[slight postprandial burp. dabs at corners of mouth with napkin. says excuse me. a third bottle of wine is opened.]
marcy postulates, if what we perceive,
that is, read in each other's poetry,
is written through the writer's sensibilities,
and if those sensibilities are unique to him,
for example, a writer of poor eyesight
whose empirical view of the world
is different than, let's say mine, how in the world
are we, or i, or anyone, to read
and interpret his work with any degree
of accuracy, even accuracy of intent?
colin plays the devil's advocate. he says
accuracy and intent will be interpreted
by the reader uniquely in itself, no matter
the writer's point of view or intent.
accuracy is by nature subjective, so it is
irrelevant to the reader if he is interpreting
what he reads as intended by the writer.
i question the notion that accuracy
colin cites some examples. a leaf is green,
has veins and stomata, has edges
that are either smooth or rough, and et cetera.
that is an accurate description as far
as it goes. there are many leaves that don't
mean that description enough to satisfy
the term accuracy. that is an example
of a term, leaf, used to describe a broad class
of something, it is accurate to a degree,
enough so to be useful in a classroom
of non-botany students. another example
is anthropology, in which eras or epochs
are defined and described, and considered
accurate, until they are not, which, historically,
has been fairly often. the tendency
for anthropologists to be dogmatic, i.e. accurate,
in their reasoning is almost certainly doomed
by the next discovery at a deeper
or more remote locale. their sense of accuracy
is, in fact, opinion based on the empirical
evidence at hand. another example would be
an atomic clock, which is, apparently, the most
accurate way to relate time, as we perceive it,
to the reality of our lives. there is no accuracy
greater than the relationship between
the atomic clock and time as we know it.
it becomes subjective only when the observer
is outside the existence we know. it could
be wholly inaccurate, yet serves our purpose,
with a degree of accuracy beyond refinement.
marcy tops off our glasses.
annie says something about universal
harmonic chords and asks if anyone
would like more soup, or a back rub.
kurt says the übermensch is the writer
that cannot be understood because
of the unique empirical observations he makes,
that this uniqueness, though unintentional,
allows him to break free of common concepts,
and to be understood is inherently to be
misunderstood. kurt allows that nietzsche was insane.
the conversation turns to evidence
perceived by the individual as empirical—
a schizophrenic's perceptions,
an artist's perception of a cathedral
in the harsh summer sun versus a cloudy day,
the perception of a rainbow by two people
standing shoulder to shoulder, the perception
of time, how it seems slow or quick, depending
on circumstance—she says you're too quick,
he says you're too slow, it becomes a matter
of who is perceiving, the writer or the reader.
we agree on this, except annie, who allows
we are all right if that it is what we believe.
colin requests that marcy give an example
of what she means, poetically. she thinks
for a second and says, john clare, and she says
it is a matter of degree. our uniqueness,
by definition, which makes our objectivity
subjective, our own version of objective,
will cause every reader to bring their own perceptions
to the table, and, in fact, their own morality.
colin says i was about to say duh, but then
you last few words caused me not to. say duh.
thank you for not saying duh, says marcy.
no problem, says colin. we cool?
kurt talks about rugby.
i mention that the farmer's market
was particularly crowded yesterday.
marcy is wearing a white hat.
colin speaks to the notion of free will
and individuality, as expressed by
kierkegaard, leading to free choice,
hence, writing is an act of free choice
which can be perceived by another
only judgmentally, that accuracy
is one way of looking at it. either way,
it is free will leading to subjectivity.
i look at colin and wonder why,
for the hundredth time, he and marcy
aren't an item. she is gorgeous
and he is handsomely divine, in a
handsomely divine way. i don't get it.
annie smooths her skirt
and puts on her hiking boots. ties them.
kurt asks if anyone wants to go out
no one does.
what about drug impaired writing, marcy asks,
how is the reader to perceive that?
what about the beats who were perceived
by society and the literati as ignorant . . . typists.
what about them?
i don't know. i'm just asking.
what about the anonymous writer?
what about him?
him, her, them, they, us?
anonymity, is it inherently honest
are you talking about anonymity
or pseudonyms? give me an example.
um, pseudonyms. george eliot. did she
write as a man because her publishers
knew her books would sell better
being written by a man, or was she using
a male's identity to to break free,
to perceive her own experiences
from a new and different point of view,
and are her books perceivable
as being written by a man or a woman?
does it matter?
that's the question.
writing anonymously, or using a pseudonym,
is one thing. deception is another.
how do you differentiate?
we have to go.
alright. hasta luego y buenos noches.
annie skips out the door.
marcy sighs and begins doing the dishes.
Poetry by one trick pony
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Written on 2015-08-17 at 03:11
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