Category Archives: Poetry

Tunnel Of Love

Not so to exit, so perform exilic
leaderboard, how putatively reft
the early gates unswung, the left undone
or lately stifled. Murder by remote
new-normal novel, fuzzing out on impact:
be that our pitch, our key to elevation
stray pupillage, slipping through jagged straits
unverified of iris, crudely hitched
to heavy providence. Critic of all,
dress down each apparition, pluck from lambent
ectoplasm the least fungible
imaginary kernel; make for home
a final coronet, a bounding circuit
outsizing the imperishable parish.


 

Written at speed, and without one might think sufficient care given the subject matter. The immediate occasion is a more than usually revolting cartoon by “Mac” in the Daily Mail, which nevertheless in depicting refugees attempting to storm the walls of heaven touches on some questions about the economy of salvation worth considering more seriously.

Psychedelic Investigations (conversation with Trent Knebel)

Leonora Carrington: El Mundo Mágico de los Mayas
Leonora Carrington: El Mundo Mágico de los Mayas

DF: The psychedelic (or phenoumenodelic) is a mode of investigation into perception, periodically renewed by new technical means – drugs, synthesizers, fractals, neural nets. We are now entering into a new phase of psychedelic investigation; that is, investigation into how we perceive what we perceive, what perception is “made out of” or “drawn from”, and what extensions or modifications it is susceptible to.

Psychedelic investigation is sometimes taken to be investigation into the ultimate nature of reality, which it is but not directly. In psychedelia, perception is relieved of its sufficiency and submitted once again to the real. That doesn’t mean that we see what’s “really always there”, but that what we see is other than what our standard frame of perception acknowledges as capable of “being there”. Givens appear outside of the established regime of givenness. The stranger enters into manifestation.

Slug-squirrel
Slug-squirrel

(Give the neural net a picture of some sky, and ask it to extrapolate images of Lucy with diamonds…)

Computer-generated psychedelia
What androids actually dream of

TK: Re: neural networks: I’ll be impressed when a computer can uncover a new correspondence between apparently unconnected domains of reality, progressively deforming things is fairly trivial and I don’t think stretches much past ideas of what computers are capable of (even if it does generate some interesting visuals).

LSD Cat
LSD Cat

DF: I agree, what we’ve seen so far with this is pattern recognition over-egged into hallucination, rather than pattern recognition uncovering previously undiscovered real structures. But I think that has always been true of psychedelia: it doesn’t bring insight into the real directly, but insight into the construction of illusions.

Edge detection
Edge detection

TK: I’ve never tried psychedelic drugs so can’t comment in that area, however, I do think Catren style psychedelia uncovers real structures that are only glimpsed distortedly when seen from any particular perspective, and Zalamea’s oeuvre is filled with example realizations of synaesthetic glimpses of structural kernels.

fractal

DF: I think I have to modify my previous statement: psychedelia is essentially undecided between reality and illusion, it’s an investigation of areas for which there is as yet no decision procedure. The question of whether or not there’s any “there” there is temporarily suspended. Later on it may be possible to discern some “structural kernel”, but the psychedelic moment is about developing the intuition that there is a “there” where something might conceivably be.

60s Psychedelia
60s Psychedelia

TK: Perhaps psychedelia is perceiving a correspondence in a synaesthetic manner without conscious grasp of the higher order principles governing the correspondence- eg synaestheticaly perceiving homotopy and type theory together without formally understanding homotopy type theory.

Bridget Riley
Bridget Riley

DF: Yes, it’s a kind of unchained synaesthesia, a synaesthesia that might always come to nothing.

Diagram from Zalamea
Diagram from Zalamea

TK: Might, but I’d also say that ascension to higher order structures (coupled with rich fleshing out of those structures, which is obviously there in psychedelia. this is opposed to hollow knowledge of higher order structures without understanding the lower level things they control) is one of the most fundamental types of progress, if not the most fundamental.

Poem: “Referring in some way”

REFERRING IN SOME WAY to the body –
your body, mine – the field
of reference in no way a meadow

to lie down in, body-
to-body in the light of fresh
discoveries. Your field

is far-afield, neither enfolding
nor overlapping my unkempt corner,
my dream of you for now.


