False Maps for Other Creatures

Memory Loss

2010-03-03T19:12:00.000-08:00

It seems I have forgotten how to write. And while that might seems like a troubling thing for a writer, at the same time, I don't seem to mind it all that much.

Long Poem Workshop

2010-02-27T18:46:00.001-08:00

In a few days The Long Poem Workshop at the Toronto New School of Writing will kick off. Twelve students will join me for twelve weeks in an attempt to force an idea not to end.

Melville House

2010-02-19T07:13:00.001-08:00

Great time last night at Melville House in Dumbo/Brooklyn where I read with three fantastic poets -- Matvei Yankelevitch, Cathy Eisenhower & John Coletti. The event was organized by Matvei due to a familiar affliction he suffers from -- publisher's envy. A heady evening -- Coletti's cool lyricism, Eishehower's intense meditations, Matvei's wonderous fable-like narrative. It was quite an honour to plunk myself down in the midst of it all. I'm looking forward to reading more work by these poets.

It was interesting afterward talking with Dennis of Melville House. We swapped various literary history stories about our own presses and others in our respective lands. He told me that the inception of the press involved the culmination of a few people and events, most prominently George Murray & 911.

Off now into the city with Rob & his son Oliver to check out some art and look for nik-naks for the kids.

Visual Poem

2010-01-27T18:05:00.000-08:00

for dfb

I'm trying to think up
a good comeback for
your fucking kidding

nope.

nope.

2009-10-16T12:28:00.000-07:00

Some boxes arrived from the printer the other day. In them were copies of ESP: accumulation sonnets: a book written by me and designed by me and Mark Goldstein and published by BookThug. So now I've gone and done it. I've published myself. Again.

It's terrible. I'll be entered into that category of writers inhabited by the likes of Walt Whitman, Gertrude Stein, Virgina Woolf, bill bissett, bpNichol, Gwendolyn MacEwan, Victor Coleman and Stuart Ross to name a few -- poets who paid for their own work to be published or disseminated their work through publishing houses they either owned or worked for.

So why do I feel guilty?

An Essay

2009-04-15T19:57:00.000-07:00

Meanwhile....

2009-02-19T10:52:00.000-08:00

One must consider, from time to time, say, when the solid mass of accomplishment to which one is engaged daily, breaks open, a moment of pause revealed in which lies a brief self-reflective moment that holds up a mirror, however quickly, and one must clearly see how to deal with the onslaught of The Other. In the mirror I see a crowd of blurred faces looking over my shoulder. I'm not sure exactly what I mean by this, but recent events have made it clear that there is a tension that exists within my own frame of mind based on what I imagine are the expectations of others in relation to what I imagine are my own expectations for my self. It "affects" me, and I'm never clear how to negotiate the affectation.

For instance, it is becoming more and more clear, as my various projects begin to engage with the mechanisms of The World, that my Public perception grows more and more narrow. At least I imagine it to be so. Ben Watson, if I recall correctly, wrote in Art Class & Cleavage that we are defined by what we do to earn money, and this might be more clearly stated by saying we are defined by what others perceive one does to earn money. My trouble is that I'm not sure what it is that I do that earns money -- I count mice, for one thing. I teach workshop classes at George Brown College. I publish books. I sell books. And occasionally I publish my own work and am paid for it. Soon, I will finish the library degree I am working on and I will get a job in that field and add to my assorted definitions whatever it is that I will be doing that pulls a paycheque. And somehow in there lies me -- the me I wake up to each morning and stare at in the actual mirror sans extra faces before I run off to accomplish several things at once for the day. But what does The Other I imagine looking over my shoulder think I do to earn money? Or, if I'm not defined by earnings, what does The Other think I am?

Woods/Pages

2008-06-23T13:41:00.000-07:00

A quick post to announce the publication of a new chapbook, Woods/Pages, published by the incomparable souls at Greenboathouse Books. Those of you who are sick & tired of the dark inane voice(s) of Lack Lyrics will enjoy my return to 21st Century nature lyricism. But don't worry, there's still loads of heavy procedural & conceptual & "experimental" work going on, (just like there is in all poetry).

I'm very pleased to be part of Greenboathouse, and lucky too, since Woods/Pages is the final publication in this project. Jason and the team are moving on to new things, but I'm sure they will be just as beautiful.

If you'd like to get a copy visit www.greenboathouse.com -- there are lots of other lovely things to pick up while you're there!

