Monday, July 29, 2013

On the revelation of the Ostmark Bell

Apparently, it wasn't just hyperbole:

The bishops...will be followed--with measured tread, as they say--by the Gauleiters, the SS officers, and the members of the Blood Order. And these will be followed by the National Socialist Catholic population, I thought. And the music will be played by our National Socialist Catholic band. The National Socialist salvos will be fired, and the National Socialist bells will toll. And if we're in luck, our National Socialist sun will shine throughout the ceremony, and if we're out of luck we'll be drenched by the National Socialist rain.

[From Thomas Bernhard's, Extinction, trans. by David McLintock, after the narrator Franz-Josef Murau sees the guest list for the funeral of his parents--who were Nazi supporters through the aftermath of World War II--and brother, at the family estate of Wolfsegg, in Austria.]

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

The Hans piece, part one

I'm still in the throes of revising, but here's the first section. Because I'm angry, because I have things to prove, I might post more. But it won't be complete, and I would really like readers for when it's done. Drop me a line.


This is the running joke--i.e., the Hans Story--that has existed between Sophie and me for quite a few months. It exists after the break, and it's coming to a close (and p.s, enjoy):

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Sketches, May 9 - In the tone of Bernhard

On the 14th of August, already suffering from a pulmonary infection that the doctor had said might not be remediable, I joined my ex-mentor for a trip along the Dardanelles, by sea, in fact, against my doctor's wishes and much too soon for any such engagement or activity, but keeping this in mind although weakened from the same infection I joined him at a disregard for any spreading, for he had required my attention and had required such attention immediately on the 14th with no wavering. It had been too long, he had told me with a stern coolness, asking if I had been keeping up with my reading of Kant, and as much as I wished to lie I had felt invigorated too much to be in his presence and told him I had not, and without any disappointment over the fact of my neglect he had instead set a table inside the sailing vessel we were about to embark on. I had steeled myself for this discussion of Kant, for his disappointment over my not having kept up with Kant, as my ex-mentor had on his last lesson been preparing me for his discussion on Kant, on Kant's sublime and how it relates to the overall full fleshing of Kant's very specific aesthetics, of how the sublime was at the heart of his aesthetics, and thus at the heart of all aesthetics after him, how the sensation of  beauty either mechanistic or awesome was at the base the starting point for a discussion of all learned discussions on the subject of beauty after Kant, but instead he asked me where I was now living, and as I coughed once, for the sea air tickled too harshly the base of the infection, I realized instead that his scorn was about to be placed elsewhere.

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Sketches, May 8 - In the tone of Markson

They showed up on a boat, as I have said, a rowboat--or maybe a dinghy--as I recall the method of conveyance was not nearly as important as its conveyees, the boy hamfisted, the girl peeling from a sun-induced rosacea, as the spinnaker flapped useless against a feckless breeze.

She was 12, he was her brother and thus older.

As it was, I had lost track of the days, or weeks, I had been adrift, and the wind stayed quiet in the channel.

Or maybe it wasn't a channel, and maybe I'd simply lost my own sense of location through the grand mush of days, undefined.

Do you have water? he asked first and I said no, Can we come aboard? he asked next, and they boarded my yacht anyway.

I say my only because, by that point, I couldn't remember if the vessel was mine, or if I was simply renting, which is to say that in the grand mush (why do I pick that phrase?), it had long been forgotten the general pretense under which the money changing hands had entirely meant.

The man I handed the wad to--friend, foe, countryman?--smelled of cigarettes and coppertone, but he was lean, and would probably live longer than I, I recalled.

Which is to say that only my bad luck would keep me from not living much longer. Bad luck being my code for pessimism and an overawareness of my physical predicament.

Our house burnt down, the boy said, or maybe he said it was their houseboat, the boy said they had been adrift for days, although they were close to land, and although the fire had not completely destroyed their previous vessel, only scarred it. It's an inevitability, the boy said, that a fire on a vessel surrounded by water would not last too long, what with the air being saturated as it is, the boy added.

The girl, who now seemed less pre-pubescent but at least 17 but gawky, clung to his shirt sleeve like a cloved pineapple, although she did not in fact touch him, although in fact she maintained a wary distance from the two of us the entire time.

Suffice it to say I did not even understand their dynamic, nor did I understand why I let them on the boat, at least while they were still dripping.

Why had I not mentioned they were still dripping, that they boarded the sailing yacht by in fact swimming over, that they hooked over the side like a pair of pirates, that the side was in fact tilted not from the wind but for the own incompetence at ballast.

We did not exchange names. Or we did, and their names were Aguirre and Finn.

Where are you going? the boy asked. About that water, the boy asked. Do you have any food? the boy asked. Do you have any pot, water, beer? the boy asked. I reminded them I had none of the above as a nonsensical matter of fact, the truth of which we both acknowledged simultaneously.

Had I mentioned I'd lost the land myself? That when I had seen it, it seemed to only exist as patches of swamp grass and crowded woods and horseflies, although every bit of that seems to be nonsensical as well, although it's the truth.

There were hikers and runners, although I watched them only as silhouettes, as I lay under the harsh sun, grilling.

Which would account for the lost time, the mush, me being sundrenched , not in my best mental element while I attempted to keep track.

I'm floating, I would have responded, as the boy rummaged through my coolers to find nothing but pooled melted ice. There's a mountain of gold at the end of this channel, the boy said, or if not of gold, then at the very least enlightenment, the boy said.

The girl, as they say, was nary a peep, only for show, not for interaction.

I set sail on a moonless lark, I said, as I waited for the end of days, I said, as I fidgeted for the end to come, I said, as I became entranced by your same-said legend, I said. Which is to say I know about the mountain of Gold, which is to say I'm searching for it. Which is to say you're adrift, he said, I would not say you're incorrect, I added.

He had exhausted his last tick, he had found the beer and opened half. A man at the end of his rope, he said. To excuse the metaphor, although you're not particularly useful, he added. One can rage against the wind, he added, but it doesn't change the fact that it's the wind, he said.

[end of sketch, time to work]