Everything referring to the novel is the novel."
"The novel is a description of itself."
The mechanical poet: 1. A hypothetical force abiding in chaos that generates
random elements of poetry in ordinary text and in life itself. 2. A kind of
demon who spoils good prose by peppering it with rhyming words; an importunate
rhyming that deflates the seriousness of a passage.
"Coincidence is to life as rhyme is to poetry. Discuss."
"Obsession is like making love with a microscope - an unspeakable attention to
detail. Lying with my cheek on his breast, I have gazed for hours at the
trembling reflection of copper light on the inward curve of a single hair."
"What if there was an accidental subtext running in the background of every
line of text (not a subconscious subtext but a completely mechanical one) that
could divert us from the story we are telling to a new story that we could be
telling? What if there were a multitude of such accidental stories running
parallel to an intentional story? Or if not parallel stories, then accidental
story directions, mechanical possiblities pulsing like a swarm of commentaries
or contra- dictions of the surface meaning? What if there was a kind of
spontaneous quantum art ready to shake to pieces the intention of every story
from within?"
THE MASKS
RAY - author and anti-hero, ego and alter-ego, locked in a reflexive embrace.
P.T. - Ray's son.
TEAGUE - Ray's lover, a mechanical designer.
ARCHIVES
october 2003
legends of the novel
- a literature of obsessions
10/30/2003 02:05:00 AM
LOVERS ANYMORE
Teague and I were propped up on opposite ends of the couch in my
livingroom after supper, reading, relaxing, our knees interlaced in the middle.
"Listen to this," I said to Teague, nudging him in the balls with my shin.
Teague looked up from the new catalogue he was reading ...
But a small digression ยป
The German machine parts catalogue Teague was reading that night was as
thick as the Gotham phone book or a family Bible but more like a phone book:
paper covers, densely printed pulp paper pages [pppp], small gray illustrations
of motors, pulleys, spindles, screws (Motoren, Riemenscheiben, Spindeln,
Schrauben). It had arrived at my door by parcel post that morning, addressed to
Teague. Apparently Mr O'Fallon the postman couldn't be bothered hunting for
Teague at Teague's place among Teague's maze of workshops - his many mansions,
as it were - for a signature anymore; so he brought the parcel to my door,
knowing I would be at home (home in my single mansion, as it were), homebody
that I was - reliably there - to sign, to receive, to be delivered unto, to
take what comes - Ray Plunkett, the postman's bitch.
By that time it seemed that everyone - even the post office - knew that
Teague and I were friends - lovers - associates - whatever.
When Teague arrived for supper that evening, I handed him the parcel.
"Everyone knows our business," I said. "Now they are delivering your
inconvenient mail here."
"I thought you were my inconvenient male here," said Teague.
Bastard. As quips go, that was cute and on cue, but it was quite the
opposite of the truth. I was not Teague's inconvenient male. Teague was my
inconvenient male. I was his convenience, reliably there. My door, my couch, my
livingroom, my availability. His convenience, his dirty socks on my couch, his
catalogue that I'd signed for. Ray Plunkett, the mechanic's bitch.
"You're obsessing about my catalogue, babe."
Shut the hell up, you.
Catalogue is an evocative word. It touches upon the mystery of my craft.
It signifies something important in my universe of ideas. You will noticed that
I spell it catalogue, rather than in the Amerikan fashion, catalog. When
there's a choice, I generally prefer the Amerikan spelling of English to the
British spellings affected by many people in my nation since the Fascist era.
But catalogue - Teague. You can see the connection. Or the connexion, as Teague
and I were taught to spell it in school, we children of Anglophile Fascism.
Catalogue is also an anagram of coagulate. You can see the connection.
Now I am trying to remember precisely what Mr O'Fallon the postman said
when he came to my door that morning.
"Package for Mr McTeague, can you sign for it, Mr Plunkett?"
Something like that. Mister and Mister. Very respectful.
You're right of course. It is impossible to read anything sinister into
the postman's words. But his assumption was unnerving - that I would be seeing
Teague soon, and that Teague's mail could be left in my care. "I'll see that he
gets it," I said.
"Only," continued Mr O'Fallon the postman, "there's never nobody home
over there at his house and I can't be bothered looking in all them sheds out
there anymore for someone to sign."
"I understand," I said, signing the receipt.
Over there, out there - the postman was referring to Teague's farm, the
back end of which butted against the back end of my property. But even so, our
houses were nearly a mile apart as the crow flies, and four miles apart by
road. There were at least forty stops on the postman's route between Teague's
mailbox and mine. And yet in Mr O'Fallon the postman's mind there was now a
short functional line connecting Teague to me that had nothing to do with the
crow line between our houses. It had nothing to do with geography at all. It
was an entirely social line roughly the length of a penis.