JM

Art Bar

2008-02-06T09:05:00.000-08:00

Thanks to those who came out last night to my reading at the Art Bar. I had fun, and it was nice to go out into the world like a poet, nice to chat with Stephen and John and Sam and Becca, although Sam accused me of being a librarian and censoring the small blue. the small blue was not censored last night, insofar as it was first "censored" by my editor who insisted that I cover all that lovely blank space throughout the book with black smudges shaped like words, lest people think that we made a mistake. My readings of the text are meant to return it to a state more resembling the original, which is why I say that there is no number 63 (or whatever) when people ask me to read them.

The Art Bar is endearing. Never am I ever quite surrounded by so much seriousness when it comes to poetry. It's endearing. I love it. There is nothing like being validated for being something you hope no one will ever defined you as. Life is strange that way -- the seriousness of it all, when it is all so fleeting, so uncompromising. And yet, it happens, it has consequence. I have been thinking about classification for a long time now, at least a few months (can we classify that as a long time?) and I wonder often at what it means to "be" something. What metaphors are at our disposal to explain how things "are"? No wonder I'm so uncomfortable describing myself as something, or classifying myself in relation to everything else in the world. To define oneself is to let them ascribe. It gives them power.

Anyway, for those who weren't at the Art Bar last night, or perhaps didn't even know about it, I'm reading again on Friday at the IV Lounge. For now I must return to my paper on Foucault, discourse, truth, knowledge, identity and power. And surveillance. Watch out!

2007-09-27T11:57:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog, hello.

I seem to have developed a cold. I'm tres grumpy right now, but I won't go into why. It is curious however that I'm generally grumpy. I wonder why that is? Perhaps one day I'll write something on the grump as an impetus for writing. But for now I have to blow my nose.

Jay

2007-09-05T18:00:00.001-07:00

Dear Blog, hello.

It is a fantiastically fall night, but I am tired. Not really. My internal sense of language makes me write things like that. I've been typesetting a White Porcupine all day and glowering at how the world conducts itself. As a distraction, after massive hamburgers, Cole and I read Mr Happy before bed, and a Frog and Toad story we'd never read before called The Garden. Toad is very anxious about his new garden and keeps annoying it by reading it stories and talking to it and singing is songs and reading it poems. How annoying! Then Toad finally falls asleep and while he's asleep the garden finally has a chance to actually grow. A wonderful story.

I had a dream last night that the DEMTENED POEMS 21-30 I finished yesterday are not only not finished, they are not part of DEMTENED POEMS at all! How odd to have spent all this time on them thinking they were one thing when really they are something else all together. Well, fine. Cudos to these poems for having the decency to speak up and put me straight. So I'm still working on them and when they are done they will be done. Meanwhile, all that's left of DEMTENED POEMS 21-30 is a sequence of titles. Maybe I'll write some poems under them some day.

Maybe I'll get a grant to finish them. For the time being, I'm feeling somewhat distracted.

Where'd ya go?

Oh. There you are.

Back to printing millions of copies of covers for The Sands of Dream for the US market, even though it's the first English edition of the first surrealist text ever published in Canada. Dumbass Canadians -- when you suddenly realize it's right there in front of your nose it'll be out of print.

I'm not sure what else to tell you at the moment. Reid is watching inappropriate crap on the internet. Hazel is out at work. It's a fairly quiet night.

Jay

2007-09-04T16:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog, hello.

Well, here we are in September. I'm having a somewhat awkward day, just kind of crummy. Mostly because people are often weird and annoying and there's nothing I can do about that. Mostly it has something to do with numbers. Aren't numbers awesome? Like how the whole world is about numbers, or that everything comes down to numbers? Love is about numbers, I'm sure of it. More ofthen than not, however, things (emotions?) are really about a lack of numbers. Perhaps I'm just stressed with the usual tensions in my life between writing and publishing and scholarly work, and work. Or lack of work. I mean numbers. There's lots of work. I work a lot. But few numbers.

I've been working typesetting books -- new BookThug books are on the horizon. And I'm happy with how they're coming along. And I'm generally ignoring everyone. Which is kind of fun, but annoying too, because the world of publishing poetry requires an excess amount of hype.

I'm working on the third sequence of DEMTENED presently -- an inter-linear translation of a poem by Stuart Ross. There are ten poems. Each one uses the poem before it to create the poem it is. Or rather I use the poem to generate a new poem. It's dreamy. When they are done perhaps I'll post them here. It isn't like anyone wants to publish them or anything.

