A review of Leonard Schwartz's 'If'
In the fifteenth century, François Villon claimed the subjunctive mood for his vagabond verse with Si j’etais roi. In his book-length poem If, Leonard Schwartz returns to this conditional world of the subjunctive with a series of wise, vivid, and vulnerable questions, which the poet poses and then leaves unanswered — at least, apparently. More so than most poems, If invites readers to participate actively in its seemingly hypothetical world, underscored by the poet’s frequent invocation of we, our collective selves. In this deeply philosophical work, ontology and epistemology are made as human as hope and fear, and as necessary as wheelbarrows.
The key to If is that the poet posits p, but not q; the ifs of this poem stand alone, without corollary, waiting for the reader’s response, although hints are generously given. Through a terrain populated with possibility, the poet “rambles,” as James Wood termed the stream of consciousness in Shakespeare. The reader joins the poet in a passage through an oneiric, yet familiar landscape, like Richard Wilbur’s Walking to Sleep, encountering language, objects, and their philosophy in the terrain. From section 5:
If a bulldozer lurks in every
And the alphabet remains unchanged
For thousands of years
If the warming flesh of rhetoric is
Cut away and the spiritual
Bone structure underneath
Is, surprise, neither warm nor fleshy
What do these unanswered ifs imply? Despite no then statements, the poem’s conditional statements have a sense of completeness to them, accentuated by Schwartz’s occasional use of periods to close a sequence. These if statements assert their integrity and independence, claiming no consequences and all possible sequellae at once. But often, as in a koan, the answer is the question.
If what is said
Is what is sad
If we are signs without interpretation
And what is contemporary in me
Is the sun, the moon, and the stars
Our existence at an inner distance
The poet marks his interlocutions by calling on a “community of persons / Born in the same instant.” If calls to the reader to participate in its collective unconsciousness, which it brings to consciousness through objectivist images of alphabets, stars, and bone. The conditional mood in If takes on the reality of the true self of the individual and her community, looking beyond words through words for their noumenon. The poet’s ding an sich of the concrete examines his own observations throughout the poem, and seems to need the collective’s input for answers.
In the poem, the reader encounters the quotidian as after samadhi, when one continues to chop wood and carry water as before, but now chopped and carried in enlightenment.
If there are windows in mirrors
And mirrors in windows
Sometimes it is an ecstatic response
The unconscious offers to what is observed
As in samadhi or the collective unconsciousness, there is a timelessness to Schwartz’s subjunctive. In the conditional mood of the poem, we are often startled to find ourselves in the past, the present, and a yet-to-be-created future, often simultaneously. Like time-space, the poem curves upon itself: each new thing carries its “bulldozer,” the seeds of its destruction and rebirth, and each if posited refers to previous and next ones.
Language and perception and their confluence are both barriers and gateways for the poet, who is preoccupied by signifiers and memes; there is a search throughout the poem for the ineffable essence that lies behind or just beyond them. If examines semiotics, returning often to the question of what we are beyond symbols and representation, and what symbols and representation make of us. Word play is abundant in the poem and is used to further these themes. As in Joseph Brodsky’s poem New Life, Schwartz’s alphabet assembles itself into objects, hymns, people, and the pursuit of meaning in the text.
Neither mirror nor window
Neither Narcissus nor perception
The poem is built around pauses, and Schwartz’s majusculation chisels the elegant line breaks, allowing the if-without-then statements to be heard clearly in the reader’s mind. Stanza breaks further encourage contemplation of this philosophical work. There is also poetic unity to the poem’s sections and the work as a whole, bound together by this yearning, searching, and recognition of self and other as we. The reader walks to sleep with imagery as striking as in Wilbur’s poem, but from a voice less martial and detached:
If it is mostly in mist that
Losing the “I” yields up a “You”
If frail sleep barely withstands
If rubbing words together does kindle a voice …
One knows one will never free oneself
From the web of daydream …
There is a kindness to If’sbroad worldview that appeals to the soul. Perhaps Psyche’s favorite word, the syllable she loves best, is this one of imagination, possibility, and quest, the syllable of If.
On Sally Silvers's 'Actual Size'
Actual Size / Sally Silvers & Dancers / Roulette / Tuesday–Friday / November 4–7 / 2014
The dancing takes place in a squarish space on and above the floor.