I could hear Mr O'Fallon saying to someone at the general store:
"There's not much geography between them two fellas now, if you know what
I mean, Missus. Not as the crow flies, not anymore."
Anymore.
That was the unnerving word.
Anymore is a marker. It marks a change in the world. Mr O'Fallon the
postman had said to me: "I can't be bothered looking in all them sheds out
there anymore," as if to say, "I used to search for Mr McTeague all over his
farm when I had a package for him but why bother now that he's fucking you and
you're always at home, Mr Plunkett, sir, and you being such a generous tipper
and all, and seeing how you see him every night as you do."
The corollary of anymore is from now on.
From now on Mr O'Fallon the postman would bring Teague's special delivery
mail to my door.
From now on, in the eyes of Mr O'Fallon the postman - in his brown
military style uniform that the Fascist's had designed for the civil service
decades earlier and which the postal service had stubbornly retained even after
the fascist regime vanished, a uniform the postman didn't clean or press from
one year to the next by the look of it - I was the natural caretaker of
Teague's mail.
"I understand, Mr O'Fallon," I said again, taking the package and
reaching into my sweater pocket for a crumpled fiver to give him for his
trouble.
"Thank you, Mr Plunkett, sir," said Mr O'Fallon, touching his cap.
"And a good day to you, Mr O'Fallon," said I, stepping back inside,
shaken, aghast.
That evening before supper, after I handed Teague the parcel, and after
he made his little joke about me being his inconvenient male, I asked him if he
had told Mr O'Fallon to bring his special delivery packages to my door to be
signed for. "No, not I," said Teague, "but that doesn't mean that someone else
at the farm didn't."
I hadn't thought of that.
"Do you mind if Mr O'Fallon brings my packages here to be signed for?"
asked Teague.
"Not at all," I said quickly. "I just don't like it when the world
changes suddenly and I am put in a position of responsibility without warning."
I told Teague about what the postman had said. I explained to him about
from now on and anymore. "Poe had his raven and nevermore," I said. "I have my
O'Fallon and anymore, tapping, tapping at my chamber door."
"So let me get this straight, Ray," said Teague. "You are upset by the
realization that you and I are from now on because we've been anymored by the
post office?"
"It's more complicated than that," I said.
"Nothing could be more complicated than that," said Teague.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
So Teague and I were propped up on opposite ends of the couch in my
livingroom after supper, reading, relaxing, our knees interlaced in the middle.
The mood had changed. P.T. had retreated to his room upstairs. The dishwasher
murmured like the distant lapping of waves in the kitchen. The television
labored in silence in the corner like a mute digging a hole. I had one of my
shins planted firmly against Teague's crotch. I was in the habit of nudging
Teague in the balls whenever I said: "Listen to this."
"Listen to this," I said -
"He terrified them greatly, relating ancient examples, and threw
them into an agony, saying, Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he
fall."
Teague captured my leg between his knees. "Who is he?" he asked, looking
up from his new catalogue of German machine parts.
"St. Paul," I said. "St. Paul terrified them greatly, relating ancient
examples. That's the phrase I like: Relating Ancient Examples. R.A.E."
"I wonder why," muttered Teague.
"Of course relating ancient examples is eight syllables," I said. "For
the central line of a haiku you would have to say relating old examples. Seven
syllables -
He terrified them
relating old examples:
take heed lest ye fall."
Teague laughed. "You're flying, baby," he said. His eyes drifted back to
his catalogue. He was highlighting items of interest with a squeaking orange
highlighter. "What are you reading anyway?" he asked.
He knew perfectly well what I was reading - a heavy volume from the works
of St. John Chrysostom. He'd got it down for me from a high shelf in my library
while I loaded the dishwasher after dinner.
"You know perfectly well what it is," I said. "St. Chrysostom, Homilies
on First Corinthians."
Teague grunted. "I don't know why you read that old trash," he said.
"Especially when you're high. It seems like a waste of a good fizz."
"I might say the same of you reading that fucking catalogue," I said,
lighting a cigarette. "But to answer your question, I am reading St.Chrysostom
for his fog of language. The fizz illuminates the fog."
"Don't hate my catalogue, baby," said Teague.
"Don't be stupid," I said. "I don't hate your catalogue. It's an anagram
of coagulate."
"What's an anagram of coagulate?" asked Teague.
"Catalogue is an anagram of coagulate," I said. "You can see the
connection."