I'm working listing Open Letters at the bookshoppe. What a funny journal that is! It starts out all playful and fun, lots of interaction and bizarre papers. There's even the All Incest Issue -- what a riot! It makes me think there was a lot of down to earth understanding about how stupid it was to be a poet or a writer with any inkling toward the avant-garde. Then at some point it gets totally serious, hardcore dense writing, hip happening theory with a capital T! A sudden shift in the wind -- or the minds of the younger generation -- the sort of thing that has some rippling effects through the land -- bitterness, anti-theoretical stances (a theoretical stance in and of itself) and so on. It sure is an important journal though.

And I've been working on my new book the small blue soon to be published with Snare Books in Montreal thanks to the good person Jon Paul Fiorentino (thanks Jon!). The book has changed a lot since I first wrote and published it myself through BookThug -- I'm looking forward to the "public" reaction to this public version. har har har.

And I'm just about to start school again, both teaching and learning. My workshop at George Brown College starts on Monday the 10th, as does my first class in Information Sciences at UofT. But I'll be in Woodstock giving poetry readings and workshops at College Avenue Seconday School that day, so I'll miss my first class. Auspiscious beginnings.

Well Blog, that's it for now. I'd better get back to work.

Moving

2007-07-29T13:10:00.000-07:00

Well, now that we're back from moving all over Ireland Scotland and London we're getting ready for our big move. After more than ten years reigning over Webb Avenue the MillArs are heading west. West of Runnymede that is. We are moving two blocks, so we won't be that hard to find, but boy is it a nightmare pulling free of a space we've been in for this long. Everything fits so precisely.

We're so sad to be saying goodbye to Manfred and Alison and their boys Curtis and Eric who are all moving to Halifax and renting us their house on Ardagh. I'm driving them up to the airport in an hour. Hopefully their new home will be fantastic and we'll visit them or they'll visit us soon. But meanwhile we're finally moving out of the basement here on Webb and we're so totally pleased with that event. Our lungs will be ever so grateful.

So the Webb house is upside down, and tomorrow we start turning it rightside up in the Ardagh house. We had our first meltdown (at last!) from Cole on the matter of moving when Staci and Bill drove off with the old couch, which turned out to be Cole's favourite thing every. Tomorrow things start wandering over to the new house and we'll be in there by Tuesday night. And the books will be set up in like two weeks.

Meanwhile, I sent JPF reponses to his excellent edit of my forthcoming book the small blue, due out from Snare in the coming months. What a strange little publication that will be. A lone sport in the field of canadian poetry. At least it feels that way to me as the author. It'll be interesting to hear the response from the world at small on this. I haven't heard anything back from JPF yet, so he's either stumped or in awe or just away from his desk. It is the summer after all. At the end of which I'm returning to university which is so exciting and frightening I don't know from which direction to approach the subject. Perhaps I'll just leave it at that.

I recently finished reading (or listening actually -- ipods rule) to Blink by Malcom Gladwell. All about the power of thinking without thinking, and by that he means the power of first impressions. Fascinating stuff to think about in terms of my relationship between the poets I know and the poetry they write. I know that people's personalities get in the way of my ability to read their work objectively and now I'm so disappointed to have in confirmed intellectually as well. Bummer. But now I can begin to work my way out of that space of thoughtlessness.

15 June 2007

2007-06-15T14:18:00.000-07:00

I'm going to try to add something to this blog from time to time. I've always found it difficult because I find it hard enough listening to myself -- why would anyone want to listen in? Plus I've found that blogs seem to get people into trouble, or cause them to edit their own thoughts. It's a stupid way to view honesty, as something that either doesn't exist or as something that (inadvertently or not) upsets people. But anyway.

Today I'm using this as a chance to distract myself from the fact that we are trying to sell as many of our things as possible tomorrow at a yard sale. We're moving in August, and neet to get rid of things. So we're starting early, mostly because there's so much to get rid of. It's amazing how much stuff one can cram into the nooks and crannies around them. If you happen to see this there are a lot of books being let go cheap!

I've also been reading about Thermopylae, which is fascinating, beautiful and terrifying all at once. I think it has something to do with the symbol Spartan culture presents for me in relation to the current state of affairs in the world at large. And no, I haven't seen the movie. Any of them.

good things

Chatterbooking About Double Helix

2007-03-01T10:02:00.000-08:00

While on tour last fall with the Mercs, David Lee and I were interviewed in Kingston by Rachel Manno on the subject of our new books for Chatterbook, a program on CFRC. I was so impressed by the depth of her thinking and research about both The Battle of the Clearspot and Double Helix, (David went first) that after her first question for me there was about 2 minutes of silence while I tried to catch up with it. Fortunately, she edited that bit of dead air out of the interview (among others!). Anyway, here's the link to the interview, which I finally thought to post:

http://www.chatterbook.ca/?p=113

Double Helix Revealed!

