Nemonymous (nemonymous) wrote,

Dadaoism (4)

My real-time review continued from here: DADAOISM – a new anthology from Chômu Press

16 ‘Instance’, by John Cairns
Page 201 – 221: “I’m also forgetting whatever hasn’t occurred or isn’t about to, like walking on a very small sphere with a near-to horizon, except I’m not walking and the sphere’s not rotating beneath my feet -”
Well, I think this substantive work starts on page 201 and that it should be headed “‘Instance’ by John Cairns” because there is nothing remotely like that at the top of that supposed page to prove it, other than the earlier evidence of the book’s contents list. Which seems to fit in with this so far strange intriguing work: an absurdist whodunnit (“Better one bird killed with one stone, and another with another.”) akin to that in ‘Cosmos’ by Witold Gombrowicz. Meantime, (a Protestant not a Proustian), ‘Instance’ is, so far, an agonising double-or-multi-bluff logic of an even-handed Socratic dialogue between two men (both of whom I think once taught me at Colchester Royal Grammar School in the early 1960s) about money stolen from the theatre group, aliases, murder, non-suicide et al: a ‘spacious’ dialogue with staged narrative settings threaded through by mindsets of Ivy Compton-Burnett, Henry Green, Harold Pinter… It’s just like two minor characters from ‘Macbeth’ wielding torches in the darkness of their battlemented relationship: offering each other the flame of discourse from their own torch, except neither torch is lit; meanwhile, we are taught by Cairns to see and hear these dialoguists nonetheless. So far so good. Truly inspired. More later. ”A carpet. It’s the carpet.” (19 May 12 – 9.30 am bst)
Page 221 – 240:It’s possible , like a galaxy passing through another, both intact, but the probability is molecules of me would stay with the door, and of the door with me, if I didn’t get stuck halfway.
This section mixes motives and identities with the skill of Proustian ‘selves’. But I seem to have done enough spoiler damage in taking the real-time review of this story with two chronologically separate bites at its cherry. Having said that, I feel sure that this mode of real-time reviewing books is the only way (with its consistently subtle retrocausality) to prove the phenomenon that this author, John Cairns, wants any of its readers to prove by means of the story itself. Like this book’s earlier imaginary friend’s imaginary friend. Or mirror’s mirror. — And thus it is proved. Furthermore, the business of the carpet as a means of fallling below the city pavements, the Stephen-Kingian ‘Dark Tower’ doorway portals and the railings or banister that pertain, for me, to a ‘last balcony’ rather than a stairway – all of which have been very recent preocccupations of mine – seem to prove what the author wants me to prove, now beyond doubt. I’d add Mike Leigh to the other writers I mentioned earlier: TV’s ultimate real-time genius. Abigail’s Party et al. And Wordsworth’s ‘Child is Father of the Man’. And Reggie Oliver’s chair as a symptom of the “Koestler Chair“. I’ve got a short piece in this book (something I wrote in the 1980s) and it is a sort of beach-head I was given (I infer) within this book to allow me thus, from that Olympus, to torch-between this book and cohere the uncohereable and real-time-ize the unreal-time-izeable. Put the zero where it belongs, bang in the middle of Dadaism. This great Cairns story has made me realise that. And with that I shall stonewall any further “speiring“. (19 May 12 – 12.35 pm bst)

