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Stammersong.

2 Jan

2012 was a year of silence. I am a person complacent in my silences, and for a long time I thought of my quiet as reserve. I even believed it a dignified reserve until one unexpected morning six years ago I realized it was fear.* Something unspoken is something that might not have happened, and within that ambivalence I can construct another universe. A reality that isn’t as cruel, one in which I’m not as vulnerable. My plan, a poet once said, is to sow myself a shroud out of small pieces of silence.

*honestly, I’m a hobbit.

Words are deceptively fragile things. They bend and they blend and they bleed, until suddenly they don’t. Until suddenly they break you. They impose meaning upon memory and dispel shadows and exact sense where there was once only sensation. Words are spells, and spells are promises: of control, of coherence, of consequence. I am not, though I try very hard to pretend otherwise, a person gifted with words. I write not because I can or must, but because I cling. I write from desire.

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Merely Pilfered.

1 Dec

I am apping

when I’m not napping.

and what is a blog

if not a medium

escaping daily tedium

… and now you know why I stick to pilfering my poetry. For the next few months (or however long the fancy takes me) pilfered poetry is migrating. In an effort to recover bogey’s intimacy, I revived her tumblr outpost this week.  Also I’m a lapsed essayist and miss dithering. I started tinkering with the architecture of this blog a month ago, only to realise she’s damn near perfect.  This is especially true on the ipad, where she’s so exquisite I want to fuck her.  I write prose, long and grim though it may be, not “posts”. That is what this space will always be about, and I’m proud of her standards.

Essays, that said, take forever and a day to write.  And frequency I could use. Q.E.D.

As for aesthetics, we struggle along. I believe chaosbogey is plenty navigable, even if no one else does. Think of her parts as the variables of an impossible equation. One day, with sufficient magic, I might piece her together. Until then I’m content inventing formulae.

It’s hard explaining how precarious my identity as netizen is. I’m as close to a Luddite as can exist in the digital age. I flail around gadgets. I barely get my laptop to function outside pages and iCal. I plan on whiteboards and cork-boards and paper and think in trig. I read print, being enough of a pedant to want to type up each quote myself.

As the world around me tipped online, as apps and smart phones and tablets and 3G invaded India, I went into hibernation.

There you have it, world. Something new. Now for an old essay that was mostly pilfered in its own right,

Borges & I

Am I these things and the others

Or are there secret keys and difficult algebras

Of which we know nothing?

– Lines that could have been written and lost about 1922.

I began this essay on a wednesday, 24th August, Borges’ 112th birthday. At the time, I was working on another essay, about Kapuściński’s Travels with Herodotus. As it turned out, it was to be Bookslut’s 112th issue, and I can never resist some satisfying symmetry.

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we apologise for the inconvenience.

23 Nov

In one week, a fantastic essay will be published. In two, I turn 25. For all my abundant solipsism, I’ve never written a birthday post to myself. I don’t intend to start. If you wish to celebrate that I… arrived, buy a copy of December’s Caravan*. It hosts epic dithering on epic fantasy by this din. In print, too. Cheers all.

*January’s Caravan, which means I will have to get that tattoo after all. and the rest of you have to buy me books.

The  reverberations of age have me thinking. This year, bogey steered clear of din. Once the quest was to highlight the pest. The tipping point, for those who care, was a prophecy about the transience of digital identity I wrote during the mylaw chronicles. After the whedon essay back in march, bogey became my cave, a safe vantage for netscapin’. Best, I figured, to plan for redundancy and assume irrelevance in one’s experiments. If bogey were wholly whimsy, she would stay solely mine.  There’s a price, to be sure. My arcana were abandoned while reviews were drafted and articles assembled. Hebdomad plods along, pilfered poetry has been banished to twitter. We teetered along the brink of 50 posts for six months, bogey and I.

This is It.

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tis black/out back.

8 Apr

The only reason this post isn’t called this fuckin’ ‘verse! is cos I was scared of the search-spam said title would generate.

