Everything in Generalities

sunday

making an honest to god mixtape, made cashew cheese, making mini pizzas on sourdough slices with cashew cheese and homemade pepperoni for dinner, froze a bunch of leftovers, made chili, made breakfasts for the week, transferred a lot of the pantry into labeled glass jars, cleaned out the fridge, listened to Mega Bog/Remambran/Front Bottoms/Tree Hopping all day, blinds open, windows open, 

Brian Dillon - Sanctuary

On yet another trip to SFMOMA to see the Serra exhibit and Sharon Lockhart’s Lunch Break before they both moved on, I wandered around the shop afterwards and ended up spending more than I meant to, but the catalogue for the Serra was on sale for 30 bucks, and they had a rather nice sweatshirt that ended up being way too big for me, and in the criticism section, misfiled to be sure, I found this slight thing. It’s a beautiful object. Smaller than a paperback, cloth-bound in blue with contrasting red lettering. The word “Sanctuary” large in front, and a glowing blurb by McCarthy (also in red) on the back. I was predisposed to like it from a purely aesthetic standpoint, but then I started reading it, holding a sweatshirt and a heavy exhibition catalog and fell a tiny bit in love.

Once I got it home, my plan was to read it in one go, some Sunday afternoon at Arbor, drinking coffee and maybe a beer before heading home; but as soon as I started it in earnest I knew I should give it more than an afternoon. So I gave it a week. 91 pages. Dipping in and out, re-reading, taking it slowly. I am, by nature a fast reader, but this book begs to be given time, room to breathe.

This is a story of themes more than actions. It’s a story of memory, love, loss, and pain. A woman arrives in a remote town, ostensibly for work (art criticism and editing), but it’s also the last place the man she loved was seen. A filmmaker, he was exploring the ruins of an old seminary built in what sounds like the Brutalist tradition, all imposing concrete forms with sharp angles never quite sharp thanks to the material, cold, immovable. In 91 pages she has a migraine, eats food, recalls moments of love and frustration, explores, puts off more exploring, questions her own grief, takes walks, rides buses, and finally explores fully, attempting to walk in what she assumes were his last steps.

And while that’s a pretty accurate summary, it misses what makes me love this. There is a patience to the writing, and an obsessive attention to detail. Sanctuary feels old. Dillon spends pages describing the way concrete can break down, describing what goes on inside the walls and why they are failing. There are pages on the structural problems the building faced, the history of this place that was meant for something so traditional but designed and built with only the new in mind. These things clashed, and neither is good or bad, or rather neither is described as such. The lost filmmaker was obsessed with these tensions, with the difference between use and design; but he was also obsessed with telling the building’s story. Not the story of the building, or the story about the building’s failing, but the story of the building itself. The woman describes at one point how the filmmaker said he felt the only way to really tell the story would be through the remnants of the building itself, that the story was contained in the failing concrete, the broken stairs, the wooden beams fallen to the ground, the dust and dirt and water and new animal life. The only way he could tell the story was to go there, to be in these things. For her, the story of him is to be told by examining his obsession, examining the notes he left, revisiting all the conversations they had, and finally, by going herself, and climbing through the fence. The only way to understand is to go to the seminary.

In some ways, Dillon’s writing does more than beg to be given time, it demands it, quietly, patiently. There is no forward movement, or very little. There is no plot pulling forward. There are mysteries, questions unanswered, but no answers, no resolution, because the unanswered questions are really about the people, and this is not a book about people. Again, the only way to understand is to go to the seminary.

This is a book about a place, and the filmmaker and the art critic are there to help Dillon explore that building. That is why we don’t need the answers, because the questions she asks herself are for herself, they are tangential to the real purpose, to give that building, not a voice, but its due. The old seminary is not a character, it is a structure, that is never in question, but it is the focus. And in 91 pages Dillon lovingly describes for us each detail from a number of perspectives. The art critic who associates every new room, every new discovery with the filmmaker, the filmmaker’s obsessive interest that describes the building via context and history before even setting foot in it, and finally a detached view, associated with no character, just simple italics delivering the most detail of the three. Describing with care the cement, the wood, the dirt, the air, the light the decay, the building as it is now.  And that’s key to me, that both the critic and filmmaker try to understand the seminary but always turn back to either personal associations or historical context. Those italicized portions really get it.

McCarthy mentions the nouveau roman in his blurb, and it’s apt. The seminary is the reason this novella was written, and in 91 beautiful pages Dillon gives it its due.

Prague Cemetery

I finished the new Umberto Eco novel today, Prague Cemetery. I described it in about 47 different ways to various people, trying to get at the core of what made me like it and feel distanced from it all at the same time.

It’s an odd book, like Eco’s fiction can be. His focus on history can lead to a pretty glacial narrative pace. That’s definitely the case here, it’s not a fast book, and not an easy one. Honestly, the fictional conceit throughout the entire thing “Is the protagonist two people or one person with split personalities?!” is pretty flimsy and once you realize just how much of the book is based in history (the only completely fictional character is Simonini, the protagonist) it’s obvious that his purpose isn’t so much to have some fictional hook as to nod to the real multiplicity contained within this one character. So after it’s all over you realize just how brilliant it is, even if while in progress you’re wondering why it’s even necessary. (And don’t worry I haven’t spoiled anything for you, this isn’t really a book you can spoil.)

That aside, it really is a wondrous thing. The prose is sharp, clear and at times profoundly uncomfortable, befitting a book about some of the most famous/infamous conspiracy theories published, more specifically the ones devoted to devil worship, Masonic cults and anti-semitism. It’s an attempt to condense the history of these conspiracies into one line, one trajectory, and it does so elegantly. 

