Poem From Page 45 of the Butterfly Notebook

If a house holds old things of you;
such as you, leant on a wall
trying to cry to ‘An Ending: Ascent

or you, sat on a step
the salmon carpet wet with tears
your hair, the faintest warmness

even you, on the dark landing
taking a glance into partial rooms
where concepts of girlhood collide

It will also hold the sublime
the purposeless snare trap of time
things you can see, but never know –

A few of a godfather’s schoolbooks
a toolchest full of tools and old signs
and those we love, who see us with sad eyes.

Watching Scraps: It Happened One Night & Alien: Covenant

What happens one night? Well, Cary Grant’s lead decides to stalk a lady on the night bus. His intentions are pure, of course, because in this universe, sex only exists under very specific conditions.

She’s just too stupid to get along! He carries her across the country, and in the process, she falls in love with him. He isn’t sure whether to reciprocate at first, but then he decides to make a 3 hour drive to New York, write an article of several pages, and then return to the motel in another epic 3 hour drive, before she wakes up, to accept her love. And would you know it, he doesn’t quite make it in time!

In a famous scene, it is implied Claudette Colbert’s lead can stop a car with her stockinged leg, although the driver actually stops to pick them up with the aim of stealing their things. Really, they were both as useless as each other at hitching a ride. In order to get around the censors, they had to hang up a sheet in-between the two beds, just to air the room of the scent of sex enough, so that any taste of it is left til the last scenes, where they order a trumpet and blow it in an admittedly quite clever reference, and strong commitment to the bit. It’s a seven degrees of separation from sex scene.

There’s this thing about the black and white 4:3 format. It’s cute, and harmless, largely due to the vast machinery of censorship that hovers over it like an gargantuan pair of invisible scissors. From time to time this mechanism becomes very visible, as the lead actors disappear from the screen for the last 10 mins of the film, largely due to the fact that they’re going to fuck. As a result, I always feel safe when i’m watching these films. Not that i’m afraid of sex, in fact 4:3 films censored for violence etc. but not sex, would probably be the most amazingly comforting genre. I couldn’t speculate as to what form the sex would take – it’s hard to imagine the specifics.

It’s just that the 16:9 aspect ratio in colour opens onto a world where dangerous things could happen at any time. In black and white, 4:3, you’re always safe. No one’s going to get their face torn off, no one’s going to try and destroy the foundations to a world. Or at least, any such intentions have long lost their bite, that world has already fallen to pieces in war after war, and been restructured and sold off. We have become ‘desensitised’. Or rather, the work of sensitisation has relaxed. Along with it went much of the legislative frameworks enforcing morals in the movies.

Or is it the phenomenology of the fissure between our world and the black and white world? Because Le Chien Andalusian wants to disturb us, of course. But the lack of colour and general frame rate and world of the early films, but also their distance from us historically, helps place them in categories away from the threatening.

The other day I watched Alien Covenant. They called them ‘Grand Guignol’ elements, faces getting torn off etc. Aliens popping out of unexpected places, backs, throats… Relating covenant even back to Alien (1979) it seems there is a loss of heart. Maybe that is specific to Ridley Scott’s trajectory. Or maybe it’s how the realistic depiction of gore relates to its time. My dad couldn’t bear the chest popping scene in that original film, but I find it a bit squeamish though not disturbing. But events in Covenant disturbed me, through their disinterest in the people they were happening to. John Hurt always seemed human, throughout everything that was happening to him.

But I wasn’t interested in that, as such. Covenant felt without hope, at least not human hope. Whereas in the 1979 film, there is always the hope that Ripley survives, and lives a safe life, regardless of what happens in those later films. There is even an element of this in Prometheus (2012) which has this kind of hopeful ending, which is then betrayed in an ahuman fashion in Covenant, without even allowing Elizabeth Shaw to have her say on screen in the latter. But apparently Scott has decided that those films are about robots from now on.

Frank Capra’s 1934 film gave me nothing to worry about, and that’s partly down to the fact that it’s a ‘screwball comedy’, but it’s also down to the fact that I knew I didn’t have to worry about anything. Everything would be okay. The censors ensured it. Who plays this role in our time? Our friends who recommend us films, and reassure us. But it’s better that it’s now a choice, a choice to let possibilities and their danger in. A choice watch an old film.

Moana

In looking for happiness right where you are
Or farthest-star following
What if you find that happiness requires
The acquisition of skeletons
What if the last leap turns into a fall?

And you hit the golden rocks by the sea
Or are dragged down into it
By the weight of all these childish things.
What if to be happy, you must
Take someone else’s happiness without hesitation?

What if I am not strong enough to harm
In the end the one whom I love
Who is stopping me from being happy;
No new island without castaways;
Oh I know who I am, I know. And it is not good!

