THE DANGERS OF PROXIMAL ALPHABETS by Kathleen Alcott

This book. First, let's talk a bit about the title: The Dangers of Proximal Alphabets. It's ... intriguing. What are 'proximal alphabets'? Why are they dangerous? Why are you so sure they're dangerous? This book will be bleak. When I look at the title, at first, I think it's interesting. Those previous questions flit through my mind, but in passing, I think they are worthy questions, with worthy answers. At least, that's what reviews have told me. The title also attempts to grab your attention by introducing a phrase, mode of being, status, that is unheard of: proximal alphabets. 'Alphabets' meaning letters, or 'alphabets' meaning different writing systems? And the word 'proximal,' meaning next to each other, or similar to, as in 'approximate'?

Now all of this analysis is very unnecessary because this book was pretty terrible. The title is flashy, but is an empty metaphor, disguised as something deep. I've teased out some meanings, but they do nothing. This book is about Ida and brothers Jackson and James - they've known each other their whole lives. They're more than friends, they're beyond that, beyond lovers, beyond partners, beyond everything. Their relationship is special, but ... DANGEROUS. So anyway, the book goes through moments of their lives growing up and doing everything together, becoming a couple, breaking up, getting back together, and charts the various ways they hurt each other and everyone else in their lives. 

I am going to categorize this book as 'hip emotional torture porn.' Let's unpack this. It's hip because it's in San Francisco, and Ida (our narrator) talks about the shitty (but still so endearingly lovely) apartment she and Jackson shared in an immigrant neighborhood. All the items in their apartment are discarded objects from 'affluent neighborhoods' (114), hand-me-downs, or handmade, like the curtains which Jackson sowed together using several types of fabric. The best is their windowsill, which had 'a terrarium of moss and succulents where plastic dinosaurs loomed over tiny cowboys' (114). Wow. So hip. Things clash. They love old stuff. Please. Stop.

And when I say 'emotional torture porn,' I mean that these characters are so unreal as people. It is my militant belief that characters in a novel (or film, television show, play, etc.) should feel real. They should seem as if they could extend beyond the novel, that their consciousness is more than what can be contained in the novel. This stems from a lot of theory about subjectivity that I cannot really go into right now. Each character should have subjectivity, should be a subject. Ida, Jackson, and every other member of this motley crew of characters in this novel are not subjects, they are objects. This happens because of a narrative structure that is, to my knowledge, very popular.

The novel moves from IMPORTANT scene to IMPORTANT scene. The chapters are short and punchy. We either get some wild, hedonistic scene of youth, some deeply sad scene of adulthood and relationships, or some deeply sad and wistful scene of youth. These kinds of scenes allow for the narrator to jump back and forth through time, make connections between seeming disparate events, and give a comprehensive, but quick view of events. But when a whole book is like this, there is no room for characters to breath, no sense of their selves opening up beyond whatever IMPORTANT.EMOTIONAL.POINT/LITERARY.WISTFUL.SIGH the narrator is trying to make. In choosing to represent only the moments with very intense emotions, the actual weight of those emotions are lost. So the characters are merely objects or representations of these emotions, rather than a subject feeling and experiencing these emotions. 

All of this which leads me to the closing scene of the novel. So, spoilers, I guess. At the end of the novel, Ida's father dies, and she is reunited with Jackson and James. They're really a trio of dysfunction, which could occupy another post which I will not be giving it. Ida has been pining for Jackson these past couple of years, and when he comes back for her father's funeral, he tells her needs her, and misses her, and blah blah all the usual stuff, but of course, Ida feels kind of empty about it all, and doesn't really want to be with him anymore. After all of the emotional exhaustion of her father dying, and being back in her old home, Ida finds Jackson and James asleep next to each other on a futon in the house, and she gets between them, and in their sleep 'both draped their limbs around [hers] so intricately [she] couldn't move if [she] tried and [she] fought off sleep vehemently, determined to appreciate what they gave [her] without [her] even asking' (208). 

This moment is so unbelievable. They are all ready to fall into patterns of dysfunction. The moment maybe could have paid off if they all weren't an amalgamation of quirks and pseudo-emotion. 

