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NIGHT ANSWER To 93rd Street Mayo Sleeping in this fey EmailZola@GUIana.compartment -- No visions, Only clausetrophe-hope-ic body parts inside! my fingers, shutters. Tracing your skin no more hurts. No reason! Your egotism is anathema to hope and virtue becomes, Of course, they become, as we watch, their film noir alcoholic mother... [I wonder who they'll get to play the part of you.] Probably some auto-mated farm machinery I think Antoinin Artaud for me. ["It'll be the COUP OF THE CENTURY, JD! -- they're goin' for this Anti-Web stuff these days, see?"] You should see me more often; since it's you made me a celebrity; You're not being fair to yourself -- so cruel, so looonely of you to yourself Not to indulge that insane cowardly sadism Disguised as freedom in black lace polyester rhetoric :/: ["Hey it sounds good, what's it called?" "...Named: West End 'Bar'" :]/: Won't mind either when they release it -- and Maybe they'll be able to afford using real musicians (set damage insurance) For the lovers looking To replace our selves(0) our selves(2) = "so cruel, so lonely of you" (;) All those popcorn Toledo lotharios and femmes loving him and hating her :/: In such strange dreams; I'm having too, Mayo: Dreams of airplanes again :/: these days :/; It's wind from dreamwork inside their vault Behind my facin'side. @ Wallace Darwen Brindle 1999

Wallace Stevens [1879 -- 1955] OF MODERN POETRY The poem of the mind in the act of finding What will suffice. It has not always had To find: the scene was set; it repeated what Was in the script. .............Then the theatre was changed To something else. Its past was a souvenir. It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place. It has to meet the men of the time and to meet The women of the time. It has to think about war And it has to find what will suffice. It has To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and With meditation, speak words that in the ear, In the delicate ear of the mind, repeat, Exactly, that which it wants to hear, at the sound Of which, an invisible audience listens, Not to the play, but to itself, expressed In an emotion as of two people, as of two Emotions becoming one. The actor is A metaphysician in the dark, twanging An instrument, twanging a wiry string that gives Sounds passing through sudden rightnesses, wholly Containing the mind, below which it cannot descend, Beyond which it has no will to rise. ...............................It must Be the finding of a satisfaction, and may Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman Combing. The poem of the act of the mind. Columbia Anth Of American Poetry, Jay Parini, New York, 1995 [definite "buy"]

The Opening of Saul Bellow's Novel: Humboldt's Gift. [Pulitzer Prize] The book of ballads published by Von Humboldt Fleisher in the Thirties was an immediate hit. Humboldt was just what everyone had been waiting for. Out in the Midwest I had certainly been waiting eagerly, I can tell you that. An avant-garde writer, the first of a new generation, he was handsome, fair, large, serious, witty, he was learned. The guy had it all. All the papers reviewed his book. His picture appeared in "Time" without insult and in "Newsweek" with praise. I read "Harlequinn Ballads" enthusiastically. I was a student at the University of Wisconsin and thought about nothing but literature day and night. Humboldt revealed to me new ways of doing things. I was ecstatic. I envied his luck, his talent, and his fame, and I went east in May to have a look at him--perhaps to get next to him. The Greyhound bus, taking the Scranton route made the trip in about fifty hours. That didn't matter. The bus windows were open. I had never seen real mountains before. Trees were budding. It was like Beethoven's Pastorale. I felt showered by the green within. Manhattan was fine, too. I took a room for three bucks a week and found a job selling Fuller Brushes door to door. And I was wildly excited about everything. Having written Humboldt a long fan letter, I was invited to Greenwich Village to discuss literature and ideas. He lived on Bedford Street, near Chumley's [-see Edna St. Vincent Millay biogs (W-ed-B)]. First he gave me black coffee, and then poured gin in the same cup. "Well, you're a nice-looking enough fellow, Charlie," he said to me. "Aren't you a bit sly maybe? I think you're headed for early baldness. And such large emotionally handsome eyes. But you certainly do love literature and that's the main thing. You have sensibility," he said. He was a pioneer in the use of this word. Sensibility later made it big. Humboldt was very kind. He introduced me to people in the Village and got me books to review. I always loved him. ^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^ Note: For the real life Von Humboldt Fleisher, you want Delmore Schwartz (1913-1966). ........... Daphne....I need another copy of Mailer's Harlot's Ghost soon, well...ASAP. Please check first the confabulabellette near one of my big, Paddy Chayefsky Network windows; we must send a copy to North Carolina STAT! YOU README! -Daph?......["........#@%$&&*#"] ~~thank~you~Daphne~~... --Wallace db [de boss]

~Option 1.1.a of n.n.n : The Cabaret Voltaire Discussion Boards CENTRAL BUREAU ~Option 1.2.b of n.n.n Discussion Group #1: W. S. Burroughs-J. Cage-A. Artaud Group ~Option 1.2.c of n.n.n Discussion Group #2: E. Kant's Critique of Pure Reason