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Entry 207 — A Day in the Life of a Verosopher

Tuesday, August 31st, 2010

Random thoughts today because I want to get this entry out of the way and work on my dissertation on the evolution of intelligence, or try to do so, since I’m still not out of my null zone, unless I’m slightly out but having trouble keeping from falling back into it.

First, two new Grummanisms: “utilinguist” and “alphasemanticry.”  The first is my antonym for a previous coinage of mine, “nullinguist,” for linguist out to make language useless; ergo, a utilinguist is a linguist out to make language useful.  By trying to prevent “poetry” from meaning no more than “anything somebody thinks suggests language concerns” instead meaning, to begin with,  “something constructed of words,” before getting much more detailed, for example.

“Alphasemanticry” is my word for what”poetry” should mean if the nullinguists win: “highest use of language.”  From whence, “Visual Alphasemanticry” for a combination of graphics and words yielding significant aesthetic pleasure that is simultaneously verbal and visual.”

I popped off today against one of Frost’s “dark” poems, or maybe it is a passage from one of them:  “. . . A man can’t speak of his own child that’s dead”–the kind academics bring up to show Frost was Important, after all.   “Wow,” I said, “Wow, he confronts death!  He must be major! “  I then added, “Frost is in my top ten all-time best poets in English that I’ve read but not for his Learic Poems.”

James Finnegan then corrected me, stating (I believe) that the poem didn’t confront death but showed its effects.   I replied, “Okay, a poem about the effect of death on two people.   What I would call a wisdom poem.  I’m biased against them.  I like poems that enlarge my world, not ones that repeat sentiment about what’s wrong with it, or difficult about it.  Frost knew a lot about reg’lar folks, but I never learned anything from him about them that I didn’t already know.  In other words, I’m also somewhat biased against people-centered poems.  But mostly, I don’t go to poems to learn, I go to them for pleasure.”

I would add that I’m an elitist, believing with Aristotle that the hero of a tragedy needs to be of great consequence, although I disagree with him that political leaders are that, and I would add that narrative literature of any kind requires either a hero or an anti-hero (like Falstaff) of great consequence.

I’m not big on poems of consolation, either.

I find that when I have to make too trips on my bike in a day, it zaps me.  I don’t get physically tired, I just even less feel like doing anything productive than usual.  Today was such a day.  A little while ago i got home from a trip to my very nice dentist, who cemented a crown of mine that had come out (after 24 years) back in for no charge, and a stop-off at a CVS drugstore to buy $15 worth of stuff and get $4 off.  I actually bought $18 worth of stuff, a gallon of milk and goodies, including a can of cashews, cookies, candy, crackers . . .  Living it up.  Oh, I did buy cereal with dried berries in it, too.

My other trip was to the tennis courts where I played two sets, my side winning both–because of my partners.  I’m not terrific at my best, and have been hobbled by my hip problem for over a year.  It may be getting slightly better, though–today I ran after balls a few times instead of hopped-along after them.  I’m still hoping I’ll get enough better to put in at least one season playing my best.  Eventually, I’m sure I’ll need a hip replacement but there’s a chance I won’t have to immediately.

I’ve continued my piece on the evolution of intelligence, but not done anything on it today.  now fairly confidentI have a plausible model of the most primitive form of memory, and its advance from a cell’s remembering that event x followed action a and proved worth making happen again to a cell’s remember a chain of actions and the result.  That’s all that our memory does, but it’s a good deal more sophi- sticated.  I think I can show how primitive memory evolved to become what my theory says it now, but won’t know until I write it all down.  (It’s amazing how trying to write down a theory for the first time exposes its shortcomings.)  If I can present a plausible description of my theory’s memory, it will be a good endorsement of it.  No, what is much more true is that if I am not able to come up with a plausible description, it will indicate that my theory is probably invalid.

Entry 206 — Shakespeare’s Sonnet 97

Monday, August 30th, 2010

Over at the Forest of Arden, I had a lot of trouble figuring out Shakespeare’s Sonnet 97, then suddenly put together an explication of it I liked so much, I’m posting it here.

Sonnet 97

How like a Winter hath my absence beene
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting yeare?
What freezings haue I felt, what darke daies seene?
What old Decembers barenesse euery where?
And yet this time remou’d was sommers time,
The teeming Autumne big with ritch increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widdowed wombes after their Lords decease:
Yet this aboundant issue seem’d to me,
But hope of Orphans, and vn-fathered fruite,
For Sommer and his pleasures waite on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute.
Or if they sing, tis with so dull a cheere,
That leaues looke pale, dreading the Winters neere.

* * * * *

Okay, here beginnith my explication:

How like a Winter hath my absence beene
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting yeare?
What freezings haue I felt, what darke daies seene?

What old Decembers barenesse euery where?
the quickly passing year, is like being in winter.
Coldness, darkness, December’s bareness seem
everywhere to me, as everyone agrees. Vendler
adds that Shakespeare is picturing an “imaginary
winter.”  He isn’t.  He’s just making a simile.

And yet this time remou’d was sommers time,

The time we’ve been apart was summer.
Still straightforward and undebatable.

The teeming Autumne big with ritch increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widdowed wombes after their Lords decease:
NoSweatShakespeare, a website with sonnet analyses, put
an “and” at the beginning of this.  I wouldn’t, but the
“and,” which I’d previously thought of, too, then discarded
helped me accept this as just a continuation of the previous line:

I missed, Joe, Sally .  .  .  The speaker was gone during the
end of summer and much of autumn. . .   So, to backtrack:

And yet this time remou’d was sommers time,
The teeming Autumne big with ritch increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widdowed wombes after their Lords decease:

The time I have been away from you was
summer followed by autumn, which was
bearing a good crop like women bearing dead
husbands’ offspring.

Yet this aboundant issue seem’d to me,
But hope of Orphans, and vn-fathered fruite,

However fine the autumn, abundant and promising
seemed to me a dreary place for orphans and fruit
no love-making had produced
, which is about
as nearly everyone would have it, I’m sure.

For Sommer and his pleasures waite on thee,

For, imaginatively, it’s still summer, because the realest
summer although it wasn’t exactly hers) is still waiting for
the addressee’s to continue.

Confession: I got the contrast of what’s imagined, what real,
from Vendler.

And thou away, the very birds are mute.
Or if they sing, tis with so dull a cheere,
That leaues looke pale, dreading the Winters neere.

Back in the real world, where it’s autumn, the birdies
and the leafies are sad, thinking about the nearness
of winter.

Have I more or less finally gotten it?  Regardless, I feel
quite buoyed to have come up with what I did.  Later I
discovered Robert Stonehouse had much the same
interpretation as mine, but I think I did better on
“summer/ Autumn” and “summer waits” than he,
so remain happy about my achievement.

