Will we see the demise/shutting down of the postal systems in our lifetimes ?
Who are the major clients keeping these operations afloat? Utility companies?
With an introduction of mandatory ID cards (issued primarily to homed citizens)
paper coming to the door will be rendered obsolete. For who will these networks
be kept around ? Postcarders? Holiday well-wishers? Mail-artists? Penpals?
I fear the doing away of this amazing resource in the name of
electronic efficiency not to mention populace control via separation.
(Keeping people out of touch with their counterparts where mail is still vital and digital access still rare)
Oops. First paranoid post.
“People have not really explored how the postcard,
and the telegram before it,
helped to initiate a silent revolution in everyday linguistic practices and did so in a very popular and democratic way.”
Dr. Bradley Clissold
Memorial University Of Newfoundland
and the telegram before it,
helped to initiate a silent revolution in everyday linguistic practices and did so in a very popular and democratic way.”
Dr. Bradley Clissold
Memorial University Of Newfoundland
Imagine every name spoken,
one after the other, in order.
I've thought of this regarding faces.
Some are so similar, there must be gradations...
I've often fantasized about every face flashed before my eyes...also in order.
But at what age ? At what point in time ? Birth ? The only age we've all been.
What an infinite catalogue!
This occurred to me after reading
PKD's account of being hit with countless works of art
flashing at breakneck speed before his eyes,
a trial that lasted for days.
one after the other, in order.
I've thought of this regarding faces.
Some are so similar, there must be gradations...
I've often fantasized about every face flashed before my eyes...also in order.
But at what age ? At what point in time ? Birth ? The only age we've all been.
What an infinite catalogue!
This occurred to me after reading
PKD's account of being hit with countless works of art
flashing at breakneck speed before his eyes,
a trial that lasted for days.
Poetry : Forever Cool Drunk
folks looking for poetry
are looking for more i think
than words strung together...
what makes them know they found it ?
one of those things that ain't got time for an audience, poetry is.
Why read what you can make with language.. failing you ?
Only p[oets care and they ain't worth a trust.
sing song sounds in a row ain't it. you know.
not that i hate you, but close. human with words tied to a stick.
sick making, the stack of books.
a drunk peom. to say what.?.this then:
you now this day and age waste ink and pages sick make me
look around the world still grows.only poems 'bout poetry
hold. the rest takes care of itself.slow it down and
look.
I wrote this drunk to say above...most waste words on sunsets
and subtle heartbreaks.
lord burn the books so we might know.
are looking for more i think
than words strung together...
what makes them know they found it ?
one of those things that ain't got time for an audience, poetry is.
Why read what you can make with language.. failing you ?
Only p[oets care and they ain't worth a trust.
sing song sounds in a row ain't it. you know.
not that i hate you, but close. human with words tied to a stick.
sick making, the stack of books.
a drunk peom. to say what.?.this then:
you now this day and age waste ink and pages sick make me
look around the world still grows.only poems 'bout poetry
hold. the rest takes care of itself.slow it down and
look.
I wrote this drunk to say above...most waste words on sunsets
and subtle heartbreaks.
lord burn the books so we might know.
Hail Something Or Other !!
Though I am not generally a fan of Black/Death Metal...
Boy O Boy, do I love their logos !!!
This is a tiny smidgen of what exists!
And it all couldn't have been possible without Tolkiens' Mordor.
Thanks To You, Dead Sara
Back in 1988-90, I was on staff at Scrivener, the lit mag of McGill University.
I was one of three poetry editors my first year there and had to
endure not only the vast and incomprehensible slush pile of submissions
but also the attitudes towards poetry revealed by my peers.
One would throw out a submission because it rhymed, another because it didn't.
If only I had the foresight to not take seriously the pompous posturings of my fellow 19 year old fuckwads.
I stopped writing after the experience. Stopped self-identifying as a 'writer'. Oh Well. Here I am...
One poet who was routinely rejected and whom I tried to champion...but to no avail...signed their work Dead Sara.
The poems were handwritten (what a point of contention for the rest of the staff!)
often employing crude drawings and letters made up into math formulas.
I corresponded with this poet who thanked me...
perhaps the only sympathetic voice he encountered.
Luckily I keep every letter ever sent to me...and perhaps I'll share some of those poems one day.
I credit Dead Sara AKA Cameron Conklin of Amarillo, Texas for keeping my mind about poetry open.
I was one of three poetry editors my first year there and had to
endure not only the vast and incomprehensible slush pile of submissions
but also the attitudes towards poetry revealed by my peers.
One would throw out a submission because it rhymed, another because it didn't.
If only I had the foresight to not take seriously the pompous posturings of my fellow 19 year old fuckwads.
I stopped writing after the experience. Stopped self-identifying as a 'writer'. Oh Well. Here I am...
One poet who was routinely rejected and whom I tried to champion...but to no avail...signed their work Dead Sara.
The poems were handwritten (what a point of contention for the rest of the staff!)
often employing crude drawings and letters made up into math formulas.
I corresponded with this poet who thanked me...
perhaps the only sympathetic voice he encountered.
Luckily I keep every letter ever sent to me...and perhaps I'll share some of those poems one day.
I credit Dead Sara AKA Cameron Conklin of Amarillo, Texas for keeping my mind about poetry open.
A Physicist Experiments With Cultural Studies
I think this is sad and funny.
If I understood more about everything I would find it sadder and funnier.
If I understood more about everything I would find it sadder and funnier.
Thing Makers
Once again I was in a space crowded with beauty.
Expozine, a large small press fair that I help put together, teemed with life.
There is no shortage of objects made and unique.
I still fool myself thinking that 15 years ago...
there was no such thing as a glut of indy product.
Of course there was...I was never in the same room with all of it.
Now I help invoke the glut.
Come! Bring your beautiful books!
Let us say that I wish to collect all things of this or that nature...
and I choose as my focus some obscure corner of cultural creation.
Impossible task! Too much in every direction!
One makes Two makes Four makes Eight Forever.
The poets aren't dead.
What I once held to be a rare artifact is more like 30 bucks a dozen...
Imagine the archive of every city, vast stacks of creation.
I told someone yesterday that I remember the city unstreaked with ink,
Walls empty of graf and stickers and zines...is there any going back ?
Does one rise above the din ? Listen to my album.
Come to my show. Read my book. Buy my print.
Link to my site. Have a sticker, a flyer, a tape, a button.
Do it before time stops the line we made of it and loops the loop into seasons again.
Expozine, a large small press fair that I help put together, teemed with life.
There is no shortage of objects made and unique.
I still fool myself thinking that 15 years ago...
there was no such thing as a glut of indy product.
Of course there was...I was never in the same room with all of it.
Now I help invoke the glut.
Come! Bring your beautiful books!
Let us say that I wish to collect all things of this or that nature...
and I choose as my focus some obscure corner of cultural creation.
Impossible task! Too much in every direction!
One makes Two makes Four makes Eight Forever.
The poets aren't dead.
What I once held to be a rare artifact is more like 30 bucks a dozen...
Imagine the archive of every city, vast stacks of creation.
I told someone yesterday that I remember the city unstreaked with ink,
Walls empty of graf and stickers and zines...is there any going back ?
Does one rise above the din ? Listen to my album.
Come to my show. Read my book. Buy my print.
Link to my site. Have a sticker, a flyer, a tape, a button.
Do it before time stops the line we made of it and loops the loop into seasons again.
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