"The connection between - ?"
"Catalogue, coagulate," I said.
"Baby, now I know you're flying," said Teague.
Teague was right. I was flying. The little pink pill I'd taken after
supper had taken hold of me very firmly.
"The little pink pill you took instead of supper, you mean."
Shut up, Teague.
I was watching my weight and was still a little too agitated from the
postman's visit to have an appetite that evening.
I knew from experience that it would become harder to read my book as the
fizz from the drug increased. Even now I wasn't really reading in the proper
sense. My eyes quivered across the page. Groups of words leapt up at me. It
took five or six attempts to string together the meaning of a sentence. My mind
raced ahead, filling in the gaps between the words with my own inventions.
Eventually I would have to put the book away. The print would blur into an
incomprehensible mush of letters, like objects hurtling by at great speed, like
looking down into fast moving water ...
"What's this?" I asked, looking at the cold glass in my hand.
"You asked for some water," said Teague.
"Did I?" I asked. I put the glass to my lips. The water snaked down my
throat of its own volition, leaving the glass dry and empty. Teague took it
from me.
I looked at my open book. Speedy release. The words pulsed at me from the
page. I labored backward along the deck of a tossing ship to gather in the rest
of the line: He gives patience and brings on a speedy release. "He gives his
patients speedy release," I said aloud. My stomach heaved when the ship's deck
dropped sharply beneath my feet.
I looked up from a vast darkness and noticed that somehow Teague had
swung his legs off the couch without me noticing. He was sitting hunched over
the coffee table rolling a joint. I sat up too and put St. Chrysostom aside. I
ran my hand up and down Teague's leg and across his naked chest. He had taken
off his shirt since the last time I'd seen him. His skin glowed with yellow
worms of light. I could feel them crackling with electricity under my fingers.
The television was no longer a silent prisoner. Music buzzed in my ears. I
leaned my head against Teague's tattooed shoulder and felt the muscles move
against my cheek as he worked on the joint. "What time is it, Sunshine?" I
asked.
"A little after nine-thirty," said Teague.
"How can it be nine-thirty already?" I asked. "I feels like
seven-thirty."
Teague shrugged.
In two and a half hours I'd read less than half a page.
"I was somewhere else, I guess," I said. A train of phantasmal memories
played on the edge of consciousness. "There was a sailing ship," I told Teague.
"And a doctor, thin as a stick, dressed in black, with a stovepipe hat ..."
"You seemed to be engrossed in your book," Teague said. "You only kicked
me in the balls a couple of times to read something to me."
"What did I say?" I asked.
Teague lit the joint and toked hard on it before handing it to me. "The
first time you said 'Listen to this' and then you didn't say anything at all.
But the second time you said: 'Sea-eyed lepers pace to the shore to watch for
speedy release.' Or it might have been sea-eyed leopards."
"No," I said. "Not leopards. Lepers. It's an anagram. Sea-eyed lepers is
an anagram of speedy release. They were at the sea shore looking for the ship
carrying the doctor dressed in black. "
"Yeah," said Teague. "You were talking to yourself about anagrams and
haikus. You always do when your flying lately."
"That's because I can do anagrams and haiku when I'm high," I said.
"Words become fluid, they dissolve."
"You also told me to shut the fuck up a couple of times," said Teague,
handing back the joint again.
posted by "ray_of_darkness"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
10/28/2003 10:00:00 AM
JANE
Ray wrote his first book, The Shadow in the Dove Cote, "in the toothless
jaws of a nightmare" (his words). He had researched the book during the year of
his father's death, but postponed the actual writing during his six week
engagement to Jane Guest and their subsequent marriage. He took up the work
again while Jane was pregnant with their son Peter Thomas, though he made very
little progress. Jane raved against the attention he paid to his writing and
also against his attention to the remodeling of the house he'd inherited from
his father. Then, a month before the child was due (or dew, as Jane spelled it
in her parting note to him), she left Ray to return to her parents in Cosmie.
As you no, our baby is dew in a few weeks. You will never see her
beatiful face. I wont give my pressus child to a man like you. I hate you shit.
I hope you fucking die alone out here as you like it you fuck up freak. Dont
try and call me or come for me. I wont go. I kill you if you come nere me or my
little girl. Jane.
This was by far the longest example of Jane's writing Ray had seen. When
he read dew in a few he began to laugh. I married a moron, he thought.
Obviously she'd begun the note in high hopes of striking a tragic Victorian
chord but by the time she realized she hadn't a clue how to spell precious
(there were two crossed out attempts before she'd settled for pressus), her
pathos turned to rage against him. And she managed to put As You Like It into a
sentence with fuck, fucking and freak. Ray thought it was hilarious.
