Tuesday, December 29, 2009

I like what Lorca does to my brain!

He might be one of the few men of which I can declare that.
But seriously, I like Lorca and while I am not alone nor original, I forget how good he is for the way I want to think. It's not just the good old surrealism thing, it's the intimacy of voice, the way say, Ashbery can be rolling along in a world that is so interior and brilliant that we can sometimes only enjoy the delight in the firings of synapse as they speak back and forth inside the skull of genius all through the night, like two little boys and their morse code of flashlight, long after they were told to turn-in. Then, with Ashbery, there is this moment of intimacy, a come-here, listen-in quality where the tone and the strange objects braid and their nothing shy of celestial music as meandering and obfuscation,and the physics of the odd meet the dodo or winter fires and upon being called into the inner circle of a brain with two kids in its neighborhood beating out a message in blinking lights across the night, we are,for a moment, utterly privy and that moment is epic. The rest of the time, the lights, their rhythm and pattern, still provide pleasure and make the night a singing, luminous thing.

But I began with Lorca & I rambled about Ashbery because it is that moment of tone, voice, intimacy that wiggles into the midst of all that funky stuff--the trees and bugs and green beauties of Lorca and makes it like something out of Avatar but without the cheesy didactics and no need for the 3d glasses. Lorca knows, Ashbery knows, their poems were all that 3d long before technology could catch up, which it won't, which it can't.

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