Entry 205 — Evolution of Intelligence, Part 2

Sunday, August 29th, 2010

At this stage of the evolution of intelligence a lot of minor advances would be made: multiplication of reflexes, the addition of sensors sensitive to the absence of a stimulus, the combining of more sensors and effectors so, perhaps, a purple cell with white dots and smell B and a long flagellum will be pursued if the temperature of the water is over eighty degrees but not if it is under.

By this time, something of central importance had to have happened, or be ready to happen: the evolution of sensors sensitive to pain and pleasure. For that to happen, “endo-sensors” (sensors sensitive to external stimuli) would have to have broken free of the cell membrane to become potential “intra-sensors.” And somehow become sensitive to a chemical due to damage to the cell mem- brane–probably excessive water (a biochemist would know). Or maybe the infra-cell might become sensitive to pieces of the membrane which it would never have contact with unless the membrane were damaged. If the intra-sensor were attached to an away-from effector, natural selection would select it because of its value in helping its cell get away from whatever had damaged is membrane.

Eventually similar intra-sensors connected to toward effectors would become sensitive to some by-product, say, of a successful hunt–something eaten but not digested, that would cause the cell to pursue whatever it had gotten a good taste of. I’m now going to name all such components of a cell that carry out functions like those of the sensors and effector “infra-cells” to make discussion easier. Let me add the clarification that the connections between sensors and effectors may begin as physical channels but will soon almost surely come to be made by precursors of neuro-transmitters: i.e., a sensor with “connect” to its effector by a distinctive chemical that only the effector recognizes and is activated by.  The cell’s cytoplasm will act as a primitive synapse.

Various other “neurophysiological” improvements should soon also occur. One would be an intra-sensor’s gaining the ability to activate a toward effector when it senses pleasure but activate an away-from effector when it senses pain. The accident resulting in such an infra-cell would not be too unlikely, it seems to me: simply the fusion of two cells, one sensitive to pain and connected to an away-from effector, the other sensitive to pleasure and connected to a toward effector. Obviously an evolutionary improvement.

It also seems likely to me that intra-sensors would evolve sensitive to the activation of effectors. They would connect to other infra- cells carrying out reactions to, say, a successful capture of prey: a toward effector becomes active due to signals from a sensor sensitive to a certain kind of prey, in which case the outcome should be dinner, so a sensor sensitive to the effector’s activation which is connected to some infra-cell responsible for emitting digestive juices or the like, would be an advantage.

Certain other infra-cells should evolve to allow the step up to memory, but right now I can’t figure out what they might be, so will stop here, for now.

Entry 204 — Learning from Others’ Poetry

Saturday, August 28th, 2010

To take care of today’s entry without much work, I’m posting something I wrote for New-Poetry about what a would-be poet can learn from reading other poets’ work.

The crossfire about learning how to use blank verse from Frost got me wondering what one has to learn to be a poet. What meter and what I call melodation”–rhyme, alliteration, etc. are, for many people. Lineation for everybody. I tend to think that once you learn what these things are, there’s nothing more to learn about them. The rest of using them for poetry is simply to find good words to put into them.

After thinking more, I realized that developing an awareness of the various subtleties
involved in best use of these devices would be something learnable–through exposure to poets like Frost who use the devices well. Who might make you suddenly realize what a device you underrated could do.

I still like best those poets who are doing something other poets, and I, are not–those I
can steal new devices from. Such poets are very rare. Cummings, some of the early
language poets, Pound, Stein, maybe Williams for . . . unfiguration? Eliot/Pound or who?
for the jump-cut.

Otherwise a major thing all poets have to learn is what cliches are. Cliches of expression, idea, subject matter, technique. Read a lot and learn to–sorry–make it new. What else is there to learn?

Entry 203 — Random Thoughts

Friday, August 27th, 2010

Random thoughts today because I want to get this entry out of the way and work on my dissertation on the evolution of intelligence, or try to do so, since I’m still not out of my null zone, unless I’m slightly out but having trouble keeping from falling back into it.

First, two new Grummanisms: “utilinguist” and “alphasemanticry.”  The first is my antonym for a previous coinage of mine, “nullinguist,” for linguist out to make language useless; ergo, a utilinguist is a linguist out to make language useful.  By trying to prevent “poetry” from meaning no more than “anything somebody thinks suggests language concerns” instead meaning, to begin with,  “something constructed of words,” before getting much more detailed, for example.

“Alphasemanticry” is my word for what”poetry” should mean if the nullinguists win: “highest use of language.”  From whence, “Visual Alphasemanticry” for a combination of graphics and words yielding significant aesthetic pleasure that is simultaneously verbal and visual.”

I popped off today against one of Frost’s “dark” poems, or maybe it is a passage from one of them:  “. . . A man can’t speak of his own child that’s dead”–the kind academics bring up to show Frost was Important, after all.   “Wow,” I said, “Wow, he confronts death!  He must be major! “  I then added, “Frost is in my top ten all-time best poets in English that I’ve read but not for his Learic Poems.”

James Finnegan then corrected me, stating (I believe) that the poem didn’t confront death but showed its effects.   I replied, “Okay, a poem about the effect of death on two people.   What I would call a wisdom poem.  I’m biased against them.  I like poems that enlarge my world, not ones that repeat sentiment about what’s wrong with it, or difficult about it.   Frost knew a lot about reg’lar folks, but I never learned anything from him about them that I didn’t already know.  In other words, I’m also somewhat biased against people-centered poems.  But mostly, I don’t go to poems to learn, I go to them for pleasure.”

I would add that I’m an elitist, believing with Aristotle that the hero of a tragedy needs to be of great consequence, although I disagree with him that political leaders are that, and I would add that narrative literature of any kind requires either a hero or an anti-hero (like Falstaff) of great consequence.

I’m not big on poems of consolation, either.

Entry 202 — Back to Gladwell’s 10,000 Hours

Thursday, August 26th, 2010

Certain cranks are questioning the possibility that Shakespeare wrote the works attributed to him on the grounds that he could not have gotten the 10,000 hours of practice at his craft Malcolm Gladwell says every genius needs.  What I want to know is, if Shakespeare had his ten thousand hours when he wrote the Henry VI trilogy, where does it show?  There are serious scholars out there who think Heminges and Condell were lying when they said he wrote them.  Many mainstream critics won’t accept that he wrote certain scenes in them.

I claim that any reasonably intelligent non-genius actor of the time could have used the historians of the time, as Shakespeare did, to have written them.  Add, perhaps, a cleverness with language that some 14-year-olds have.  The only way his histories improved after the trilogy was in the author’s becoming better with words, through practice, of course, but only what he would have gotten from contin- uing to write plays (and doctor plays and–most important–THINK about plays), and getting interested enough in a few of his stereotypical characters to archetize them as he did Falstaff.

It seems to me that the requirements for being a playwright are (1) a simple exposure to plays to teach one what they are; (2) the general knowledge of the world that everyone automatically gets simply by living; (3) the facility with the language that everyone gets automa- tically from simply using them all one’s life.  The rank one as a playwight will depend entirely on his inborn ability to use language, and his inborn ability to empathize with others, and himself.  Of course, the more plays he writes, the better playwright he’ll be, but I’m speaking of people who have chosen to make playwriting their vocation (because they were designed to do something of the sort).

