Ten Ways to Put Together an Airplane
|February 22, 2013|
by Noah Eli Gordon
Turn toward the undifferentiated vastness in the first of all flowers.
Turn partly in delight & partly inspired by the sick awe of rebirth.
Turn a weakness of the libido into the asset of a well-stocked garage.
Shatter utopian tendencies against the earthly ballast that anchors them.
Turn a spiritual aspiration into the ill-omened echo of a dog’s far-off cry.
Turn all animals into theologians, psychotherapists, classicists, & art critics.
This theory would liken flight to a kind of castration of the intellect.
Engage in nothing on the fringe of everyday activities save that of forgetfulness.
Turn the sonnet like a saw blade upon the woodsy fixity of received form.
Launch into the air an asexual organ of reproduction. Say it: fuel equals fear.
About the Author:
Noah Eli Gordon is the co-publisher of Letter Machine Editions, an editor for The Volta, and an assistant professor in the MFA program in creative writing at the University of Colorado at Boulder, where he currently directs Subito Press. His recent books include THE YEAR OF THE ROOSTER (Ahsahta Press, 2013), THE SOURCE (Futurepoem Books, 2011), and Novel Pictorial Noise (Harper Perennial, 2007). More info can be found here.
Inherent Vice’s Two Directions
The jokes certainly strike one as sophomoric and the latter one as clichéd, further below Pynchon’s intelligence than one would like to think he would stoop, at least in print. Discounting them and moving on, or throwing the book across the room as Parker half implies we should do, however, would be to lose sight of “that high magic to low puns”.
Auden, Larkin and Love
I was prompted to revisit these ancient questions anew by a long footnote about a single line in the new Complete Poems edition of Philip Larkin’s poetry. The footnote refers to “An Arundel Tomb” contains a provocative remark about that the poem’s celebrated, controversial, closing line, the one about the true nature of immortality: “What will survive of us is love.”
Plato, Our Comrade?
Not surprisingly, there have already been critics of Badiou’s translation. The first is that his translation breaks the formal rules of translation to such a degree that the original meaning of the text has lost its significance. But this critique is inadequate at face value because Badiou’s hyper-translation is forthright in its intention of taking Plato’s concepts and modifying them into his own lexicon.
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The hour changes time into other forms of desire. A woman needs no bra in summer. A kiss after a fuck. A way to depart. She spends her entire life preparing to leave, play with verbs and nouns and syllables but there is no language for what we can’t give. Lovemaking isn’t about love; it’s about making a noise or a rhythm, arranging a life, giving an order, the way we weep on a wish to wash it away.