That space is defined by hanging black screens that allow the audience to see into and beyond it. Fabric makes light of time — when lit / variously / fabric makes light of time.
There’s no periphery — nothing takes place on or in a periphery — this means that dancers “in the wings” and sound and video and light people are all at the dance / with it / not in any way marginalized or separate from it.
The dancing implicates questions of boundaries — motions within / and motions without / the hanging screens — this instantiates one form of dialog.
The motions erect the space(s) around them — they rectify it.
Against and through these screens (they function also as scrims) / black and white images (courtesy of Ursula Scherrer) appear and disappear. Sometimes entirely abstract / sometimes snippets of scene excerpted from cinema.
What is space — but an exploration of time? What is time — but an exploration of space?
Is not the realization of this (its making real) one of the peculiarities of dance’s dancings?
In space — time comes back. In time — space.
You can tell a lot about the choreographer’s point of view from where she seats the audience — the audience was seated on raised stages / looking down / while at / the dancers.
I do wonder what dance would be like if it wasn’t so frontal — would the audience then not be more everywhere & nowhere? — wouldn’t it be possible to make the audience vanish?
In some sense / the dance space is the size of the sounds. In some sense / the movements attend to that.
The various music sounds in no way accompany the dance — they with it are inseparable / such that no vice versa attends.
Bruce Andrews speaks his text with the two duets which Sally dances. The sounds have a kind of stocatto bop quality that punctuates the relatively understated movements. These segments are motion-and-sound duets / within which the two dancers contribute the motion. Sound is punctuated by motion — motion by sound.
Michael Schumacher’s sound mixes create various but coherent textures with the rest of the dancings.
The music is rousing — redolent of suspense / of mystery (and mysteries).
The music provides clues to snippets of narrative motion — not synchronized / so never heavy-handed. The scraps of music / tease. The dance movements set the pace of the music — the music movements set the pace of the dance — but obliquely / intangibly.
The sounds are their own kind of screen — fragments of the silver screen / which echo the hanging screens that document the space / that make it documental. These dancings remember times.
Dance can be atonal — but not illiterate.
In motion there is stillness. In stillness / motion. If it were not for this / dance would not exist.
Dance embodies the relationship(s) between — entropy / static energy / potential energy / kinetic energy.
Dance is a species of life.
The movements of this dancing are often cinematic — motions / sequences of motions.
The dance tells bits of stories / vignettes — as often as not — these are moving.
Among those cinematic motions — someone helping a drunk walk / someone being made up for their starring role / lovers making out / vignettes from Hitchcock / from other of the classic films / reprises of dance movements from bygone eras (are we at Versailles?). There is an array of motions.
These movements are not only enhanced by the musical themes — they are infused with the sound.
There are strains of — perhaps Porgy and Bess / of other light opera / strains of Ives and/or other composers for whom content / some kind of reference / some narrative / was important. These strains are in the movements — they are / decidedly / American.
In the work as a whole there is humor / pathos / the elegiac and the sublime / the taxing and the (seemingly) effortless. This dancing provides explorations of grace / of humor / of longevity. Apart from a bit of fighting (there are no relationships without it) / the movements are everywhere polite / civilized — one might even say genteel.
There is no grappling or grasping for movements — the movements intuit the dancers. There is poise / and equipoise — but the unfailingly vigorous bodies remind us that this is animal poise — it communicates what animals communicate.
The larger ensembles divulge upon the duets – the duets arise from / next to / them. The solos are specific — precise / languorous and lovely / at once. The duets tend toward the sublime.
The narrative vignettes are balanced by the more precisely abstract movements.
Posture gets punctured — in movement(s). The dancers don’t just move together — they interact / interact — they are devoted to each other — everywhere varieties of together-action.
There is synergy of sequences of motions / with sequences of sound — together they inform / as form.
Here and there / the movements are even lighter than sound.
The dancers are mostly mute — and mostly move. Mimicry — that pedestal of communication — abounds.
There may be a set of signs with which to record the movements of dance / but that is not the language of dance — the language of dance is being spoken / as dancing.
We are always left with wonder — what are the dancers saying / to each other?
