The CatskiIl Mountain Review
Special How To Issue (A Handbook of Handbooks)
Summer 2011 75 dollars
DESK COPY FOR PROMOTIONAL PURPOSES ONLY
I feel like every book I make is a handbook. L. Weiner
CATSKILL MOUNTAIN REVIEW
Special How to Issue (A Handbook of Handbooks)
Number 1. Summer 2011
EDITORIAL COCOMMISSION Jan Flegenheimer.................................................................Editor-in-Chief L.S. Price..................................................................................Design Editor Stephen Marisquin................................................................Fashion Editor Lou Eilshemius...............................................................................Art Editor Hélène Dupin.........................................................................Reviews Editor Madison Busch...................................................Editorial Correspondence
CONTENTS The Editors (with T. Adorno)...................................................................I HAVE NO HOBBY Hélène Dupin..............................................................................................Sheds for America Jan Flegenheimer...........................................................Into the Dusk-Charged Watershed Eckhart Tolle.................................................. Bern Porter’s Radical Critique of Self-Help Herman Melville........................................................................................................The Porch Kidd Cimmarrón...............................................................................................A Possible Bag Franklin W. Dixon.......................................................................................Drug Use Glossary B. Goddard....................................................How Not to Care & Two Balding Metalheads Maxwell Bodenheim.............................................................................................Two Sonnets J.B. Layfield......................................................................How to Become a Phynance Whiz Beth Reed...............................................................Selections from the blog Beth’s Secret
16 44 49 55 67 99 103 115 116 120 130
Reviews Hélène Dupin...............................................................................Leif Förster’s CATSKILLIAD
Books Received........................................................................................................................... Letters from Subscribees........................................................................................................... Advertisements............................................................................................................................
145 147 148
Theodor Adorno, Critical Models: Interventions and Catchwords. Trans. Henry W. Pickford. New York: Columbia University Press, 1998. Print.
In America only the truly wealthy can maintain domestics, and Europe is following closely behind. This causes many people to practice subaltern activities that were formerly delegated to others. The slogan “Do it yourself” [tue es selbst] takes this up as practical advice, though it also takes up the weary exasperation people feel toward mechanization, which unburdens them—and this fact cannot be disputed, rather only its usual interpretation—without their knowing how to utilize their newly acquired time.... (172-173) The disastrous model of pseudo-activity is the “do-it-yourself” [Mach es selber]; activities that do what has long been done better by the means of industrial production only in order to inspire in the unfree individuals, paralyzed in their spontaneity, the assurance that everything depends on them... (291)
The nonsense of do-it-yourself in the production of material goods, even in the carrying out of many repairs, is patently obvious. Admittedly the nonsense is not More than thir ty years ago, I described total. (291) such behavior as “pseudo -activity.” Since then pseudoactivity has expanded to an alarming degree, even, and especially among those people who believe they are protesting against society.... [P]seudo-activities are fiction s and parodies of the productive society ... (173) 16
I HAVE NO HO B BY.
Not that Iâ€™m a workaholic who wouldnâ€™t know how to do anything else but get down to business and do what has to be done. (168)
The How To in How To. “Some things are in our control and others are not.” The originary reductio ad practicum, the first sentence of Epictetus’
Some kind of authority, some kind of knowledge asymmetry, not complex or remunerative enough to require a full professional training. Some sort of benefit to be had, practical advice. Not to be obtainable while in the bookstore, but over a period of hours or weeks at home. Maybe the most gifted and most regifted genre. Maybe the most unread genre. Sort of like moral letters used to be: fathers to sons, Ciceronian, Senecan type haute patriarchica.
In the beginning, “the first part of a classical oration.” The hook, the lure, the anecdote with which speaker-writer-angler reels in listener-reader-fish. Not “since the dawn of man,” ab origine mundi, but instead this beginning-turncatch which is intimately-antagonistically-forcibly-embarassingly related to your now-here.
How does the How To begin? What generic conventions, and exceptions, can be noted?
Handbook Squared “Actually these books shouldn’t be called ‘how to write’ but ‘how they used to write.’”1 The handbook has always been a suspect genre. The rhetorical handbook writers of antiquity (before there were codex books one could hold in one’s hand) were “the second-rate intellectuals of the day,” according to George Kennedy.2 Just why is it that a reader is being taught so cheaply what others pay for so dearly?
Every book is, in some sense, a manual or a “how to” or a “what to” guide—or maybe its obverse, a “how not to.” The more the theoria and the less the techne, the greater the longevity—at least according to the implicit regulations of literary theory d’un certain vintage. The manual is instantly outdated—it cannot claim to be literature in the way of fine writing addressed to posterity.
vladimir mayakovsky, “How Verses are Made,” Poetry in Theory: an anthology 19002000, ed. Jon cook (Oxford: blackwell, 2004), 145.
2 George Kennedy, Classical Rhetoric and its
Christian and Secular Tradition from Ancient to Modern Times, 2nd revd. edition (Chapel Hill: Uni-
versity of North Carolina Press, 1999), 175.