Anyway, that's enough ranting about this novel. Please let me know your thoughts if you've read this novel, or if you know about a novel that is similar, and please feel free to rant about it in the comments. 

|| & ┴ : STATION ELEVEN & HIGH-RISE

I read Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel a couple weeks ago, shortly after finishing High-Rise by J.G. Ballard (which I wrote a bit about here). Station Eleven was a perfectly fine book - not incredible, not terrible, engaging enough plot, some interesting themes, etc. It sticks out in my mind more so because I read it fairly closely to when I read High-Rise. 

If you didn't already know, Station Eleven is a post-apocalyptic novel, in which most of the world's population was wiped out by a disease. The novel jumps back and forth in time, documenting some of the beginning of the outbreak and subsequent weeks after. For the most part, though, the novel takes place twenty years after the initial outbreak, and follows a troupe of actors and musicians, who perform Shakespeare plays. Most of the surviving people have created small self-sustaining communities, since there is no more electricity, plumbing, etc. This passage was of particular interest to me:

On silent afternoons in his brother's apartment, Jeevan found himself thinking about human the city is, how human everything is. We bemoaned the impersonality of the modern world, but that was a lie, it seemed to him; it had never been impersonal at al. There had always been a massive delicate infrastructure of people, all of them working unnoticed around us, and when people stop going to work, the entire operation grinds to a halt. No one delivers fuel to the gas stations or the airports. Cars are stranded. Airplanes cannot fly. Trucks remain at their points of origin. Food never reaches the cities; grocery stores close. Businesses are locked and then looted. No one comes to work at the power plants or the substations, no one removes fallen trees from electrical lines (178).

This passage presents an interesting contrast to High-Rise, which I read maybe a week or two before this book, so it was still fairly fresh in my mind. In High-Rise, we see ways in which humanity is warped by 'modern' things, the ease and accessibility of resources and services, and when I say 'warped,' I mean it in the most neutral way possible. In the novel, it's not necessarily that people are made worse by modernity, but that modernity reveals humanity in its most grotesque forms, and the ultimate consequences of that are ambiguous.

In the above passage from Station Eleven, the city of Toronto is not really a city anymore now that the people are gone. These modern things of buildings, gas stations, airports, business, power plants - they are nothing without people. They are not modern, only relics. This passage highlights how intertwined humanity and technology are. They are not mutually exclusive. The same thing happens in High-Rise. It is not that the conditions of the high-rise are alien, and making humanity into something it is not, but revealing and recombining what it means to be human. We are androids. Mandel's Station Eleven, in part, highlights the opposite of this equation: the humanity suffused into the technology, into the delicate and precarious modern structures and urban ecologies.
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Note: To clarify, I am playing a bit fast and loose with all of my definitions of 'modernity,' 'city,' 'humanity,' 'people,' modern,' etc. I'm trying to keep this blog casual, while still interrogating texts in a productive, thoughtful way. The differences in meanings are important, but I think for this post in particular, it's okay to fudge it a bit

Note: Those funny little symbols in the title of the post are the symbols for parallel and perpendicular...OHHHH. I will include these symbols in the title for posts where I'm discussing multiple texts in conjunction with each other. So I have this thing where when I envision how the meaning of things work, I envision them as being parallel or perpendicular, or both, creating acute angles or obtuse angles of meaning. It's just how I've always thought of meaning, and so that's the where I got the title for this blog. 

Franz Wright's 'Last Day on the Ward'

Poet Franz Wright died last year now, on May 14, 2015. I wanted to write about his death, and his poetry, and him, but I didn't have the words. I didn't know him, but I feel connected to him in the way anyone who admires someone else feels connected to that person. And it feels almost too personal to talk about how hard it is to know he's no longer alive, no longer walking around in his home, or writing. Because I didn't know him, he wasn't necessarily real to me as a person, and that somehow enhances the loss I feel. Which is a bit ridiculous, but it's how I feel so *shrugs* Thankfully, I still have so much of his work to read, and what I have read is hardly exhausted in its meanings and pleasure. 

I'm here today writing this because I recently read a small chapbook of his, published by Argos Books in 2014, titled The Writing. I want to talk a bit about the first poem in the collection,

Last Day on the Ward

There is a Heaven,

death. 

