Saturday, December 18, 2004

First Post

Welcome to my blog or blob or slog or slag heap, whoever you are. Consider this an Alcatraz of the Imagination.

Strange to write on this empty stage, audienceless and yet utterly exposed. A kind of glass-bottomed journal, a one-way mirror.

Can anyone tell me how many links it would take to get from here to the CIA's website? Is there some kind of game-theory principle operating here? Six degrees of separation: six synapses from me to the farthest you? Already I can feel the informatic electrodes being attached to my grammars.

Come and play. Answer the following letter, in character or out of character:

Dear Friend Who Maketh My Enemies Friends--

I read your poems and am again, barely. No longer must I sleep in the leaking precincts of the Carport du Thomas Pynchon. There are other ways from this crevasse and crepuscule, down and in, as you say, with succint circumlocution and too many titles. Ever since the debugging of graduate school it seems I have mistaken the front door for a closet!

I've been squinting at some books other than yours. Blowhard Bloom, with his macho and trope, who seems wonderfully useful in places, when he remembers us: "the meaning of a poem can only be a poem--a poem not itself." Lacan, too, who is not so opaque as he originally seemed to me--especially when he draws pictures (I like pictures) of a tree growing over the doors ladlylike and gentlemanly of the washclosets.

I take my battlestation in the dictionary, between bagatelle and bigamy. Come find me.



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