2006-11-20T21:34:00.000-08:00

The following is a nonlecture delivered by Jay MillAr at This Is Not A Reading Series, 20 November 2006 in Toronto, to launch the publication of Double Helix, a collaboartive "novel" by Jay MillAr and Stephen Cain.

---

Good evening. Originally I was asked to talk on the subject of molecular fiction. However, after much consideration, I decided that like the form itself there isn’t much for me to say except that molecular fictions are very small. And you need a lot of them to make up a book that anyone would consider publishing. I also had never considered Double Helix as a novel until after it had been accepted for publication, and I believe that the main reasons for doing so is that a novel is more marketable than a collection of poems, and also the press can get better funding for the project. This is not to say that I mind people thinking of Double Helix in this way – it doesn’t bother me in the least – it’s just that as a book that I have written, I never thought of it as such until all was said and done. So to escape the brevity of my knowledge on the subject of molecular fiction, and to escape being thought of as a poor-man’s John Gould, I decided to speak about something else.

At first I thought I would claim there had been a typo and talk about molecular friction. Or that I had miss-read the email inviting me to talk on the subject of molecular fiction (since I am a hallucinatory reader) and just talk about molecular friction as though this had been the idea all along. This seemed like a funny idea – get up in front of a crowd of literary types and start droning on endlessly about some topic that has nothing to do with the book at all. But after a little research I discovered that molecular friction doesn’t really exist and what literature I could find on the subject was dull as anything. Even for me. So that put an end to that. The idea of speaking on the subject of DNA crossed my mind, but to tell you the truth I don’t really know very much about DNA aside from the basic structure of it – which was used to create the structure of the book. And that scientists, when they write about DNA, they like to refer to is as a “code” or a “language” unto itself (the most interesting aspect of scientific thought is that they must reduce everything they study to metaphor in order for people to understand what they’re talking about – it is a wide open field for a writer such as myself). For scientists to speak about our basic genetic make-up as a “language” is of course fascinating to me, and probably it’s why I starting thinking about writing Double Helix in the first place. But I don’t really remember anything else about DNA or genetics – I was mostly interested in using the metaphor of DNA – the structure of it and the fact that it is considered for all intents and purposes a foreign language – to create the book called Double Helix. A few other things came to mind; at one point I even considered putting on a slide show about me – to raid my father’s slide collection. But the subject really is dull as anything.

So to make a long story short I didn’t really know what I was going to talk about until just the other day. You see there is a secret to this book that no one knows about. I didn’t want to tell anyone about it – in my mind I kept thinking why would I want to talk about that? That’s what people can find out about after I’m dead. And it’ll freak their gobbles, won’t it! No, I didn’t really want to say anything – why would I want to reveal the very thing that makes Double Helix really really interesting? Well, to sell the thing, of course. So here, at the launch of this very attractive volume just published by The Mercury Press, <the author holds air as though it were a book> I would like to talk about my use of the heteronym.

For anyone familiar with my work you already know that I used a series of pennames in my first book The Ghosts of Jay MillAr. At the time I wasn’t aware of the idea of heteronyms – which is of course the creation of an identity wholly separate from the author. I was using my pennames, which are Conwenna Stokes, Alex Cayce, H. Azel, James Llar, and John Elliott, in that sense certainly. But being the ignoramus that I am I was using them more or less to organize an overwhelmingly large manuscript into five distinct sections, (which upon reading now nearly 10 years later, aren’t really so distinct at all). John Barlow and I had been doing a lot of playing around with various pennames – that’s where the whole idea came from.

Also, names fascinate me. Chris Dewdney once told me that names are the most useless of all words because they only mean one thing. Maybe so, in a certain literal sense, but to me names are pretty slippery entities. Having grown up as “Jay Millar” I have endlessly had to deal with the fact that my real name is really John – John Elliott Millar in fact. It’s a tradition in my family is to name the first-born son John and never call him that. My cousin’s name is John but we call him Mike. At the beginning of each school year when they called out the names in my class – they got to me I’d say “call me Jay.” Everyone sitting around me (and sometimes the teacher) would look at me like “huh?” And I would have to explain to them exactly what I have just explained to you. In my last year of high school I moved and at the new school there were some other Millers in my grade so as a joke they started calling me Mill-ar, to make the distinction. In a way it made sense to say it that way because that’s how you spell it – I was always correcting the spelling of my name (which is only spelled the way it is because my great grandfather spelled it wrong on half of his kid’s birth certificates). Often on the telephone when ordering a pizza or booking a reservation even I would say MillAr. And eventually it stuck.

