Regarding Surgery

A few weeks back I found a fairly large lump in my abdomen. It was soft, flexible and stayed in my mind for a few moments before something else grabbed my attention. I’d been doing lots of work on the basement walls and building and installing some understair shelving for storage and as a fort for S. General wear and tear is also starting to catch up.

A few days later, the midriff started to hurt and the bulge had grown. I knew exactly what had happened. On the 15th I went to see Dr. C and he knew what happened too.

“So, Steve, you think you have a hernia.”

“Think so,” I said.

“You have a hernia,” he said. “It’s got to be repaired.”

We contacted the UCONN Health Center and made appointments.

However, by Wednesday, my condition quickly worsened–partly by driving–and Thursday my wondrous wife rushed me in to see the surgeon, who made lots of time for us, and scheduled the fixup for Monday the 22nd. Now I must get back to laying still. But laptop warmth is quite soothing.

More soon.

On The Road

A horrible post title but here goes. From McCarthy’s The Road

The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the deep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them like eyes. On the road the pilgrims sank down and fell over and died and the bleak and shrouded earth went trundling past the sun and returned again as trackless and as unremarked as the path of any nameless sisterworld in the ancient dark beyond.

This is one of those breathless examples of writing that McCarthy is so good at putting down in his narrative. This passage is a description of an image outside and behind the major narrative, an image of what the “past” looked like for the Father. The image is so important in the fiction.

I’ve had conversations about nuclear winter, conversations about what major catastrophes might look like, discussions about major losses that may occur in the future on the scale of millenarianism or other end of the current road scenarios. These conversations may or may not have been accurate about the facts and were pretty much speculative. Today, subjects calling on global warming, environmental shifts, and political craziness bring to mind images of change. What would a different future look like? How would institutions change? What if institutions disappeared? McCarthy’s novel avoids these speculative questions by forcing the novel into a small circle of two characters whose world comes and goes in the narrative and whose immediate surroundings are ash, cold, rain, and fear. They have one goal. To reach the coast. After the catastrophe, hope is not the same; there are no goals other than those having to do with survival. But this is a poor summary outside of the experience of the novel itself, where the reader must confront a world similar to Tadeusz Borowski’s in This Way for the Gas. In this world, everything, except for a Father’s love and life for a son and dependence, is flipped and alternate. Compassion cannot be common and the law is gone, destroyed, and not to be brought back in any familiar form. The next block quote is indicative of the novel, plus the impending ending.

The days sloughed past uncounted and uncalendared. Along the interstate in the distance long lines of charred and rusting cars. The raw rims of the wheels sitting in a stiff gray sludge of melted rubber, in blackened rings of wire. The incinerate corpses shrunk to the size of a child and propped on the bare springs of the seats. Ten thousand dreams ensepulchred within their crozzled hearts. They went on. Treading the dead world under like rats on a wheel. The nights dead still and deader black. So cold. They talked hardly at all. He coughed all the time and the boy watched him spitting blood. Slumping along. Filthy, ragged, hopeless. He’d stop and lean on the cart and the boy would go on and then stop and look back and he would raise his weeping eyes and see him standing their in the road looking back at him from some unimaginable future, glowing in that waste like a tabernacle.

I find lots of play with language here: “incinerate” and “itinerate” and the nights are “still” dead. As an aside, I disagree with the use of crozzled. Steaks are crozzled just before they go into the oven for baking. I would imagine that the hearts here are burned all the way through and not just around the edges. But the final sentence is dead on–not because the future is unimaginable for the Father but because he can do nothing at this point to control it, shape it, or guide his son into it. Incredible helplessness.

What’s on the Desk Now

It’s a wonderful reading list these last few weeks. Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (surprisingly new, with breathtaking touches) is stacked with Osamu Tezuka’s Buddha (which now answers lots of questions about Bone), John Porcellino’s Perfect Example (the ending is perfectly wrought and just sings), Jamie Hernandez’ Love and Rockets(dare I say clean), and lots of Shakespeare–Macbeth (I love and hate this play) and Twelfth Night (I can’t get enough of this). This is an interesting test of styles, subjects, lines, and adventures.