Aphorisms II

There is a beautiful pathos of history in the fact that the totalising force and the absolutist will always be dogged by those with a blog. The might of the word, of knowledge, is similar to the might of the ocean. You may divert its force for a time, but it will flatten all land eventually. You may think you can divert it. But once something is realised, it stays realised.

*

When I hear someone exasperate about the internet, I always think – which comment annoyed you today? Which site fractured your sense of comfort in knowledge? Because of course, there is no such thing as the internet. There are only individual users, and groups… But then, that’s not quite right. The word – internet – like the word – society – has an image or sectional meaning whenever used in this way. It comes accompanied with – a comment section filled with drivel – the endless mass of opinions – lists of reviews, one to five stars, each with their set of entries… And I can’t help but think of this, whenever someone says ‘what’s wrong is the internet’ or jokes that… If it weren’t for the internet, we’d all be happy. The internet, they say, like a compulsion, their fingers itching to pick up a dustpan and brush, or an EMP device. I wonder if they know how they seem to us? We who have lived in the internet. They merely adopted the internet. We were born in it, moulded by it…

*

One was not born, but rather became, man. Or, the same, we can say that a newborn has a biological history, but not as yet, a cultural history. But why the past tense? ‘Man’ is dead – now, there is man. Because Man in our cultures was rarely defined against something, it was so throughout, so hegemonic, that it became such that it was never thrown into question. What an incredible amount of violence and ignorance must have been undertaken to reach that point, where everything other was buried beyond sight. But now those who work to define themselves as men, do it against the woman, the other, the beyond. That they do this is a symptom that they have already become different.

Or is this too simple – for who wrote the books, the newspapers, owned the presses? Rich Men knew their rich world, keeping the right company, having all the weapons. And so there must be a history of people outside, in the countryside, in the underground, out of ear-shot, who did not pay heed to the shouting and babbling of homoerotic joy at ‘Man’ (though of course that has its place.) These are the people who have so quickly in our time wrested their voice and as a byproduct of that process, ‘Man’ was destroyed. Their existence was only expected in a crude, partial way, in small encounters soon pushed from the mind. Or their behaviour was put into categories beyond thought. Or, they were simply ignored, kept from the true accounts, as the image was forging. It is an image with a great inner weakness that is destroyed simply by the existence of difference.

*

Since the old world is dead on its feet, we need only to keep living how we want, in order to push it softly into its grave. Culture is dead, long live culture.

*

Postmodernity is partly the realisation that we are animal, and much culture is therefore arbitrary. The kinds of firework show deviations from the past through so-called primitive art, and geometric shapes, becomes ubiquitous, and beautiful. This is the universalism, channeled and shaped consciously or unconsciously by architects through international capitalism, delusions of true rememberance and projection of power into giant capital structures like Shanghai.

*

Information of a thing can infuse its phenomena, knowing this or that makes it seem ‘yes, that should be like that’. A brutalist building could seem cold or totalitarian, but when you know it was built in response to dead aristocratic imitation of imperial forms, and built for the use of normal people, then it seems warm, and loving, and clears the air.

*

My brain has a buffer zone for target words – I see the word Manchester, and then type it into my phone – I’m going to… Manchester. But the word I saw has overridden what I originally meant to say – the shop. The target is replaced by a functionally similar word, but never by an ungrammatical word. One of my colleagues will talk along with me, almost to the point of mimicking everything I say. Watching or hearing speech is so bound up with speaking that they sometime bleed into each other.

*

Perfect translation is an oxymoron. That there is no such thing as a perfect translation is a tautology. We may say that the only perfect translation is the same sentence written out twice, and read twice by the same person, and even then we have problems.

*

People make more sense when we consider the regimes of meaning they move within, what commanding concepts structure or hold important nodes within their connectome – be it atoms, material, science, or with friends, of days and nights out, of love or sex, or of politics – of ideals or utopias, or realism coloured by nationalism, or by history, or by strategy, or of faith or religious cultus, or of meditativeness of the moment, or of the smallness or greatness of the moment, or the worst of all, just doing stuff no matter what it is. And all of this might be more or less hidden, or subtextual.

I move from regime to regime, depending on which regime has disappointed me most recently. If I think the answers rest in friendship (which I mostly do) then I consciously try live in this regime of meaning, where we do what we say we will do, and honour and love each other. I succeed to varying degrees. This is all just a fancy way of talking about what really matters to us.

*

Can Descartes’ answer to the problem of life be boiled down to this; we are in the care of a great and powerful illusionist, one who cares for us greatly, who feeds us our worlds out of love for us, coddling us. Within this illusion, other, smaller, illusions are spun to make us doubt them and in deepen our trust in the greater illusion.