But getting there.

You can't

just say the word...

A blizzard. I can't see

a single person on the street,

a single light on.

I know they're out there, though: the fittest

reading the laptop and drinking their coffee,

winter light

filling the rooms where they sit

unaghast.

It's Monday in the world,

and time to go.

I've unpacked and already

have nothing to do 

but lie down

                                                                    and stare at the snow.

                                                                    Which is something

                                                                    I am good at, something I enjoy.

                                                                    Probably, I'll die like this

                                                                    a long time ago.

I love how in those two lines, it seems as if Wright is telling death that there is a Heaven, and it doesn't need to worry. But how does death get to Heaven? Or is Wright emphasizing that there is Heaven and death, but note that death isn't first listed. This slippage foreshadows the last two lines, in which Wright says he will die 'a long time ago' (line 23), once again mixing up the generally accepted process of living, dying, Heaven. Reading about this mix-up, though, reads to me now as an act of mourning. Wright is dead, a long time ago, and the time will only get longer. But I revisit his voice, his first person, his present tense, when I read this poem, this book, anything he's ever written. Though I don't believe in the common theme of literature that in books and writing people are eternal in a way because their words live on. No, they're not. They're dead. Whether they're somewhere else is not for me to tell you, but they're not immortal in literature. That has always seemed like a ridiculous fallacy to me, and completely unsatisfying as an end of a story.

What I do think is true, and what I think this poem is an example of, in life, there are visitations to death: we know we will die, we know people have died. This reality is so profound that the fact that people are even living is astonishing, which is emphasized in the middle of the poem,

I know they're out there, though: the fittest
reading the laptop and drinking their coffee,
winter light
filling the rooms where they sit
unaghast (lines 9-13).

This references, in part, the contrast of the fit and unfit, young and old, stable and unstable - the poem is titled 'Last Day on the Ward,' and mental health is an important theme in Wright's work. But I think all of this contributes to the strangeness of how people are actually alive. That simple things exist such as sitting at a desk, drinking coffee, unaghast. Life is not necessarily strange to these people, in the same way it is to Wright, but death has always been on his mind (if you read his other works) - they are not aghast, as he is. Death maybe is not so visibly intertwined with life for them.  

This is all really to try and figure out what it means to read Wright's work after he's died, months later, what it means to read this collection where Wright is even more so preoccupied with death. And I guess to mourn, to read his poems as a form of mourning, as a visitation, and to let death be intertwined with life a little more by reading this collection. I think it's okay if it is. 

2015: Some Numbers and Thoughts

So aside from my Best Books I Read in 2015 post, where I discussed (you guessed it!) the best books I read in 2015, I wanted to also spend some time giving a closer look at any trends in my reading, and some stats about what kind of books I'm reading and consuming. As a general introduction, here's a handy screenshot from my Goodreads about the books I read in 2015:

A few quick thoughts based off of the above photo:

• I'm happy that I read 93 books. It's the most I've read in years, and it is always my dream to get back to the way I was in elementary through high school where I would a couple hundred books a year. I did have a lot less commitments, responsibilities, and work, but still! I'd love to at least get close to that. So this year, I've decided to try and get to 100 books, but since I'm competitive, I want to definitely go over that.
• I only made it to 93 because I read 20 graphic novels, and 4 manga. I did make a conscious effort to read more graphic novels, but it definitely bolstered my reading...
• Reading graphic novels also contributed to my average page length of 254 pages. I did feel myself gravitating towards shorter books this year - I think it is partly the pressure of wanting to reach my Goodreads goal, and partly because I've been stressed. I want to try and read longer novels this year. I love, love getting lost in a long novel, but sometimes the emotional investment/toll scares me. Like when I began reading Cloud Atlas, I knew the pain would be prolonged. 

Other Business: General Numbers

1. I read 53 books by women, and 40 books by men. Not bad, but I was hoping to read about 70-80% women. 
2. To the best of my knowledge, I read 40 books by POC. Also, not bad, but I was hoping to do better.
3. The books I read were overwhelmingly American and British, but considering I'm American, and can only read in English, this was kind of bound to happen. 

