Distribution Automatique

Saturday, January 31

I don't mind when A Certain Blogger {click here}
helps themselves to the links I spend literally
dozens of hours hunting down, checking out and
choosing and posting over a period of a year,
but then to put them on their blog and not even bother
to edit and choose from them, or to give me credit for the list
or to even highlight my blog....shhheeeez!
Mexican Army Burns Down Zapista Village
right now on Indymedia {click here}
Historical take on friendship leagues right now at
Dovester{click here}
This just in from fark.com {click here}
Promising Study of New Fast Treatment for Heroin Addiction {click here}
Nada's views right now on ululations (Nada Gordon) {click here}
Boing Boing {click here} ,
one of the most visited blogs on the internet,
reports on the mysterious
murders in Juarez, Mexico.
Heriberto Yepez {click here)
has been desperately reporting for
months, and possibly longer, that these ghastly events
have been largely ignored in the US...

An odd thing about human beings is
that they cannot truly rest
until they have done everything they can.


Luck and love have something in common-
they benefit from- and elicit-
unique forms of devotion.


The narcissist always needs to be placed
on a pedestal.

You are the pedestal.
Mark Young's poem in Pettycoat Relaxer #3 {CLICK HERE};

the risk you take when
writing about the future;
having it reviewed at a
point that is closer
to the concept than the

Friday, January 30

Notebook: 5/18/79 [continued from 1/29]

...No, I'm not
too afraid to hug you in English,
its we were afraid to talk in
French & make love in English, or
in both languages at once,
hearing the thought, for example,
in Spanish, heard like a Peruvian
folk song, pictured in
painted abstraction,
not to be said in blacks &
blues, written &
spoken, lightly transparent.
Fissures, I know, when naked &
holding we were children again,
not yet speaking only English,
but the languages we
brought with us- Italian,
German, Polish, Russian &
French. Licking you, kissing
you, biting you was all in
Italian once, but you felt
in in Engish so I tried to
translate it back into French
in broken American which you
would certainly never hear &
understand. But this way there
would somehow be a record of it,
though no matter how fast I
write it in English it would
gloss over every bit of the
Italian gestures you were feeling
in Boston Engish. Written
English, which singled out your
musically abrupt, practical gestures-
first I saw them as rough,
later efficient & mechanically
beautiful, but, since you couldn't
melt in Italian or Spanish or
French I found a German
Jew who understood my
French but insisted on speaking to
me in 19th Century English, prim
& proper & this angered me,
so I thought only in French &
thus escaped part of the rage,
though my German was good
enough to fight with & my
French made good conversation for
the German drinking you did.
It wasn't schizophrenic, what
we were doing, it was
a United Nations having a big
fight with jammed
circuitry, so that in one ear you
might be getting French &
in the other ear English, while
I would be decoding it all in
Italian, Russian & Polish,
once in awhile recording a
snatch of it in abstract
English-American, of course,
fragmented by Freud's
associational German, which
was good, especially during
analytic sessions, when you
didn't talk at all & I spoke
in several languages consecutively &
in that way all at once.
You only pretended to understand,
you only pretended to be you in
English while I saw you & I
together in a French film with
English subtitles. The plot,
dragged out endlessly, is full
of disguised messages, coded out
refractions, juxtapositions of
French & English, The Italian
version of the movie had
Scandinavian actors & Spanish

I feel an anxiety about our
conversation- you're leading it so
steadily in Italian & while I'm
translating it into French, I'm answering
you in English which is not half
as fast as your Italian. If I speak
in French you listen. Once, when I
thought you were listening to me in
French yhou were actually probably
hearing it in Engish, because you
were answering me in English, directly &
clearly in honest English tones. Yet I would
have liked if we both could have
spoken in French, or Italian, or
both of them together. But you insist
on speaking to me quickly in Italian,
which patiently I translate into
English thinking
about your meanings seriously & exactly.
I should talk to you strictly in
Italian & ask you to answer me in
Italian, if we do talk again so
seriously & so long- so afterwards
if we make love we should make love in
Spanish & kiss in French & make love
much more in Spanish. Then we
should speak only Italian & slowly,
slowly in Italian & not translate it back into

Thursday, January 29

Delighted to co-star in Alli Warren's {click here} dream.

Check it out- this dream is funny!

Notebook: 5/18/79 [continued from 1/28]