Throughout the totality/totalities of the dancings / actions rarely repeat — they multiply. We are continually being left with movements that we wish they would repeat. In that sense / the dancing never ends.
Performing — not performance.
The work feels to be formed of the unusual stuff of dance / the unused.
The dancing is inhabited by a sort of triumphant sadness / one which it itself produces. This dance is the embodiment of feelings — more than merely the manifestation of longing / its instantiation.
In this largely elegiac and fragmented formulation / there is at the same time tremendous lyrical continuity. The dancers are so manifestly together / regardless of the particular grouping. There is no grappling or grasping for movements — the movements intuit the dancers.
In these ways / and by these means / the unsaying of the dance becomes impossible. The dancing is an ecologically sound structure — it re-nourishes / re-establishes itself as it proceeds. There is nothing left over / nothing has been thrown away — our memories are our own responsibility.
In the end / if there were an end / isn’t it all about seduction? / about mating?
I wonder how much better the dancers know each other at the end of the performance than they did at its beginning.
Because this piece ends in vigor / with particular vigor / it doesn’t end.
A review of 'Reading Writing Interfaces: From the Digital to the Bookbound'
Reading Writing Interfaces by Lori Emerson undertakes the ambitious task to demystify the rhetoric of magic surrounding ubiquitous computing. When so-called invisibility, user-friendliness, and seamlessness are touted as integral features of a device, how can everyday users disrupt the imperceptibility of the interface to access its mechanisms? To what extent can digital literature and art critique by unveiling the closed architecture of the personal computer? And what exactly is at stake when the pervasive ideology of the invisible interface camouflages what information is available to the user? In her new book, Emerson defamiliarizes the illusion of this disappearing surface by revealing how interfaces open and foreclose “certain creative possibilities.” With cogent analyses of both analogue and digital literature, Emerson renders legible the historical and contemporary instantiations of the interface that have been masked from the user by the sleek celebratory language of marketing. Reading Writing Interfaces, in other words,makes the interface reappear by demonstrating how the so-called naturalness of our devices is in fact a fantasy perpetuated by the computing industry.
A critical study that brings together interface theory with both print and digital literature has been long overdue. In the context of the last fifty years, the works of great computer pioneers — Doug Engelbart, Ivan E. Sutherland, or Theodor H. Nelson, for example — are integral for understanding the development of HCI, or Human-Computer Interaction. Yet to focus on the interface as primarily a digital phenomenon — a fixed entity moderating human interactions in iPads or iPhones — would be misguided. Over the last twenty years, a small body of literature has begun to reassess the interface as a mediated environment of cultural activity and pleasure. As Johanna Drucker suggests, interface theory must attend to the user “as a situated and embodied subject” as well as “the affordances of a graphical environment that mediates intellectual and cognitive activities.” While reimagining the interface brings its own challenges, it also puts a new lens onto our interactions with offline objects and environments — including those of codices and manuscripts — that likewise structure social behaviors. To this end, Reading Writing Interfaces adopts Alexander Galloway’s description of the interface as a “point of transition between different mediatic layers within any nested system” (x). But Emersonputs further pressure on the constraints and affordances of graphical environments by comparing and antagonizing diverse materials from digital writers (such as Mary Flanagan, Deena Larsen, and Judd Morrissey) to the paper based (like Emily Dickinson’s fascicles) in a move that identifies the continuities and discontinuities between old and new media. In the process, Emerson presents how a comparative analysis of media can be successfully accomplished when the interface, and not the particularities of the work, becomes the target of inquiry.
This comparative approach underscores a broader thesis at work in Reading Writing Interfaces. What can a dialogue between different media and technologies reveal about the relation of the literary to the environments of human-computer interaction? Emerson begins by interrogating Apple’s commercial philosophy of the iPad, whereby marketing rhetoric is shrouded in the language of showmanship, the magical, and the marvelous. Although the company encouraged consumers to tinker with the hardware in its early years, Apple’s business model today stresses tight control over the acceptable use of its products. The company limits, for instance, the extent that users can create and manage content for apps. Nonetheless, digital writers like Jörg Pringer, Jason Lewis, and Erik Loyer have created and marketed poetry apps that play with the tactile capabilities of the iPhone and iPad in ways that “help us think through and experience the multitouch device as both interface and medium” (30). Loyer’s beautiful app Strange Rain, for example, offers “different modes of falling rain” that respond varyingly to a user’s touch (27–28). Yet the creativity of these writers must dovetail into the hidden mechanics of the device and the propriety restrictions imposed by Apple. Emerson turns to digital writers like Deena Larsen, who have been able to “subvert or exploit” defects or “glitches” in early hypertext authoring systems without the “permission of the publisher” (34). Glitches, even if deliberately engineered by the writer, defamiliarize “the slick surface of the hardware/software of the computer” by self-reflexively enunciating its enabling mechanisms (36). Accordingly, the creative opportunities afforded by older hypertext software like Storyspace can be viewed as a contrast to Apple’s propriety philosophy, which restages the artist and writer within the company’s model of permissible creativity.