It became kind of fun and funny to capitalize that A, which is essentially a mnemonic device. Jay Millar is not a terribly memorable name. Neither is John Millar for that matter. I didn’t really think the capital A would make people pronounce the name MillAr, but it does. One time I was introduced by a clever personality for a reading with him pointing out the capital A and offering a prize to anyone who could give him a good reason why I should capitalize it. When I got up to read I explained that it was so that the weak-minded could wonder why it was there, thereby remembering my name due to their own lack of imagination. So I won the prize.

When I did my MA I decided I’d had enough of correcting people and let everyone call me John. The first few weeks of the term people would be calling out to me from out there somewhere and I wouldn’t respond until they banged me on the back of the head and ask me if I was deaf. In a way I was – I had to relearn my name. And later, after I had graduated, I had a strange experience. I had just found a new job and of course my employers knew my name from the application as John Millar. I actually did tell them to call me Jay but they didn’t hear me or ignored me or whatever and they kept calling me John. People would call and ask for Jay and they’d tell them there was no Jay working there. It was kind of funny. Even funnier was the first time my wife and I got into an argument. "Jason!" she said to me, exasperatedly, and I started to laugh, since that wasn't my name at all. (And until the day of our wedding she actually thought my name was Mill-Ar, causing her new mother-in-law to mutter something about pronouncing her name wrong when Hazel introduced her to someone.) So names are a bizarre linguistic space for me and they always have been.

So I decided to play around with names in The Ghosts of Jay MillAr. My favourite is James Llar. Sometimes when people say Jay Millar it comes out as “JAY-MEE-LAR” (Jamie Lar) and well, James Llar is some kind of translation of that. Some of the other names are more obvious – John Elliott for example, which is what my name would be if my mother hadn’t changed her name to Millar. In fact, my father did our family tree and discovered that back in the late 1700s there was a woman who never married who had three sons. Had she married her name wouldn’t be Miller and neither would mine. Alex Cayce was a name given to me by John Barlow. H. Azel is my wife’s name. And Conwenna Stokes is a name taken from Blake (sister of Gwendolyn) combined with the last name of a beautiful girl I had a crush on in high school. Each of them I gave sections of the book that dealt with different themes as organized by Victor Coleman: Alex Cayce wrote about birds, Conwenna Stokes about trees, James Llar about dreams, and so on. Later, after The Ghosts of Jay MillAr had been printed and people (all 10 of them) had read the book, more than a few of them referred to it as homage to Pessoa. Which kind of made me wonder: what’s a pessoa? Thinking it might be a poetic form of some sort.

Pessoa of course turned out to be the Portuguese writer who was little known during his own lifetime, who published a single volume of poetry under his own name titled Message. After his death, however, it was discovered that he had written and published a lot more than that – he had invented several heteronyms, all of whom had distinct personalities, philosophies, writing styles and, well, lives. The names of Pessoa’s main heteronyms are Charles Robert Anon, Alexander Search, Alberto Caeiro, Álvaro de Campos, Ricardo Reis and semi-heteronym Bernardo Soares who was closest to Pessoa in personality, and wrote Book of Disquiet. The most familiar of these to Canadian readers is Alberto Caeiro, who’s The Keeper of Sheep Eirin Moure tansElated into Sheep’s Vigil by a Fervent Person, which is such a terrific book you should all read it immediately if you haven’t already. All of these heteronyms wrote to one another, argued about aesthetics, published independent work, and for all intents and purposes LIVED. Which is where The Ghosts of Jay MillAr fails – the writing in each of the sections is so obviously written by me, Jay MillAr, it’s kind of funny that I ever attempted to suggest otherwise.

There are only two instances in which the characters in the book became real. The first was when I saw the limited edition of the book that was published by Coach House in 20 copies – each of the sections was bound as a separate book and housed in a handmade box. My name appeared nowhere except on a copyright page buried somewhere in one of the books. More recently I was invited to a high school in Woodstock where a teacher had been working with my book as an anthology I had edited. I discovered this at lunch, after I had already presented on my work to two classes wondering why they kept looking at me like I was a lunatic: they all thought the poems were by other people. It turned out that none of them had seen the book; instead the teacher had illegally photocopied poems, put one of the names on them and asked the students to think about them. After lunch I went into another classroom and began an off the cuff lecture on the different poets in my anthology, reading their poems, and talking about how I had met them I why I liked their poems. The students were confused as to why the poets had not come with me, so I provided various excuses. This went on until the end of the day when some kid whose name was R.Y.A.N. (he insisted that one spell his name to him) suggested that I had written all these poems. Which meant he was the one kid in that whole school who would be (was) a poet.

