1] intro the lecturer & lecture series and say nice things overall
2] from the 3rd lecture the concept of "embodiment deficit" - which is the opposite of the state in which the body responds with multiple senses to experiences taken in by the brain and body at once.
3a] Stanford's podcast series - big implicit claims
3] then explain what happens at the start of the 1st lecture & mention that the students' responses can't be heard b/c no mic/no audio recorded; he can be heard scratching at the blackboard. He's talking about the computer-screen icon and b/c his computer-made presentation can't be shown he draws it freehand on the blackboard.
4] we who experience this lecture as a podcast feel an intense embodiment deficit, and the answer is NOT better lecture-room A/V equipement or assistance, or better editing by the Stanford ITunesU people... but
5] the embodiment surplus of the sort I have been arguing for [in this essay]
Typically the poet who wants to give regular readings has to travel a good deal. It's not surprising that a number of poets now make their verse available in blogs, as audio or video podcasts, etc. Dorothea Lasky adds a level of interest to the latter. She goes on a "tiny tour," giving readings in her own apartment, in the bathroom, living room, bedroom. With help from friends, she makes decent videos of the experience, being sure to show live audiences, sipping coffee and so forth as if they're at a public reading venue. The Philadelphia Inquirer has covered this phenomenon, in a story that mostly suppresses the condescension that typifies poetry's newspaper appearances.
In William Jay Smith's Poems, 1947-57 (Little Brown, 1957) there are three satirical epigrams. One of them, called "'Poet,'" mocks typographical avant-gardism not generally, as it might seem, but specifically. A young Filipino writer by the name of Jose Garcia Villa once published a book of poems in which commas were inserted between words. Smith repeats the effect to ridicule it, placing the odd, halting device in a regularly metered and rhymed quatrain. Nothing really "remarkable" about this "effect," Smith contends. Thus:
Funny, yes. But I want to ask: why is it said that a poet "places" a comma between words - placing implying force, artificiality, conscious construction - while the traditional quatrain itself doesn't entail placement. Aren't they both placings? They achieve effects, one disruptive of flow and the other sustaining it.
Long live consciousness on both sides of this argument. Forms are no more or less natural. Up with smooth satire! Up with jitters and hiccoughs! Make it (all of it, so much as is possible) n-n-n-n-ew-ew-ew,(eep,oop). I want my art to make me at least a little jittery. I want my art to make me swallow the air (the air we breathe = the forgotten-about, the natural) the wrong way.
at right, Jose Garcia Villa
I've complained here before of journalists' apparent inability to show any awareness of form. Perhaps it's absurd to whinge about such a thing. After all (I hear a detractor teling me), what's really so surprising that writing in a daily newspaper never conveys its meaning formally as well as by way of the denotative meaning of the words? A resolution for '08: I'll try to stop barking about this.
But it's still '07 and today, Woof woof, once again. Hugh Massingberd, the brilliant, blunt and often bizarre obituary writer for the London Telegraph, has died and so it's time for other papers to run obituaries of him.
How can any self-respecting writer not do something at least a bit self-referential with an obit about a great writer of obits?
The New York Times obit, the work of Margalit Fox, is almost entirely about Massingberd's sardonic, warts-and-all style - the work of the most unusual obit writer of our time, as a matter of the writing - and yet Fox never once does honor to Massingberd's memory by doing a little of this in this writing. And it would have been honor. And it's in my view a dishonor not to do it. Do what? Write the writing so that it's (at least to some small degree) about the writing.