Gradually these symbols
enter into an orchestral architecture,
varieties of scales and contrasts:
small buildings & enormous cars.
At home, the letters, they're not in
ordinary English, bespeak thousands
of images of our moments together.
A puppy died, that distance woke me
out of my revery, actually made
me strong enough to leave. Stop
making me feel guilty, English, I'm
not your victim, I won't be
transparent motion for you, scattering my
energies aside, an onslaught of
conflicts. Too much gravity in
English, too much clumping
around, too much stumbling, walking,
running & hiking. In French,
English is quiet. Its
stillness outlines my future,
a private horoscope, portions
of memory, English a shortcut
to meaning, French an elongation
of thought, or thought preceding
thought, space for manifestations,
small quotes capture monolithic
presences, shape a steep angle to
the immediate token word. I
was also still talking to you
in English, thinking in French,
elaborating a labyrinthine dialogue
between 3, 4, 5 even 6 women,
thunder clasps their throats, pleasing
them sexually separately.
Maybe we really split
when you destroyed that housedress
you knew I loved the best, you
didn't want to tell me in Engish
how good you felt about me, you
had to hide it in your Boston
accents, while I was translating
all of it into French, dreaming it
into hieroglyphics I thought were
all about someone else- no, no.
Not a formula, something to
digest & simplify, too complicated
to organize. Sure,you got me
to shower in English, but the
conception, which will initially
appear confusing, cacaphonous,
will eventually explode into
French, imagining itself as a
Babel of voices and tongues- frozen
like the flat skyscrapers seen from
the Brooklyn shore
at twilight.

(to be continued)

Wednesday, January 28

Gratefully received today
Carl Annarummo
*$4.00 Poems*

"thank you Paul Auster.
now I'd like to enter
a nine ft. radial bouncy
ball and bounce myself
into outer space..."

Mr Annarummo edits *Pettycoat Relaxer*
and his poems may be found at
the Mollusk {click here}
Once again, Never Neutral (Ernesto Priego) {click here},
hits the (blog) spot, focusing now on the
causes of "the resistance to theory," in a piece titled
Wittgenstein as blogger... right now on Mikarrhea (Michaela Cooper) {click here}
Awesome! Cup Of Chicha {click here} comes through with links to info on David Markson
and a new link for *Solipsistic* in the same posting!
Divide and conquer...Antonio Savoridan {click here}
opens a new blog for his poems Respite and Nepenthe {click here}
Mirror mirror on the wall...by the light of the silvery
Moonshine Highways (Amy Bernier) {click here}
Transubspamtiation on ululations (Nada Gordon) {click here}

Thanks to Josh Cory for letting
his students roam free in blogland,
including *fait accompli*,
and to Jonathan Mayhew for
introducing some of my writing
to his *theory* class.
Notebook: 5/18/79

It took me a long time to
realize that you didn't like my
body. Even if it were a cover
for something else, a whole series
of contrasts, I wonder if now I'm
talking to you through someone else.
My art, to get back to you. I
add things on to memories. English
is anguish- a public memory.
The memories we shared- here is a
book of that, a bunch of snapshots
handed to you like flowers. Of an
evening, an evensong beginning on
a harsh note should be recognizable
to you, but would be less and
more spoken to you in French. I've
never been in love with you in
English, I'll trade languages with
you privately. A dumb song, so
many notes of which, fogging the
windows, tipping back and forth the
focusing of meanings- again, a
map disappearing into history,
fading, found, melting regularly
into political absence, not names,
before and after in harmony.
French is prepositional, but your
language is English, its tune
belongs in a gas station managed
by a mustachioed attendant.
It's your baby now, your car,
I mean really her car, her cargo
of gifts bearing me along so
slowly- a book of words the best
gift of all. You didn't realize of
course that not speaking French with
you finally came to symbolize the
dissolution of our relationship and that
was a powerful thing to happen, to
let myself float along like this
struggling endlessly with your absence,
with your multiplicity and the harsh
precise tones of my mother tongue.
English, you burst open
in a welter of voices, chorus
of voices rising over the traffic's
monotonous breathing. Before the
pronouncement, all that angry
repetition, the moldy collection of
papers, I got angry with the
way someone cleverly simplified
your gestures, speeding them up,
flashing them sharply, cracking them
loudly in the tension of two
people silently communicating inside
the hum of a descending elevator.
Out in the street English is also
silent, that is, language consists
of messages in silence, translated
partially into several languages-
Italian, Spanish, French, Chinese,
Arabic- possibly a little
Hindustani & Greek & Russian.
Bass voices, a welter of
synapses clicking reminders-
weather, hunger, rage, appointments,

[to be continued]

Tuesday, January 27

This just in, Black Spring (Menno ter Braak
with beat_read, Steve Tills) {click here}

is blogging regularly again, back again
last summer, with things to say
about the (U.S.) culture of fear, Bush, Kerry, Dean.
Bibliography for "The Narcissistic Personality"
*=highly recommended

Otto F. Kernberg, *Borderline Conditions and Pathological Narcissism*
"The Treatment of the Narcissistic Personality" (Chapter 8),
Jason Aronson, pp.227-262 (1975)

Otto Kernberg, ibid, "Clinical Problems of the Narcissistic
Personality", pp. 263-314

Otto Kernberg, ibid, "Normal and Pathological Narcissism" (pp. 315-346)

*Heinz Kohut, *The Restoration of The Self*, "The Termination of
The Analysis of Narcissistic Personality Disorders" (Chapter 1)
International Universities Press, pp. 1-62

10. Countertransferential Issues

*Malcolm J. Marks, "Professional Narcissism in Psychotherapy" in
*Countertransference*, Herbert S. Strean, editor, (New York: The
Hayworth Press, 1985) pp. 95-109