This is one of the Half Cocks, a series of fifty-word poems I wrote over a period of several years. The capitalised phrases at the beginnings of the poems are usually “seed phrases” of some kind, taken from elsewhere and then expanded on. I don’t remember where this one comes from, and it’s generic enough to have come from almost anywhere. So the reference is floating, unresolvable, perhaps irrecoverably lost.

A number of the Half Cocks are about dreams, and in particular about dreams of connection, intimacy (less often sexual than you might think) and reconciliation, and the feeling of waking from such dreams into a world in which the desired and (dream)-experienced proximity is lacking and seems permanently unavailable. Here the lack is explored as a lack of reference, a failure of the name or image of a person to maintain a stable connection with that person’s reality; in the first place because they are simply not there to be brought into correspondence with the token that represents them.

The gap between token and referent is reflected in the gap between “field” as metaphor – as in “field of reference” – and “field” as literal “meadow”, a place where one might lie down in pastoral comfort and closeness. (Although the latter is still arguably an image. I’ve never really enjoyed picnics. There are usually wasps). While linguistic reference permits many different “ways” for things to be connected, including words and bodies, the field of reference is “in no way” such a meadow: there is in unsurmountable barrier between the permissiveness of fantasy and the reality of human contact. It is only on the far side of that barrier that the “light” illuminating the scene can become “the light / of fresh discoveries”; that visionary dream-seeing can give way to genuine experiential novelty, rather than remaining transfixed by its own static images of fulfilment.

There is a sense of interment, and of separation as having been separately interred. The cue-words here are “far-afield” and “corner”, which in the context will recall Rupert Brooke’s “corner of a foreign field / That is forever England”. A different Half Cock poem has “clammed in sleep’s bathysphere you seek / conciliation amid disarray”: the dreamer is submerged, buried, “clammed in” or pent-up, incapable of action. The “field” is now where the bodies are buried, each in its own “unkempt” or untended corner, lacking even a shared place to “lie down” in. This is a kind of hysterical projection of the everyday feeling that the people one misses are living in a separate universe (Half Cocks has an epigraph from Geoffrey Hill’s “The Songbook of Sebastian Arrurruz” – “You are outside, lost somewhere”) and that there is no common “field of reference” that can bring these separate universes together. Even in death the disjunction must seemingly remain unresolved.

The final line is a re-ordered quotation from Auden’s, “Night covers up the rigid land”, which closes with the couplet “for now my dreams of you cannot / refer to you at all”. Auden’s lines imply finality, a dismissal: since the speaker can no longer “control the moments of your sleep, / nor hear the name you cry”, the addressee may as well “hurry to the fated spot / of your deliberate fall”. By contrast, “my dream of you for now” suggests that the speaker is tided-over by dreams, awaiting an encounter that the dream is felt to prefigure. It seems that the poem’s own internal critique of this expectation is not sufficient to force its abandonment.

Protocol Duffers

A graph, yesterday
A graph, yesterday

What can we tell by both the order and size of a graph? One of the basic theorems of graph theory states that for any graph G, the sum of the degrees of the nodes equals twice the number of edges of G. That is, if the degree of any node is the number of edges connected to it (for node n1 with two edges connected to it, its degree = 2), the sum of all the degrees of the graph will be double the size of the graph (the number of edges). In other words, a network is not simply made up of a certain number of elements connected to one another, but is constituted by, qualified by, the connectivity of the nodes. How connected are you? What type of connection do you have? For a square, the sum of the degrees is 8 (the nodes [the square’s corners] each have two edges [the square’s lines] connected to them), while the sum of the edges is 4. In the IT industries connectivity is purely a quantitative measure (bandwidth, number of simultaneous connections, download capacity). Yet, in a different vein, Deleuze and Guattari describe network forms such as the rhizome as, in effect, edges that contain nodes (rather than vice versa), or even, paradoxically, as edges without nodes. In graph theory we see that the connectivity of a graph or network is a value different from a mere count of the number of edges. A graph not only has edges between nodes but edges connecting nodes.