I speak out of a life devoted to writing and having read biographies of dozens of writers.  I would never be able to agree that I’m wrong on this.

Entry 201 — Evolution of Intelligence, Part One

Wednesday, August 25th, 2010

A week or so ago, I read an article in Discover about the shrinkage of the human brain over the past 20,000 or more years.  Well-written, fairly interesting piece thought didn’t go very deep because only certified authorities were consulted for explanations as to what was behind the shrinkage.  I was provoked enough to scribble a list of eight possible reasons for the shrinkage, planning an essay on the subject, for the heck of it mainly, but also to send to the author of the Discover article in hopes she might find it interesting, and perhaps do another article on the subject for some other magazine, and this time mention me.  Or think enough of what I wrote to get my views when doing another article on the brain.  Yeah, more delusional day- dreaming on my part.  But just to write an essay on the shrinkage seemed to me a good idea.  Another achievement, if I finished it, and a chance to clarify my thinking about my knowlecular psychology, too.  Also perhaps enough fun to break me out of the dry spell I’ve been going through as a writer.

This it did, for a day, for I wrote 1150 words the day I wrote the above. After that, I wrote a few hundred words about it daily for a few days, then missed a day.  That was okay with me because the reason I slowed down, then wrote nothing was that I thought I needed to back way up and explain intelligence, starting with its evolution.  A tough job even if I could remember as much of my theory as I needed to.

After a day or two of inactivity, I managed a few words a day four a couple of days.  They were of much value but they did start awakening my understanding of my theory. Eventually, I got the beginnings of my take on the beginnings of intelligence, if by intelligence we mean “choice of behavior” as opposed to random activity.

Let’s begin with the first living cell, a protozoan.”  It moves randomly through water.  Eventually it accidently acquires a sensitivity to light, let’s say, although it could be salt denisity or temperature, it doesn’t matter.  So, it has the prototype of a nervous system, a single sensor sensitive to light.  The next consequential accident will be its evolving a component that makes it move in some direction as opposed to being moved by environmental forces.  Call it an “effector.”  It may evolve this before it evolves a sensor, it doesn’t matter, What matters is that eventually many protoazoa will have non-functioning but not seriously biologically disadvantageous nervous-systems.  They’ll be superior (no quotation marks: they will have the potential for intelligence other protozoa lack, so will be superior to them, if not to invincibly egalitarians halfwits, whom I’m insulting here in the hopes they go away and I won’t have to hear the nonsense I eventually would if they didn’t).  Ergo, I will call them “alphzoa.”

The first key accident leading to intelligence will be an alphazoan’s forming a linkage forming its light-sensor and effector, allowing the former to activate the latter.

If the effector causes movement toward light, and light is beneficial–as perhaps a source of energy–alpazoa with this capacity will soon become dominant.  Alphazoa which light causes to move away from light will die out.  Or perhaps evolve differently, finding something in darkness that makes up for lack of light–concealment from prey, maybe.  In any case, a functional, useful nervous system will have come into being, or what I’d call simple reflexive intelligence.  The march to Us hath commenced. Eventually some sensor will evolve that is sensitive to the color, say, of one of the alphazoan’s prey and links with an effector causing the alphzoa to move toward the prey, a “toward-effector.”  Ditto, a reflex with an “away-from effector” attached to a sensor sensitive to the color or some other characteristic of some kind of predator on the alphazoan.  Not a technical advance, but certainly a big jump in improving the alphazoa’s biological fitness.

At the same tiime, alphazoas will naturally be increasing their numbers of such reflex pairs.  Eventually, there’d have to be a sizable group of alphazoa with several effective reflex pairs, to significantly improve their chances of those pairs lucking into new combinations of high importance. A good example would come about when an organism preying on the alphazoa evolved the same coloring as the alphazoa’s prey.  Misfits without the toward-gray reflex would suddenly have an advantage on those with it.  Some such misfits would develop withdraw-from-gray reflex pairs.  Eventually some of them would also develop a sensor sensitive to something the prey had that the predator did not have but the gray prey did, smell A, say, and connect it to the move-toward effector.

Conditions would then be right for the next essential evolutionary step toward full intelligence.  Alphazoa would exist, each of which has an away-from-grey reflex and a toward-smell A reflex.  So they would flee from gray cells without smell A–but both flee from and go after gray cells with smell A.  Safety, but no meal unless the prey swam into them.  This problem (or one like it) would be crucial in making conditions right for the advent of a rudimentary form of “choice,” however.

I’m sure messy partial solutions would come about and probably clever mechanisms different from the one I think may have carried the day.  But something along the lines of the solution I’m about to propose had to have occurred.  It would depend on the evolution of inhibitors–and we know inhibition has a major role in the nervous system.

An inhibitor is device which prevents any effector it is connected to from acting just the way a sensor causes the activation of any effector it is connected to,  Like everything else, it would pop up by chance but persist when it happened, say, to be connected to a smell-A sensor and inhibited an away-from effector.  Ergo, the alphazoa blessed with such an inhibitor would flee a gray cell which lacked smell A, but go after such a cell if it had smell A, because it sinhibitor would prevent the away-from effector from preventing it from doing that.

So, life will now have achieved the ability to choose between advancing or withdrawing in the direction of a gray cell.  It will still be a very primitive computer, but with something like intelligence, anyway.

***  That’s as far as my coherent writing got.  Extremely difficult to write although what I said  could probably not be more simple and unoriginal.

Entry 200 — Can a Non-Grind Become a World-Genius?

Tuesday, August 24th, 2010

There have always been mediocrities who desperately want to believe that one can become great if only one applies oneself. Even more partial to the idea are totalitarians, who–if training is shown to be everything–will have a good chance of being allowed to totalitarianly force training on unfortunate children. Malcolm Gladwell is no doubt one of them. In his recent book, Outliers: The Story of Success, he argues that high achievement is only possible for grinds, and that there is no such thing as what he calls “an outlier,” an individual who rises to the top without being a grind. To support his view, he presents a study (by someone named Ericsson) of violin students at a Berlin musical academy, tracking them from age five to age twenty. All were gifted, all stayed with the violin for fifteen years. Here’s what Gladwell says of the study (which I got from a post to one of my Shakespeare Authorship Debate discussion groups, by a Marlovian):

By the age of twenty, the elite performers had each totalled ten thousand hours of practice. By contrast, the merely good students had totalled eight thousand hours, and the future music teachers had totalled just over four thousand hours.

Ericsson and his colleagues then compared amateur pianists with professional pianists. The same pattern emerged. The amateurs never practiced more than about three hours a week over the course of their childhood, and by the age of twenty they had totalled two thousand hours of practice. The professionals, on the other hand, steadily increased their practice time every year, until by the age of twenty they, like the violinists, had reached ten thousand hours.