Emerson’s comparative approach is then an “attempt to produce a friction” by reading with and against the grain of the old media and older forms of digital writing (129). Emerson draws on the emerging field of media archeology to elucidate the heterogeneity of our contemporary media condition. Media archeology can be best described as a set of novel trajectories of inquiry into media cultures, as Jussi Parikka suggests, “through insights from past new media, often with an emphasis on the forgotten, the quirky, the non-obvious apparatuses, practices and inventions.” Further, “it is also a way to analyze the regimes of memory and creative practices in media culture — both theoretical and artistic.” Lest these descriptions seem rooted in technological determinism, Parikka stresses a history of digital artifacts that “tackle[s] past and present media cultures in parallel lines,” a methodological gesture that counters the more technological determinist model of media history enunciated by Frederick Kittler. Emerson’s methodology in Reading Writing Interfaces deploys a nonlinear model of this media history to articulate the present, as she argues, “as one possibility generated out of a heterogeneous past” (xiii). Put another way, media need not determine our situation — or, it seems, our writing interfaces.
The nonlinearity of Reading Writing Interfaces is evident in its structure, which fluidly weaves between present and past media cultures. The book is divided into five chapters, including a self-sustained postscript. Each chapter yokes together sets of historical and contemporary media interfaces to rupture the distinctions between present and past conditions of writing. Chapter 1, “Indistinguishable from Magic,”tackles the drive for the invisible interface, the smooth salesmanship of iPads that have fostered a contemporary culture of magic around Apple products, and interrogates the disruptions in the works of digital literature that bring those hidden surfaces back into full purview of the user. Chapter 2, “From the Philosophy of the Open to the Ideology of the User-Friendly,” traces the shift from the DIY and active-learning culture of early computing in the 1960s to the development of enclosed, invisible, and user-friendly GUI systems of the Apple Macintosh in the mid-1980s. The command-line interfaces of Apple II and Apple IIe, suggests Emerson, allowed experimental writers like bpNichol, Geof Huth, and Paul Zelevanksy to tinker with the formal possibilities of the medium (64–76). Chapter 3, “Typewriter Concrete Poetry as Activist Media Poetics,” examines the concrete poetry of bpNichol, Steve McCaffery, bill bissett, and Dom Sylvester Houédard, who — under the influence of Marshall McLuhan — exploited the typewriter as an interface, “media system,” and literary device “to create new modes of communication” (105). Chapter 4, “Fascicle as Process and Product,” applies the interface more broadly to pen, pencil, and paper. This chapter is undoubtedly the more daring section of the book, reading digital works by Mary Flanagan, Aya Karpinska and Daniel C. Howe, and Judd Morrissey in and around Emily Dickinson’s fascicles in a move that defamiliarizes the paradigms of the page. Finally, the postscript, “The Googlization of Literature,” turns to the search engine as an interface. Twenty-first-century media poetics, suggests Emerson, entails a novel “readingwriting” that involves a digital and paper-based praxis of writing “through the network” (xiv, 163). This chapter brings media poetics into the contemporary moment by interrogating the literary and artistic responses to the search algorithms that shape and feed information back to the consumer.
