The Real

MASTERY

2002

Glenn Gould launched a brilliant career
as a pianist at age 24 when he recorded
Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Shortly before
he died at age 50 he recorded them again.
He told an interviewer that he recognized
his style in the earlier recording—wild
runs and trills, bright surfacings—yet
its heart seemed unfamiliar. The material
was the same—he’d always loved the Master’s
genius for exploding many ideas at once—
but his own way of riding that music had
deepened so much that the earlier talent
sounded strange, like the sound of
someone walking outside a dark, wet window.

On the later recording you can hear
Gould humming along as he played.
He hated the habit he’d formed over the years,
and it made hard work for the engineers:
Yet he knew he always played better
dancing along with his voice. Imagine painting
while you dreamed, or making love in a storm.
There is a mastery which finds the heart
of the heart and learns how to stay there.
None of that was apparent to the younger man.
It took decades for Gould to find the
deeper handles of mastery. I think of him
walking outside that house trying to go home.
Of one day finding a door, not in what he knew,
nor in the brilliance of his hands, but by
abandoning himself to what opened when
the keys of the piano ceasing running; and flew.

***

What, then, is this function of traumatic repetition if nothing -- quite the reverse -- seems to justify it from the point of view of the pleasure principle? To master the painful event, someone may say -- but who masters, where is the master here, to be mastered? Why speak so hastily when we do not know precisely where to situate the agency that would undertake the operation of mastery?

... We see here a point that the subject can approach only by dividing himself into a certain number of agencies. One might say what is said of the divided kingdom, that any conception of the unity of the psyche, of the supposed totalizing, synthesizing psyche, ascending toward consciousness, perishes there.

-- Jacques Lacan, Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis


AUTUMN SCYTHE

Sept. 23

The great summer
is folding its wings
by faint degrees,
calm and fair early
and late in the day,
a mote of less in
the heat, like a
belating stillness
gently whisked
into the air
here at 5 a.m.
The garden has
grown to its apex
and now hang
there; even the
weeds seem
sluggish in their
verdurous assaults.
Such quieting
seems like grace or
mercy; surely it’s
friendly, turning
us slowly round
from those imperial
days of blare and
blaze & mauling
summer storms:
But today I also
see a cruelly limned
in this hour of
the year as we
say it here in
Florida. Feral
casks of summer
are not so much
ripening as now
bursting with ire,
its juice fiery
and dangerous
having mashed
from our brains
by the sun’s
heavy feet. The
children of summer
fret the vineyards
of their South,
the harvest task
upon them heavy,
wearied, old in
knowledge of
what fountains
from their hearts
up through their
mouths in hot
scarlet words.
I dream my first
wife wants to
fuck me - ha!
while my second
one’s away.
I’ve no desire
for her at first
and I want to
stay true to the
wife that’s away
dealing with
the futilities of
life. But we’re
naked, see,
and when she
backs up to me,
well, the old
rage starts welling
sweet-wild up
in me. But my
real wife is
away & I will
not hurt her this
way: So I remove
myself from the
impending scene
to walk broad
night avenues
alone where early
autumn heaves in
so lush and dark
I can’t hear my own
shouts on white paper
which are only
tropes of evasion
and flight from that
seam which pulls
the worlds apart
and whets a
darker man’s screams.





IMAGO DOMINUS

1978

She stands at the bedroom door,
half in, half out,
shadow cupping breast and belly,
a half moon smile on her face,
fine mist hanging in the air
between us, darkest night behind,
and water coursing everywhere,
crystal blue and deep and silent.

***

Eurybia, as her name signifies, was a goddess “of wide force.” Bia means “force” and is synonymous with Kratos, “strength.” Eurybia was supposed to be a daughter of Gaia, but her father was the sea, Pontos. Her brothers were Nereus and Phorkys, the two “Old Ones of the Sea,” and Thaumas, whose name means “Sea Wonder.” Her sister was Keto, the goddess of the beautiful cheeks, whose name means “Sea Monster.” Eurybia has a heart of steel. She bore children to Krios, whose name means “The Ram of Heaven,” and who was one of the two Titans who did not marry many Titanesses. She of the steely heart, however, was herself almost a Titaness. Her sons resemble the Titans in their nature: Astraios, “Starry One,” Pallas, the husband of Styx, and Perses, the father of Hekate.

-- Carl Kerenyi, The Gods of the Greeks

***


The real is beyond the automaton, the return, the coming-back, the insistence of the signs, by which we see ourselves governed by the pleasure principle. ((The steely heart -- my note)). The real is that which always lies behind the pleasure principle. The real is that which always lies behind the automaton.

If you wish to understand what is Freud’s true occupation as the function of phantasy is revealed to him, remember the development, which is central to us, of the Wolf-Man. He applies himself, in a way which can almost be described as anguish, to the question -- what is the first encounter, the real, that lies behind the fantasy.

