For Marianne Hauser

6/24/2006 6:34 PM

ETERNAL RETURN

For Marianne Hauser

As we old bums [you & me & your mom & the other bum in peeoria] contemplate what appears to others to be vieillesse ou vieilles fesses as we admire [with a touch of disdain] our own amazing present mental agility [and virility too] as we delight in the fact that we are becoming so good [so dexterous] so much better with words as we get older [perhaps even wiser in spite of the cliche] as we listen [especially at night] to those protracted echoes of the void [excuse the terminal lyricism] but without asking [as in days of youth] whence the original sound [I almost said original sin] came [sometimes unwanted] as we contemplate the landscape of words we designed and left behind us [not without pain] yes as we contemplate the not too distant moment when we will have to change tense [inevitably so] we wonder [often aloud] how the hell have we managed to come this far [to do that much] with words [words words our whole life was but a pell mell babel of words] and look oh look how they fall in place now so easily so quietly our words as they say [or fail to say] what they want to say before crumbling into the great void [excuse the romantic agony] alright crumbling into the motherfucking abyss of forgetfulness

Raymond Federman

NOW PLAYING: Glenn Weyant's America Waits

Glenn Weyant

is a strange attractor. Glenn Weyant, Emily Conradson and I started a free-improvising noise ensemble in called Prepping Finger Salad, back in 2001. But that's another story, better left for another time.

Glenn's latest projects include an amalgamation of solo recordings compiled and multitracked by Glenn using his patented

Tucson Noizesound Blender

.
AND

The Anta Project-- a term he applies towards his twenty-year span of musical ranting, saxophoning, audiophiling, experimenting, collaborating and guerrilla chaotic digital audio superimposition -- this time utilizing the U.S./Mexico border -- I mean to say, the fence itself, as an instument of musical rapture -- in Glenn's words: The Anta Project is an enhanced sound collage compiled from covert performances utilizing modified chop sticks and a cello bow to play the steel wall, barbed wire fences and assorted ephemera that separates the United States from Mexico in the Sonoran Desert.

Maybe through listening to how the border is "played" we can learn how to prevent the hideous loss of lives due to the needless seige on the Mexican immigrant -- America is, after all, a nation of immigrants -- what is the sound of three men dying of dehydration because the Border Patrol decided to remove a watertank -- cuts down on immigration -- what is the sound of --

SonicAnta

Bloomsday Again. Excerpt from Ulysses: Proteus. Scene: The Strand. 11 A.M. Art: Philology. Color: Green. Symbol: Tide. Technique: Monologue (Male).

It's Bloomsday again, and so a reading of Ulysses is in order -- I was on the phone with Whitney Woolf tonight and read her some selections -- she was working on this painting, er chalk drawing when I called --

After reading the above, Whitney emailed me with an update:

looks good...and uh its paint and pencil....and my last name is woolf....nice try though, wolfe.

the bad irish was fine, you should teach in that voice....

laptopsters of love,
weetonee

On 6/16/06, David Moscovich wrote:
hey the blog is
www.dyslexistential.blogspot.com

i put your painting up

is it a paainting? or chalk or whatever?

thanks for putting up with the bad irish accent its
the only way to read joyce, escpeciialy FW or Ulysses

loadsa love
dm / "NORU"

To see more of Whitney's art and photographs of Fukushima, Japan -- check

here.

And now, a short excerpt from one of my favorites in

Ulysses,

from the great master --- on this Bloomsday, June 16, 2006.


Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.

Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably. I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the ends of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los demiurgos. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'.


Won't you come to Sandymount,
Madeline the mare?
Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.

Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.

See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end.

They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's gamp poked in the beach. From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing. What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh. That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in your omphalos. Hello! Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one.

Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Womb of sin.

Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten. By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. From before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A lex eterna stays about Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warring his life long on the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarred heresiarch! In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.

Daily/Moscovich/Strahota Collaboration: What Larry McCaffery Calls the "FC2 Fight Song"

Mike Daily's Note: Friends. I just discovered that our track, "The Life & Times of Major Fiction", is featured on the PDX POP NOW! website. We submitted the track for the 2006 Comp CD a few months ago. People can listen to it and vote for the artist, Daily Moscovich & Strahota. They streamlined our name by leaving out the comma between "Daily" and "Moscovich" and we're fine with that. We are fine with that. Please vote for Daily Moscovich & Strahota!

Check:

PDX Pop

*************************************************
ABOUT THE TRACK: "THE LIFE & TIMES OF MAJOR FICTION"

In October 2005, Daily, Moscovich & Strahota recorded "The Life & Times of Major Fiction"--an eight-minute banger referencing every

Fiction Collective/FC2

book published since 1974.

Feedback on the Track:

I tell you this is the beginning of something big.
--Raymond Federman

congrats on the fabulous fc2 fightsong!
--Larry McCaffery

Okay, I finally got onto a fast enough connection to listen to this rather than just read it like a poem--geesh!--the poem so doesn't do the song justice. You're a real renaissance man, Mike--so cool, but so slick as well; I mean really put together in a way I'd want to listen to just as music....
--Steve Tomasula

It wasn't working at first, it is now however!!! i took a listen that was wicked just awesome.
i dig the beats.
--Beki Clash

Your collages of FC titles are wonderful, remind me of cadavres exquis of the surrealists. Would love to get a CD and hear your music.
--Yuriy Tarnawsky

mike, finally back at the computer to listen to the great Fiction
Collective, FC2 rant. Not since Sinead O'Connor tore up the picture of
the pope has anything so justifiably obtuse appeared. You should do a
reggae version she does reggae now
--Steve Katz

I quite like it. It cranks.
--Lily James

*************************************************

ABOUT FC2

FC2 is one of the few alternative presses in America devoted to publishing fiction considered by America's largest publishers too challenging, innovative, or heterodox for the commercial milieu.

Fiction Collective

*************************************************
----------------------------------------------------------
Daily WWWeblogs at

Mick O'Grady

----------------------------------------------------------

DAILY

DAILY

O'GRADY
http://myspace.com/mickogrady

myspace (it's the new going out)
--pecos B


*************************************************

http://www.pdxpopnow.com/requests

vote for Daily Moscovich & Strahota
*************************************************