A Map of Mycenae

March 29th, 2012

This map should prove that no one can sink lower than I to post a blog entry;  I stole the map from a reference book for use as part of my “Odysseus Suite.”  I did make a few changes, removing labels and things that I didn’t want, and I will add something ever-so-slightly clever to it which I worked on earlier today but got too tired to finish.  I really wanted to finish the entire frame of the suite that it will be part of, but I’s so tired.  Anyway, the portion shown in orange on the map is the extent of the Mycenean empire around 1300 B.C. when the Trojan War is believed to have taken place.  Hurrah for history!

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Entry 698 — An E.Mail from South America

March 28th, 2012

Desparate once again for something to blog about, I’m reporting today on an e.mail I got a little while ago from Jorge

Dear Bob Grumman

I hope you are fine.

While reading Writing To Be Seen, I came across your concept of visio-textual art and found it interesting in order to include in my postdoctoral research report. In Permutoria: Visio-Textual Art, the same term and concept appeared. I have bought these books when I was in the II Avant Writing Symposium held in Columbus, Ohio, where I met Crag Hill, Nico Vassilakis, John M. Bennett, Miekal And, and many others. It was a great meeting. It was a pity you couldn´t come, for it was an opportunity to meet and talk with you.

I would like you to send a copy of the text of yours where you explain your concept of visual-text art. The explanation in Writing to be seen is not complete.
Best regards from Brazil

I answered quickly. (I’m pretty good about quick answers to questions about visual poetry.)

“Nice hearing from you again, Jorge!” said I. (We’d talked a bit about visual poetry over the Internet before.) “Yes, I wish I could have been at the symposium in Columbus—I would have enjoyed meeting you.  And seeing Nico in person for the first time, although he’s an old friend.  I’ll try to find where I’ve discussed “visio-textual art and e.mail it to you.  It may take a while because I am not well-organized and I have discussed it and related terms in various places.

“Actually, though, my own definition of it is simple: it is any work of art that contains both textual matter and matter that is wholly visual.  By ‘wholly visual,’ I mean not visual merely in the way a conventional poem is since we must see it to read it, but in the way an image of a rose is.  It’s not an important term for me, except to emphasize my belief that ‘visual poetry’ is not a good name for anything with both textual matter, which can be non-verbal, and visual matter because it is too inclusive to be effective, and goes against the tradition of poetry for thousands of years as something containing words.

“Feel free to ask for clarification or whatever else you may need.”

Yes, this is my standard boilerplate, but I harp on it because no one else seems to take it seriously. Visual poets don’t like narrowing terms; the academy would agree with me if they paid any attention at all to visual poetry.
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Entry 697 — Definition of Intelligence, Part Two

March 27th, 2012
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My rival at HLAS, Paul Crowley, immediately attacked my call for an analysis of intelligence by returning the discussion to my belief that it is mainly genetically-determined–although the point of the discussion was eventually to be able to consider whether it was or not.  Crowley, whom I quote because I consider him entertainingly idiotic: “IF ‘intelligence’ is in the genes, then it would be an almost trivial matter to identify the relevant ones, and to predict a person’s IQ from an inspection of his DNA.”

Me: “I said nothing in my post here about DNA. I’ve already answered your insanely ignorant challenge.  Intelligence is complex.  There are many genes involved.  Picking them all out of the quite complex genome and determining what each causes the manufacture, and how those fit together to form various components, of intelligence is no simple matter.  To merely begin it requires a definition of intelligence. Next, a list of the physical mechanisms responsible for it, many of which are not yet identified–and perhaps not yet available to the scanning devices now in use.  Once we know what mechanisms are involved, the thyroid gland being one, we have “only” to figure out which genes are responsible for each one, and this is not necessarily straight-forward.  One gene may produce X, which has nothing apparent to do with intelligence but which allows operation Q to happen which produces Y, which IS necessary for intelligence.  Or Q might be allowed in one person by one mechanism, and in another by a different one.

Crowley, “But, of course, no one is doing that, nor even thinking of doing that.  The whole ‘g’ concept is being shown up for the garbage it is, and always was.”  His forte, obviously, is assertion.  I asked for the evidence for it. but he ignored my request in his next post.  No, I’m wrong: his evidence was that if genes causes intelligence, all the governments in the world would be pumping billions of dollars into the search for those genes, but they aren’t.  Hence, they must not exist.  He ended the post I’m quoting by telling me never to give up on the beliefs I acquired at school. “They can’t possibly be wrong.”

