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MY BLACK BOOK 60 to 65: "'the beau's songs re helen (not of troy)' poetry, Novel; incorporating the "juddarwin ................" entitled poetry [both series whether or not textually used].

performativity [note and other notes]
performativity’s silence = Tao not naming \not putting finger into fan of redefinitions aflux to successive (how long is each stable readable consciousness-moment?) consciouness questions, Possitivity now open again for whatever idividuality there is in individuality-attemptedly-conceived to re-apply (to/for ‘rebirth’, ‘redefinition’) to concciously be closer to the genuine McCoy, this time: when = each time; each time = each time redecision existentially volarizes

in my short story, Camelot, written for Elizabeth Jolley, in which my dissertation novel situates within a phrase in a paragraph (the structure encompassing the short story, Camelot
as the prologue) runs the line:

as mannequins

that nasty bitch who invited a congregation to learn prejudice through her performance as an apparent control position

as if to say Plato’s universal forms has PERFORMERTIVITY, suggesting now everything alive performs the existential moment, spontaneously, each moment, valorous, performertivity’s repeated existentialist live attempts each time redefining PERFORMERTIVITY: Plato, inverted \each existential expression of ‘now’, a valorization.

as Judith Butler does

therefore maybe not lesbian? depression reverts to early human stages as oral; therefore the juxtaposition maybe of homosexuality/disease: I investigated ‘depression’ for Marcus: Evan, redefined his relationship with me once he ‘decided’ he was homosexual; invited me to dinner and to sleep-over just so as to tell me at night, (or, was it in the early hours) that what we had was not \what he had now, was, and it excluded me –– as per Butler’s ‘more thorough and totalizing way.’ (Fuss. p. 18.) Evan went into modeling. On the evening of his graduation he was immediately approached
by a manager, with whom e was also living. I did not realize I would experience the rejection, heretofore being a sharing that excluded all others while we were together; built on being thrown together in the first place: given other social pressures other couplings also fulfill the suggestions of twos defining their relationships. Later, Evan came around and asked me to accompany him to places he called camp: he must have left what’s his name. ‘Campaign against moral persecution,’ is what I remember hearing from the first person Evan introduced me to. I also heard: is he?, and: no! All evenings I used to hear: this is Evan’s cousin: he’s straight. This was always greeted with Oh! Hello! \Hello Dear! ––A hand, flourishing: whispering). It appeared I was more, welcome than I would ever have been, gay, since it meant I was no one’s competition. I sat among them around a table at Pinnochio’s or Sharftsbury’s, they behaving no different than women would, gossiping while cooking lunch: except they were talking about clothes and make-up and bitches; screwing up their faces as ugly as they can, to attribute to the one talked about; often turning then and looking at me and smiling, just like the women used to, when I sat in their kitchens. I made up a theory soon after: that it is not that homosexuals behave like women (those that do: there being ‘bitch’ and ‘butch’, then), but how both, women, and the homosexuals, playing female role, both, behave similarly and both are pursued for sex: the reason might be in the male reaction is looking cocky.

John T works out an existentialism based on ‘now’ which he read as definition many years ago; deciding that there was more to be said for now than existentialism’s whatever the stop-watch records length of explanation for the existential now it attempts explaining, now long past


Fuss, Diana (ed.). Inside/Out Lersbian theories, gay theories. New York & London. Routledge, 1991. pp. 13-31.

I pronounce you man and wife

I ask
I promise
I take

I can if I accept all as my children.

see Camelot mannequin and ancillaries
see ultimaste performativity as a platonic universal universal form

fictitious short story depicts performativity as humanly instituted for a ridiculous reason: always more believable of humans

asked blaber re the second q as a performativity q
tips re presentation y I am wr the novel the way I am writing it; and y ‘novel’
in the novel john t does not write the journal for the convenience of others whose jargon he would have to learn even if all it does is redefine his thinking in their lingua franca

his journal entries are entirely in lowercase alphabet because it saves him time lets more be written already knowing capitalization and punctuation as we do who listen to lectures to know what he is writing about or who or when he quotes

invites attempts to recognize names and quotes and places

invites evaluations of material without references announcing predetermined valor

the material a monologue to be read as though anything could be the case like from an oracle

the journal’s secret word, private, its writing should at least be esoteric

chorus > drink alone, reading > with who? >


Transcript of PRESENTATION. [ the finalised piece]

Only the dissertation novels as well as the Hungerford Prize guarantee a reader: the first to award a degree, the second because the prize will be withheld were there no appropriate manuscript to merit the prize.