If Reading Writing Interfaces betrays a weakness, it is that the literary richness of the examples is occasionally conflated under the rubric of the interface. Her reading of Jason Nelson’s Game, Game, Game and Again Game (2007), for example, identifies its destabilizing gestures toward “video game conventions” (40). This work is especially notable for its remediation of multiple interfaces, materialities, and genres — home video, children’s drawings, messy handwriting, autobiography — which Nelson restages online and on the screen for the computer user. Yet Nelson’s work begs the question how the materiality of language remodulates to this collusion of multiple remediating layers. If we settle our focus on “point[s] of transition,” are we reductively locating interfaces in every work of art, machine, or appliance produced? In the age of digital information, will the interface replace genre? These questions do not reveal the pitfalls of Emerson’s book, but rather that the interface will challenge long-held beliefs about the nature of our literary objects. And the immense scope of media cultures in Reading Writing Interfaces demonstrates that while much work is still to be done in the field of media archeology, its intersections with literary studies will generate fruitful interpretations about our present media cultures.
2. Ivan E. Sutherland, for example, created Sketchpad, which enabled a user “to converse rapidly” with a computer “through the medium of line drawings.” See: Noah Wardrip-Fuin and Nick Montfort, eds., “Sketchpad: A Man-Machine Graphical Communication System,” The New Media Reader (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2003), 111.
3. See, for example, Johanna Drucker, “Humanities Approaches to Interface Theory,” Culture Machine 12 (2011): 1–20, or Alexander Galloway, The Interface Effect (Malden, MA: Polity, 2012). For a discussion on cultural interfaces and media see Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001), 69–73.
9. Jason Nelson, “Game, Game, Game And Again Game,” Electronic Literature Collection, vol. 2 (2007).
A review of Ed Steck's 'The Garden'
“To be between is to entirely flatten oneself in the encircling material.” The Garden by Ed Steck is between on several fronts. It’s between language as communication with people and language as binary code propelling computers. It is between data logs and codex. It is between the archetype of a garden (a space of paradise, innocence, and unspoiled beauty) and a virtual garden (a space defined by surveillance, a series of algorithms and geo-fence). The Garden loops and twists in search of the role of the self, subjectivity, humanness even, in a world structured by “information scaffolding.” It asks: what does it mean “to be here”?
In The Garden, what it means to be here has everything to do with self-awareness and embodiment in a material world overtaken by information gathering and data processing. Here, questions are developed out of overlap and repetition with variation. Experience too coheres in this way, yet a strong sense of fracture remains. In The Garden, the unit of experience is the sentence with few transitions smoothing the gaps between sentences. It’s difficult to excerpt, but to give a sense of the language and tone:
RSAM SSNML, Entry 7:
If everything is a layering, if everything is a mirage-layered virtual mapping of a geo-located chronology, is anything ever real again?
I don’t know.
I am becoming self aware of the situation.
An anti-body is implementing a communication module in the last throes of its programming.
To introduce controlled chaos into a dynamically generated virtual perimeter’s systematic progression is advancement towards real-time deflation of an alien external system into an internal system.
An interaction’s slowness is an operation needing close lenience. It needs to be learned to struggle against what it is to forget, to learn the sudden slowness of memory, and its recognizable full decay. Sometimes rhythms introduce a face to conceal one’s own: a figure out of memory sleeps; muscles twitch replicating previous moments in known form. An arm ascends through layers to rest on either surrounding wall. This is a bodily formation of a memory. This image is not a fiction. Unknown people in skin with an ability deficiency to shape past middle voices. A discipline of self-information restrains this image.
I am self aware.
RSAM SSNAL (Remote System Administrative Monitor Surveyed Self-Notation Awareness Log) [Appendix. No exact translation of RSAM SSNML acronym.]
In contrast with the writer of Entry 7, the dynamically generated virtual perimeter (DGVP) is designed to be self-unaware. Human self-awareness is juxtaposed with the virtual system’s “self-monitoring,” which entails an extensive series of procedures, logging data in order to locate non-conformity and thus prevent breakdown of the system. Indeed, self-awareness produces a fatal error requiring a reboot of the system:
The all caps, lack of punctuation, objectivity, and jaggedness of the language are distinct from the series of entries, which includes entry 7 (cited above). Despite this, the identity of the author logging these entries remains obscured. When contrasted with the computer-generated message, the entries evidence the degree of conflict arising from one’s proximity to the system and being required to operate and act within the confines of that system.
