J. H. Prynne
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- 100 god damn pages butchering sontag cooking with propane corpsey why are you so thick deaths from bromo-dragonfly enjoy your journey enjoy! everyone! gravity bong happy to help! jamaican voodoo gang from predator 2 lads vs. dudes martin anus prynne is boring as fuck shaun from delaware stoned modernism teat. the albert ayler of the recorder the bee is the messiah the path clears by the use it gets thick as fuck to pollen traitor cow-juice treacle assembled proverb tangle proton west coast dudes
version
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I can't get away from this feeling. It's all just New Yorker writing. Vague, semi-biographical stories about writers in their 30s and 40s struggling to write in their holiday home, teaching abroad or whatever. Books that give me a similar feeling to Noah Baumbach films.
luka
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we were trying to talk about cutting edge poetry!
Corpsey
bandz ahoy
"Dickens had vivid glimpses of 'low life'... and [was] able to write about ordinary people. So were all the characteristic English novelists of the nineteenth century. They all felt at home in the world they lived in, whereas a writer nowadays is so hopelessly isolated that the typical modern novel is a novel about a novelist."
constant escape
winter withered, warm
Do you think this is indicative of larger trends? I think I have a similar feeling.
And to corpsey's point, where do you turn once that kind of recursive style has been spent? Does it have to be a return to something? Or does the cutting edge always feel this vague?
version
Well-known member
Absolutely. It's part of dematerialisation.
constant escape
winter withered, warm
One of the reason's I haven't tried almost any non-theory writing lately - I'm almost entirely confined to my head, and I feel like we've been there, done that. Perhaps time and time again.
luka
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well, poetry is writing with all of you. theory you can write just with your head. thats why i like poetry.
line b
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this is approaching why the semi autobiographical stuff rubs me the wrong way. Its insidious reality warping masqueraded as consciousness. Shirks the creative demands of both proper realism and anything reality rejecting, a short cut to emotional reader response by passage through this stunted psuedo-world were always trying to remind ourselves isn't actually there in the name of health
constant escape
winter withered, warm
Well perhaps the kind of sterile style mentioned earlier gets at this - a gradual defamiliarization from all of yourself, and the head is just the tip of the corporeal springboard, the last point of contact - or perhaps where the umbilical cord, bound by physics, ineluctably ties your being to you.
A sort of fission of intelligence from matter.
But poetry can't just be a spandrel, a sideshow. It wouldn't have built the momentum it has - as far as I can tell. Arguably, its purgative function is the central redeemer, from a sort of psycho-evolutionary standpoint, no?
edit: that is, it served as an incorporeal outlet for vital energy, energy that would have combusted and self-destroyed otherwise.
And to @version on the internet: sure, but how much has really been done from a perspective where the pre-internet world is complete history? I mean I'm only on the cusp of it myself, agewise. It feels like the generational geist is accelerating.
A sort of fission of intelligence from matter.
But poetry can't just be a spandrel, a sideshow. It wouldn't have built the momentum it has - as far as I can tell. Arguably, its purgative function is the central redeemer, from a sort of psycho-evolutionary standpoint, no?
edit: that is, it served as an incorporeal outlet for vital energy, energy that would have combusted and self-destroyed otherwise.
And to @version on the internet: sure, but how much has really been done from a perspective where the pre-internet world is complete history? I mean I'm only on the cusp of it myself, agewise. It feels like the generational geist is accelerating.