I have been burned, and I repent, whatever Gibbon might think.

Well, then. Last month the mylaw books column was all about women. It was an exercise I undertook with a fair measure of derision — and it was one I didn’t want to be ‘seen’ taking. It wasn’t camaraderie, or redressal, or anything so simple; it was, if anything, acknowledgment. Women aren’t talked about enough in our world, in any field, and four weeks of me writing about female writers is hardly about to change this.  The women I wrote about – Barbara Ehrenreich, Diana Wynne Jones, Zadie Smith- are all in their own way spectacular, but in no way representative. They aren’t the women I look to for guidance, or direction; they are merely the women my eye turned to this month. I felt it was important to make a statement, thus I did, and shall we leave it at that? I equivocated with Zadie, I gad about with Diana, I damn Don Draper with faint praise. The death of Diana Wynne Jones a week after I wrote about her makes an unhappy tribute out of that essay, much as I ardently wish she was still around spinning capital yarns. If I had known, I’d have made a grander task of it. The grim reaper stalks us all, and seems determined to steal away the best of us.

Richard Teschner

You can read it all over at mylaw. One of these blessed days, I am assured by editors and doyennes over at that illustrious website, information shall scuttle free. That will be the day I provide links. Till then, er, sign up? It’s a crash insight into what the legal community is thinking at any given moment, and surely y’all know us lawyers have our tentacles in bloody everything. Last week, pimping apart, I tackled my first graphic novel. Twas my first attempt at a negative review, something I’m ambivalent about. Books speak differently to each of us, and I don’t see the point of denigrating them when I’ve personally found them unappealing. I suspect I’ve been phenomenally bitchy to compensate for the terseness of the review; it was a tightrope between clarity and charity, and insincerity is a terrible vice in a writer. It’s not the best thing I’ve written, but this is my job, and I do it the best I can. This week, in expiation, I wrote about Micheal Chabon’s Kavalier & Clay, and all is gawking and gushing about genius.  In other news, my Whedon essay is published, and I am inordinately proud of it, so perhaps one of you could trash it and restore the karma of the universe.

This is the unedited version. It holds the ‘temperance’ card in my arcana, inspired as it was by Macaulay: virtue is vice in just temper.

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Homage to Catalonia.

20 Dec

Come close to my clamour,

people fed from the same breast,

tree whose roots

keep me in prison,

because I am here to love you

and I am here to defend you

with my blood and with my mouth

as two faithful rifles.

— Sitting upon the Dead, Miguel Hernandez.

(An edited version of this essay appeared on mylaw.net)

The Spanish Civil War is a bellwether for humanities geeks. For most, it was just one more brutal event in a brutal decade: with things like the Holocaust and atomic bombs to report, how interesting are a bunch of anarchists running around trying to change the world? There are a smattering of those in every war. For us nerds, however, the war means much more: it was a harbinger, a prophecy, a betrayal. This was as true at the time it happened as it is now; which is why all the eccentrics and writers of the world were drawn to the battle like moths to a flame. It was a war in which, as Auden once wrote, poets exploded like bombs.  Think back to any mid-century poet or journalist, and odds are they were annealed by fires across Spain. Orwell describes a very cosmopolitan Catalonia, brimming with Italians, Frenchmen, Germans, Poles, not to mention the Russians; Neruda, for that matter, made his way all the way from Chile. Spain, too, offered up her own literary sacrifices: Lorca, killed by Franco in Granada; Miguel Hernandez, lost to prison and pneumonia.

Orwell was amongst the first wave of these adventurists, and Homage to Catalonia is a bitter love-story about the country and the ideals he was determined to save. It begins in 1936, when Orwell first joined the POUM militia on the Aragon front, and closes in 1937, when he is running from Barcelona with the police, as he put it, one jump behind him. The story of how a soldier became a traitor is the story of Homage to Catalonia.

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