Since discovering the work of Pessoa through the back door of my own writing I have always wanted to create a real heteronym. So I did for Double Helix. The structure of the book is that of a ‘speak and response’ dialogue, so I needed another author with which to correspond. I figured that it would be useful if I used the same name as an existing author. William S. Burroughs wrote in an essay about how he would go out into the world to find his characters for stories and novels with a camera. He’d stalk and photograph people and use the photographs to build a character out of them. He would clip newspapers articles and other things he felt related to the character, and essentially created a scrapbook that gave him a four dimensional picture of who he was going to write about. This however, would take a lot of work, and in the end it likely wouldn’t be very convincing. So I decided to use the name of a real living author.

Many of you have probably heard of Stephen Cain. Perhaps you have even read his books. He is the author of three books of poetry: dyslexicon, Torontology, and American Standard/Canada Dry. I met Stephen when he was doing his PhD at York University (I was working on my MA) in the mid 90s. Well, actually we had met prior to that, but we got to know each other in the summer of 1997. I was working in the York University Library archives, and Stephen would occasionally tap on the door and we’d go outside and smoke cigarettes and chat about things. We discovered that we had very similar interests – Stephen was working on a thesis concerning a comparison between The Coach House Press and House of Anansi Press – I was fascinated with Canadian smallpress in general. When I finished my MA and went back to work at exactly the same job that I’d try to escape to do the MA (thereby becoming an instant failure) I would sometimes stop at Stephen’s apartment on Delaware at College on my way home from work and we’d chat about things, life, poetry, writing, reading, etc., among the piles of books he seemed to have the time and patience to read while I didn't. At some point Stephen moved to Kingston for a while, and suddenly there was no one to talk to.

So I wouldn’t go insane at my stupid job, which consisted of making photocopies in a shop downtown that seemed to have virtually no customers (and the customers they had were jackoffs) I would read books about natural history and evolution. One of the books I read was Stephen Jay Gould’s Wonderful Life, which is about the Burgess Shale. If you don’t know about The Burgess Shale, it is sediment they discovered in Alberta that contains the fossilized remains of prehistoric animals that bear no resemblance to any of the modern phyla. The variation among these creatures suggested to Gould that evolution didn’t occur in the way that we generally think about it – from a single point that branches out to a huge range of variations – but the other way around. There was once a cornucopia of variation that have all been decimated to leave a handful of species – what we know today in the world around us. What it suggested to Gould, among other things, was that there was, like in the movie It’s A Wonderful Life from which his book takes its title, an infinite number of possibilities that could have been, yet only one possibility has actually occurred to lead us to the present.

This notion of possibility, which is infinite, intrigued me. <The author pauses to drink from a glass of water> Stephen and I had talked about possibly writing a book together, but the pressures of finishing his dissertation and trying to find work weighed heavily on him and he decided he didn’t have time. So I asked him if he would mind if I wrote the book myself, but left his name on it as one of the authors – I would invent a version of Stephen Cain for the purpose of writing a book called Double Helix. Stephen agreed. And so I wondered what a book by Stephen Cain and Jay MillAr would be like. What would we talk about? How would it be written? If Stephen had anything to do with it this book would have to have some sort of constraint. Thanks to my readings about DNA I was able to come up with one.

The structure of Double Helix the book is based on the Double Helix of DNA, which is a strand consisting of four molecules that are always paired. The molecules are adenine, guanine, cytosine, and thymine. Adenine is always paired with Guanine, and Cytosine with Thymine. Because the stands of DNA are so long, and because the mechanics of sexual reproduction are what they are, the possibilities of genetic variation are infinite, yet the results are always specific. I created a similar structure for the book Double Helix: A is paired with Z, B with Y, and so on through the alphabet. I would write something titled with a word beginning with the letter A and “Stephen” would respond with something titled with a word beginning with the letter Z. At the same time “Stephen” would compose something starting with A and I would respond with something beginning with Z. In the end I would have two strands of 52 pieces, and as you can see <The author again holds the air as though it were a book> they have been bound so that the book can be read from either end and you will always end up in the same place: the middle of nowhere. <The author again holds the air as though it were a book> Stephen’s pieces were originally composed using heavy constraints: each consisted of an acrostic using the first letter of each paragraph, and was exactly 250 words. I also had to do a lot of research to be able to write like Stephen, whose literary knowledge is vast indeed, and I had to make sure to insert a lot of oblique references to this considerable knowledge throughout his entries. It was kind of like Borges’ idea about a contemporary author who wanted to write Don Quixote – not just copy it out word for word but actually write Don Quixote – but in order to do so this author would essentially have to BE Cervantes. To be able to write Double Helix I had to BE Stephen Cain.

