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Oh, in pop music there's always another visionary guitarist in the wings. ----- Original Message ----- From: "David Bircumshaw" <[log in to unmask]> To: <[log in to unmask]> Sent: Monday, December 27, 2010 1:26 PM Subject: Re: "Praxis" This makes me think of all those failed would-be visionary guitarists of my twenties who gave up trying because it was too much trouble to praxis the chords. On 26 December 2010 17:06, Frederick Pollack <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > Praxis > > > Praxis, how I loved you. You appear seven times, > at least, per page in the volumes of Western Marxism > and Socialist Humanism I’m selling twenty, no, > thirty years late, so that even the vast > Book Graveyard in Rockville won’t take them, if in fact > it survives. My wife’s Uncle Mike, > the shrink, who also has to > retrench, must have the same problem > with his shelves full of moldy visionary > prepsychopharmaceutical > attempts to *analyze schizophrenia. > There’s no market for the Talking Cure > or for you, praxis, now. > Ideas like rusting factories producing > mice, like apartment buildings terminally > urined by banks and tenants, like untraceable > pensions and mortgages, like wasted educations, > like space shuttles. So that Mike at a party > might quote Laing’s Three Rules > for the Creation of Schizophrenics (Rule One: > You absolutely must not; > Rule Two: Rule One does not exist; > Rule Three: There shall be no discussion whatever > of the existence or nonexistence > of Rules One, Two, or Three) and diffidently mumble, > They may not create schizophrenics > but they produce *something; and be looked at > with the horror and wish to be elsewhere > religious types claim > they encounter (as indeed they should). But you, dear praxis, > don’t even receive that degree > of recognition, i.e., > contempt. And even I > must admit I’ve found you wanting. Under Nixon, > for an hour a week I planned > to abandon my bourgeois self > and the vanity of art, move to Oakland, organize > workers and welfare recipients, learn to > sweat and talk football and cars while subtly > injecting class-consciousness. Under Reagan, > an hour a month. Under Bush > Two I signed e-petitions, > donated money, and never left > the house. By then people once > on welfare were working four jobs and had eaten > their young, while workers > in distant jungles awaited some heavenly imam ... > Oh praxis, it’s snowing. On Fox, > they’ll joke about global warming > and sixty million viewers > will laugh. I could no more > explain to them that the deepening white > outside is a pledge of the desert to come > than I could clear it; but on the sand in my mind, > I croak with thirst and triumph as we burn. > Praxis, the self is a hovel, > but that doesn’t mean we want > to move. It’s a musty gruel > that becomes the sweetest persimmon > when someone, ourselves included, asks us to share. > Near Shelley’s grave, the ashes of Gramsci > sift from his tomb beneath a corrupt > and epicene moon. Victor Serge, > dying in a taxi, couldn’t afford > the fare and must tour Mexico City > until the traffic stops. Rexroth wrote > his friend Jacobson that, despite Stalin, despite > McCarthy, they had been > *the happiest men alive in our day*; > and perhaps they were, but his book won’t fetch > fifty cents at the Book Graveyard. And don’t talk to me, praxis, > about art as praxis; > I know what that amounts to. Marcel Marceau’s > old film about a park: > the little girl, the rude little boy, > the bashful somewhat larger girl > and youth, the wistful or preoccupied > feeders of pigeons; > and he – do you see – must be all of them, > until the gates close and the last, > the old man, hobbles off with his terrible stare. -- David Joseph Bircumshaw Website and A Chide's Alphabet http://www.staplednapkin.org.uk The Animal Subsides http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/animal.html Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/david.bircumshaw twitter: http://twitter.com/bucketshave blog: http://groggydays.blogspot.com/