Paul believes that I claim Shakespeare wrote the works attributed to him because I was told he did in school; therefore I must accept everything I was told in school.  Oddy, I think it’s much closer to the opposite of that, as this blog surely suggests.  He also has the weird idea that the schools I went to taught genetic determinism.  The opposite, of course, was, and is, the case.

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Entry 696 — Definition of Intelligence, Part One

March 26th, 2012

Yesterday I wrote a second clump of around a thousand words toward what I hope will become the final version of my “total psychology.”  I find it hard to keep at a project like this if I multi-task, so to avoid that here, I thought I’d start a commentary about intelligence, one of the topics of my book–and something I’m arguing about with a wack at my Shakespeare authorship discussion group, HLAS.  Here’s what I wrote to start a thread at HLAS on intelligence just a little while ago:

A 1984 dictionary of psychology I have says it’s “general mental ability,” but that psychologists “have abandoned the attempt to arrive at a final definition.” Still, the term is in wide use, and it’s a rare person who will never say that so-and-so’s intelligence is greater, or less, than some other person’s.

I think almost everyone, including certified psychologists, believes in specific intelligences–such as Shakespeare’s (high) verbal intelligence. Where there is disagreement is about what is called “g,” for “general factor,” which, according to C. Spearman, considered an expert in the field thirty years ago, “represents the capacity to perceive relationships and derive conclusions from them.” It’s the ability underlying performances of all intellectual tasks in contrast to abilities unique to special tasks.

I believe in the g factor and hope to give my own definition of it here.

That’s it for this installment.

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Entry 695 — Definition of Metaphor

March 25th, 2012

Here’s a link to Mike Johnduff’s blog that William Sutton, one of my Shakespeare friends, brought to the attention of his blog’s readers. It concerns the metaphor, so drew a comment from me–that I neglected to save, so can’t put it here until it’s posted at Johnduff’s blog. I merely revealed my definition of a metaphor as something imaginatively equated to something else that I call its referent, the two together being, in my poetics, a “metaphormation.” John goes along with I.; A. Richards in wanting the two together to be called the metaphor, and its term called “vehicle” and “tenor.” Since I still have trouble figuring out which of the latter two is which, I oppose it. I think my use of “metaphor” is used by more people than Richards’s, too.

Note: it is amusing how many who have no trouble with Richards’s “tenor” and “vehicle,” will protest my coining “metaphormation.”

That’s it for this entry. I have other things to do, and may actually do some of them: yesterday I wrote over a thousand words of the beginning of what I hope will be the final version of my theory of psychology.  Over a thousand words isn’t all that much, but it’s a huge amount for me, the way I’ve been.  My goal is just to add a hundred or more words to the text every day.  Wish me well!

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Entry 694 — My Continuing Dawdle

March 24th, 2012

I had a bad back and then hip for two years or so; now both are fine, but I still dawdle through life like a cripple.  Yesterday, however, I managed pretty much to finish the graphic for “Mathemaku in Homage to the Piano”:

It’s just half-size above.  I did very little to it–just made the boats more sharply outlined.  (Note to posterity, in case I haven’t mentioned it yet: this image, in its entirety, connects to one in my “The Best Investigations,” which in turn alludes to one or more others of my works.)

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Entry 693 — “Poem, Running Away”

March 23rd, 2012

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Poem, Running Away

Poem was running away
from his creator, who
had nothing to say, and
was saying it badly, and
forcing Poem to stay in it
to–so he hoped–legitimize it
as a poem.

Technically, it was already a
poem since it
was lineated.

Otherwise, it was as far from being
a poem as anything of words could
be.

So Poem’s creator described him dead
of multiple hatchet wounds, bleeding
horribly,
in the hopes that a little gore would
swindle the page
the text was on of
achieving world-class
nullity.

But Poem reddened rabbit-through,
an Anchorite of the ashen second island
past the fat lady in Paris,
cystic with automatic wrists that
in-loved the current dilts, so
anywhere-bisting beyond somewhere
unfiscal in talcum they sow.

Naval moons;
the woo, the woo–
too too for someware.

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