The striking thing about Ericsson’s study is that he and his colleagues couldn’t find any “naturals,” musicians who floated effortlessly to the top while practicing a fraction of the time their peers did. Nor could they find any “grinds,” people who worked harder than everyone else, yet just didn’t have what it takes to break the top ranks. Their research suggests that once a musician has enough ability to get into a top music school, the thing that distinguishes one performer from another is how hard he or she works. That’s it. And what’s more, the people at the very top don’t work harder or even much harder than everyone else. They work much, much harder.

My response:

I’ll have to read his book in order to pin down Gladwell’s errors. I probably won’t bother because my life experience refutes him. Good grief, any reasonably academically clever child finds himself surrounded throughout his school years with kids who actually have to study to get B’s when he can sleep through classes and get A’s. I don’t find it surprising that Ericsson found no grind who got in his ten thousand hours of practice and was still lousy. That’s obviously because lack of talent for playing the violin is so obvious that even a grind will soon find that there are things he simply can’t do, and give up. It’s easier for a grind to find ways to fake it in intellectual fields and put in his ten thousand hours, and become certified, and rise in his field thanks to the aid of fellow mediocrities. Good grief, just look around at the academic authors of dozens of books apiece all of whom are third-rate at best.

That Ericsson found no one who equaled the grinds without putting in ten thousand hours does surprise me. I suspect his sample was too small to include any naturals, who would no doubt be very rare.

As usual, anti-Stratfordians have no idea how Shakespeare could have gotten his ten thousand hours because they don’t know anything about epistemology, or the creative process, or what specifically is needed by a would-be dramatist. The believe ten thousand hours of formal study is needed, for they have no idea what informal study is. I do tend to think there might be something to the idea that excellence in any field requires a lot of practice, but that–one–the ability to devote massive amounts of time to a field is genetic, and–two–there are many ways to devote oneself to a field.

When I was the only one in my high school class (400 or so, some of whom ended up in Harvard, Princeton, Berkeley, Yale, etc.) to reach the semi-finals of the Merit Scholarship competition, those in my class who didn’t know me well but knew I paid little attention to my teachers in class, got almost all my homework done during class or in study hall, and thought there was something wrong with anyone who had to study. Ergo, I must have photographic memory.

The truth, though, is that I had been diligent in an informal way: I’d gotten in thousand of hours of random reading outside school, some of it of mildly advanced texts, and done something else that should count but would not likely be counted by someone like Gladwell, I THOUGHT about things. I wrote my first full-length play at 19–but by that time I’d probably written hundreds of scenes in my head starring me–and, at the beginning, Donald Duck and his three nephews. The play wasn’t very good, but I wrote two more plays before I was twenty, and the second of these was, I believe, promising. But not good, though certainly as good in many ways as Titus Andronicus.

One can certainly argue that I was not a great dramatist, and the reason for this was that I didn’t have enough proper training to be one, but the question is still how I’d gotten to where I could write literate full-length plays at the age of 19.

My only serious point here is to suggest how easily Shakespeare could have reached the level he did in his twenties. Lots of reading, and lots of THINKING. He also had, apparently, one huge advantage over me: he probably acting  as an amateur of became an actor, then play doctor, the playwright, for an acting company while still young.

I’m with Felix (a Stratfordian who posted on the subject), by the way, in claiming that every reasonably intelligent twenty-year-old will have had ten thousand hours training in language, and that that is sufficient for any kind of literary vocation. All artists by twenty will have put in ten thousand hours or more in the study of human beings, too, so will be able write about them or depict them in paint.

Entry 199 — The Origin of Intelligence

Monday, August 23rd, 2010

A week of so ago, I read an article in Discover about the shrinkage of the human brain over the past 20,000 or more years.  Well-written, fairly interesting piece though it didn’t go very deep because only certified authorities were consulted for explanations as to what was behind the shrinkage.  I was provoked enough to scribble a list of eight possible reasons for the shrinkage, planning an essay on the subject, for the heck of it mainly, but also to send to the author of the Discover article in hopes she might find it interesting, and perhaps do another article on the subject for some other magazine, and this time mention me.  Or think enough of what I wrote to get my views when doing another article on the brain.

Yeah, more delusional day-dreaming on my part.  But just to write an essay on the shrinkage seemed to me a good idea.  Another achievement, if I finished it, and a chance to clarify my thinking about my knowlecular psychology, too.  Also perhaps enough fun to break me out of the dry spell I’ve been going through as a writer.

This it did, for a day, for I wrote 1150 words about it Friday.  Four or five hundred Saturday and another six hundred yesterday.yesterday.   In the process, though, I veered into the evolution of intelligence and suddenly have too many problems to solve. What I thought I’d do a short essay about needs a short book to do right.

Oddly enough, one of my larger problems is defining intelligence.  All I’m sure of is that it came long before brains evolved.  I think it may just be “the ability of an organism to choose reactions to a situation based on more than one piece of knowledge.  Presence of predator equals flee would be pre-intelligence, or a reflex action.  Presence of predator when one has a spear equals destroy equals intelligence.  Even though in the final analysis all our behavior is reflexive.  It’s just that some behavior’s stimulus is both temporally and spatially larger than another’s.

Entry 198 — The Kelly Writers House

Sunday, August 22nd, 2010

Earlier today Al Fireis passed on the following announcement to New-Poetry:

“The people of the Kelly Writers House are pleased to announce – in addition to many hundreds of other readings, symposia, performances, seminars, workshops, netcasts & community outreach programs – this year’s three Writers House Fellows:

Susan Cheever, February 14-15
Edward Albee, March 21-22
Marjorie Perloff, April 25-26″
Enough of my buttons were pushed for me to reply:

“Does the house ever do artist outreach programs–by giving an artist with something fresh to say in a highly visible forum, for pay?  That said, I have to say that Albee has proven himself not an enemy of the arts by supporting (with money, I believe) the Atlantic Arts Center in Florida.  It mainly helps artists who don’t need help, but pays them to help artists (like me) who do need help, as sort of associates working together under the leadership of the artist who doesn’t need help.  If that’s the way it is still run.  I learned Photo Shop there, a program I couldn’t afford though I eventual was able to get a cheap version of it, Paint Shop.  It was a key to my development as a visual poet.

“Of course, my getting into one of the Atlantic Arts Center programs was a fluke.  Albee himself had used his influence to get Richard Kostelanetz a slot as a master artist, and Richard picked truly marginal associates.  All other master artists selected, so far as I know, have been mainstreamers, with  mainstream associates.

“Perloff, to give her credit, helped language poetry when it was otherstream.  She may well have done this opportunistically: Vendler had used Ashbery to stand out, so she grabbed Bernstein, or the language poetry people in general.  Which is fine with me.  I’d love such an opportunits to do the same for visual poetry, and will never understand why none has.  A few have tried but not gotten far with it.  Probably because few visual poets are academics, and thus close in one way to the mainstream.  More language poets had academic clout long before they had literary clout.