-- Jacques Lacan, Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis




CHANCE ENCOUNTER
WITH THE REAL

Sept. 25

It’s like a job from hell,
showing up here day after
day to engage the same
old same old primal
nonsense of absent seas,
ever enthralled
with sweet sounds
and salt breasts
miles away from the
the real grinds of the
actual day. Who am I
kidding? I just
love this long-grooved
round in the
blue surf’s mill,
habitually yoking
this pen to the seem
of a long-faded dream,
singing of phosphor
wherever it clings.
Big deal. No wonder
no one cares much to
listen for long; it’s always
the same fray, the
same dingdong
singsong verse
of a day. Like the
man I dreamt
last night, still at
work in a dead-
end corporate job
(the one I had
years ago)
endlessly rewriting
the same dumb policy.
Over and over
he wrote
the same stupid
sentenc, yet
the dream shouted
Deity! Miracle!
As if to the dream’s
ear that idiot
was Shakespeare,
someone I didn’t
hear in that dork,
nothing you see
in this
over-labored yet
half-assed work.
I am too just
a drone in the honey
chambers of my
inner’s ear’s
combed bliss,
plunging in
sweetpots the
only way I can
at will anymore,
the real stuff being
too wounded and
difficult and
responsible for
the dream, if you
know what I
mean. Too real.
My dark lady --
the You forever
standing in that
dark door across
the room with
night & blue waters
up to pale thighs --
loves me at my
most foolish, stupid
and driven too,
charmed most
by my blubbering,
comforted, loved,
a soul-lover’s truth
not meant for dayside
eyes to see, much
less believe. Perhaps
too she loves how
marginal, hurried
& cramped this work
must be, amped from
a small hour before
the real work wakes
up and mounts its
droll horse. Loves
that this is just
a gizmo, a sex toy,
so much like the
hurlyburly hobbyhorse
I rode on as a child
as to dream of me
forever sitting there
while days raged
& wounded my
real love, the one
who sleeps upstairs
in this house. Thus
my swoons are her
disease, my thrall
of blue moons
and ass runes
petit mal spirals
of an an old black
barn dance that
sits square over
a destructive raw
fire that eats
cities in rage,
flame after flame
to the same old
metronome, like
waves on a beach
repeating over and
over the same
heave and collapse
of salt flush of womb
in sea-milky sighs
no son can quite
reach though he try,
though he try. She loves
that I’m stuck here
on the lee shore of song,
and my devotion to her
is as much starry
as drowned, divine
and artful to her
perhaps in the
stupidest ways
I can see sitting
here writing it
all down ever
faithfully yet again.
How far can
such fidelities
go? Endlessly I
suppose with all
the conviction
of a birthmark’s
heart-rose, like
an eccentric’s
labial ease with
the weird: Like
Swinburne sliding
naked down banisters
or skinny-dipping
in the sea, his lines
always strict slick
sursurrations of
meter & rhyme
in the service of brine.
Maybe my saving
damnation is that
I’ve a leakier blue heart:
Always comes a point
writing here when the
sea-magic fades
too thin & wonder
for a moment if
I must leave first
beaches to begin
the real work at last.
As if song’s deeper
concourse is the
distance I make waking
from her & saying,
no, not quite this
way at all; & thus
by negating her
I leave mons and
moon-seas behind
to love the living
wonder as I tried
to call it years ago
& finally wake up,
here at 5:40 a.m.
on a rich dark
Sunday morning
in late September
with so much to
be about today --
wake & walk &
talk with my wife,
landscape the lawns,
enter checks (saying
a prayer with each
one), call my father,
read the paper with
its difficult news of
the real, iron clothes,
cook dinner, prepare
for another hard week.
So that, in the
furthering distance
I place twixt myself
and the dream, the
old big night music
perhaps can sing
and dance and merry
in ever-smaller old
ways, like fey-folk, like
the stories of Titans
in titanic convulse
of desires & battles
in a lost world’s
fading pulse. I played
my guitar until it forgot
how to sing; I wonder
here now if the whole
book must get flung
at last into the same
dam’s well to get on
with things; both
refusals may be
about marrying her
by burying her
in starting the real
work at last. Which
is the true sign
of the next time:
this box I forever
ride on, trapped
like the ghost
of a lost sound;
or the rare
appearance
of the good ship
Rachel which
offers just once
a way home at last,
a passage to dryer
hours unwashed
by dread sound?
A heart crossed
by barbs of sea
dreams and sea
walls, that’s the coat
of arms for this
hour, for this
last season of
this year. Thus
I burn the harvest
throwing black sheaves
to the sea, perhaps
—perhaps!—waking
up for God’s sake
older & colder
& ripe past her knees.

****


Sonnet 130
Shakespeare

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.