OMNI FAR IANISM
N O CSTIRN AED
The process of change in the United States goes on so rapidly that the attempt of a guidebook to keep abreast of the times (not easy in any country) becomes almost futile. James Fullarton Muirhead, â€œBaedekerianaâ€? (1898)
Print technology made the autodidact possibleâ€” that is the point upon which everything depends. Friedrich Kittler, Optical Media
Outbuildings are a great American tradition, particularly cherished in the Catskills, where it is rare that homes lack them. In rural areas, sheds typically do not require building permits, so long as they are not intended for overnight (i.e. sleeping) use. The shed is the revolutionary successor to the barn, housing tools and machines where once were beasts of burden and living stores of food. Paradoxically, by virtue of its haphazardness and affordability, the shed—or shack or hut or hovel or tent—is the most enduring of architectural modes. Whatever you call them, they’re unquestionably the well-greased hubs of the D.I.Y. universe—as venerable as the kitchens and kitchenettes of this vast and powerful nation.
From the Nineteenth Century Barn to the Twenty-First Century Shed: the outbuilding as a supplement to the rural and suburban middle-class home.
outbuilding, but they by no means constitute even a fifty percent majority. An extraordinary variety of outbuildings dwell in America, undoubtedly more than in any other country worldwide. If one is fortunate enough to live on or off the land, one can never have enough sheds.
Like many consumer durables, sheds are deeply gendered. Champions of D.I.Y.-netics stress the importance of challenging stereotypes through more thoughtful patterns of design and implementation. We should reject assigning gender roles to sheds as well as to shed builders and users. Bottom line, the shed is a place to explore what Foucault called the care of the self as a practices of freedom.
H. DUPIN BIG INDIAN SHADY MT. TREMPER BOICEVILLE GROOVILLE ANDES SILVER HOLLOW PINE HILL SCHULTZ’S HIDEOUT JEWETT FLEISCHMANN’S WILLOW Much like private rooms and public rooms, outbuildings and conventional dwellings have always been divided as much by convention as by strict protocol. The outbuilding may well serve as a residence in the summer months, and is certainly no less distinguished than its mobile residence (RV) counterparts, requiring considerably less fuel consumption. The outbuilding, by definition, is a hideout not worth looking inside, a purloined letter casually located in the backyard. Garages are perhaps the most significant subform of the postwar 44
The true D.I.Y.naut will build her own shed. Most others, in the Northeast at least, will go Amish if they opt for wood.
The prospective shedbuyer is confronted by a baffling array of choices—not only of materials and styles, but of additional options. The price of a shed can easily spiral out of control. This can become a major source of decision stress. Mass-produced customizability can come at a significant social and personal cost. The D.I.Y.naut can circumvent many, if not all, of the price premium placed upon custom additions— though for the most part the D.I.Y.naut will likely continue to depend on highly processed construction materials at the level of the 2x4.
“The more ‘primitive’ the hut, the more its creators recognize the arbitrariness of their own culture.”1 1 Ann Cline, A Hut of One’s Own: Life Outside the Circle of Nature (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1998).
Lawn tool baguetelles from coast to coast. It’s a workplace revolution: privacy, convience and affordability all rolled into one.
Vinyl models are universally considered to be degrading to the eternal soul. This seems to have inversely influenced demand for them.
Personal fabrication technologies hold forth great promise for the future of shed-based manufacturing. The shed revolution is of comparable magnitude to the introduction of the personal computer. The shed of one’s own hearkens a return to domestic independence. The low cost small business portable office is perfect for today’s highly flexible mobile workforce—and as an added bonus, if you use yours for business purposes, you may qualify for a tax deduction. Sheds are win/win propositions, raising your home’s equity and providing valuable income—not to mention greatly adding to your personal freedom. As one of the premier publications of the D.I.Y.volution, The Catskill Mountain Review, in keeping with its general philosophy, advocates ecologically sensitive home-based shed design and erection. We invite readers to send us their shed stories, plans, experiences and philosophies. Take back your backyard—it’s not too late...
