2 day 13 @ sf

so there’s this pulse, right? and you might say it’s a vivifying pulse and you can’t hear it but it unites the work. And when I say you can’t hear it, when you give up on waiting to hear it, you do hear it. It comes out. It’s like Ezra Pound’s Great Bass, Pace-Keeper for poetry, although he was talking about music, and at the same time like Igor Stravinsky’s Great Tradition for the back-and-forth in a battle, a dialectic, a polemical rhythm, although he was talking about music. It’s a time-setting beat below the actions, below even the settings, sub-acoustic. It sets up where each entry must be made. It’s the egg-plant of improv. Funny there’s no improv. But no cliche either. … so it’s how you know you’re on the right track. Like Stravinsky said, After harmonic invention, rhythm possesses the greatest scope for progress…

the pulse sets out on a plane which it invents, calls up, down from the heights of the good intention, up from the depths of the destructive shite of indifference and apathy, the vegetable norm: because as Deleuze says there’s a screen of integration and the pulse is the integration of this single thought. But, he warns, we have to have patience.

now patience is the thing I most lack. If I heed the warning, I hear of dangers on both sides that threaten me if I hurry: the schizoid position of peering into the dark abyss so that it enters me; and the depressive position of never getting what I want so falling back in. And I… what?

I howl like a late Allen Ginsberg and end up celebrating only the productive howl? it gets hooked up and does that pathetic positive dance of reconciliation with the madness that provokes it? what?

if I hate with enough courage it will be like love. If I love with enough courage it will be like hate. Until it’s someone I love, someone I hate. T.S. Eliot saw this as the flight smack bang into the concrete correlative but here was a man who painted his face green and protested when his cheese hadn’t quite reached the correct degree of blue, a snob. So I will ask you because you don’t answer, What is castration?

What violence is necessary? what violence that it turn back on the hand hitting, cutting? What shock is necessary? that it turn back on the mind thinking? that it alter the mind of the loved hated other who can possibly abide to watch?

how is it that I’m afflicted to hear only the steady beat without acceleration without deceleration, as of a vector of rhythm, insensible to the curve which we have mistaken for a force as it curves to you? as if you were the hole, as if you were the clime?

gentle reader I know you think