Not counting the appendix, The Garden is made up of five sections: “Dynamically Generated Virtual Perimeter,” “The Garden,” “Motorcycle,” “The Garden,” and “The Hologram.” The symmetry visible in the section titles, due to the repetition of “The Garden,” positions “Motorcycle” at the center and sets up a relation between “Dynamically Generated Virtual Perimeter” (from which the previous quotations are gathered) and “The Hologram.”
At the center, “Motorcycle” presents a pixelated series of eight stills captured from what at first seems to be video surveillance footage. Positioned at the side of a shaded dirt pathway, the camera captures an image dominated by the patch of sunlight on the dirt wall and the dark shadows produced by the overhanging trees.
In the third still, a male figure on a motorcycle wearing a lavender-colored shirt comes into view, but in the fourth, the figure and the bike are entirely shadowed out. The silhouetted figure and bike are now aimed directly at the camera.
Upon close inspection, it seems as though the camera may have gradually crossed to the opposite side of the road in order to catch the motorcyclist as he rode past. It becomes apparent that what at first seemed to be security footage is actually video documenting a friend’s ride down the path. In the next two frames, speed and limited light increase the pixilation of the motorcyclist’s silhouette.
The camera turns to follow the course of the motorcycle, finishing the series of stills with two frames in which the figure is replaced by a cloud of dust. Foliage obscures the pathway. When the male figure riding the bike almost immediately becomes a silhouette, when the images are so pixelated, when presenting so few frames creates the effect of slow-motion video, and when the figure disappears in a cloud of dust with foliage taking over the frame, it is almost impossible to see anything but loss in this series of images.
Combine this sense of loss with the blocks of JPEG image-code facing the images and the repeated mention of “two men” and “soldiers” in the two bookending “Garden” sections before and after, and the situation becomes hauntingly clear.
Two young men ride a motorcycle on a circular dirt path around a garden. Two young men lunch in the garden’s open courtyard. Military forces detect the parked motorcycle. Soldiers wait around the circle’s bend. The two young men return to the motorcycle to visit a friend. The soldiers meet the two young men. The soldiers and the two young men exchange.
This event repeats. This event’s repetition is documented. The document fluctuates in presence. The document disappears. The document flickers arrays of concrete reflections, covering transparent zones with bordered externalities, offering dead language alongside dead images …
The book seems to seep outward from the moment documented in “Motorcycle,” its touch expanding from within the garden to the garden’s perimeter. Like the series of system logs, memory loops and repeats, the document replays.
________ _________ DETAINED 2X PARTICIPANTS FOR MANNING A STRATEGIC ROUTE OUTSIDE OF CIVILIAN CURFEW LIMITS. THE STRATEGIC ROUTE WAS NEAR A COMPOUND MEMORANDUM OBSERVATION POST AND WEAPONS MANUFACTURER. THE TWO PARTICIPANTS WERE SPOTTED AS THEY ATTEMPTED TO FLEE THE SCENE AFTER DROPPING THEIR MOTORCYCLE, WEAPONS AND ATTEMPTING TO BLEND IN WITH THE LOCAL LANDSCAPE. THE 2X PARTICIPANTS WERE DISAPPEARED. FOUND ON THEIR BODY: A CASSETTE PLAYER WITH INSURGENT POEMS, TWO NOTEBOOKS, AND RESTRICTIVE MONETARY FUNDS SURPASSING FINANCIAL CURFEW.
DISPLACED PEOPLE: %%%
MISSING PEOPLE: %%%
TRANSMISSION CODE: I WAS LOOKING FOR A FRIEND A FRIEND IN BEHAVIOR AND IDEOLOGY IS ON THE BACKPORCH WAITING FOR US JUST
TO HAVE DINNER WE WERE IN THE GARDEN TRYING TO DISAPPEAR FROM THE SURROUNDINGS
ORIGINATOR GROUP: UNKNOWN
CASUALTY FIGURE CORRECT.
The document shifts as the voice is transferred from one person to another and from a person to a computational system. It shifts under the recurring title of pieces in “The Garden” sections (The Garden // I’m always a place that I don’t know), as the words making up the pieces change and the title remains the same. The shift happens within the strictures of a formal constraint: a series of five paragraphs, each five lines long. For one piece in each of “The Garden” sections, the width of the paragraphs shrinks, becoming so narrow that the justification pulls the spaces between words into large, noticeable gaps. These gaps are compounded by the “stanza” break that is inserted between each sentence. These pieces add to the spaces indicated in the piece at the beginning of “The Garden,” “DGVP* to RSAM”:
In my present position, there is an available space.