Into the Dusk-Charged Watershed Jan Flegenheimer’s note: The following poem was read aloud in commemoration of the honorary doctorate awarded to John Ashbery by The University of the Catskills at the Spring 2011 commencement. Mr. Ashbery was regrettably unable to attend. Far from the Willowemoc, the silent Clay Kyle Fountain Kill moves along toward the sea. The brown and green Bear Hole Brook rolls slowly Like the Panther Kill’s welling descent. Tractors stood on the green banks of the Neversink Near where it joined the Delaware. The Gulf of Mexico Brook prods among black stones And mud. But the Batavia Kill is all stones. Wind ruffles the Nieuw Haarlem’s Surface. The Bush Kill is overflowing. But the yellowish, gray Deer Shanty Brook Is confined within steep banks. The Binnekill Flows too fast to swim in, the Flatiron Brook’s water Courses over the flat land. The Stony Clove and its boats Were dark blue. The Little Beaverkill is Gray boats. The Grog Kill flows slowly. Leaves fall into the Ox Clove as it passes Underneath. The Esopus is full of sewage, Like the Pepacton River, but unlike The brownish-yellow Bukkabome. And Alder Creek is very deep, almost As deep as the Cadosia is wide. The plain banks of Broadstreet Hollow are Gray. The dark Bowery Creek is long and wide As it flows across the brownish land. The Elk Bushkill Is blue, and slow. The Dryden Brook flows Swiftly between its banks. The Scoharie Is one of the county’s longest rivers, like the Rondout. It has the Barkaboom for a tributary. The Biscuit Brook flows amid factories And buildings. The Gooseberry Creek is almost in Canada, Flowing. Through hard banks the Buttermilk Brook
Forces its way. People walk near the Beaver Kill. The landscape around the Mohawk stretches away; The Rubicon is merely a brook. In winter the Beach Hill Brook Surges; the Dry Brook Valley sings its eternal song. The Cone Rock Brook slogs along through whitish banks And the Mettacahonts Creek spins tales out of the past. The Herdman bursts its frozen shackles But the Huckleberry Brook’s wet mud ensnares it. The East Kill catches the light. Near Mill Brook the noise of factories echoes And the sinuous Silver Hollow Creek gurgles wildly. The Sucker Brook too flows, and the many-colored Hollow Tree Brook. Into the Atlantic Ocean Pours the Esopus. Few ships navigate On the Sawkill, but quite a few can be seen On the Wittenberg. For centuries The Tremper Kill has flowed. If the Log Cabin Brook Could abandon its song, and the Lucas Kill The jungle flowers, the Picket Brook Would still flow serenely, and the Shandaken Creek Abrade its slate banks. The tan Styles Brook would Sidle silently across the world. The Tannery Brook Was choked with ice, but the Susquehanna still pushed Bravely along. The Tab Hollow Brook caught the day’s last flares Like the Shingle Kill’s carrion rose. The Shanty Hollow Creek offered eternal fragrance Perhaps, but the Vernooy Kill churned livid mud Like tan chalk-marks. Near where The Upper Birch Creek slapped swollen dikes Was an opening through which the Vly Creek Could have trickled. A young man strode the Roaring Brook’s Banks, thinking of night. The Kiskatom seized The shadows. The Mad Brook, stark mad, bubbled In the windy evening. And the Little Fuller shuffled Crazily along. Fat billows encrusted the Horse Brook’s Palllid flood, and the Fraser’s porous surface. Fish grasped amide the Halsey Brook’s reeds. A boat Descended the bobbing Holliday. When the High Falls Brook flowed by the plants nodded And above the glistering Hoyt Creek A sunset as beautiful as the Bragg
Stammered. The Bushnellsville chimed. The Elk Flowed somewhere. The Dougherty Is flowing, like the wind-washed Bagley. The Cook Brook flows in the rain. And, through overlying rocks the Coulter Cascades gently. The Kanape sputtered. Someday time will confound the Tray Mill Brook, Making a rill of the Spruce Creek. And The Mossy Brook rumbles softly. Crested birds Watched Jersey Brook go Through dreaming night. You cannot stop the Elk Bushkill. And afterwards The Mine Hollow Creek flows strongly to its… Goal. If the Downs Brook’s shores Hold you, and the Beach Hill Brook Arrest your development, can you resist the Huggin’s Musk, the Mongaup’s situation? A particle of Mud in the Picket Does not turn it black. You cannot Like the Pigeon Brook, nor refuse The meandering Platte Kill, unleash The Genesee. Does the Myrtle Brook Still irrigate crimson plains? And the Little Mill Brook And the Potic? The Red Kill Skulks amid gray, rubbery nettles. The Allen Brook’s Reflexes are slow, and the Berry Brook erodes Anthracite hummocks. The Lake Creek stinks. The Huntersfield is light emerald green Among grays. Better that the Pettit fade In steaming sands! Let the Kaaterskill Freeze sold! And the Lewis turn to a leaden Cinder of ice! The Hunter is too tepid, we must Find a way to freeze it hard. The Reynolds Is freezing slowly in the blasts. The black Flat Brook Congeals nicely. And the Petit-Morin Curls up on the solid earth. The Inn does not remember better times, and the Micro-Merrimack’s Galvanized. The Little Ganges is liquid snow by now; The Cousin’s ice-gray. The once-molten Steamy’s Curdled. The Brush is a pack of ice. Gelid the Columbia’s gray loam banks. The Dutchman’s merely A giant icicle. The Bodey freezes, slowly. The interminable Little Spring plods on
But the Bennett’s mercurial waters are icy, grim With cold. The Glen Clark is choked with fragments of ice. The Van der Zalm is frozen, like liquid air. And so is the Burquitlam. And the beige, thickly flowing Pequeño Rio Grande. The rivers bask in the cold. The stern Erts chafes its banks, A mass of ice. The Fall Brook solid Ice. The Mamquam is silent, motionless. The lovely Read Creek is nothing but scratchy ice Like the Emory, with its osier-clustered banks. The Sprague Brook is beginning to thaw out a little And the Silver Hollow gurgles beneath the Huge blocks of ice. The Shin Creek gushes free. The South Hollow Creek darts through the sunny air again. But the Warner is still ice-bound. Somewhere The Roods propels its floes, but the Rochester’s Frozen. The Little Tigris is frozen solider Than the Tongore. The West Kill slumbers In winter, nor does the Snake Remember August. Hilarious, the Canadian Is solid ice. The Walden slavers Across the thawing fields, and the Rose Brook laughs. The Russell Brook soaks up the snow. The Cold Spring Creek’s Temperature is above freezing. The Edgewood Carols noiselessly. The Thompson presses Grass banks; the Sleepy’s frozen Surface is like gray pebbles. Birds circle the Flapjack. In winter The Fisher was dark blue, unfrozen. The Schultz, cold, is choked with sandy ice; The Hudson glistens feebly through the freezing rain.