This paragraph (from Galloway and Thacker on protocols) is typical of the faults of this kind of writing. Nothing that it says is entirely incorrect; and yet it confuses and misleads where it ought to clarify.

It is certainly true that there is a relationship between the ratio between the order and size of a graph, and the degree of its nodes. This can be stated precisely: given that the sum of all the degrees of the graph will be double the size of the graph, and the average degree of nodes in the graph will be that sum divided by the number of nodes, then the average degree of nodes in the graph will be twice the number of edges divided by the number of nodes. OK, so what? “A network is not simply made up of a certain number of elements connected to one another” – except that it still is. No extra information has been introduced by observing these ratios. There isn’t an additional property of “connectivity” (in the sense meant here, but see below) that is not inferrable from what we already know about size, order and the degree of each node. Saying “a graph not only has edges between nodes but edges connecting nodes” is a little like saying “the sun not only warms sunbathers, but also increases their temperature”.

The reference to “connectivity” as the term is used informally “in the IT industries” is largely a red herring here. The size, order and degrees of a graph are also “purely…quantitative” – what else would they be? As for Deleuze and Guattari, who can say? “Edges that contain nodes (rather than vice versa)” – who says that nodes “contain” edges? What could it possibly mean for either to contain the other? “Edges without nodes” do not exist in standard graph theory – there are no edges-to-nowhere or edges-from-nowhere. A rhizome’s structure is graph-like, in that nodes (in the botanical sense) put out multiple roots and shoots which connect to other nodes, but to map a rhizome as a graph we must introduce abstract “nodes” to represent the ends of shoots; only then can segments of the rhizome be considered “edges” between nodes (in the graph theoretical sense). None of this is particularly helpful in this context.

When we talk about “connectivity” in graph theory, we are typically talking about paths (traceable along one or more edges, e.g. from A to B and then from B to C) between nodes; the question that interests us is whether there are any nodes that are unreachable along any path from any other nodes, whether there are any disconnected subgraphs, how redundant the connections between nodes are, and so on. “Connectivity” in this sense is indeed not a function of the counts of nodes and edges (although if the number of edges is fewer than the number of nodes minus one, your graph cannot be fully connected…). But it is also not a matter of the degrees of nodes. A graph may be separable into multiple disconnected subgraphs, and yet every node may have a high degree, having multiple edges going out to other nodes within the subgraph to which it belongs. In this sense, it is indeed true that “the connectivity of a graph is…different from a mere count of the number of edges” (it is in fact the k-vertex-connectedness of the graph, a precise notion quite separate from that of degree). But the way in which it is really true is quite different from – and much more meaningful than – the way in which the above paragraph tries to suggest it is true.

What has happened here? The authors have clearly done their reading, but they have not synthesized their knowledge at the technical level: they move from learned fact to learned fact without understanding the logical infrastructure that connects them, being content instead to associate at the level of figurative resemblance. If pressed, writers in this style will often claim that they are identifying “homologies” (abusing that word also in the process) between things, and that one thing’s having a similar sort of conceptual shape to another is sufficient reason to associate them. But the available connectives in that case are weak (“it is surely no coincidence that…”, and other rhetorical substitutes for being able to demonstrate a reliably traversable connection), and it is often impossible to move from the resulting abstract quasi-structure back to the level of the explanandum without falling into total incoherence. The required “aboutness” just isn’t there: there is no negotiable passage back from the talk-about-talk to the talk-about-the-things-the-original-talk-was-about.

In the analysis of literary texts (and other cultural artifacts) we often are looking for structures of similar-patterning: for things which “look like” one another, which share a field of associations or a way of relating elements within that field. It is usually quite legitimate to compare two poems and to say that both have a common “logic” in the way they relate temporality and subjective identity-formation, or something like that. But it is foolish to apply the tools of literary analysis to objects whose primary mode of organisation is not figurative. Skimming along the surface of the language used by technicians in the description of their tasks, one may well discover patterns of association that are “telling”, that reveal something at the level of ideology. I am not proposing that cultural studies give up the jouissance of unmasking – without it, the discipline would lose its entire raison d’etre. But I would like to put in a plea for technical focus, of a kind appropriate to the domain, when dealing with technical subjects. You don’t have to ignore the things you’ve been trained to recognise, but you do need to be able to be undistracted by them. Get it right, then be clever. The payoffs may take longer in coming, but they’re so much realer.