The point of the book Double Helix is a kind of genetic splicing – I had to invent a space the lies somewhere between Stephen’s work and my own and occupy it to the best of my ability. His pieces would have to reflect his own writing a little more, and mine my own style a little more, but there would have to be some influence on either side. So after I had written Stephen’s pieces I edited them a little to make them feel as though I had actually influenced his writing. In some of the pieces you can’t even tell that they complied with the original constraints. And some of my pieces I had to make more constrained. And I had to throw in some literary references, theory, that sort of thing, which is why there is a lot of influence of Deluze and Guittari in there. Or maybe those were Stephen’s, I can’t remember.

At any rate, my experiment concerning Double Helix was to see if I could create something that was literary and convincing out of all the possibility in the world. Did I know Stephen Cain – the real Stephen Cain – well enough to reproduce him – to create, essentially, a clone of him, in a work of “fiction?” Not only that but could I invent myself, as though I were writing a book with Stephen? For in a sense, through my creation of “Stephen Cain” I was forced to clone myself as though I were actually writing a book with Stephen Cain. Only time will tell if I have succeeded and I invite you to read the book and decide for yourself. But please be aware that you will have to buy and read all of the other books by Stephen Cain and Jay MillAr in order to decide.

The truth is that the book Double Helix is not a book of fiction. The book is very much real. It exists in the realm of the possible. A heteronym, such as “Stephen Cain” or “Jay MillAr” for that matter, is all about possibility, about refining all those possibilities into the realm of what is possible. It is very similar to what Gould suggests about evolution: originally an infinite possibility of variation that is reduced by decimation to what we know. Or what we know about genetic reproduction itself: an infinite number of possibilities with specific results.

To close, I would actually like to read from the book.

The Charis

2006-08-16T19:40:00.000-07:00

Went to see a production of Ionesco's The Chairs last night. Fantastic play, if you ask me. Two fantastic lines:

"That man's not a doctor! He's an offset lithographer!"

and

"Luscious ushers!"

Dream

2006-07-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a very vivid dream that my family and I were going to move to Calgary Alberta. Why Calgary I have no idea, I don't really have a reason to move there, nor do I feel as though I would be particularly welcome there either. It's true that's Alberta is the province of my birth, so who knows, maybe subconsciously I want to go "home" again.

Occasionally

2006-06-26T07:33:00.000-07:00

Discovering some old poems in a box has caused me to think about the occasional poem, so I'm going to abandon all fears of 'the confessional' and 'hip intelligence' and write a whole bunch. One a day to be precise. Is that occasional enough for you?

Last Lexiconjury

2006-06-23T13:49:00.000-07:00

Well another era has come and gone. There were a few featured readers the other night who admitted that it was their first and last time at the Lexiconjury. It reminds me of when I was a 'featured reader' at my first and last Cafe May reading. When was that, like 1995? I remember I read "Whitman in Black" by Ted Berrigan (which I had to write out myself from memory not having brought a cover text. I think I got it wrong). And for my own poem I read something called "New Year's Poem" which was one of those 'letter poems' I was writing at the time in the style of Berrigan or O'Hara about sitting around my apartment late at night with a head cold. A fun evening, one of my earliest public readings in Toronto, where I met (read witnessed) people like Bill Kennedy, Christian Bok, John Barlow, Nancy Dembowski, Peter McPhee, Alana Wilcox, Matthew Remski, R.M. Vaughn, Michael Holmes, Darren Wershler-Henry, and others (I'm sorry if you were there and your name isn't here).

I've decided that 'endings' are a way to eschew meaningfulness on something that might not necessarily bear the same meaningfulness otherwise. What if the Cafe May reading series was still going on? It would probably be as meaningful as the Art Bar. If Lexiconjury kept going it's fate would be the same. Maybe Lex was the reincarnation of Cafe May, but was disguised by calling it 'Lexiconjury' rather than 'Cafe May' and had certain new technological features such as a listserve to help define/promote it. But let's admit that even if there were some similarities, they were two different series representing two different scenes. Super. Glad we figured that out.