Other Business: Genre Specifics

1. I read 13 books of poetry. Typically, I read more poetry, but I was feeling the novel much more this past year.
2. I read 6 books of non-fiction. Truly amazing, considering it is really hard for me to read non-fiction. I'm still trying to read more.
3. I read 20 graphic novels and 4 manga. Graphic novels and manga are different!
4. And finally, I read 51 books of fiction. 
5. I read 4 books by Roberto Bolaño. Roberto Bolaño's works are one of the great loves of my life. His books are a genre unto themselves, for me. I'm excited to read more Bolaño in 2016.

Other Business: Problems

When I began planning for this post, I thought I would get much more specific about an author's nationality, really trying to chart where everyone was from. Whether they were American, non-American, white, non-white, woman or man, and it was honestly overwhelming. These categories are too dichotomous, and it felt unnecessary to try and fit everyone into it. Here are a couple problems I ran into, that made me second-guess this:

• The graphic novel Saga, is written by a man, and drawn and colored by a woman. Do I count these to my ticks for women or men or both?
• I read two books of poetry by Li-Young Lee, and he is an American citizen, but was born in Indonesia. Do I give a tick to America or Indonesia? Do I make a category for 'hyphenated Americans'? Do I even like the term 'hyphenated Americans'? 

That's when I gave up on these categories, and decided that further trying to categorize authors was just confining them and their work. 

So yeah, that's a little bit about the books I read in 2015. I'm very excited for another year of reading, and of this blog. This blog helps me to remember how vital books are to me. Thank you for reading!

Best Books I Read in 2015

It is the last day of 2015, and I finally feel ready to actually post what I think are the best books I read in 2015. I read a lot of amazing books this year, many of which I loved and thought were extremely well-written, but these books listed below specifically are ones that always seem to pop into my mind, that frame my thinking of other books, and whose images, characters and words keep me thinking/guessing. I'm also going to include a quote from each to entice you to read them, of course! They are in the order in which I read them.

Aside from these amazing books, peep my new bedsheets as the backdrop,
where were a gift from one of my best friends. Who wouldn't want
lovely bedsheets for Christmas?!

The City in Which I Love You by Li-Young Lee

But the boy is packing his shirts,
he is looking for his keys. Are you a god,the man screams, that I sit mute before you?
Am I a god that I should never disappoint? ('A Story' 15-18)

Li-Young Lee is one of my absolute favorite poets of all time. I want to say that Lee's poetry deals with a lot of big issues, such as being a refugee (he and his family fled from Indonesia when he was a baby, and knocked around a few countries in East Asia before settling in the US), religion, love, etc. But to just say that, to say Lee is a political poet, is not enough. All of his poetry are grounded in specific moments, images, and relationships, that when I think of what 'humane' means, I think of Lee's poetry. The City in Which I Love You exhibits, I think, Lee at his best. With stunning poems such as 'My Father in Heaven is Reading Out Loud,' which conflates the image of his own father with a Heavenly Father, Lee teases out the complexity of his relationship with his father, religion, and the legacy of his family's history.

The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton

'That is a good beginning; I am glad it is yours. Tonight shall be mine.'
'Ought we to have different ones?'
'Different beginnings? I think we must.'
'Will there be more of them?'
'A great many more' (832)

I read this book at the very beginning of 2015, and have not forgotten about it - images, characters, themes, and sentences recur in my mind, and connect with other things I've read in the past year. This novel has truly stayed with me. I don't think more than two days go by without me thinking about it. The Luminaries is an intricately plotted novel, that follows a sprawling cast of characters - there is a character list in the front of the novel! - in the gold-mining town of Hokitika, New Zealand in 1866. Catton uses the zodiac and astrology as the bones of her novel - each character is associated with a zodiac sign, for example - in order to showcase how they interact, collide, and circle one another in the events of the novel. The basic plot is there is a missing rich, young man named Emery Staines, and the other main characters are invested in him being alive or dead for whatever reason. The use of the zodiac and astrology is brilliant, and makes you think about the connections between the characters in new ways (although, do not be mistaken, this is not about horoscopes), and I think propels the basic narrative of the missing persons case in interesting ways. This novel is an odyssey, and by the end, I believe all the traveling you will have done with these characters is well worth it. 