Larkin avec Lacan

(repost of a long-lost analysis from August 2009 of Philip Larkin’s “Love Again”)

A defunct form of misery, or so we might imagine. Larkin had a couple of tries at imagining it so himself, notably in “High Windows” and “Annus Mirabilis” (“Sexual intercourse began / in 1963”), which pictures the sexual revolution of the 60s as the moment when “everything became / a brilliant breaking of the bank, / a quite unloseable game”. Yet here he is, wanking at ten past three, his misery the particular misery of the sexually defunct.

The language of the poem is shocking, not so much in its direct obscenity as in its juxtapositions: “love” must live, somehow, in this proximity to “wanking” and “breasts” and “cunt”. “Breasts” and even “cunt” can be said tenderly, but here I think are not: here they name the parts on display in the Swedish porn mags sent to Larkin by his pal Kingsley, the parts of a woman’s body related to as prize or property: either one’s own or “someone else”‘s. This is a poem about coming second in a competition between men. Humiliation, “the usual pain”; and consolations that do not console (“the drink gone dead”, flat in the glass).

Why “love”, then; and why “drowned in that lash-wide stare” (rather than, say, “up to his balls in quim”)? The latter is of course quite compatible with greedy objectification: women routinely figure as both “breasts and cunt” and mysterious oceanic sex-beings in which male identity is submerged and dissolved. The speaker’s anguish here is that of being uncomfortably left alone with his “male identity”, his deprived and grasping selfhood, rather than “drowned” or “swayed” by the disindividuating force of erotic love.

There is a contradiction in how he imagines his successful rival, as both masterfully in possession (“surely he’s taken her home by now”) and ecstatically dispossessed (“drowned in that lash-wide stare”). This contradiction is reflected in his own compensating position, which is trying to make up for two incompatible privations at once.

On the one hand, there is the typical Larkin move towards knowledge as balm for disappointment, in which what is lacking in direct experience is made up for in ironic reflection: the arid satisfaction of being “less deceived” in proportion as one is less involved. Here I want to supplement Larkin with Lacan’s observation that “les non-dupes errent”: the fantasy of being “the less deceived”, of imagined aloofness and linguistic mastery, conceals the reality that the trap of experience has already been sprung and one is already writhing in its jaws.

On the other hand, the poem is an expression of profound ignorance, in spite of what it says about being unable “to be ignorant, / Or find it funny, or not to care”. The ellipsis after “Even…”: what was he about to “put…into words”? Even, I think, to feel happy for this person he says he loves (if that is what he is saying): the sequence would then run from ignorance, through amusement and indifference, to benevolence. But this step, a first step beyond selfishness, is beyond Larkin – or so he insists, in poem after poem.

Instead, the poem turns to the question of “this element // That spreads through other lives like a tree / And sways them on in a sort of sense”. “Unselfishness” might be a good name for it; but even as the poem yearns for release from selfhood, it has no name for what might open selfhood up from the inside, exposing it to the proximity of other selves in which this release might be found. “Love again” is something other than love the first time around, the primary erotic motive force that “spreads through other lives”: it is love narcissistically recaptured, as self-love deprived of the object that would have facilitated it.

Larkin’s answer, here, to the question of “why it never worked for me” seems to have something to do with attachment: the implicit narrative I think is one of a “violence / A long way back” that detached him from the sympathetic weave of “other lives”, and a subsequent attachment to “wrong rewards” – the satisfactions of poetic craft, ironic knowledge, literary fame – that belong to “arrogant eternity” rather than the temporal present through which Larkin’s imagined tree of life spreads its branches. Poetry here is not the sublimation of erotic urges, or “emotion recollected in tranquility”, but rather a usurping power, rooted in privation: the poet as Larkin presents him in this poem is not an especially sensitive individual, but rather an especially desensitised one (although unwaveringly sensitive to his own condition). It is a studiously unappealing portrait, and I am rather inclined to take it as a warning; which may after all be how it was meant.