“As for Cheever, I can’t imagine what she has to say.  Reminiscences about her father, a one-time noted mainstreamer.

“Sorry for the Me-stuff, but the name Albee set it off.  Strangely important name in my life even though I’m not a great admirer of his plays, and probably have little in common with him in other ways, and once disliked him. I saw what may have been the premiere of his Zoo Story, along with Krapp’s Last Tape; disliked Zoo Story, very much liked Krapp’s Last Tape.  Greenwich Village Theatre when I was a teen-ager just learning my way into the arts, with high school buddies I’m still friends with, one of whom because a actor who got by but never became well-known, another who became a very wealthy Manhattan corporate lawyer, and a third who became a wealthy Bevery Hills cataract man.

“Sorry, again, but I’m feeling talkative–”writative?”  Took a pain pill with an opium derivative in it an hour ago.  Hip pain I’ll probably need hip replacement surgery to get rid of.  Also, I live alone.

“You know, I’m against the government’s subsidizing anything whatever, but if they’re going to subsidize the arts, I think they should make it a rule that any organization getting government money, even in the form of tax breaks, should be required by law to give at least one position a year like the ones Kelly House is giving to Albee and the others to someone who has never been given such a position by such an organization.  Or never gotten more for taking such a position than, say, a hundred dollars.

“One of my daydreams is of becoming a literary super-star invited all over to make guest appearances, and refusing to for a given organization until that organization has invited four or more marginal artists (or critics) to make similar appearances, paying them what it’d pay a super-star.  It would be going too far to make them do that before inviting any well-known artist or critic; I wouldn’t require more than their doing it for just one unknown if it weren’t the practice never to help an unknown (who doesn’t have somebody of influence pushing for him to be invited, or is representative of some allegedly underprivileged group, aside from experimental artists.

“Hey, looks like I’ve written my blog entry for today.  I’ve been so out of it for many months that I’ve been trying to force myself to at least write a blog entry every day.  Have done so for over a week. “

Entry 355 — My Latest Setback « POETICKS

Entry 355 — My Latest Setback

My latest setback is trivial for most points of view, but it has me reeling.  I broke down and spulrged on the latest version of the computer game, Civilization, a little over a week ago, ordering it from Amazon.  I didn’t immediately try it out when it arrived four or five days ago.  For one thing, I was in the middle of a game I was playing on my old version.  Once I’d lost that, I uninstalled the old version, and popped the new version in.  Boink.  After twenty minutes, I found out I had to install it from the Internet, and I was using my second computer for Civilization.  It was not hooked up to the Internet.

Not being bright at all about such things, I thought it would be a hassle to get my second computer on the Internet, so tried to go back to my old version.  But it could no longer be installed.  I couldn’t use my main computer for the game because of lack of space.  What the heck, I though, this is a good excuse to stop wasting time with Civilization.  I’d put it aside until I have a new computer with much more space on it.  Today, though, I realized all I had to do was plug my modem into my second computer.  so I did that, got on the Internet.  At that point my setback occurred: I couldn’t find the latest version of Civilization.  I had five or six disks from two versions of Civilization III but the single one for the new version, V, was not in the drawer I keep all the software disks I use, like Paint Shop and Power Point.  I couldn’t understand why it wasn’t there, and still can’t.  I’ve gone through it item by item three times.  It isn’t there.

I can’t imagine why I would have taken the disk–and the plastic holder it was in which also had a booklet and a folded up map of some sort abd is also missing–out of my computer room.  But I searched the whole house, twice, and my computer room three or four times.  No dice.

I can endure not being able to play Civilization.  That may even be a blessing although I really wanted to find out if V would give me a chance, as III hadn’t (at the higher levels).  I can live with the loss of the fifty dollars I paid for it, too.  But I am devastated by this latest proof that I simply can’t keep things from disappearing.

No one has been in my house but me during the time the game has been here, by the way, and it’s inconceivable that anyone would sneak in and steal just it.  I must have absent-mindedly put it aside somewhere wonderfully concealing.

Don’t be surprised if I don’t post anything here for a while.  What I ought to do, and half-think I may do, is do a major job of getting the house straightened out, in part by throwing all all the stuff I ought to.  Right now I don’t feel like doing anything, though.

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Entry 464 — A Follow-Up Visit to the Surgeon « POETICKS

Entry 464 — A Follow-Up Visit to the Surgeon

I saw my surgeon yesterday.   He was very pleased with my progress.  But he said it’d be three or four more months before I would be a non-gimp.  He had told me before the operation that it’d take two to five months for me to reach that point, so I felt I’d make it in two with hard work, if the operation went well.  I’ve worked hard and the operation went well but am not considered likely to be able to do more than I’m doing now, which is walk fast in a straight line, and take care of myself in my home.  Sure doesn’t give me much motivation to continue going all-out on my exercise program.

Meanwhile, my old lethargy is still with me.  I’ve done a little work on my Shakespeare book since getting home, but not much else.   I’m hoping I’m just suffering from the stress any change in one’s circumstances tends to cause, even a good change like getting home from a care facility.

 

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Mike Gunderloy « POETICKS

Posts Tagged ‘Mike Gunderloy’

Entry 99 — MATO2, Chapter 2.07

Sunday, February 7th, 2010

What follows is something I compiled from a mixture of writings I wrote about The World of Zines. Some of it may be repetitions of passages in published materials, and some may be material I deleted from articles that were too long for publication.  I may have published some of it, too, who knows.  In any case, it adds to my picture of the history of Factsheet Five.

Comments on The World of Zines

Mike Gunderloy had been active in the micro-press for some ten years when I joined his team, having then–at the age of 22 or so–founded Factsheet Five as a sort of “zine zine” specializing in reviewing other zines (a zine being a kind of periodical that is to small press magazines what the latter are to, well, Cosmopolitan or NewsWeek).  Factsheet Five was purely a hobby for Gunderloy at first.  Working out of his garage (or the equivalent), he gradually turned it into something resembling a real business, eventually having it printed by offset and getting it commercially distributed.  His last issue had a press run of over 10,000 copies.  That in itself wasn’t enough to bring him financial success.  What it did, though, was establish him as an authority on zines, which were the subject of the book Penguin signed him up for, The World of Zines.  And now he’s getting national press coverage–and making at least a little money.

According to one newspaper article on Gunderloy, at least one other editor has recently been directly absorbed from a zine into the BigTime: a fellow named Christian Gore.  Seven years ago, at the age of 19, Gore started a six-page zine on movies called Film Threat that is now a slickzine with a circulation of 125,000.  So, while the only sane reason to begin a zine is to say things, however privately, that the mainstream isn’t, dreaming of one day reaching a public of some size is not entirely irrational.