*

One might say that if we knew everything about someone, we could say exactly what they would do in a situation. But what kind of arrogance is this? We don’t know everything about anybody. And nevertheless, such a someone can still have good reasons for their actions. They may still deliberate, and act, they can still be free.

Collapse

In the winter sun I saw, a gold
forest of leaveless trees appear.
It was warm in the shower and the wind
could be heard at night on the eaves.
I played games on the evening
and in the morning I played games.
The tangle of ideas has become full
and the temptation arises of a sword.
Stupid people say stupid things
and I cannot be sure of my difference.
I cannot be sure of the world
but I can be sure of the deep house.
I drink stimulants all day,
and in the morning I drink stimulants.
My heart is a construct of ideas
of the faster beat and slower thought.
I cannot be sure of my body,
my thoughts of my body are dark mirrors.
I hold inside me a red liquid
I hold in my hands a rare earth element.
In the winter sun I saw dirt on the screen,
and the night wind brought desert dust.
I am a rare earth element, they know
my paranoia grows and shrinks in ceaseless
patterns I never see coming or going.
It was warm in the shower as I heard
the guitar be generated by movement.
The tangle of ideas is a symptom
of competing interests concieved as a whole.
I cannot be sure of the political body
as its organs revolve, unconnected.

*

In the stream of time games appear
and the faint sound of choirs.
Things repeat and repeat and I hold
within me this repetition and outside
the wind flicks between warm and cold.
I hold my loved ones close
I hold my hands clasped in the darkness.
The answers I have found to crumble
and rebuild, and repeat only in torn
forms like recycled paper used for chips
or packing paper used to wrap objects.
Words lie in ranks on the tablecloth.
Connections form and are lost again,
being lines between lost things.
In the christmas quiet I heard peace.
In the blue fire of the hob,
small fragments of history gave us heat.
The world is an organic simulation.
Time pours through us and damages us.
The tangle of ideas rests in parallel lines
and smoothes out the kind of fear we feel.
The fire is warm on an evening
the sting of heat on my legs
the sound of ancient voices from my childhood
and far off trumpets and the brightness.
Another year passes, I cope more easily.
In the christmas quiet I heard peace.

*

And what is there to say
when all stories are noise
and all stories are equal in their relation
to the void and what is there to say
and what is worth saying
when all words are noise and void
And all stories are at risk.
From day to day I tumble from this mood to that
and often forget what I have said and believed.
From day to day my purse grows lighter and heavier.
From day to day the world goes darker
and darker and brighter and hotter.

From day to day the clouds pass over the face of the sky and the moon’s blank eye and I.
If they do not care to save the earth
Why should we care for them?
If they do not care to save the earth
Why should we care for them?

*

But in the end, the sun enfolds the trees
and as I gaze at the page, it watches me.
Collapse is a strange thing, it threatens,
but never quite finishes with us –
My heart is a construct of golden ideas
a web, a force, a soul, a sun tower.
The future cannot help, but out of the present
it flowers, and we can help ourselves.
In the sun, I see, a winter sun behind a sea
of branches, there where i lose myself
to find what there is to see

The Ship of Alexandria

Out of the bay the new ship
empty, and in the hold
scrolls are worked on
categorised

later, years later
the fires, the repairs made
of flotsam

And each time something falls
or a scroll falls apart
something else takes place.

Purpose holds, to go on
into the sea,
and the ship sinks, over years

Ropes and nets, and shark’s teeth
whale bones.

Slowly, slowly, falling apart,
til one day, with a shock
it’s sunk

And the clear waves roll over
nothing was ever here

The Book of Graves and Memorials

Here follows a manuscript file I found on a mini SD card inserted into an otherwise blank smartphone with a cracked screen that was donated to the recycling centre at my local dump. It is listed here due to elements of internal interest, but in the end, perhaps it should have been left to decay in a landfill site, six feet down, amongst the plastic bag, the VHS, and the compact disc, and trays and trays of silver-plated cutlery. – Gapuchin, 2019

0 INTRO

to cope with the private nocturnal terrors I began to revel in them, to smile. To clasp my hands as if in prayer, in a simulation of an older time. I mean, it gave me something to do, which helped. And many years afterwards I began to design graves, in what may be another way of coping with certain facts of living. But what counts as coping?

That we are not here on a certain future date, does not mean we have no stake in what goes on he with us. Of course we have many views of the function of grief and mourning and their socially emergent ceremonies. I don’t really mind about all that.

GRAVES – please select from the list:

i

Calcify my body in the cross of the flames, with a little hinged door. Make sure the door is charred as the abyss on the inside, so even the brightest fire couldn’t light it up even a fraction of a fraction. So that while my body burns, it sees the darkness and remains calm. Then once all is ash and dust you take that ash and dust and sweep it all up with a black dustpan and brush.

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