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Fellow Kitty Cats/those born to it/those not:

By Bhanu Kapil

Hi. Although I have been taking some considerable pleasure in the space beneath this one, and though I am also in some kind of hollowed out part of the landscape in Vermont, I thought I ought to overcome what was threatening to become, as David Buuck says, [bioperversity]. Have not yet figured out how to ittalicize words on Kitty Cat Blogger. 

Well, my massive plan is, having calmed down, which took a paragraph, to present, over a period of three months or so, my research into the field of carnal lithography.   “Architecture, event and geology co-incide in the GIS map to produce indigo nodes.  These nodes burst, spilling into the grid, which is silver, beneath, and map-like.”  Something like that.  Yesterday, I read Mei-mei Bersenbrugge’s essay, “New Form”, in Samosa Man Cafe in Montpelier.  Samosa Man turns out to be from the Congo and I wanted to meet him, but he wasn’t there.  The waitress blasted the music and I sat in a bit of sun at an orange plastic table, where I wrote out Mei-mei’s  sentence* in my notebook: “[The poem] is that particular conjunction of events which includes the history of your body, your experience and your art vertically, and the time and circumstances you are in horizontally…”

Not shabby.  There was more, but then a great glittering filled the air outside the window — shelves of snow blowing off the roof of the buildings across the street.  So I went outside, and as I stood on the sidewalk looking up, Samosa Man arrived, presumably to put some more savory  pastries in the oven in time for the lunchtime rush.  I stuck out my foot to trip him up, and he stumbled. 

*What is a sentence for?

I can see that being on the upper floors is going to be a tricky business.  Already, I am too formal and telling all sorts of lies.  Samosa Man was in Wisconsin, for example, visiting his newborn niece.  Indeed, I did not even feel the need-in-retrospect to have revenged myself upon him, had he been there, as his misuse of the North Indian snack form — deep fried triangular dough stuffed with chicken and cheese, with hummous on the side — was wierdly delicious.

Plus, I’m a lady so I used my napkin, already putting me “less at risk,” as the poet/mutated novelist Douglas Martin said to me last night, late, over tiny cups of tulsi peppermint tea, “for thrashing about.”  Thrashing?  “Yes,” said Douglas, “thrashing.”

Comments (9)

  • On January 10, 2010 at 9:12 pm Dusty Pullman wrote:

    Bhanu admitted she lied about tripping the Samosa Man- though I know his sure feet would have prevented a fall. It was me she tripped in paragraph two. I’ve fallen, slipping through the snow, snacks and tea. As I get up, I’m looking for this map, the silver grid, and I want to see what else comes out of those nodes, and when. More please!

  • On January 10, 2010 at 10:01 pm Thom Donovan wrote:

    do you notice, Bhanu, the way we are all gazing in our bio photographs? curious. tricky business indeed. you are the master of incorporating these lines of prose that are completely self-conscious in the most refreshing ways. not a dialogue with yourself per se, but an interruption of ‘your’ voice with a voice I recognize entirely as your own having heard you read on Penn Sound and now–via Harriet–on the phone. peace to Douglas, who I also adore. great to see you in dialogue with Mei-mei’s work which I associate with your own preoccupations. I like that you are treating your blogging at Harriet as a think tank/research. throw some stuff up on the ‘wall’ and see what sticks… can’t wait to hear more of your thots on “carnal lithography.” thinking of posting my own thots later this week on a great dance piece I saw this afternoon, which involved reenactments of scenes from James Dean films and a dance called the “crazy face”…

  • On January 10, 2010 at 10:38 pm Sina Queyras wrote:

    The “unreliable” narrator is always the one I trust.

  • On January 11, 2010 at 3:29 pm Bhanu Kapil wrote:

    Yes, we look utterly demented. Sina looks half way normal, as if she could conceivably be about to order a chocolate croissant, but the rest of us — it’s all one big diagonal line. I look forward to your dance post. You are like a genius of some kind. And, yes, exactly that. Splatter. I mean, what you said. Above. Splatter is a horrible word.

  • On January 11, 2010 at 3:31 pm Bhanu Kapil wrote:

    Hmm. We shall have to discuss this. In the short term, don’t pick up any hitch-hikers waving oil cans, as if they need a ride back to their car.

  • On January 11, 2010 at 3:35 pm Bhanu Kapil wrote:

    I would suggest going out and purchasing, let’s see, some washcloths, and perhaps some wellington boots. A raincoat. A briefcase or handbag made entirely of recycled inner tubes. You’re going to need them (water resistant purchases, cleaning products and outer wear) when those nodes “pop.” It will not be pretty. In fact, it will be disgusting.

  • On January 12, 2010 at 2:51 pm Anji wrote:

    I’ve arrived at this post late via snowshoeing and pre three legs of flight so I’ll use this sentence to communicate through the ceiling GIGANTICALLY: I love Vermont!

    ps Someone asked me if the initials of the degree indicated Furniture Arts. I said yes, I did do a lot of sitting.

  • On January 13, 2010 at 12:39 am Janna Plant wrote:

    Is the sentence a vein? Does it comprise the vascular origins of a text, carrying/pumping the blood/ideas through the various organs of a text? Is a sentence a way in, a way out–a charged line approaching the vertical through the horizontal?

  • On January 13, 2010 at 4:06 pm Bhanu Kapil wrote:

    Vascular, endocrine: a paragraph as nervous system. Lovely. With the sense, too, that making a cut would start a bleed. Blood all over the pages.

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Posted in Uncategorized on Sunday, January 10th, 2010 by Bhanu Kapil.