*Harold Searles, "Oedpal Love in the Countertransference",
*Collected Papers on Schizophrenia* (International
Universities Press, 1965) pp.l 284-303

Otto Kernberg, "Further Contributions to the Treatment
of Narcissistic Personalities" (international Journal of
Psychoanalysis, Vol 55, pp. 215-40-1974)
the republican national committee
is advertising on my
site meter
The *Poetry Project Newsletter* for February/March is out
and contains a rave review written by poet Joe Elliot for
Charles Borkhuis' new book *Savoir-Fear* published by
Meeting Eyes Bindery (Spuyten Duyvil). Here's a taste from
"Bad Infinity", the closing poem in the book:

"god is not dead I thought
he's just another resurrected sign
on the simulation circuit
like the rest of history

wry sewage overflowed
from a half-forgotten dream
big world breakdown I am coming
from the land of detritus interruptus
to your perfectly contained club med shore
eyes permanently slit
and a rusty razor between my teeth
icy repetition hemorrhaging cartoon nights
bloody thunder talk to me"

In the review, by the way, Joe Elliot takes a swipe at the harshest "nice
guys finish last" poet of all time, Bruce Andrews: "Bruce Andrews's
work, for example, is justified insofar as it is funny. All those
nasty consonsants and juxtapositions are hilarious and freeing and train
the ear not to accept the less freeing. However, how far forward they move
the cause of social justice is incidental..."

To get a taste of this terrific book, and meet and talk with
its author, why not go to his reading with blogger Katie
Degentesh at the Poetry Project on
Wednesday, February 18th at 8 pm? We all know
how funny and terrific her writing is. What a combo!

For $18 bucks you can attend the reading ($8) and buy the
book ($10) and probably get it signed, knowing how kind a
person Charles is. And if you haven't yet had the pleasure,
hear and meet Katie Degentesh, one of the wittiest and most
popular bloggers we have and find out exactly what the fuss is all

Besides, the Poetry Project could use the money. They lost
their NEA grant this year.

The Poetry Project is located at St Mark's Church in-the-Bowery
131 East 10th Street, New York City 10003
Lets hear it for Anselm Berrigan for keeping this grand poetry institution alive,
exciting and significant for contemporary poetry.

Monday, January 26

Atrios on WNYC

Possibly every blogger except me knows about this blog
but I heard him on WNYC on a show about political blogging
last night (Frank Rich also chimed in with some intelligent ideas
as usual) sort of debating Andrew
Sullivan. His ideas are
interesting, plus, he got 80,000 hits in one day last
week- but don't hold that against him. Scroll way down
to a post called Bush vs. Dean and see if you
think the video clip looks like Bush getting drunk at a wedding
in 1992.

Eschaton {click here}
from *The Notebooks of Samuel Butler* (1835-1902)


"I know a man, and one whom people generally
call a very clever one, who, when his eye catches
mine, if I meet him at home or an evening party,
beams upon me from afar with the expression of
an intellectual rattlesnake on having espied an
intellectual rabbit. Through any crowd that man
will come sidling towards me, ruthless and irresistible
as fate; while I, foreknowing my doom, sidle also
him-wards, and flatter myself that no sign of my
inward apprehension has escaped me."

Sunday, January 25

::fait accompli::
(((((BLOGLINK)))))(((((CRUSH)))))((((((LIST))))) (New Links)

Almost Successfully (Michael Bogue)

Blaugustine (Natalie D'Arbeloff)

The Chatelaine's Poetics (Eileen Tabios)

Crag Hill's Poetry Scorecard

Heaven (Mairead Byrne)

Luminations (Ben Basan)

Muladar, Movedizo, Muladar (Heriberto Yepez) (Spanish/English)


New Pages (Guide to Blogs)

Nobody Here (Jogchem Niemendverdriet (English/Dutch/Japanese)

random items (German/English)

Rob McLennan's Blog

Twists and Turns (Michael Gates)

Under Mind (Brennen Lukas}

Visions of Johanna (Johanna Rauhala)

Eratio (Gregory St. Thomasino)

Sifry's Alerts (David Sifry)

Scriptorium (Carlos Arribas)

Drunken Slugs (Nicole Cordrey)

dbqp: visualizing poetics (Geof Huth)

Vanishing Points of Resemblance (Tom Beckett)

Hoarded Ordinaries (Lorianne Schaub)

Ought (Ron Henry)

Paula's House of Toast

sodaddictionary part II

...something slant

God of The Machine

Froth (Marianne Shaneen) {click here} is back!!!

This just in from Johanna Rauhala (Visions of Johanna)

Saturday, January 24, 2004
Yep, I've come out from underground turnips and rutabagas, and plan to post occasionally on this blog. (Sorry about the confusion with the name "Suze" . I have a work-related blog and I was using that as a pseudonym. But it's really me, Johanna!) And it's true- I'm pregnant! Almost four months. Scary/excited/scary/excited/scary/excited.
More links coming.
# posted by J : 5:54 PM