Three things
I'm taking a linguistics course. Thought it'd be interesting to observe more closely the deconstruct of language, considering it's essentially how my brain works. But no, of course not: the course is torture. Instead, it's filled with things like finite state machines, and GRAMMAR. By the way, "linguistic head" certainly isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Secondly, I'm working on a longer poetry piece right now. It's coming along. Maybe I'll give it to someone to publish, instead of publishing every damn thing myself. I have to relinquish control!
The local Concordia rag threw a poem of mine in it's creativity issue, out this week. Of course, they messed up the formatting. The end bracket that does not close has a very specific meaning. It's like adding an ellipses or something, but inside of another thought or an aside or a whisper; it's as if the poem continues on its own trajectory, as if its author lets it loose upon itself. As I've said before, the poem, if done well, constitutes an action (viscerally tangible or no) of folding in on itself and naturally contains a succession of gradients that can only be fully appreciated in multiple readings. As for the open bracket, here's an example, so you know what the hell I'm referring to:
Barry McKinnon's latest collection entitled The Centre (from the ever cool Talonbooks):
Steak
on these rocks
you almost forget
( what is necessary
for a moment, the sun releases you. the imported
beer gets cold among the rocks
he says, 'write that New York steak is $4.39
a lb.,
& of things we all recognize'--I think
I want to go beyond all things, & sometimes sing
of nothing
I love you Barry McKinnon. Your poems are just great.
I'd be interested to know from whence the open bracket came. Anyone know? e.e.cummings maybe? Play with the west coast Canadian crew in the 60's, or Robert Duncan and Olson's group? Bernstein?
And lastly, StarTrek.com is just neat. This T-Shirt rocks. I don't have a damn clue what this one's about.
Secondly, I'm working on a longer poetry piece right now. It's coming along. Maybe I'll give it to someone to publish, instead of publishing every damn thing myself. I have to relinquish control!
The local Concordia rag threw a poem of mine in it's creativity issue, out this week. Of course, they messed up the formatting. The end bracket that does not close has a very specific meaning. It's like adding an ellipses or something, but inside of another thought or an aside or a whisper; it's as if the poem continues on its own trajectory, as if its author lets it loose upon itself. As I've said before, the poem, if done well, constitutes an action (viscerally tangible or no) of folding in on itself and naturally contains a succession of gradients that can only be fully appreciated in multiple readings. As for the open bracket, here's an example, so you know what the hell I'm referring to:
Barry McKinnon's latest collection entitled The Centre (from the ever cool Talonbooks):
Steak
on these rocks
you almost forget
( what is necessary
for a moment, the sun releases you. the imported
beer gets cold among the rocks
he says, 'write that New York steak is $4.39
a lb.,
& of things we all recognize'--I think
I want to go beyond all things, & sometimes sing
of nothing
I love you Barry McKinnon. Your poems are just great.
I'd be interested to know from whence the open bracket came. Anyone know? e.e.cummings maybe? Play with the west coast Canadian crew in the 60's, or Robert Duncan and Olson's group? Bernstein?
And lastly, StarTrek.com is just neat. This T-Shirt rocks. I don't have a damn clue what this one's about.
posted by MissWanda at 2:24 p.m.
4 Comments:
I don't have a damn clue what this one's about.
The "red shirts" are the trainees or ensigns or whatever who were commonly sent down to planets in the first Star Trek iteration only to be instantly killed by hostile aliens, beasts, or mysterious artifacts.
Very cool. I remember that now. In fact, I gotta get me one of those t's. (Hoping it would incite some instant attack of half naked painted up men. I would choose a little death, if given the opportunity.)
you should check out lookathisbutt.blogspot.com
plenty of shots of the posterior of the greatest Montrealer ever.
greater than *gasp!* Leonard Cohen even.
oh hell, the greatest Canadian EVAR!
heehee
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