BERN PORTER’S RADICAL CRITIQUE OF SELF-HELP by Eckhart Tolle I first became acquainted with the works of Bern Porter at the lowest point in my life. I had dropped out of graduate school at Cambridge University, and found myself homeless on the streets of Vancouver. Porter’s books—which I found while ducking out of the rain at a left-wing bookstore on Hastings Street—influenced me so profoundly that for thirty years I have hardly been able to speak of them, so overpowered with emotion do I become when I consider Porter’s critique of naïve autodidacticism under conditions of high technology. Ultimately, I chose a different path from Porter’s—opting to embrace, rather than flee, the overpowering optimism of information age capitalism. Porter is our greatest theoretician of meta-self-help. It is impossible to follow his commands. It is difficult to trace the sources of his images. His works are replete with images taken from manuals, guides, handbooks and surveys. If Norman Vincent Peale is at one antipode of the self-help spectrum, Porter is at the other. What Beckett is to mid-century theater, Porter is to mid-century self-help. These images, I believe, speak for themselves, and to the spirit of recycling that is in us all—thus, without further ado, I am proud to present the following reappropriated selection of Porter’s “founds.” >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< TOLLE
Melvilleskills, or, How to Frame A Great Story Collection
The Catskill Mountain Review, in partnership with the Jay
Gould and John Burroughs Rare Book Library of the University of the Catskills, is honored to present in print for the first time the original draft of Herman Melville’s “The Piazza.” It was intended for Putnam’s Weekly, but never appeared there (aside from the “Pi-
azza” frame story printed here, all of the Piazza Tales, including the famed opening story, “Bartleby, the Scrivener,” appeared in serial form in Put-
nam’s before they appeared in the 1856 collection). Recent historical evidence indicates that during the summer of 1855,
Melville—then under considerable financial stress and suffering from severe depression—ventured from his home in Pittsfield, Massachussetts to the Catskills in order to ready his stories to be printed by Dix and Edwards of New York City. Melville almost certainly stayed at one of the large mountain hotels—alas, like the exact town in the Catskills in which Rip van Winkle lived, the exact identity of the hotel will likely remain forever unknown. Washington Irving went to the grave with his secret locales; Melville with his. The manuscript, dated only July 1855 (no precise day is given), indicates that “The Piazza” was originally entitled “The Porch,” and that it most definitely did not take place in the comparatively civilized Berkshires of Massachusetts, but rather in the wilder environs of the Catskill Range.
It is possible to imagine Melville writing on the Catskill Mountain House’s
porch, from which on a clear day he would have been able to observe his home in Pittsfield in the far distance... As the manuscript is written in longhand, the editors have taken the liberty of emending the 1855 manuscript to conform to the formatting of the Dix and Edwards edition of 1856.
Whether this collection, which was never reprinted in Melville’s lifetime, would have been more successful had it been more colloquially entitled The Porch Tales is anyone’s guess.
The Porch Tales.