*Refer to acronym appendix and transcription summary in rear of the volume.
Facing an image of static waves (possibly a grayscale scan of a hologram), this piece points to the space of the page, the distance between an acronym and the words it abbreviates, what comes between two threads of meaning (as in the need for an appendix), as well as the space between the asterisk and its footnote. If the system of the virtual perimeter loops, constantly extending, reiterating and rehashing data, the counter-measure to this seems to be wedging a space into the data.
This wedging of space seems analogous to the tipping of a hologram, upon which the changing light causes the image to become something else. After reading The Garden, I can’t help seeing text as another type of hologram, which shifts as it is read. I also can’t help thinking of The Garden as a space wedged, stretching the dynamically generated virtual perimeter of written texts (what is and is not written, published). The final section of the book, “The Hologram,” is made up of a series of blocks, some of which are justified text, while others are images of static (as mentioned before, these are likely reproductions of a hologram). As does space in the previously quoted passage, here the blocks are layered on top of one another and suggest the possibility of shuffling.
The Garden presents a disturbing and haunting space of loss. The richness and complexity with which it engages current human experience is nothing short of brilliance. Rather than resorting to answers, The Garden offers a sustained brush with being here. In remaining between, it does not allow itself the luxury of escaping unscathed.
An introduction to C. S. Giscombe
What follows is an introduction to C. S. Giscombe’s reading at the University of Georgia on Thursday, November 13, 2014. Sponsored by the Ballew Lecture Fund in the Department of English and the Creative Writing Program, the event was held at eight p.m. in the Lab Room at Ciné, 234 West Hancock Avenue, in Athens, Georgia.Earlier that afternoon, Giscombe had delivered a public talk on Muddy Waters, trains, and metaphor.
“When does railroad sense begin?” C. S. Giscombe asks in his latest book, Ohio Railroads, a long poem in prose, reprinted railway maps, and a singular, oneiric burst of lyric. By his own account, railroad sense began for him as a child in Dayton, Ohio, sitting in the Wilkes and Worth Barbershop and watching locomotives cross Mound Street, two blocks south. Later he’d work as an engineer and approach that very same crossing. Railroad sense in his writing started two decades ago. The opening suite, or “setting,” of his first poetry book, Here, is titled “Look Ahead — Look South,” after the Southern Railway Co. slogan. That poem, in which he admits “my bad attitude toward the pastoral,” toggles between 1962 and the recent past, centering on February 1978, when he flew down south to attend his grandmother’s funeral; and in fact Ohio Railroads begins exactly thirty years later, with the death of the author’s mother in August ’08. And railroad sense had blurred any would-be border between life and work by the time of Giscombe’s third volume, Prairie Style, whose acknowledgments, after reporting that the writing was drafted in Pennsylvania, Scotland, Nova Scotia, and California, conclude, “Portions of this book were written on Amtrak.”
Rooted along the bottom of the page like a TV ticker, the prose poems of Prairie Style participate in the repetitious, geophysical flatness of our inland Midwest; in the low-toned, humble hum of African-American song; in the gutterspeak and carnal exchange of sex, or the crock of cracking a joke; and in the dwellings of architect Frank Lloyd Wright, scaled down for human habitation. Similarly, the associative prose of Ohio Railroads — whose eight sections, like the various downtown Dayton crossings, are separate causeways as well as a “single bridge” — diagrams the city’s network of railroad lines, to meditate on the multilayered history — national, local, familial, and, above all, racial — of Giscombe’s childhood and teenage town. The first black person arrived in 1798, and African Americans came in far greater number three decades later. In between, because the Ohio constitution forbade slavery, others were brought as “indentured servants.” By 1900 the black population was 3,500, and from the ’40s through the ’70s blacks lived on the West Side, west of the Great Miami River. Sixteen miles away, Xenia had always had a significant black population.
