Acephalous

A list of people whose deaths I have permission to mourn.

An annoying anonymous person writes:

Why is it any time anyone hipsters or academics are supposed to like dies, they just so happen to be very important never-before-mentioned influences on your life? Are you really so needy that there's no death you won't use as an excuse to call attention to yourself?

Although this comment belongs to the tedious category of "complaints about bloggers having blogs and writing about stuff on them," it nevertheless struck a chord: first, because the size of the community grieving for Alex Chilton surprised me; and second, it seems to be a dangerous time to be a living artist or academic who changed my life.  That said, this annoying anonymous person is reading in bad faith: not everyone who influenced me did so greatly or uniquely, which is why I noted Kurt Vonnegut's passing in passing, as a "Vonnegut phase" is required to join the community of readers.  The same cannot be said of those academics and artists with whom I shared an intimate relationship over many years, which is why I wrote individual remembrances of Octavia Butler, David Foster Wallace, Howard Zinn, or Alex Chilton. 

If I seem to be too familiar a type, blame central casting: academics play the part because that's the part they've been asked to play.  That there seems to be a wider community of similarly interested intellectuals is, to my mind, a sign that while academic disciplines may be irrevocably balkanized, something resembling a larger intellectual culture still exists.  Whether this cultural homogeneity is a good thing depends on what it actually contains, and given how surprising Chilton's inclusion image was to me, I probably should refrain from saying much more about it. 

However, in light of the recent proliferation of lists like this, I think I'll take a moment to silence future scolds by listing all living authors, musicians, and filmmakers with whose work I feel a deeply irrational kinship.  They may not still move me as they once did, but they once did and when they die a little bit of me will too.  

Impulse Control Issues; or, the Sum Total of Fun Had Today

It seems turning a forty-five page chapter into an eight page talk is easier than I thought it would be.  Remove the questionable material—the argument you're still not altogether satisfied with, the claims you think a little too bold, &c.—and you're left with about twenty pages of solid material to choose from. 

Of that twenty pages, about five of them contain material that won't work without the expunged bits ... which leaves you with about fifteen pages to re-sculpt into something talk worthy. 

Tomorrow begins the process of repeatedly reading the thing aloud in order to slough some dross and smooth the rougher bits. 

However, what I really want to talk about is The Nightmarish Frog Thing. 

Hold on—that's not right. 

What I really want to talk about is disbanding all theology departments everywhere. 

Wait—that's not right either. 

What I really want to talk about is this brilliant mash-up of the old Batman series and Frank Miller's ridiculous All Star Batman and Robin; in particular, I want to talk about this one:

Making Jokes During Pain, Plus Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Leonard Cohen

Since y'all have seen fit to make jokes during my pain* I'm not going to post anything original tonight.  Not even anything humorously frivolous.  Instead, I'll post Ladies and Gentleman, Mr. Leonard Cohen (1965).  Despite being made by Canadians, it's quite good.  Even if you don't like Cohen, I recommend watching the stand-up bit at the beginning of the first episode.  At the very least, his delivery bears on Saturday's post.  Cohen could, in fact, not sound like Cohen, meaning that his decision to read and sing flat may not be reducible to his deficient voice.  Judge for yourself:

Before Joe panics because I've become one of those sad "YouTube bloggers," let me say that this documentary's been lost for more than a decade, so its appearance on YouTube's a certifiable find.  This is no cute polar bear cub, but a verifiable important bit of music history.  Or something.  Anyhow, watch Part One above.  Now that I've quelled that fear, here's the rest of the documentary:

Part Two:

Part Three:

Part Four:

Part Five:

Tomorrow, I'll write about more academic material, i.e. elephants that aren't on tables, kittens that aren't around corners, and rings that aren't on fingers.

*Joss Whedon, "Hush," from Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Season Four.

Leonard Cohen's "How to Speak Poetry," How He Spoke Poetry, and How Poetry Shouldn't Be Spoken

In the comments to Ogged's post on Ezra Pound, DS links to something I once spent years looking for: Leonard Cohen's prose-poem "How to Speak Poetry."  Of course, Google returns thirty copies of it, mocking my then-futile search to acquire a copy of the collection it's from, Death of a Lady's Man (1979).  (Not to be confused with his 1978 collaboration with Phil Spector, Death of a Ladies'  Man.  I love the humility of the book's singular.)  All of the copies online (until now) contain the same typos and odd paragraph breaks, which nicely parallels the copy I found in 1995: hand-written, riddled with misspellings, and slightly altered to apply to one local poet in particular.  So I clean it up the copy I found on Google with some reservation.  You can read the whole thing at the link above, but for my current purposes, a few excerpts will suffice:

The word butterfly is merely data. It is not an opportunity for you to hover, soar, befriend flowers, symbolize beauty and frailty, or in any way impersonate a butterfly. Do not act out words. Never act out words. Never try to leave the floor when you talk about flying. Never close your eyes and jerk your head to one side when you talk about death. Do not fix your burning eyes on me when you speak about love.

Sound advice, since most poets are poets, not actors—only, some poets are actors.  For the second time in three days, I'll link to "Innisfree."  Does Cohen want to deprive the world of Yeats' oracular chanting?

Speak the words with the exact precision with which you would check out a laundry list. Do not become emotional about the lace blouse. Do not get a hard-on when you say panties. Do not get all shivery just because of the towel. The sheets should not provoke a dreamy expression about the eyes. There is no need to weep into the handkerchief. The socks are not there to remind you of strange and distant voyages. It is just your laundry. It is just your clothes. Don't peep through them. Just wear them.