from BOOK II: A POSSIBLE BAG by Kidd Cimmarón In which is chronicled how to covertly learn the world’s best languages in some of the world’s best places. It is certain that all Yukon Indians tell of a long ago time when it was very difficult to distinguish between animals & humans, and any animal might appear as human, or else he might pull up his animal mask and wear his animal clothes. Under rare circumstances such a thing might even happen—” special phrases to use he might be a brother in law Hallowell thought bear ceremonialism originated among caribou-hunters then entered the den heard its teeth chatter & fired ATV to drag out the carcass a record at 703 lbs. Ursus americanos where did you read the account Newspaper Rock? “—today.” Dominating the industry a handful of major publishing companies— the Six Sisters media conglomerates all of them— while the small independent presses, of which there exist perhaps 86,000 absent from the review media omitted from bibliographies without access to libraries control 1% of book revenue— (that land does yield a cultural harvest (that we have confused profit with spirit (that an independent press is Newspaper Rock for our century CIMMARÓN
Rounding the vowels, may the tongue keep its reticence the way a hunting story always got told— Monday night to Tuesday morning early winter solstice moon gone into eclipse dark sun dark moon last we saw something like this was 372 years ago Here’s a hoof the color of winter, here’s cliff rock, a rock-dove with phoenix wings I need to tell you a story I’m going to obscure the words disfigure some vowels the way a hunting tale does, deliberately
And from Narayana Rao I got the term pra-bandha a kind of literary catch-all or possible bag it happens in multiple languages poetic rhythms change digressions are part of the plan rarely when I leave one notebook for another does such regret pass over the pages woow hee3ebi-ce’-ciini-nobeen-ooku’ wear those feathers plural imperative, but they thought Sanskrit a dead language he told me, without a hint of bitterness & thus translated it into “dead English”
21 December 2010
It consists of seventeen syllables, all so interwoven to complete the sense of the word sentence that no part can be separated from the rest without destroying the whole. The verbal part proper indicates that “I have given you a headdress again.” Here is a landscape stark mountains, winding rivers, Plains cottonwoods those four dots represent coyotes they stitch the terrain together in unimaginable ways this syntax coils in its parfleche hence bow to those that share the yellow day with us wind timber soil not knowing what we can agree on now that oil from the BP disaster coats the Gulf floor & hydrofracking endangers the post-glacial hydrological cycle
Two Sonnets by Maxwell Bodenheim THE TURKISH SEAFARER TO HIS STOLEN BRIDE What a fickle mistress is Fortune, My love, that finds us fugitive from home Aboard a Turkish cutter, cutting a swath Of sea foam. Where shall I point our ill-favored prow: Cos? Chios? Rhodes? Some place farther afield? But where could we be safe from the Sultan’s Fleet of Seljuk marines? How fortunate, I, to have for my own love the most Magnificent woman in all the Ottoman Empire, Whom the Sultan himself tried to claim By force, and would have been successful Were it not for my swift scimitar And oath to love you as long as I have life— So small a price to have you for a wife! MY OWN PRIVATE NAT GEO When first you went away to the savannah To document the plight of toothless lions, I asked you to be careful with your trick Of sticking your head within their yawning maws. You laughed your gorgeous laugh, the way you do When you know I’m joking. When collecting Electricity for Trobriand Islanders From moray eels, and a sudden spark Almost electrocuted you, you teased That it was like the first time that we kissed. Whether chasing siroccos across Libya; Tigers, Siberia; or eagles in Tibet, You make every day seem so full Of adventure! Life’s not dull after all!
<<How Not to Care & Two Balding Metalheads
Photos by B.C. Goddard
How to Be come a PhYnance WHIZ
without getting a Ph
a Special Section by Special Guest
J.B. Layfield Like skinned things, or a diagram of the venous and arterial blood, the financial bile oozed out of them through holes, and crept in through fistulas of gold and copper. Alfred Jarry
After Dieter Goldings
It stood in the center of the marble floor on the 38th story of the world headquarters of the second largest investment company in New York (in the world for that matter). It stood a rich mix of colors—Auburn, Beige, Bistre, Boie, Brown, Buff, Burgundy, Burnt Sienna, Burnt umber, Copper, Ecru, Fallow, Khaki, Liver, Mahogany, Maroon, Ochre, Raw umber, Russet, Rust, Sandy brown, Seal brown, Sepia, Sienna, Tan, Taupe, Wheat, Zinnewaldte. It stood outlined against the austere grey marble of the recently remodeled executive men’s room. But it didn’t stand exactly—more precisely, it stooped and oozed with a mushy greasiness. About a third of it was bisected by a footprint dividing it neatly (or not so neatly) through its middle. From the midst of the specimen a trail led away; the track was found to lead some one hundred fifty yards away—although the track could not be used to identify the precise working location of the suspect. A business channel pundit suggested it was the footprint of an executive unhappy with his bonus. Another account had it that the suspect was the widely disliked and recently dismissed head of the poorly performing life insurance and mortgage divisions. If so, he was a personage of considerable seniority within the corporate hierarchy. For its part, the company refused to disclose whether it knew the identity of the guilty party. An incident did occur, the company acknowledged, without providing details beyond that it was “a rare and regrettable occurrence.” It was rumored among insiders that the company went so far as to contemplate DNA testing the specimen (as well as drug testing it), but was advised by counsel that such action risked unwanted publicity. The story didn’t go far from there.— No major networks picked it up.
The Apparent Heir by Theodore DiBiase, Jr.