In any event, if you’re at all interested in zines–as a publisher or would-be publisher of one, or as just a reader–I highly recommend The World of Zines to you.  It provides excellent, if brief, reviews, such as the one that follows concerning Raleigh Clayton’s Fugitive Pope (available for $1 in cash or stamps from Raleigh Clayton Muns, 7351-A Burrwood Dr., St. Louis MO 63121), which I chose at random from the 300-plus that are discussed in The World of Zines, seems to me typical of the genre.  Here’s what Gunderloy and his co-editor Cari Goldberg Janice have to say about it:

“Life as a librarian need not be terminally dull, as Raleigh proves over and over again in these pages.  He recounts strange questions encountered at the reference desk, gives us glimpses of what it’s really like in librarian school and suggests ways to discourage masturbation in the stacks.  Along the way, bits and pieces of obscure writing are dropped in–almost as much fun as finding them serendipitously among the stacks.”

Note Fugitive Pope’s resemblance to an ongoing letter.  Such is generally what most zines resemble, though a letter usually confined to some central subject–a librarian’s life here, flying saucers (UFO) or old Norse religions (Asynjur) elsewhere.  Comics, sports, sci fi, hobbies and collecting, “hip whatnot,” travel, and–this a single category– splatter, death & other good news are just some of the other general topics the zines reviewed get into.

It is refreshing to note that Gunderloy and Janice include on their pages almost as many graphics, rants, poems and other matter culled from the zines under review as they do commentary. Hence, we’re not just told about zines, we’re meaningfully exposed to parts of them.

Contact and ordering information for every zine mentioned is included, too.  Moreover, a number of pages at the book’s end deal in detail with the nitty-grit of starting, running and circulating one’s own zine.  This should make The World of Zines highly useful, particularly for people outside the knownstream who have incorrect interests, or lack credentials, but who nonetheless want to have some kind of voice in their culture, however small.

Of course, it can’t be said that The World of Zines is perfect: every connoisseur of the field will find dozens of terrible omissions (where, for example, is my favorite zine, the subtle journal of raw coinage?!?).  Considering that there are something like 20,000 zines extant (according to the authors’ estimate, which seems sound to me), this is inevitable.  It is not important, for the object of the book is to introduce the scene it covers, not exhaustively memorialize it, and this The World of Zines does with efficiency and flair.

Here endeth the history of my involvement in Factsheet Five. Later I’ll be quoting from columns I wrote for it.

Entry 466 — Basho Makes the Funnies « POETICKS

Entry 466 — Basho Makes the Funnies

I’m surprised Geof hasn’t posted this at his blog already, but since he hasn’t, I’ll post it here:

It’s a desecration, hence hilarious.  It’s also interesting evidence of the apparent popularity of Basho, although I doubt too many who see this strip will understand it.  Although they may still find it amusing.

Meanwhile, I was not feeling too good earlier–tired from running an errand, trying only partly successfully to mow my lawn–because of a malfunctioning mower–and doing my exercises, as well as my usual lack-of-sleep and blahness.  Then I noticed an ad I’ve seen before for a poetry contest with a first prize of $5000 in the latest issue of Poetry, which I have a review copy of.  I had been disgusted with a poem by David Ferry, winner of the $100,000 Ruth Lilly Poetry prize given by the foundation running Poetry, and featured in this issue of the magazine.  Result, I suddenly had a yen to enter the poetry contest–with a poem that could be paraphrased as “mathematics divided into poetry equals genius with a remainder of angrily befuddled Philistines accidentally exposed.”

That only made me briefly happy.  What boosted me into a much more durable happiness was my then knocking out good drafts of four new long division poems, three of which I doubt I’ll change but which will need visimages, which will probably be abstract-expressionist.  The fourth one won’t need much more, I don’t think.  One of the others still voices my hostility toward the morons who will probably be judging this contest with a comparison of superior poetry to “locations miles away from anywhere any certified American Poet has ever visited.”

Rattle, the magazine running the contest, is asking for up to four poems, so it makes sense to enter the maximum.  I will probably replace the hostile one with another new one (only new work is allowed), then publish all five when I lose the contest to poets at Ferry’s level (15 of them, each getting $100; one will later get the big prize).  One nice thing about the contest is that the finalists will be announced no later than 15 September.  I have to get my entries in by 1 August, though.

I have no chance of the big prize but my poems will be quite verbal, so I may, by a fluke, make it into the finals, which would generate some publicity for me.

 

 

 

5 Responses to “Entry 466 — Basho Makes the Funnies”

  1. Ed Baker says:

    this has been up for several days on Issa’s Untidy Hut

    I am fairly certain it is Watt’s translation of The Frog Poem

    which I came away with:

    so many frogs
    in one pond
    croaking

  2. Bob Grumman says:

    Now make it into a comic strip, Ed!

    Thanks for continuing to visit–and for your previous good wishes. I continue to improve–but now my lawn mower won’t work! I should make a haiku about that but won’t.

  3. Ed Baker says:

    I got one if I can find your email address will send it to you

    meanwhile I just sit out on my huge back deck
    &watch the weeds grow and my push-mower rusting.

    old push mower
    rusting
    among the weeds

  4. endwar says:

    I wonder how a comic strip like “Mutts” survives. This particular strip is actually funny, while most are not. I think it gets by on appealing to sentimental pet lovers, who just want cute dog and cat pictures, and maybe some on the the strength of its draftsmanship (though this strip is rather weak in that department, and maybe the coloring doesn’t help). And what’sh the deal with that shpeech impediment? Yeesh. Maybe it one all cats have when they learn to talk. On the other hand, i think the artist is a Buddhist, given some of the stuff he quotes in his strips, so he gets some diversity points.

    Anyway, here’s my response to that pond/frog poem, in the form of a hay(na)ku, which you can imagine William S. Burroughs reading:

    the old pond,
    a frog
    croaks.

    endwar

  5. Bob Grumman says:

    I think the drawing of Mutts is superior, intentionally reminiscent of Popeye, just right for its kind of comic strip. Much of the humor is simple enough–many puns, for example. Otherwise, I go along with your impressions.

    Poop on your debasement of the old pond haiku. Some pipple got no respeck.

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Entry 343 — Working, But Going Nowhere « POETICKS

Entry 343 — Working, But Going Nowhere

I’m still fooling with my “Mathemaku in Praise of Reading, No. 1.”  Haven’t quite gotten it right.  I also touched up one of the five mathemaku I did for Bill Di Michele’s blog–by putting quotations marks that I thought necessary around the dividend.

Meanwhile, annoyed with more irresponsible uses of the word, “poem,” specifically either employing it to mean too many things to make it any longer useful for intelligent communication, or characterizing it sometimes interestingly but always subjectively and excessively vaguely as when Frost calls it “what is lost in translation,” I produced the following coinage: “disfinition.”  I haven’t worked up a good definition of this.  For the time being, it is simply an antonym for “definition.”