***


LIVING DEAD

from “A Breviary of Guitars,” 2000

A howl of joy
broke me once
or twice in
a woman’s wraps:
I mean the
tidal wave of joy
that smashes
everything you
know & believe
about love &
sex & leaves
you dazed on
some glittery
beach in some
foreign land
without a
name or history:
In 1985 I lived
as some revenant
of a dead
music, desperate
to forge it
again and
trapped inside
a bottle of its
most wicked
& debilitating
distillation:
I’m sure that
big stage rock
and roll was
thrilling to
me because it
embodied the
gallop and hurl
of that howl:
Perhaps my whole
long dalliance
with guitars
was about a
young man between
love and art
trying to carry
that compliant
amazing hiccop
to a stage
where surely she
would notice:
And I wonder
now if I
had any measure
of success,
any band which
made it onstage
for anything longer
than an hour,
one night, a
season, if
she actually would
have come to
me from some
adoring crowd:
Or if I could
have ever seen
here there:: I
went through
dozens, hundreds
of women in
my voyage of
guitars searching
for the big
passionate music
no guitar could
ever quite make:
Girlfriends, two
week stands, one-
night flings and
flowers: The
percentage of
roaring connection
is infetesimal
and then for
one big bell
of a moment
followed by
some series
of ever smaller
aftershock
into the great
white sandy
latesummer silence:
As futilely
as I sought
women with a
guitar, so something
else was
futile in my
wade through
women: Perhaps
I had just raised
the bar too high:
If the first set
of sighs didn’t
rush toward some
milehigh lip
of foam then
I painted “Not
Here” on her
sleeping forehead
(or ass) & rowed
on outta there:
Such expectations
don’t make for
much happiness
in today: One
of the big AA
lessons was
the notion that
happiness isn’t
getting what you
want — it’s
wanting what
you got: You can
travel as far
as you want
in La La Land
but all you
ever need is
languishing
in your back
yard: Try
to convince
a teen or
twentysomething
of this: No:
They have to
row their boats
as far as
their oats need
sowing: And
I at 27 was
surely approaching
an icy north
where it became
harder & harder
to believe some
sunny beach
was on the
next island somewhere
in the next
night out:
Compulsion is
doing the same
thing over &
over expecting
different results:
That’s another
AA truth: How
many gazillion
nights did I
finish a song,
unplug my
guitar, lean it
against my amp
& head out the
door thinking
that night I’d
find the grail?
Not merely
to find a
berth between
some strange
woman’s thighs
at a soggy drunk
a.m. locus, but
to nail the
next coil
which would scream
Big One,
Big Time: Such
is the bane of
drunks &
gamblers &
lovers, addicted
as they are
to the big howl
music that rang
out long ago
and shattered
us into a
life doomed
to expect we’d
hear that music
again rise in
an other: Here
in the Year 2000
on this Saturday
I look forward
to climbing back
in bed with my
wife &
waking our
weekend together
just doing the
small things which
build & savor
our love: No
big music
but a melody
we’ve learned
together which
makes each day
sweet &
absolutely worth
living & free
of the beloved
undead:



THE ACTUAL LIFE

2005

These filaments of wild whaling
dark glow hot against my actual life,
the one there’s never much to say
about. It just a faceless mere from
which I fish peculiars out. But then
there could be no poem of this hour
without that bed I rose from an hour
ago with its indistinct, merging sleep
of an aging man and woman in their
replenishing drift together far and wide.
How could I ever come to dream
without that shore of things too simple
and common that they rarely find
mention in the tale, my wife breathing
in slow rhythm, cat shifting at my
feet into a more complex repose, the
air conditioner blasting on awhile
later, drowning out faint sounds of
night beyond the windows. To dream
means to slip beneath all that, to loosen
surficial sense and be hauled down
gently by darker ones which subsume
then rouse the sleeping mind. Thus
I dreamed I was in auditorium filled with
literary types, some figure at the podium
the measure of all accomplishment
whose words I can’t remember here.
But I do recall the moments after when
familiar-seeming types came up to
shake the speaker’s hand (or mine?).
An older, well-dressed man with a neatly
clipped beard and a cultured voice
stepped up and asked him (or me)
what was the measure of success
in poetry -- publication in the Sewanee
Review, a Pushcart Prize? The speaker
had that much authority to say for sure
and though I do not recall what he replied,
I woke at my misbegotten 3 a.m. with
the question loud in the Western
windows where a late moon burnt softly
in a gauze of cloud. Or was it the answer?
Just what especializes words? What
quarries out the finest gems? What
ferries saints of lasting hue? Not, I muse
today, any polish that a pen could gloss,
but rather the gold is in how much won’t
go on paper, all that plebian normal
married dayside habit which is the bigger
nail, the truer cross, the secret sacred
third rail thrall which freights gods
from tomb to womb. For nine years
now I’ve gotten up many hours before
my wife to roar and ramble here,
rummaging old skirts and churches
undersea, the one life shore to
its balder extremities, the other
a shore for all its maladies
and melodies, its infernal infidelities,
bounded by a safer sea. I ink my thrall
on paper but lay down with the wife
on sheets she irons purer than snow.
My garden muse at 4 a.m. is thus my
dreaming wife, the myth and mystery of
the sleeping life. So whatever dark
music is sweetest here, I must
remember to plow it back into her,
the mare of days I’m mated to.