YEAH, I’M PRICELESS. OH BABY I’M PRICELESS THERE AINT NO NUMBER BY THE POWER I POSSESS OH NO, OR TRY THIS. CALL ME PRICELESS YEAH, ALL YOU LITTLE PEOPLE CAN CASH BUY HAPPINESS YEAH, I’M WORTH MORE THAN YOU COULD KNOW CAUSE ALL YOU KNOW IS WHAT YOU SEE CAUSE YOUR ALL BLIND TO WHO I AM SO ALL YOU SEE IS A MYSTERY CAUSE I’M PRICELESS YEAH, I’M PRICELESS OH PRICELESS, I TELL YOU I’M PRICELESS A MASTERPIECE THAT WORDS CAN NOT ASSESS WHOA MONEY, YOUR CASH IS LIFELESS BUT YOU KEEP BUYING MORE AND MORE JUST TO IMPRESS [YEAH, I’M WORTH MORE THAN YOU COULD KNOW CAUSE ALL YOU KNOW IS WHAT YOU SEE CAUSE YOUR ALL BLIND TO WHO I AM SO ALL YOU SEE IS A MYSTERY CAUSE I’M PRICELESS OH BABY I’M PRICELESS] HERE WE GO, COME ON, YEAH YEAH [I’M WORTH MORE THAN YOU COULD KNOW CAUSE ALL YOU KNOW IS WHAT YOU SEE CAUSE YOUR ALL BLIND TO WHO I AM SO ALL YOU SEE IS A MYSTERY BABY I’M PRICELESS]
ALRIGHT, YEAH. YEAH I’M PRICELESS OH BABY I’M PRICELESS YEAH, THERE AINT NO NUMBER BY THE POWER I POSSESS, NO OR TRY THIS. CALL ME PRICELESS ALL YOU LITTLE PEOPLE CAN CASH BUY HAPPINESS YEAH, COME ON I’M WORTH MORE THAN YOU COULD KNOW CAUSE ALL YOU KNOW IS WHAT YOU SEE CAUSE YOUR ALL BLIND TO WHO I AM SO ALL YOU SEE IS A MYSTERY CAUSE I’M PRICELESS ALRIGHT, YEAH. YEAH I’M PRICELESS OH BABY I’M PRICELESS YEAH, THERE AINT NO NUMBER BY THE POWER I POSSESS, NO OR TRY THIS. CALL ME PRICELESS ALL YOU LITTLE PEOPLE CAN CASH BUY HAPPINESS YEAH, COME ON I’M WORTH MORE THAN YOU COULD KNOW CAUSE ALL YOU KNOW IS WHAT YOU SEE CAUSE YOUR ALL BLIND TO WHO I AM SO ALL YOU SEE IS A MYSTERY CAUSE I’M PRICELESS
Bethâ€™s Secret (Selections from the Blog of Beth Reed) I WILL TEACH YOU my townspeople of the socially constructed desire to meet MILFS in trouble abroad and convince them to ferry leather samples out of Islamabad to the parking lot of the James Taylor waterpark cock-draining blondes on either arm wanton to knock out every last windshield in the mystic cougar narrative. * THIS FIRE-BIRD INTO WHOM HIS MEAT will go trĂ¨s deep likewise unexampled big tits roaming the house as when young curious about facials the bully pantsed and hot anal MILFS in that very year on occasion of busty Cindy Dollar
her hooves and suet dampen my tranche of cuz for this extreme babe likewise purged then summarily ruined by three cocks which had been seen carrying their fire from altar to god hitherto nor have I met with any who would say why lifeâ€™s narrow frieze should be so stuffed with tai chi students water ballooning the pussy fields. * A PRETTY SIGHT TO SEE OMG the wit and dexterity of Bobby youâ€™re so big when fighting overlaid and beset with a multitude of internal explosions plus bouncing on huge rods and making shift to gather bleakest harbingers into a narrow MILF compass and nothing to be seen of these anal prom detonations save only their bills and talons and those cover OMG the whole gurl body by a secret instinct of nature pop goes my weasel 2. * IN COUNTRIES RARE and naked of 2 chicks same time 2 there breed no big league facials and therefore shall have them
who have been dominant due to their freakish athleticism athwart the fields of big-titted mall cops cold and full of dark meat. * TO SAY FOR CERTAIN and precisely when his enormity entered so far into the come ocean OMG I was built to fuck * THAT BRAZILIAN ASSspread crucible once forged can never be withdrawn from the pool house but only its edges fucked into the masonry of horninessâ€™s recessed face streaming with teen rivers. * ALL AFTERNOON fall ducats from my lube casino into sexy ass mommy hardcoreizontalized day-oh day-
oh its vital word banged hard. * ABSOLUTE SPACE reaches out of euro-hottie and construes the militaryindustrial ho-plex. In the fullness of the worldâ€™s titty fuck, be-cum 4eign to yourself for a second. A cigarette of filthy whores runs through your body, and fervent sin-ergies presage the three-way. * THOUGH BLACK DICK will not plunge through the bourgeois POV of yearned sin-cum, it makes my rack seat of its bold reality. O concupiscible manbeam by which I determine the presence
of truculent flows inside me, if I want to, as the function c(t) which describes bulb of distended slut-clit at time t. * TO ELIMINATE the indeterminacy of qualia from the pussy experience vigorously expressed by a Galapagos of self-organizing fluxes running down the nominalist MILF chin existentializes unwittingly the cryptogram at the groin of the superegoic purge, raw matter left to make a world for itself within Ron Jeremyâ€™s Chartres, vaulted with G-spots. * WHEN THE SCHOOLBOYâ€™S agony should pend between his legs