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Entry 236 — A Day Worthless But Happy Enough « POETICKS

Entry 236 — A Day Worthless But Happy Enough

I had what seemed to me a lot of errands to do today.  It was also one of my three tennis days a week.  So I never expected to get anything much done.   I have so far, and probably wont.  (It’s a little after four in the afternoon.)  I feeling lethargic, as I seem always to.  But happy enough because I was able to run close to all out on the tennis court for the second time in a row.  I’m not quite up to what I consider full speed, and I still have trouble when I have to push off on my left leg.  But I feel reasonably able to play near my standard, which I would rate at slightly above average for my age.  This is the main reason for my good mood.

My errands were getting milk and bananas (I eat one banana every morning), depositing a credit card cash advance for $500 in my bank account, dropping buy to pay my dentist my monthly bill, and stopping at my general practitioner’s to get a lab appointment and an office appointment, having missed two schedule for earlier this month, how, I don’t know, but–yikes–I’m getting absent-minded of late.  Once home, I managed to write the times of the appointments down on a wall calendar I have for the very purpose but two often forget to use it.

My dentist has ordered my two recent collections of plurexpressive poetry, but I don’t want to turn them over to her until I written some notes to help her understand them, which is my next minor writing chore.  I’ve been avoiding doing it these past two days, for some reason.  I should be able to start on it tomorrow.

I had some thoughts on how much more important than subject matter in a poem techniques are, inspired by another me-in-the-minority discussion at New-Poetry.  Can’t remember much of what I had to say now, but I do remember discovering that techniques are invisible; it’s their effects that we are aware of in poems.  Ditto form.  I contended that subject matter is too often the only concern of poets, poetry readers, poetry editors and poetry critics.  Certainly almost nobody in the field considers technique more important in a poem than it, the way I do.

I also discovered that actually technique is everything in poetry, for the simple choice of subject matter is a technique.   Subject matter is also everything in a poem.

One thing I said was that it is technique that gives the subject matter of a poem its meaning.  I also opined that viewpoint is a kind of subject matter.  I guess I’d divide subject matter into primary subject matter like the summer day of “Sonnet 18,” and secondary subject matter like Shakespeare’s view of the summer day in that poem as something fine but flawed.

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Alan Shapiro « POETICKS

Archive for the ‘Alan Shapiro’ Category

Entry 1120 — A Tough Night

Friday, June 14th, 2013

Last night I was up between 2 and 5 because my house flooded.  A leak in my water heater.  It turned out well, though: because I can’t afford a new heater, I’ll be without hot water.  That means I don’t have a gas bill, anymore.  As for hot water, well, it’s nice to have, but it’s a luxury, like the car I’ve almost never had.  Very stressful, the leak, though–I was afraid for a while that a pipe under the house had burst.  That would have been very expensive to fix.

I don’t believe I react well to stress, but I do suspect I may have an unusually high sensitivity to the signals my brain gives off when it approaches breakdown.  Result: so far, I’ve always shut down before breaking down.  That is, I go into my null zone rather than go absolunically wacko.  My shell continues to do the everyday while the part of me that’s typing this basically gives up.  Meanwhile, Chipper, the little blue bunny rabbit who is also part of me never stops reminding me, usually subverbally, that I’ve been in the null zone before and things have always gotten better.   Dark thoughts occur, but never any plans for dark actions.

Well, I’m in my null zone again, so much so that the last two zoom-doses were unable to help me out of it.  Ergo, I’m going to tread water for a while, again.  I hope still to post one blog entry a day, but don’t expect to post any that’s more worth reading that a tweet.

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Entry 792 — Analysis of an Iowa Workshop Poem

Saturday, July 7th, 2012

Astronomy Lesson

by Alan Shapiro

The two boys lean out on the railing
of the front porch, looking up.
Behind them they can hear their mother
in one room watching “Name That Tune,”
their father in another watching
a Walter Cronkite Special, the TVs
turned up high and higher till they
each can’t hear the other’s show.
The older boy is saying that no matter
how many stars you counted there were
always more stars beyond them
and beyond the stars black space
going on forever in all directions,
so that even if you flew up
millions and millions of years
you’d be no closer to the end
of it than they were now
here on the porch on Tuesday night
in the middle of summer.
The younger boy can think somehow
only of his mother’s closet,
how he likes to crawl in back
behind the heavy drapery
of shirts, nightgowns and dresses,
into the sheer black where
no matter how close he holds
his hand up to his face
there’s no hand ever, no
face to hold it to.

A woman from another street
is calling to her stray cat or dog,
clapping and whistling it in,
and farther away deep in the city
sirens now and again
veer in and out of hearing.

The boys edge closer, shoulder
to shoulder now, sad Ptolemies,
the older looking up, the younger
as he thinks back straight ahead
into the black leaves of the maple
where the street lights flicker
like another watery skein of stars.
“Name That Tune” and Walter Cronkite
struggle like rough water
to rise above each other.
And the woman now comes walking
in a nightgown down the middle
of the street, clapping and
whistling, while the older boy
goes on about what light years
are, and solar winds, black holes,
and how the sun is cooling
and what will happen to
them all when it is cold.

 

THE IOWA WORKSHOP POEM:

1. involves quotidian, usually suburban subject matter, employing telling concrete details out of everyday life, accessibility being a key aim

the feel of the scene Shapiro depicts is suburban although sirens from “away deep in the city” can be heard, so the poem takes place either in suburbia or the outskirts of a city (and suburbia can have cities); its telling concrete details include tv programs, boys star-gazing, a woman in a street calling to her cat or dog

2. uses near-prose (i.e., free verse with few or no frills or unconventionalities of expression)

it has one simile, a nice one about “the black leaves of the maple/ where the street lights flicker/like another watery skein of stars.”

it also has a personification–“Ptolemies” as “astronomers”

no other figures of speech are in it, as far as I can make out

3. ends with a standard epiphany or anti-epiphany

here the epiphany is vague beyond subtlety but there: we human beans is just a “Name That Tune”-trivial flicker in the vastness of the universe.  The poem is a haiku, really, extended for lines and lines.

4. is genteel in vocabulary and morality

unquestionably

5. strives for anthroceptual sensitivity (i.e., sympathetic awareness of other human beings)

Very much so, the scene depicted being entirely of inter-acting people almost but not enacting a narrative

6. acts as a means to self-expression, or bringing the self to life as opposed to capturing a scene, some object or idea–never as an end in itself, as a beautiful verbal artifact

This only somewhat applies.  The self expressed is a distant observer; the scene–which includes both what’s going on and its emotional meaning–is more important than the observer.

7. the self brought to life is almost always a sensitive, politically-correct, average albeit cultured individual (the most extreme of Iowa Workshop Poems seem to be begging the reader to like the poem’s author)

Yes, behind the scene, sighing over the eternal meaninglessness of our life, but incompletely, slightly and certainly not intrusively

8. can be direct on the surface but aims for Jamesian subtlety in what its author would consider its most important passage

we know exactly what is going on; what is indirect is the meaning of it all, which I would not call Jamesianly expressed

9. is not controversial in thought or attitude, or–really–close to explicitly ideational

It doesn’t really convey a thought or attitude, simply reports, leaving it to the reader to interpret, as most good poems, and all Iowa Workshop Poems do.