One of the main differences, perhaps, is the varying degree to which entertainment infused the literary cultures the two series represented. A conversation with Margaret at the end of the night caused me to consider the difference between Angela's and Katherine's 'performance' of a Gertrude Stein text and Bill Kennedy's (who was a regular at the Cafe May and hosted that final event too if I remember correctly) 'reading' of Dewdney's "Grid Erectile" and a poem from Williams' Paterson. In the current state of culture, or perhaps it might be considered the 'new' state of culture, the notion of entertainment is a strong one. Gizmos, gadgets, television, the internet, movies, music at every turn. How can we not be entertained? This is not to say that the Cafe May was not entertainment- or pop culture-free. The night I was there I remember Michael Holmes' cover text being the lyrics to a Forgotten Rebels song, and I know that some of the early computer interface (read now as internet poetics, and read internet as pure eye candy) poetry was present there too in the form of Wershler-Henry, who performed his Translating Translating Apollinaire into Klingon translation, and Bok who performed some of his work. And I think there was some spoken word present too, which I have always interpreted as a way of making really uninteresting poems 'sound' entertaining.

Has thought become entertainment? Is poetry entertaining? It is a very curious thing to consider. If I don't want to 'perform' my texts (I know, I know, I know about the idea that all public appearances are 'performed') will I recede into the background? Anyway, this isn't about me. I don't want to go on record saying that the Lexiconjury was totally amazing and I don't want to go on record saying that the Lexiconjury was total crap. I'd rather go on record as saying that it was, as Mark has said, as close to a third place as I've ever found. Whatever it was, good or bad, smart, hip or superficial, the troubling thing is that it did something -- one could join in or react against it both from within or from the outside. It was there. And now it is gone, and I wonder how long it will be before people are telling me that there needs to be somewhere like Lexiconjury again the same way that I kept hearing that there needs to be somewhere like Cafe May again a few years after it had ended. And I wonder what the next third place will be for people to gather around.

One thing's for certain, you could buy some pretty fucking cool books at the Lexiconjury, heh? Isn't it fitting that at the last Lex someone stole Apollinaire's shelves?

Some Thoughts

2006-05-20T12:06:00.000-07:00

The following is in response to some discussion going on here

"You write:
"I have no doubt now that there is an obvious problem with regard to sexism in the Toronto poetry scene"

This is the whole point;" (GB)

I'm not sure if this is the whole point. There is also a fragmentation in "the community" (I'm using quotes because it is an un-definable entity) based on an imagined polarization: insider vs outsider art. As you say: "this is a centre-less community." This I think is very true, but I also think there are a number of people who don't imagine it this way at all based on any number of criteria, be it geography or public recognition or other things that have occurred historically in the literary scene.

The notion of insider vs outsider in the Toronto arts “community,” which is not unlike the imaginary battle between the schools of the schooled and the unschooled that has been going on for like 100 years in Canada and has created such things as ‘street-cred’ vs ‘professionalism’ has, at least for me, a very specific origin. I know that even though this individual has been putting the idea out there for quite some time it has always been interpreted and used incorrectly by everyone who has tried to talk about or define it and the originator has never bothered to try to correct anyone for whatever reasons. I do know that this person has continually stated that the whole thing doesn’t exist. But this has constantly been ignored and some people have made both subjective and objective positions for themselves and others somewhere on that imaginary line between the imaginary poles of the inside and the outside of something (“the community”) that in reality has no such positions in which to stand.

“Community” is indeed a centreless entity, just as it is perhaps a genderless entity. And yet it can have the appearance of having a center (or a gender). No one has discussed this aspect of the recent state of affairs, (at least not publicly, and I must admit that I owe some of this thinking to a certain someone I chatted with yesterday) and it seems to me that just as the “silence” with regard to sexism in the “community” has led to the recent gender wars and the sudden desire to speak out on the subject, “silence” with regard to the existence of an “outside” of something that has no outside has lead to a certain amount of resentment and anger on the part of those who feel they persist there. This, combined with an overall inability on the part of the members of this “community” to separate a person who makes art from the art that they make, has led to a lot of hurtful statements and confusion, and has forced those who feel they persist “on the outside” to feel even further ostracized. One of the inherent problems of the open letter is that even though it does state affirming and positive things, the list of names attached to it (not to mention the list of names not attached to it) also causes the letter to confirm that there are indeed “sides” in “the community” which is supposed the be centre-less and/or polar-less. How to deconstruct this foible of a centreless entity that maintains polarization through individual interpretation (and perhaps even through cultural expectations) is something that (like sexism) also needs to be addressed with regard to "this community."