dig

Category: language

  • AG2024_2030166a winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow

    AG2024_2030166a

    Conductor Art Fair.

    Powerhouse Arts | 322 3rd Ave, Brooklyn
    April 29–May 3, 2026

    By the bivouac’s fitful flame,
    ?A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow;—but first I note,
    ?The tents of the sleeping army, the fields’ and woods’ dim outline,
    ?The darkness lit by spots of kindled fire—the silence,
    ?Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving,
    ?The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily watching me,)
    ?While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wond’rous thoughts,
    ?Of life and death—of home and the past and loved, and of those that are far away;
    ?A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,
    ?By the bivouac’s fitful flame.

    By the bivouac’s fitful flame, Walt Whitman

  • AG2025_1222201a or concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end.

    prim and mottled forms arranged to this end.

    Success is counted sweetest
    By those who ne’er succeed.
    To comprehend a nectar
    Requires sorest need.

    Not one of all the purple Host
    Who took the Flag today
    Can tell the definition
    So clear of victory

    As he defeated – dying –
    On whose forbidden ear
    The distant strains of triumph
    Burst agonized and clear!

    Success is counted sweetest (112), Emily Dickinson

    As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty green iron table, saying: ‘If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden …’ I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might be collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end.

    Hysteria, T. S. Eliot

    Another end.

  • atmosphere-generating juxtaposition

    Beatriz Monteavaro, Tonight, We Can Be As One Tonight.

    Under the Bridge.
    12425 NE 13th Ave, North Miami, 33161.

    PXL_20260426_182232466.RAW-01.COVER
    PXL_20260426_182124239.RAW-02.ORIGINAL

    The kinds of proximity that matter here are made by practices of attention not defined by dissensus or agonism but technically, by atmosphere-generating juxtaposition. This proximity dilutes what we called structural by shifting the force of the normative infrastructures from the state and commodity capitalism into the ordinary that also includes local plural intimacies and the associations that make life sticky and interesting.

    Berlant

  • AG2026_1222184a or seduced her wits and left her to wander

    AG2026_1222184a

    Some say thronging cavalry, some say foot soldiers,
    others call a fleet the most beautiful of
    sights the dark earth offers, but I say it’s what-
    ever you love best.
    And it’s easy to make this understood by
    everyone, for she who surpassed all human
    kind in beauty, Helen, abandoning her
    husband—that best of
    men—went sailing off to the shores of Troy and
    never spent a thought on her child or loving
    parents: when the goddess seduced her wits and
    left her to wander,
    she forgot them all, she could not remember
    anything but longing, and lightly straying
    aside, lost her way. But that reminds me
    now: Anactória,
    she’s not here, and I’d rather see her lovely
    step, her sparkling glance and her face than gaze on
    all the troops in Lydia in their chariots and
    glittering armor.


    The Anactoria Poem, Sappho. Translated By Jim Powell

  • 011222165~2 or cuffed primly

    011222165~2
    011222165~2

    She laughed and leaned back in her chair. Crossed her legs at the ankles. Her trim dark jeans were cuffed primly back over brown wool socks. She had on half boots, all scuffed worn leather. Her jean jacket had a shearling fringe, mottled white and green.

    Colonial Conditions, Brandon Taylor (The Yale Review)

    The Aesthetics of Resistance. Peter Weiss. “The three volumes of the novel were originally published in 1975, 1978 and 1981. English translations of the three volumes have been published by Duke University Press, in 2005, 2020 and 2025.”

    The Aesthetics of Resistance, Volume I
    Translator: Joachim Neugroschl
    Foreward: A Monument to Radical Instants / Fredric Jameson

  • in the back patio /of his mind

    011222153~2
    011222153~2

    He lies if they ask him
    how he does it.

    To leap on top
    or to the side.

    To dodge the ceaseless
    lottery.

    Imperceptible,
    in the back patio
    of his mind    ,
    a plant opens,
    a succulent
    of accomplishment    .

    I., Luis Muñoz. Translated from the Spanish by Idra Novey & Garth Greenwell

  • freedom of the reader

    PXL_20260422_185249111.RAW-01.COVER

    JH Prynne, born June 24 1936, died April 22 2026 (The Telegraph Obituaries)(also, in The Telegraph).

    “One reason why he was so resistant to reading in public was his concern that audiences “believe so readily that some special insight has been communicated to them because the poet’s voice is authentic and true and inward, and so the whole mystery of the poem is presented to the ear of the audience. This belief is completely false, in my impression totally misguided, misleading, untrue and false.” He considered the memory of a poet’s voice to be “a really serious obstacle, and I detest to present obstacles to the freedom of the reader.””

    Paris Review. Prynne Bibliography.

    Walker Art Center, Collections.

  • never let the charm be broken

    Haiti Inter sur Johnny Nicholas (Jean Marcel Nicholas). The Search for Johnny Nicholas, Hugh Wray McCann, David C. Smith, David L. Matthews (1982/2011).

    Yesterday we walked apart, 
    Separate and cold and mortal. 
    Now the mystic kiss has joined us, 
    Now we stand inside the portal

    That permits of no returning,
    And my heart is strangely burning. 

    I know not what the word may be, 
    Or what the charm, or what the token, 
    That has filled us with this glory. 
    But never let the charm be broken. 

    Let it stay a mystery
    For all time to be. 

    Yesterday, with lighter joys,
    We wantoned at the outer portal. 
    Now, with love’s old alchemy, 
    We have made ourselves immortal.

    Sudden Friendship, Elsa Gidlow