Mariana by Monica Dickens

'At first she had thought that her heart was dead. She told herself that she had been through a searing experience which had left her as a woman set apart from love - a tragic figure. This sustaining vision had tided her over the misery of the end of last summer' (189).

This is the first novel published by Persephone Books I have ever read. I found it randomly in The Strand when I was looking for a Charles Dickens book - Monica is his great, great granddaughter! If you don't already know, Persephone Books publishes forgotten novels by (mostly) women. I am all for supporting women, and not letting women's contributions to literature be forgotten. This book was simply lovely. There is nothing like reading a satisfying romantic book that is not condescending towards its heroine (the titular character, Mariana), nor its audience, and it does so because it acknowledges and beautifully portrays the flaws and desires of its characters. We follow Mariana through ups and downs as she desperately tries to gain independence, and find a man she can truly love and who truly loves her. It's a well-written story about wanting a man, but not needing a man, which is a distinction too rarely made in novels about women, or in women's lives in general.

The Stone Gods by Jeanette Winterson

'Some religions call life a dream, or a dreaming, but what if it is a memory? What is this new world isn't new at all but a memory of a new world?' (87).

This is a bit of an odd one. A post-apocalyptic novel that jumps back and forth in time, between worlds (or maybe the same world? Never quite sure). For the most part, the novel follows Billie Crusoe, who falls in with a 'Robo sapien,' Spike, as they embark on a mission to find a new inhabitable planet, since Earth is dying after being ravaged by war and greed. In this novel, we basically get a queer android love story that investigates the nature of war, time, and humanity, itself. Really everything is in this novel.

The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson

'The pleasure of ordinary devotion. The pleasure of recognizing that one may have to undergo the same realizations, write the same notes in the margin, return to the same themes in one's work, relearn the same emotional truths, write the same book over and over again - not because one is stupid or obstinate or incapable of change, but because such revisitations constitute a life' (112).

I knew this book would be one of my favorites. Last year, I read Nelson's Bluets - which if you haven't read YOU SHOULD - and absolutely fucking loved it. It's a brilliant book, which I will hopefully talk about on here soon, but haven't yet since I have so many thoughts on it that they are like an avalanche in my mind. Which is also my situation with The Argonauts. But anyway, this book is what Nelson calls a book of 'autotheory,' meaning it is an autobiography of sorts, in which she uses critical theory as a lens for her life, and as a way to shape her life. The autobiographical part deals in particular with Nelson's marriage to her partner, Harry, who is fluidly gendered, and their having a baby. Nelson is interested in what it means to make a family, and is interested in how the language shapes family relationships, and queer relationships. Nelson is brilliant at weaving her personal story with critical and literary texts, and the effect is a richer, and more comprehensive understanding of her life.

Nazi Literature in the Americas by Roberto Bolaño

'The stories simply happen, period - produced by the sovereign power of chance unleashed, operating outside time and space, at the dawn of a new age, as it were, in which spatio-temporal perception is undergoing transformation and even becoming obsolete' (123-124).

At least one Bolaño was going to be on this list, and this year, it's Nazi Literature in the Americas, a fictional encyclopedia of right-wing authors. Bolaño makes up entire histories, and creates a tapestry of a literary world that never existed. In this endeavor, Bolaño pushes the boundaries of fiction. What does it mean to have a made-up encyclopedia? Something that is meant to the record the world as it is, but made-up? There seems to be a paradox of fiction and reality. And I don't even know where to begin to unpack why he decided on right-wing authors - the role of politics, fascism, and the specter of WWII and the Holocaust are dissertation-worthy + ten books of criticism.

Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell

'"Catch you all next time.' Luisa is going. 'It's a small world. It keeps recrossing itself"' (418).

I've just finished this book last week, and it blew my mind. The construction of the story is brilliant: 6 stories-within-stories, spanning centuries, and the globe. Each story leads into the next, and we see how people are connected across time and space. It's a very lofty goal, and the execution is perfect: never clinical, and never a slave to its conceit, this novel is so rich in its characters, and so brilliant in the way it shows their connection. Many talk about this novel in terms of how it discusses the 'universality' of human beings, reincarnations, that there is some deep, mysterious connection between us all. I'm not sure about all of those things, but what I am sure of is that this novel discusses brilliantly how we all become stories, passed on, retold, and forgotten.