like an hysterical shark and fill the air with the smell of vicious eagles and propane the lucid effort of MILF immanence shall actualize its messianic project and dissolve that most ancient proscription and he shall fuck by sleight of displacement his mother right lustily in her globed fundament and strike through to the essential poem at the center of things which disgorgement of slickened arias must sing him out of the Egypt of his misprized Nobodaddy where inedible fruits hang low and falsely plump. *
HOWBEIT THE RETRACTILE LIMBS of galactic hotties splayed along the screw plane of the Ultraporn and if smeared with impasto of fluorescent cum still bore into wet unseasoned parsecs and reduce them to vengeful dust, yet spectral honeytubes light years long will ever by order of the Imperial Prescript push into Her Empress’s nonluminous chamber where a darkness fissionable liquefies all doubt into one mayhematical ray shot through the riffle of nebular muff to refuck the throat of heaven. * DIAMOND FOXXX ASKED THE NATIONAL Whore, Brianna, “Will I be able to fuck after I die?” The National Whore, Brianna, said, “Put your pussy in a safe place.” Diamond Foxxx said, “Please tell me how to effect such
measures.” The National Whore, Brianna, went silent for a century. Diamond Foxxx bowed deeply. * HUNGRY FOR DARK JUGS and the dialectic of Boca? For bombshell fisting bombshell on table made of eunuchs? The structure of the deathfuck engorges/neutralizes its analysis. Are you wanting to be that (that) cum machine in noetic (-ic) Babylon? O extrinsic paradigm (Pcpt –Cs): fill me with /bracketed/ Devonian cock. I am but a dress. Was a / ddress (-ss) (-ss). Am now apparatus. Was (-s) (- ). Ever. Was. (-s). (- ). * YES, VEIN MELTER, my anal singularity can occlude the larval moon. No hecto-jewel. No zero-point. We’re in the pipe 5 x 5
and I shall have my bottom pounded by the rap artist Hyakujo. * ST roke my puissance for a chan ge coc ksucker facil itate anoth er scorp ion’s nee ds okay d oes that stun your log ic package? will ing = being deal wi th it fu ck eve ry last ohm ou t of my ground cu rcuit I’ m no differ ent repe at no di fferent I’m no re peat dif ferent I’m rep eat no d ifferen
t I rep eat no Iâ€™ m * WHEN THE edge of his fore skin caught in the lounge blackened field of death opened in front of I threw up wild horses they made my titties seat of their passions some gay fucker calling my pussy Poussin, Poussin this was who? ATM angel supposed to rise they pushed down and down and down * HOW DO THEY fuck, those humble animals
who dwell under sand make a virtue of their solitariness endlessly repeated accretion of calcareous tunics woven of mere shades of acts over their living tissue must be another dignity.
REVIEWS Leif Förster, The Catskilliad: Invocation and Proem. Port Townsend, WA: Copper Canyon Press, 2011. Hardcover. 312 pps. $35. Reviewed by Hélène Dupin Composed according to elaborate Oulipian algorithmic constraints, The Catskilliad is a portable epic for a new generation of mountain lovers. Devotees will eagerly await future installments. For now, we begin in hypermedia res, with a mini-epic proem of mid-life crisis projected against a truly sublime backdrop. Here is “America’s First Wilderness” in its fullest splendor—seen through the prism of the chaos ex machina wreaked by the locomotive, electrification, the automobile, air conditioning, and the airplane—not to mention the effects of a great city’s unslakeable thirst for water. This is not just “a backward glance o’er travell’d roads,” howe’er. Here is a true mode d’emploi for the postmodern ruralist, a call to arms for ardent outdoorspeople of all stripes. From the Esopus Indians to the Dutch, Colonial, Romantic, antebellum, Civil War, Reconstruction, Arts and Crafts, Modernist, Prohibition, Borscht Belt, mid-century Modern to the Postmodern eras—it’s all here! Within a 200-mile radius are eighty million unique potential visitors. Despite, and also partly because of, economic hardship, the Catskills are one of the few regions of the country in better ecological condition now than at any time since the European invasion. Here—so close to the financial, cultural, and political hub of our nation—forests cover far more land than they did just two generations ago. Here the headwaters for the abundant water supply of the greatest metropolis of the twentieth century continue to surge forth—unfiltered and unhindered. These magnificent waters deserve to be poeticized. So don’t be embarrassed. Poetry can’t hurt you; it’s the balm of the soul, the crème de la crème, the local in the glocal, the sound of pure thought heard high above the din of the mid-Atlantic region. There are drawbacks to the epic generalist approach, to be sure. But for those who aren’t afraid of the sublime and the beautiful, here is a work to delight and instruct, a veritable poetopia seemingly transported from the future, a paradise regained for the new age dawning on the trail.