10. is usually first-person

this one is not

11. is generally short–one page, although it can run  to three pages.

this is a bit longer than most, but not long

12. wouldn’t be caught dead harboring a poetic technique not in wide use by 1950 at the latest

this could not be more the case.

I do not consider my analysis an evaluation of the poem, which I consider a good, appealing one,  but one I think almost everyone interested in poetry will recognize as an Iowa Workshop poem. The best such poems are as good as the best poems of any other kind, I believe. But I distinguish between effective poems, like Shapiro’s, and important poems, like the best otherstream poems, because the latter add to the poet’s tool chest, as an Iowa Workshop does not.  Not, I should add, that no poem can be both effective and important.

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Entry 359 — Thoughts from the Niezschean Zone « POETICKS

Entry 359 — Thoughts from the Niezschean Zone

I spend too much time in the grosswelt that I should be spending in the uberwelt.  I shouldn’t care what language the nullinguists want to impose on the dinglers and the subdinglers of the grosswelt but only about the extreme few inhabiting the uberwelt.  Or to inhabit the uberwelt.  Where truth counts.

Behold, is it a coincidence only that my father was a Friedrich Wilhelm like Nietzsche?  Albeit his name was anglicized to Frederick William.  In any event, I am at the moment in my Neitzschean Zone.  Even when not, though, I have trouble coming to terms with the grosswelt.  It has been hostile to me in many ways, good to me in many ways.  I sincerely would like to have increased its happiness.  Directly.  But (it would seem) the only world whose happiness I have any chance to increase, however small, is the uberwelt.

I suppose the only difference between the sane and the insane is that the sane keep the fact that they consider themselves Reality’s Primary Heroes to themselves, the insane do not.  In other words, sanity equals cowardice.

My opening paragraph can be reduced to something more simple: that I ought to concern myself only with the language of poetics as a verosophy, or scientific-materialistic attempt to understand poetry, and ignore those uninterested in higher endeavors.

It was the elder of my two brothers that was named after my father, not I.  How can that be?  Nietzsche, by the way, had nothing to do with the presence of his names in our family.  Except for me, no one in it has ever to my knowledge left the grosswelt–or even tried to.  Not that any should have–our species could not survive had more than a very few done so.   Survival depends on the plod, meaningfulness on the flight.

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Jack Foley « POETICKS

Archive for the ‘Jack Foley’ Category

Entry 385 — My Most-Used Coinage

Monday, February 21st, 2011

On 2/21/2011 3:21 AM, Jake Berry wrote:

Bob,    Hope this finds you well. I'm working on an essay and I'd like to  use your term 'otherstream', but I want to quote your definition  of the word directly. I haven't been able to find it on the internet  and I have no idea where it might be among all my books and papers.  So how would you define it?    Best,  Jake  

Terrific hearing from you, Jake–although it makes me feel guilty by reminding me of what a horrible correspondent I’ve been for going on ten years or more.  So many people I haven’t kept in touch with but should have!  Although I do keep up with you on the Internet.

Ah, the old days when I was one of the Kings of the  . . . Otherstream because I owned my own Xerox!  I’ve had some ungood years since then.  2010 was possibly the worst year I’ve had in thirty years.  But this year, so far, is going pretty well, although right now I’m in my null zone again.

Maybe not–your e.mail has me at least partway out of it.  Great to know someone still likes my coinage, and it was fun doing my own search for it on the Internet.  I found an article about Dale Jensen and his wife, Judy Wells, in which the term was used, followed by a comment by Jack Foley (good ol’ Jack) declaring that Andrew Joron had not coined “otherstream,” Bob Grumman had!

Somewhere else some guy took credit for coining it in 1996. My guess is that I first used it around 1985, so it has just has its 25th anniversary.  If I, indeed, was the first to use it.  Who knows if I did or not.  I don’t care.  I mean, it’d be nice to know for sure some word that more than a few people use was my word, but I’m really not that big about getting credit.  I want money, not credit!

Oh, I also found out there are various businesses calling themselves “otherstream” this or that, including, I think, a broadcast network.

So, a definition.  I’ve defined it in different although similar ways.  I think I would say that “otherstream” is my adjective for kinds works of art the great majority of arts academics, well-known critics, commercial publishers and commercial magazine editors know little more than the names of, if that.  A brief definition: art that’s now taught in college classes.  For me, it means approximately but only approximately the opposite of “mainstream.”  What it’s the exact opposite of is “knownstream.”  That’s because some art is knownstream, like certain kinds of very formal verse–the sestina, say, is well-known to most literature professors but is not what you’d call a kind of mainstream poetry.  I don’t think cowboy poems are considered mainstream, either, or though fairly popular.  I used it mainly for visual poetry, sound poetry and language poetry when I began using it, but some language poetry has become mainstream.

Hope this helps.  Thanks for wanting to use the word, which I think is a useful one.  And for inspiring me to write what I have here, which I can now use for today’s entry in my blog!  Make sure to link me to your essay when it’s online, or send it to me if it’s printed–with the hundred dollar royalty fee I charge for the use of any of my coinages.  (You can use “knownstream,” also mine, for half-price.)

all best, Bob

Entry 88 — MATO2, Chapter 1.10

Thursday, January 28th, 2010

During the next two  days I got a copy in the mail of the introductory essay Richard Kostelanetz wanted me to critique, the manuscript of a poetry collection John Bennett my press was going to publish, and letters from Jake Berry and Jack Foley.  Richard’s essay was is fairly good but I saw a number of things I counted wrong with it;.  As for John’s manuscript, it seemed fine–one poem in particular, whose main image was a car wash, I especially liked.  I wrote a short letter of full acceptance to John and a card acknowledging receipt, and suggesting he delete much of one section of his essay, to Richard.

Jack’s letter was friendly but he quickly.got on me for under-representing females and blacks (and Asiatics) in of Manywhere.  In my reply I tried to skirt the issue.  I didn’t pugnaciously tell him that my purpose was accuracy, not making the world better for members of victim-groups.  Hence, I wrote about the four canonical poets, all male, whom I admired enough to put explicitly into the sonnet my book was partly about,  and the fifth, also male, to whom the sonnet strongly alluded.  Except for a few short passages about Shakespeare and a mention or two of contemporary linguexpressive poets like Wilbur, my book is about an area of literature few women have done anything of importance in, and no blacks that I knew of at the time I wrote it.  The late Bill Keith is still the only significant black American in visual poetry I know about,  Larry Tomoyasu the only Asian American.   I don’t know whether I knew him when I wrote the first volume of my series.  I don’t believe I mentioned him in it.

The ever-amiable Jake was fully positive about my book.