There’s a purity of purpose to Eco’s writing that I really like. When he writes fiction it’s incredibly focused, and an honest expression of his obsessions and historical interests. Sure, at times the fiction can drag, and the plot at times bows to the history, but Eco never manages to make it feel like a Neal Stephenson book can, where instead of attempting to integrate research and fiction you get these weird alternations between research and fiction. Eco marries them together seamlessly, even if he sacrifices some of the rip-roaring fiction rollercoaster-ness he could provide. He is a sober writer, writing about for the most part sober things and while I wouldn’t want to only read him, I’m always glad when I do. He expects a lot from the reader, it feels, and it’s always kind of nice to follow him on whatever winding path he takes you down, at whatever pace he chooses.

(hat tip to Chris Remo’s write up for pushing me to read this. I’ve liked Eco for awhile but had lost track and wasn’t aware this came out till I read his post.)

Ben Owen - Birds and Water, 1

It was a surprise, although a pleasant one no doubt, to get some tapes from Notice Recordings a week or so ago. The Ben Owen one “Birds and Water, 1” being the most immediately exciting. I’ve made my way through a few times now and have to say, it’s rather a lovely little thing. (it has actually refused to leave my cassette deck, so the others are waiting patiently)

Side A struck me as both patient and insistent, at times loud and full, at other times quiet and full. There’s a fuzzines to the whole side, like every part of this is covered in a film, sometimes heavier sometimes lighter. That fuzziness lends a nice cohesion across the 45 or so minutes. Not to say it feels fractured though, even with some pretty drastic shifts in tone and volume. All 45 minutes feel very deliberate, each shift placed just so, each section ending just when, etc.

It’s hard to put a finger on just why exactly I like this so much. But I do like it so much. In some ways there’s a pleasing simplicity to the proceedings. While there is assuredly a lot happening, soft crunch and hum and whine in various forms throughout, I don’t get the sense of an impetus beyond a sheer enjoyment in making these sounds all sit together in such a beautiful way. It’s the quiet stretches and more precisely the shifts into them that are my favorite. The volume drops and slowly out of near silence more and more detail emerges each time, but muted. At a normal volume it’s still audible, but it takes attention to realize how rich it is, how much is still happening. There’s a Pisaro-esqueness to this, which is I guess a predictable comparison from me. But still, a complexity hiding behind an apparent simplicity that lends itself to both a simple enjoyment, something I don’t often find in this world of music, and rewards for more close listening.

Side B is a different beast. On a first listen I found it rough going, especially after the previous side. Not bad, just flat, insistent, steady. Pleasing in a way, but less effective. It turns out the trick is to play it loudly. In some ways it ended up feeling as varied as the first side after a couple more listens, but the variations are subtle, shifting things. From a base of sound that lasts the 45 minutes you start to hear these warbles and shifts, chiming tones, occasionaly these queasy little bends, and small but at louder volumes incredibly affecting gaps in one channel or the other. And the final moment, that ringing, yawning silence left over and the click of my cassette deck felt like it brought the tape full circle. Normal sounds feeling muted much like the quieter sections of Side A.

It’s a very patient and rewarding 90 minutes. Testament to Owen’s skill at making sure each shift, each warble, each change demonstrate its necessity. I’m very fond of it.

Oh, also, the artwork (see above) is really lovely.

Ladies, When You Post Pictures of Yourselves on the Internet…

akraticbehaviour:

1. Please don’t add self-deprecating tags like “I’m ugly” or “I look dumb.”
2. Please don’t add self-demeaning captions like “I’m ugly” or “I look dumb.”
3. Please don’t think self-effacing thoughts like “I’m ugly” or “I look dumb.

It’s incredibly unfortunate to see a generation of teen girls raised to communicate with disclaimers about their self-confidence and caveats of self-hate. It’s frightfully upsetting that society is raising a new group of females to think that they aren’t good enough or don’t deserve anything. This isn’t new for society, but the pace at which this negative body-image proliferates is much faster, thanks in large part to the Internet.

Bottom line - no one is perfect, but everyone deserves what they work for. Work hard, play hard, ignore the rest. You’re all beautiful, and it breaks hearts to hear, see, or read otherwise. If you don’t think you’re good enough, no one else will think so either.

Please pass this along to any female friends you know.

very well said

Down By The Station, Early In The Morning

It all wears out. I keep telling myself this, but
I can never believe me, though others do. Even things do.
And the things they do. Like the rasp of silk, or a certain
Glottal stop in your voice as you are telling me how you
Didn’t have time to brush your teeth but gargled with Listerine
Instead. Each is a base one might wish to touch once more

Before dying. There’s the moment years ago in the station in Venice,
The dark rainy afternoon in fourth grade, and the shoes then,
Made of a dull crinkled brown leather that no longer exists.
And nothing does, until you name it, remembering, and even then
It may not have existed, or existed only as a result
Of the perceptual dysfunction you’ve been carrying around for years.
The result is magic, then terror, then pity at the emptiness,
Then air gradually bathing and filling the emptiness as it leaks,
Emoting all over something that is probably mere reportage
But nevertheless likes being emoted on. And so each day
Culminates in merriment as well as a deep shock like an electric one,

As the wrecking ball bursts through the wall with the bookshelves
Scattering the works of famous authors as well as those
Of more obscure ones, and books with no author, letting in
Space, and an extraneous babble from the street
Confirming the new value the hollow core has again, the light
From the lighthouse that protects as it pushes us away.

(by John Ashbery, from A Wave.)