The towns were connected by the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, later known as Penn Central, eventually run by the government as Conrail. Ohio Railroads is filled with such mergers, obsolescence, and outright disappearances. Founder Jonathan Dayton never set foot in the town. Another blind spot is that Giscombe’s mother was never recognized as black by her fellow graduate students in education, white folks who solicited her help in discriminating against blacks in the dining hall. Yet a third erasure: the two black colleges just outside Xenia, Central State, and Wilberforce, were located in a designated “unincorporated place.”
The Norfolk Southern, New York Central, National Limited: no sooner does the poem anatomize the rhizomic trains and trusses that crosshatch Dayton, however, than its attentions wander to other modes of transport. Applying the emergency brakes on a train, Giscombe explains, was called “dumping the air,” and indeed the poem can’t help thinking about air travel. The Pennsylvania’s famous passenger train linking New York to St. Louis, he reminds us, was called the Spirit of St. Louis, after Charles Lindbergh’s plane. More weirdly, the Wright-Patterson Air Force Base is rumored to house dead aliens with large heads and other galactic debris from a 1947 flying saucer crash. As a young man, the poet Paul Laurence Dunbar worked in the Callahan Building downtown as an elevator operator — or, as the job was dubbed, an “indoor aviator.”
In Giscombe’s peripatetic telling, the history of air travel is, in turn, bound up with bicycling. Dunbar’s mother did laundry for whites in Dayton, including the “air pioneer” family the Wrights, and her son was friendly in high school with Orville — who, along with his brother Wilbur, owned a bunch of bike shops on West Third. By the 1960s, Giscombe notes, the railway tracks from Xenia north to Yellow Springs, known as “the most miscegenated place in America,” were used infrequently at best. That nine-mile stretch is now a bike trail — and also a sort of hyperlink, if you will, to two of Giscombe’s earlier books, namely, the poetry volume Giscome Road and its companion memoir, Into and Out of Dislocation. Together they record the poet’s travels — thousands of miles — back and forth from the US to Canada, in search of a possible nineteenth-century ancestor from Jamaica, John Robert Giscome — no “b” — who settled in British Columbia. Despite documents, maps, and genealogies, however, little in this pair of projective volumes remains settled: the memoir features a chapter called “Trains, Airplanes” and another titled “A Natural History of Cycling,” in which Giscombe details the myriad bikes he’s owned, from the three-speed Robin Hood he rode at twenty, living in Albany, through the orange Gitane he used to scale mountains around Seattle in his thirties, to the two machines he had at the time of writing, a Raleigh touring bike with Campy components and a lightweight, blue Gitane he found in a trailer outside Peoria — his daughter called it his sports car.
Ohio Railroads is equally traversed by autos, buses, trolley cars. By 1910, the near West Side, where the Wright family lived, was a “streetcar suburb.” Their house was eventually moved to a museum bearing the name of Henry Ford. The Soap Box Derby raced down Germantown Hill, where the train crossing was protected by flashing lights. At the North Gettysburg Street crossing, drivers would sometimes overestimate the speed of their cars while underestimating the trains, awarding the intersection the moniker “Old Bloody Gettysburg.” In 2008, Giscombe’s parents had two cars, including the Camry he drove to the railroad bridge on East Third Street the day after his mother’s death. He’d been here before in a dream, the one whose elastic, elegiac logic governs the whole of this poem. This time Giscombe did not drive onto the tracks, as he had in the dream, but waited on the quai to see a mixed freight led by two CSX locomotives. “I felt its presence in the air before I heard it,” he says, “though the difference is rather fine.”
This is partly what he means by railroad sense: a premonition, arriving as if out of nowhere. Or an intuition just this side of evidence — before the proof pulls into the station. But if it’s “sourceless,” as Giscombe proposes, railroad sense implies both a future and destination, more precisely, “a degree of inevitability in which location is a prime factor.” In counterpoint to its obsessions with movement, then, and what Giscombe refers to, across his work, as the “inbetween,” a stubborn engagement with specific localities anchors Ohio Railroads. Giscombe is at least as much a hedgehog as he is a tracking, trekking, trickster Mistah Fox, and railroad sense may well begin, he muses, with a train in the street like an elephant at large, charged “with the tang of slowness.” His good railroad sense — one part “elephant-style,” one part derailleur — has brought him back to the South tonight, where, as he put it early on, “ensconced in Dixie I am piss elegance.” Please join me in welcoming C. S. Giscombe back to Athens.