BOOKS RECEIVED . Bachman, Richard. The Authorized Biography of Stephen King. Orono: University of Maine Press, 2011. Print. Beauport, Justin. The Syzygy: The Rise of Big Economics. Cambridge, MA: Harvard Business School Press, 2011. Print. Broodthaers, Marcel. The Museum of Catskills Eagles (Posthumous Writings). Cambridge: MIT Press, 2011. Print. Coolidge, Clark. The Projection of a Statistical Mean. Los Angeles: Sun and Moon Press, 1982. Print. Coupland, Douglas. R U still Canadian if u use American spelling?: Selected Essays. Toronto: McLelland and Stewart. 2011. Print. Dupin, Hélène. Library.nu: The History of the Future. Bayonne, NJ: University of the Catskills Press, 2011. Print. Friedlander, Ben and Andrew Schelling, eds. The Complete Jimmy and Lucy’s House of K. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011. Print. Hsieh, Tehching. How to Retire Before Forty. New York: Musuem of Modern Art Press, 2011. Print. Lozano, Lee. How to Disappear in America. Bayonne, NJ: University of the Catskills Press, 2011. Print. Smithee, Alan. Toward a New History of Pseudonymy. Bayonne, NJ: University of the Catskills Press, 2011. Print. Van der Zalm, Bill. Social Credit for the Twenty-First Century. Vancouver: Talonbooks, 2011. Print.
LETTERS Kudos to Leif Förster for his exposé on Automatic License Plate Readers (ALPRS). I have been deeply concerned about my personal privacy while driving for many years. If I could still use subway tokens, I would. Alas, I fear resistance to the surveillance regime is futile. My iPhone tracks my every move much more precisely than the New York State Thruway Authority or the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. Surely the rise of voluntary total personal self-surveillance has something to do with the decline in the crime rate. But at what cost? Hopefully the CMR will continue to do justice to this important issue. Sincerely, Barry Reid Location Unspecified
Mr. Reid is author of The Paper Trip, How to Disappear in America, and The Eden Guide to Complete Financial Privacy: A Handbook.
I was absolutely entranced by Deiter Goldings’ sublime “Dark Burthen.” It reminded me of that great quote from Minima Moralia: “The brightest rooms are the secret domain of faeces.” If it isn’t too impertinent, I would like to ask Mr. Goldings if he might draw on his considerable coprosophical expertise in order to advise me on a certain indelicate matter: What is the correct course of action if a bear defecates in a kare sansui (rock garden)? Should one transplant or let stand? I apologize for the obvious irreverence of my question: I am really and truly interested to know whether one should allow the faeces to decompose into sculpted nature or if one should intercede on behalf of an anatural garden design that is perhaps not accustomed to such intrusions. Warm regards, Shia LaBeouf Beverly Hills, CA and Woodstock, NY No one covers remediation as well as the CMR. Welcome to the big leagues. Stan Fisch Andes, NY
ATTN: DR. JAN FLEGENHEIMER DEPARTMENT OF POETICS UNIVERSITY OF THE CATSKILLS BROOKLYN, NY
A doctoral candidate at the University of the Catskills, Justin Beauport divides his time between Bushwick and West Saugerties. He is currently completing a dissertation on the history of literature written on and for handheld computing devices. Dubbed the “King of Greenwich Village,” Maxwell Bodenheim was among America’s most eminent poetic stalwarts in the Modernist Revolution. He spent time in the Catskills in the 1930s and 40s. Kidd Cimmarón is an anarcho-linguist who lives in the Indian Peaks drainage. He is working on a metaphysical analysis of pedagogical incarceration techniques at The University of Nederland. Hélène Dupin is the author of sixteen books of literary criticism. Her most recent book, Roussel’s R.V., was a finalist for the Goncourt Prize. She teaches French and comparative literature at The University of Phoenix Online Extension. Jan Flegenheimer is the Jay Gould and John Burroughs Distinguished Professor of Poetics at the University of the Catskills. B.C. Goddard is assistant professor of photography at the University of the Catskills. He is currently working on a project which requires him to stack mirrors on top of each other and look at his reflection all day. Various objects such as sandwiches, rulers, and tin foil are also involved. J.B. Layfield is an impersonator’s impersonator, an entrepeneur’s entrepeneur, and a man’s man, who is perhaps best known as a wrestler’s wrestler. He is a self-made success story in his life beyond the ring, and a regular contributor to Fox & Friends. Beth Reed is a privacy activist living in Austin, Texas. These are her fist poems to appear in print. Eckhart Tolle is a German-Canadian spiritual teacher and bestselling author. At age 29, he underwent a spiritual transformation. More than 35 million people have participated in his webinars.
Forthcoming from The
Catskill Mountain Review
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Published on Dec 31, 2011