The season began with McCarthy. I came to The Road reluctantly. I rarely read book reviews and had only heard of the the novel from Susan Gibb or mentioned on other weblogs. The gift was given and I started and finished the novel off in a few days. I’m a persistent rereader (I reread as I read, in fact), but haven’t had a chance yet for a second go. The Road is grueling, but not like Mishima. I’m drawn to Father and son stories for good reasons and McCarthy’s intimate journey is therefore a good fit and it also fits my long-time mood over this bizzaro world we now live in. Suttree, whose main character reminds me of a presence beside whom I still walk, is in The Road’s class–different than Blood Meridian and Outter Dark. As such stories go, the end hands off to the story to come. It’s a new world. But it won’t ever be what it was, and this sense of absolute rearrangement, loss, and desperation is powerfully described. This is the novel from start to finish. The setting is as strange as a setting can be. Sure, Bradbury had to develop a strange world in the Chronicles, but the world of The Road is ours absent “ours.” The boy has a toy truck. But what an odd piece of matter. And when the old days surface, they come like a sweet and fleeting memory. What a ride.

On Borders

From Verlyn Klinkenborg

Nearly every image of nature I have ever come across misses the sense of intricate confusion underfoot in the woods, the thickets of goldenrod collapsing into each other along the roadsides, the rotting tusks of fallen beeches broken against the western hillside. It almost never makes sense to talk about the purpose of nature. But now — until the snow comes at last — I could easily believe that the purpose of nature is to create edges, if only because every edge, no matter how small, is a new habitation. As purposes go, that could hardly be more different from my own, which is to reduce the number of edges here, so that the big pasture is bounded by four clean lines only, free of interruptions from sumac or knotweed or shattered maple limbs. Left to itself, nature is all interruption.

Regarding Maps

UNC at Chapel Hill is up to some interesting work under the rubric of mapping

In referring to the work of Foucault and post-Foucaultian social theory as the ‘new cartographer’ (along with the new archivist), Gilles Deleuze pointed to a mode of investigation and writing that sought, not to trace out representations of the real, but to construct mappings that refigure relations in ways that render alternative worlds. In this project, we begin with this understanding of new cartographies/new mappings, and then turn to the ways in which these new mappings are emerging within social movement, activist, and artist projects to rethink economic practices and institutions. In forging this research group, we are interested in understanding how this particular genealogy of a new cartography is being and can be mobilized to render new images (and practices) of economies, how it is being deployed in community and alternative economic projects, and how it is being used to understand the institutions and networks of economic organizations such as corporations, military-state economies, and the university.

The practice appears to be about mapping relationships and defining how human geography can be reshaped to create alternative links, paths, circles, and relations. The accompanying disOrientation guide to the university’s connectedness is a visual (re)presentation. It would be interesting for my own college to have such a map. We often sit about confused, wondering where we are in relation to identifiable points, such as an economic sector or other university program.

Quality Poetry

How do we know–really–what makes for a good poem?

I have few ideas. Why do I go back to Frank Stanford who had a wonderful power for schemes of variation and precision, like the surface of ice, which is a precise and desperate surface.

We are not the only ones

then they are far away,
Such a distance a cripple
like me Can’t imagine.

POV says the writer has an answer, the reader another. But what if one is a reader and a writer? Part of me says it shouldn’t matter and that the reader should read and go with their gut. I’ve read and taught enough Shakespeare to know when I’m being tricked and when I’m getting the slam. Lear just keeps coming back. I step away from the text shaking my head with wonderment, as I do with Stanford’s.

I’m writing about the experience, not for the school student of poetry who wants to know how to write a sestina.

The poems that I know have a frame of mind, authority over something. They float above the surface, not quite ink, not quite pixels. Better than stone.