17 ‘Kago Ai’ or ‘The End of the Night’, by Ralph Doege (translated by Richard Kunzmann)
“No one in sight; only Axle, who was messing around again with his invisible twin,…”
I seem to recall reading another story recently where a Japanese female starlet got into career trouble because of under-age cigarettes, but I can’t yet put my finger on it. Anyone help? This story is of a potentially ‘Tarr & Fether’ type “loony bin” where it is easy to find patients who are musicians. They probably read the Isis story in this book before being sectioned! (smiley). Actually, it is another touching story in this book of unrequited love – and about an area prone to suicides (I think there was a Quentin S Crisp Japanese-type story I read recently with a similar area) and an ambiance, for me, of Murakami fiction: and, yes, that unrequitedness: “the chances of meeting her one day were nearly zero.” But which direction of King’s Path of the Beam did the approach to zero come from? Heading from below zero or above? And in tune with this book’s earlier instilling of depression, here ”a healthy dose of depression”, i.e. instilling it in oneself for creative ‘show’, we have it renewed here. But it’s the spiders from the spider story earlier that really come to roost thematically here. Plus descending stairs to the bowels of the earth. And a balcony, too. This seems to be supplying Cairns’ need for some proof of reader-writer short-circuiting hand over fist. And the ‘link’ at the end of the story had me watching some nymphets dancing and singing on you tube. Enjoyed the story, though. Left me with a healthy dose of something. Not depression. Just carrying a torch for someone or something – and carrying a torch is an old-fashioned expression in the UK (and maybe elsewhere) for unrequited love! (19 May 12 – 2.40 pm bst)

18 ‘Fighting Back’, by Rhys Hughes
If I had not lost my depression after the previous story’s song and dance, I would surely now become depressed again at having lost it good and proper by means of this hilarious, uplifting clever-conceit of a tale. Anyway, close readers of this real-time review will remember that I made a bit of a song and dance (twice) towards the beginning of the review about a chambermaid and the Head of the IMF. Imagine my astonishment when this comes home to roost in this story, with a maid and a financial leader. The story’s clever conceit, you ask? Time travel and civilisations being “set back” by some inversely or retrocausally Toynbeean challenge-and-response. Fine-tuning by synergy of manipulated history and promissory note economics. I love Rhys Hughes. (19 May 12 – 4.15 pm bst)

19 ‘Nowhere Room’, by Kristine Ong Muslim (after Mike Worrall’s ‘The Never Ever Room’ (1998) Oil on panel 122 x 155 cm.)
Half a page that lingers like a childhood misspent: in many ways just as I’ve spent this sunny day – in child-like mode indoors - avidly reading this book and talking to myself about it here, with the mocking, unsympathetic eyes of my peers staring through the Windows at both my own real-time and barely remembered past, each with its own hat. I love this half page of text but it has to be read alone and then read again in conjunction with the painting that inspired it, i.e. two necessary visits … but, already, I am in danger of fingering out, figuring out more filled electronic space of thought about it than the space the text itself of which I am filling you in about is filling on the paper page I have been reading!

20 ‘Koda Kumi’, a Justin Isis re-mix of ‘Italiannetto’ by Quentin S. Crisp
“I believe, even at the time, I was comparing the two visits continuously,…”
I am now sure, at last, that this is one of my favourite stories ever. Here is my real-time review in 2009 of the original ‘Italiannetto’. Now it has been Japanized by Isis but, from memory and not from re-reading the original, I sense it has hardly been changed at all even though it has also changed dramatically because I have changed and I am also imagining a new ambiance and new variations of character from each previous character, and I feel exactly like the protagonist in this story: experiencing the two visits within the story and of the story, of the imposing family friend who has now become for real the famous woman (who can smoke no doubt without worrying about her age if she ever smoked at all) and also of the real-time and remembered past I mentioned just now in chronological tandem with the Ong Muslim. And the gauche uncle. The amusement arcade. They all come back to me as if I have just sipped the tea and dunked the petite madeleine cake into the story… The ultimate palimpsest or tracing paper watermark of life still coming through. It’s still Italian icecream, I guess. French, Italian, Japanese, English… each sense of identity a dying fall within the music of literature I still hope, in my aging years, to experience or create. (19 May 12 – 7.40 pm)

I suspect ‘Italiannetto’ portrays the ultimate ‘carrying of a torch’ for someone. [And sparked by just reading the Ong Muslim, here is my own half-a-page about coddled childhood published in 1998: I Blame The Mother.] (19 May 12 – 8.10 pm bst)


21 ‘The Lobster Kaleidoscope’, by Julie Sokolow

22 ‘The Eaten Boy’, by Nick Jackson

23 ‘Poppies’, by Megan Lee Beals

24 ‘Abra Raven’, by D.F. Lewis

25 ‘Pissing in Barbican Lake’, by Jeremy Reed

26 ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicides’, by Jeremy Reed


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