One of the contractor's workmen wandered through the kitchen and saw Ray
laughing over the note. "My wife," said Ray. "Oh yeah?" replied the workman,
grinning.
Half an hour later Ray pasted the note into a blank ledger. (This was the
beginning of his collection of strange and illiterate texts.) By the time the
glue was dry enough to close the covers of the ledger, he was done with Jane.
She had been reduced to a curiosity, something pressed in a book. It never
occured to him to go after her or to call her parents. He was relieved she was
gone. He had never wanted a wife, never wanted a child. He hadn't asked for
either. They were handed to him by a blind fate and he had been too polite to
point out the mistake. He spent the rest of that day writing and in the evening
he seduced a thickset young plumbing subcontractor in an oversized plaid shirt
working late on the laundry room pipes. The plumber's expression of disgruntled
concentration while he worked and his flowing patterened shirt reminded Ray of
a figure from a ukiyo-e print. Both men wore gold bands. It was September. Ray
was twenty-one years and some months old.
posted by "a voice"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
10/27/2003 1:00:00 AM
FROM A WEBSITE
Reading a website, Ray happened on the sentence:
"The pea! ceful performances signify the essence of democratic
freedom."
In his developing science of accidental signs, Ray considered the
division of peaceful into two words by a stray exclamation point and a space to
be a marker.
"A marker of what?" a colleague asked him.
"A marker of nothing, an accident, a crash site," said Ray. "That is the
nature of an accident. It has no meaning, but it arrests the attention. The
flow of literate time slows, stops and reverses to curl around the accidental
marker. The accidental marker is a monument inscribed with an unknown language
-- or with no language at all. The act of being stopped will create its own
significance."
Ray noted that "peaceful performances" was an anagram of a manful creep
of creeps. "Democratic freedom" was a deferred, comic atom. "Signify the
essence" was shy genetic finesse. "Our language is built on shifting sand," he
muttered to himself.
posted by "a voice"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
10/26/2003 6:23:00 PM
GOOD TO BE ME
Teague (my lover) said: "Admit it, Ray, it's good to be you." He was in
one of his rah-rah Ray moods. Love, you know.
I said: "Good to be an anorexic drug addict? Yeah, it's great to be me.
Get the fuck out of my way."
Of course it is good to be me, but I would never admit it to Teague. I
can't let him know that I am capable of normal happiness.
posted by "ray_of_darkness"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
10/25/2003 12:00:00 PM
CHAOS
I followed chaos for twenty miles
before it let me pass -
now chaos follows me.
posted by "ray_of_darkness"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
10/24/2003 7:22:00 PM
THE DRUG PULSING
Haul Grimbush was preaching on the radio again. Ray would call him Hurs
Legginpudt or Rush Piglettdung in his novel. Both were anagrams of purged
sunlight, the first words of a poem -
Purged sunlight, the drug pulsing
Dark legs hung from the gibbet with care .
But that, thought Ray, was not quite it.
posted by "a voice"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
10/23/2003 2:30:00 AM
RAY GETS A SPAM E-MAIL
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
Subject: Re: Ray I'm fully confident nowadays he sorry to say has solid
snags!
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
Greetings Ray!
Hope you know David Cole? Hope he unfortunately has difficult nuisances!
Prove this page to help him!
[a non-functional link]
With love, Annemarie Rouch.
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
Great unexpected transnational bounty from Angela or your colleague and
ally Tim Hank. To remove from this incredible nippy international tips, send
any email at Without charge here darling Ray: [another non-functional link].
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
Ray printed a copy of the e-mail and pasted it in one of his notebooks.
It was a perfect piece of unintentional gibberish.
The proper names fascinated him. Who was Angela? Who was Tim Hank? He
noted in the margin that "Annemarie Rouch" was a very transparent anagram of
un-American hero.
"David Cole" was an anagram of loved acid, or old advice, or valid code,
or a cold dive . video clad . dildo cave. "Tim Hank" wasn't anything - mink
hat, knit ham .
But it warmed Ray to think that his colleague and ally Mink Hat Tim Hank,
and the mysterious Angela, were bearing great unexpected transnational bounty
in his direction. Ray envisioned them standing on heaps of jewels and golden
ewers that spilled in rivulets from their magic carpet soaring across the sea.
posted by "a voice"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Unless otherwise stipulated, the blog script and web design, and all
text, images, omissions errors and song and dance herein were created by P.R.
Pottelberg, sometime after December 21, 1958. E-mail [email protected]
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