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I also want to say a thank you to those that have been reading along, as I post my thoughts and theories on this blog. I'm excited for the new year, and more books!

Also, some time in the next few days I'm going to post more of a statistical analysis of the books I read in 2015. And by 'statistical analysis' I mean tally marks. So get ready!

J.G. Ballard's HIGH-RISE: A Few Recombinations

This is second Ballard I've read. The first was Crash, which I thought was brilliant in all of its grotesque, fucked-up glory. In case you're curious, Crash follows people who get-off by getting into car accidents. It's a strange book, but also very important, because it explores how technology has affected our lives. The novel was published in 1973, so it's not necessarily about how social media or smartphones are affecting our lives (which I feel is often written about in a completely condescending way and totally unproductive in actually trying to understand how they do affect us, because how could they not?), but more about urban landscapes: highways, buildings, cars. 

High-Rise, in particular, zeroes in living in high-rise apartment buildings, and the growing culture of convenience and accessibility in cities. Published in 1975, High-Rise is about the residents of a new high-rise outside of London that is specifically meant to suit the needs of all of the residents. Within the 40-story structure is a supermarket, salon, restaurant, bank, school, swimming pools, recreation courts, etc. People do not necessarily need to leave the building, save for work. 

The high-rise was a huge machine designed to serve, not the collective body of the tenants, but the individual resident in isolation. Its staff of air-conditioning conduits, elevators, garbage disposal chutes and electrical switching systems provided a never-failing supply of care and attention that a century earlier would have needed an army of tireless servants (17).

The quote above not only shows how the high-rise functions as a replacement of human labor, it is also meant to serve the individual, not a collective body. There is not necessarily a community built in to the fabric of the high-rise - it is actually meant to lessen human contact as much as possible. Furthermore, Robert Laing, one of the main characters of the novel, notes that although he feels a bit ambivalent about living in the high-rise, that one of its appeals is that it is 'an environment built, not for main, but for man's absence' (34). And Anthony Royal, a tenant of one of the penthouse suites in the high-rise, and a contributing architect to the building, says that Laing is 'probably its most true tenant' (91). There are kind of two implications in Laing's observation that the high-rise, and the block of high-rises it is a part of, is meant to imply man's absence:

1. Laing desires less contact with other human beings. He want to be alone, and feel the absence of others
2. Laing desires an obliteration of mankind, including himself

These two possibilities are really interesting to me because the conditions of the high-rise make the residents regress. Over time, people break more clearly into socioeconomic classes: the residents of the top floors vs. the middle floors vs. the lower floors. There are outbreaks of violence, the residents stop leaving the high-rise altogether, and the residents form 'tribes.' There is a complete breakdown of 'civilized' conventions, as people stop bathing, throw their garbage in the hallways and vents, shit and piss anywhere and everywhere in the building, and the men commit an absurd amount of sexual violence toward women (which is a lot, considering the real world problem of sexual violence against women). Throughout the novel, there is a sense that there people are regressing to a more 'primitive' state, but it is only achieved through the contained nature of the high-rise, a distinctly modern invention. So there is this question of whether these modern conditions of the high-rise is actually a regression to a primitive state, or a sense of an obliteration of mankind, or whether the high-rise is an evolution of sorts for humanity to a more individualistic/android state.

This paradox of technology and primitivism makes the high-rise atrophy. The residents begin to kill each other off, or die of starvation, and the only ones that survive are those that have formed 'clans' of two or three people. The bodies pile up just like garbage, with all of the garbage, and the last of the survivors forage for scraps of food among the garbage and bodies, and live among the filth that has gathered in their own apartments. Laing, one of the characters that is alive at least until the last page of the novel, has a hard time remembering the original functions of the things in his apartment like the washing machine or refrigerator,

To some extent they had taken on a new significance, a role that he had yet to understand. Even the rundown nature of the high-rise was a model of the world into which the future was carrying them, a landscape beyond technology where everything was either derelict or, more ambiguously, recombined in unexpected but more meaningful ways ... he found it difficult not to believe that they were living in a future that had already taken place, and was now exhausted (176).

