Murder in the Dark
"It's hard to have a sense of humour in a cloak, in a high wind, on a moor."
from "Women's Novels", Margaret Atwood
from "Women's Novels", Margaret Atwood
posted by MissWanda at 2:01 a.m.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
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4 Comments:
It's hard to have a sense
of humour, period, given the sense
of imminent disaster lurking
in our veins, our brains,
our souls on permanent hold
in an impossible world gone missing.
Thank you,
misswanda, for reminding us
all is not lust.
Undeniably, Judith Fitzgerald
Oh, but all "is" lust, isn't it? Perhaps this world's effects on us really all depend on three small little perspectives: mood, tense, voice.
(Turns out, there is a lot to be learned from the ancient languages.)
Yes, Virginia, the world has gone missing.
Dunno; there's additionally a distinction between lust and desire, n'est-ce pas? Lust involves a craven (craving) aspect; desire, as you prolly know, includes “the other” (while lust excludes it, leans into carnality, concupiscence, salacious appetence, self-satisfying ego, p’raps); OTOH, desire includes “the other,” whatever or whomever the subject or object happens to be. Is there joy in lust? A mutual exchange?
IMO, "self," in contradistinction to "ego," moves outside its own circle of influence, wishing to bring as much joy as it receives.
Who gives a fuck what any critic thinks, me inclus; but, I like your work. It’s refreshingly brash-blast top-brass class, if that makes sense. If you ever see it, pick up an out-of-print copy of Philip K. Slater’s __Pursuit of Loneliness_. Your cup of teaching, something to sip and savour. But, you are, IMO, treading a path worthy of its forks, foxholes, and up-fucks. I like your style - not just your persona here but, also, your proclivities and, that Simplicity pattern. What a gorgeous dress. Can U make one for me? LOL.
Oh, Miller! Effervescence. I-con-o-claster blaster caster. Once heard a story that gave me pause for cause. He writes the brights; but, when someone - I forget the person's name, man-oh-manna, it's on the tip of my lip, rat-a-tat-tappingly e-speaking - when someone said to him, I'd like to fuck your daughter (who was 15 at the time), he went ballistic and punched the guy out of this world. But, Miller, yes. Visceral. Lustuous. Ensparkulating. Not a Nin fin, er, Ninja fan; sorry, wrong numbness; but, Durrell, Lard, yes!
Thus, I am illustrating your point concerning mood, tense, and voice. All is subjective when it comes to the object of the reflective. Did doctoral work on Olson. Won’t elaborate; but, if you’re at all interesting (and, it seems you are), you’ll ask rob McLennan (whom I adore from a distance). Thank him for the lovely piece on Ottawa poem.
The red looks radiantly appropriate for The Big AppleRot. Hope you have / had a delightful visit, a rolla-hola high-fly ride-by on the lam free-scot and, not to worry, this scribbler's an equal-op sop - ergo, I call T.O. The Big Choke.
The hits just keep on dippin', drummin', and down-dumbing. Good on you. Looking forward to seeing more of the work you do. Sayonara adieu. U know who.
Ooops. A P.S. quick-fast cyber-fly-by addendum: Tiny-puny, perhaps; but, misswanda, your assertion concerning perspective? AFAIK, there's abso-deffo a diff between perception and seeing, one nearly impossible to articulate (except to say the former is active and of the instant, instanter, or Nstantiation; the other is passive and above, beyond, or thinking outside the blocks - you decide which fer yer ownself. That's an ordering . . .).
--
"Along similar lines, _Adagios: Iphigenia's Song_, by Judith Fitzgerald, takes us into the daemonic form of this variation. Iphigenia was the sacrificed daughter of Agamemnon, who needed to cancel a debt to Artemis for calming the waters for his fleet. Iphigenia paid the price. The story is used as a vehicle for working through memories of sexual abuse, its residues of self-destruction and distrust. Given the garden/love model that Fitzgerald works with ('I am in the garden. / I am that corpse / in the garden, the one / you left for dead'), the poems about self-mutilation, with their images of sculpted topiary and lament for a genuine connection, underline the abject, ironic conditions of the poet's experience: 'Leave me be; / leave me to myself; / stop getting in the way. / No, I don't mean it. / I am trying to connect, / to see scars and know / it is me who wounds / to mark parameters / of pain and drag / the blade against / My skin. I sculpt flesh / to remind me of its owner.' Fitzgerald's response is tough, versatile, mythically allusive, and hopefully recreative. It is almost all you can ask of a bad business."
- Jeffery Donaldson, _University of Toronto Quarterly_ 74.1 (2004-2005), p. 214.
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