Morning, in Colorado, if I’m not teaching or trying to make a school lunch my offspring will actually eat, involves a second cup of Double Bergamot Earl Grey tea and a quick skim of The Guardian, online, with the memory of pretending to read it, a broadsheet, upside down in bed, with my dad. The paper, not me. I was two.
Thus, a few days ago, I paused, mid-sip, to read this: “Now he’s ditching the dung and the glitter, and going some place darker.” And see this:


: (Th.Donov. on Fr. Moten): “Translate to color.” In the comment stream. And looped up, like a baby. Though if I had another baby, which would depend, quite frankly, upon meeting a competent and ecstatic South-Asian medical professional in the next thirty days: I might put it down (the baby not a suitor) on a sheepskin rug to roll around a bit. More than I did.
It used to be the case that I’d type things up fairly quickly after getting them. Now I seem to want more distance between the accumulation of materials and their typing or arranging.
I remember being lazy and stupid and nonetheless curious. I remember the Optionists, the Actualists, the Pre-Born Bag of Chipists, the Expos, and the Typing Wild Speechists. I remember white roaches
This post (one resists the temptation to begin “This post-up” and imagine the electronic void one writes into playing zone defense) is part III because I think the fabulous set of comments to my previous post constitutes “Reading habits, part II”,
Have been repeatedly making failed attempts at charting my reading habits in order to detect patterns and write about those patterns on this here blog with the hope that writing about the patterns will change them. What I’m finding is they change if I give any consciousness to their identification.
Spent some time in a clinic today, the waiting turning into an interesting duration (every time I encounter the word duration I think of Kenneth Koch staring off into space during an interview saying, “everything lasts a certain period of time….that’s very odd”)
I remembered recently the existence of a letter my stepfather, the British poet and novelist Douglas Oliver, wrote me thirteen years ago to explain, on my request, the series of experiments he conducted in his study of prosody and voicing, Poetry and Narrative in Performance. The book was published in 1989, and I think the recordings that he describes in the letter and the subsequent analyses (very densely related in the book) must have taken place a few years earlier. I’m very interested in the matters discussed in the letter, and as it will have been ten years this coming April since he died, Doug is very much on my mind. But the work he did is the point, and the focus of my attention, so I’d like to share this letter. The length of the letter necessitates it being divided into at least two posts. Doug is writing from Paris; I am 24 and living in San Francisco. To a very tiny extent the language and tone of the letter is pitched specifically to me, but I think it is by and large available to any interested reader:
Let’s face it; it’s an altered state. I started getting sick in San Diego – I felt shivers as I headed to dinner after the reading and I lay in bed at Roddey’s thinking what if I just fly home without even reading in LA. But I got up and felt a little better and did read and sat shaking lightly in a restaurant afterwards with my friends. Now it was just a question of how heavily it would
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