The original purposes and facets of the high-rise - everything available, convenient, and perfectly functioning so that there is no effort on the part of the residents - are lost, or rather, made it possible for their meanings to be lost. And in that above passage, I think Laing sees a bit of that, but there is more. Not only have these meanings been lost, and Laing is bewildered at their existence, they also make new meanings in losing their original meanings. All of these things made it possible for there to be a future made for 'man's absence,' the next evolutionary step, 'the future that had already taken place, and was now exhausted.' The language of the passage suggests that the future has reached back to the past to bring the residents of the high-rise into the future: 'the future was carrying them.' Something has gotten mixed up, something in evolution has gone wrong, the future is reaching back, and the past can't handle it, hence the exhaustion, and maybe why this situation is incomprehensible in many ways to Laing, and the other surviving residents. 

The atrophy of meaning, and then recombination of meaning, is the crux of the discussion of the influence of technology. But these are not necessarily only 'modern' problems. Laing's confusion of the future happening too soon, and being exhausted, points to the fact that they are not so separate, that there is not so clear a distinction. It's not necessarily about the regression, progress or evolution of mankind, but about recombinations of meanings in mankind.

Please let me know if you've read this novel, or any of Ballard's novels, especially Crash! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

'All the beds of the past cannot dress the ghosts / at my table'

Prayers or Oubliettes by Natalie Diaz

1
Despair has a loose daughter.
I lay with her and read the body's bones
like stories. I can tell you the year-long myth
of her hips, how I numbered stars,
the abacus of her mouth.

2
The sheets are berserks with wind's riddling.
All the beds of the past cannot dress the ghosts
at my table. Their breasts rest on plates
like broken goblets whose rims I once thirsted at.
Instead of grace, we rattle forks
in our empty bowls.

3
We are the muezzins of the desert
crying out like mockers from memory's
violet towers. We scour the earth
as Isis did. Fall is forever here -
women's dresses wrinkle
on the ground, men fall to their knees
in heaps, genitals rotting like spent fruit -
even our roots fall from the soil.

4
The world has tired of tears.
We weep owls now. They live longer.
They know their way in the dark.

5
Unfasten your cage of teeth and tongue.
The taste of a thousand moths is chalk.
The mottled wings are the words to pain.

6
We have no mazel tov.
We call out for our mothers
with empty wine jugs at our heels.

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Iterations // All the beds of the past cannot dress the ghosts / at my table

All the beds of the past cannot dress the ghosts / at my table: to overcome her ghosts, she attempts to parody them, by making them into cartoonish figures made out of bedsheets - it doesn't work

All the beds of the past: Not just evoking the image of white sheets, but of a bed, emphasizing the place of rest as what can be made a ghost - what we take comfort 'dresses' ghosts, covers them

at my table: she dines and communes with her ghosts

All: not just invoking the speaker's history, but everyone's

cannot dress: It doesn't work, and can only do so much

dress: something done every day

dress: treat, as in dress a wound; tender

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This line fascinates me because it is elliptical in its imagery: one thing leads to another, but then leads back to something else. Diaz evokes an image of beds stretching into the past, which transitions into the image of sheets being thrown over ghosts, which then leads back to the beds of the past also being ghosts, and all of these exist together at her table. It is image in which time stretches backwards and forwards, and stands still, as they all sit together at her table. This is an example of the confusion between prayers and oubliettes in the title, the mixture of pleasure and pain ('The year-long myth / of her hips' (lines 3-4), 'Their breasts rest on plates / like broken goblets whose rims I once thirsted at' (lines 8-9), 'Unfasten your cage of teeth and tongue' (line 23). 

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I wanted to try a more impressionistic approach to talking about poems. I find it hard to write mini-essays about poems (as I usually do with the various novels I've written about here), because poetry makes the most impact on me in images, in the lines that leave behind the most dynamic, distinct images, and I wanted to try and capture those images as I see them in my mind, in order to interrogate some of what is going in any given poem. With Iterations, I am hoping to merely present the possibilities and dynamism in any given line of a poem. 

Please let me know your thoughts, and impressions from this poem! It is from Natalie Diaz's collection, When My Brother Was an Aztec, published by the always amazing Copper Canyon Press.