I write a novel for my dissertation because here is a reader-in-waiting, as it were.

I am still looking for a way to use the Internet as a filing cabinet, a location for a bulk of my writing; thoughts and ideas, constructing/being their space, always there for downloading \the potential to open at any Internet location. So I am choosing the genre, journal for my novel.

I have done scriptwriting and drama. I am going to utilize these formats when appropriate, as well as the scholarly essay format, since it is forced upon me, now. Since it is a journal it comments on all things, including the poem, drama, film scripts, and the scholarly essay; Cultural Studies, pumped into my veins, now ever effervescent like the original Coca-Cola: you had to stop and gasp! for breath, if you swallowed a huge mouthful.

My decision involves a long preoccupation with books and writing, during which one kind of novel has taken the precedence in reading; definitely, in buying. I am not so clear as to be able to state what these books have by way of a definition. Maybe, not being able to reach a definition, defines a constantly shifting order of priorities, evaluation in flux as much as the many ways of appreciation presented, cultural studies having opened up the postmodern, comprehensive, compass-point potential for each next step.

Therefore although I know the kind of novel I want to write, the definition outcome is in no way clear and, let me repeat, definitions only grow rigid enough to be easily grabbed hold of for easy re-demarcation of peripheries with many areas denoting dot-dot-dots where much overlap, become palimpsests.

Alternatively, I like the look of print on paper arranged as intended. It is therefore, I did not use the word ‘format’: because my preference would have been a facsimile of the pages with the ink of nibs & blots & stains & scratchings, & maybe many long black lines canceling even paragraphs: put that in the computer building suggestion-box.

The term that most describes my novel is ‘reflexive novel’ in a list of ‘reflexive fictions’ in The Self-Begetting Novel by Steven G Kellman: Columbia Uni Press. New York. 1980. To allow easily acquaintance with this category, let me list some known reflexive fictions:
James Joyce portrait ulysses finnegans
Henry Miller cancer capricorn
Philip Roth gr am novel my life as man
Jean-Paul Sarte words nausea
Wordsworth prelude
Whitman leaves of grass
Nabakov pale fire speak, memory real life of
sebastion knight
Descartes meditations
Mailer armies of advertisement for
To show how the peripheries of the definitions between novels overlap, I will now add a few that influence my writing that are not in the above list:
Vidal’s the sisters instead of the listed 1876 novel
diary of a snail gunther grass
black book instead of listed alexandria quartet,
mulligan stew Gilbert Sorrentino
gargantua and pantagruel Rabelais
why are we in vietnam? Mailer’s Rabelaisian novel
midnight’s children Rushdie
crabwalk Gunther Grass ––{in anticipation: he always affects me one way or another: I always get affected indirectly; by what I want to do, instead: the word that keeps flashing on my site is ‘counterpart’: he stretched out his foot and stepped that way…stretch out another way, stretch out further: stretch out ‘correctly’ should you think he did it differently than you would have remember this time you can cite any book from any library in the world through your keyboard link to their catalogues, because now we are talking about the mind, not just the few things you happen to be thinking about the word ‘postmodernism’ is there as an elbow to keep nudging at us to be aware of the possibilities of that doorway}

––While listing books, writing, authors that affect my writing:

writers on cultural studies
I always return to Hemingway (often with apologies)

This presentation answers the question why I want to write the novel this way \why a novel instead of a dissertation on a topic, say, performativity, ‘performativity’ probably playing a major part in the novel. A dissertation on any topic would put off this opportunity to deal with this, foremost in my mind.

Theoretically, the novel already began as the first scratches were made on the cave wall and our beginning with the English novel, with Fielding. Often Cervantes’ Don Quixote is cited as a precursor, if not the first novel. That Lennard J Davis spends much discussing \comparing whether Cervantes’ Don Quixote is a novel as the English novel collectively became, shows the early problem with definition.

I cite this because my novel may be different, although not original. This and related things will be discussed in the exegesis. The novel I intend will comprise the Foucault discourse, heavily with the Said observation that text is written and placed so as to say something, knowing the power of the writer fulfilling that position of the word in the book.

These things are in mind as John T writes the novel.

You might say John T has convinced himself that he has found that niche in writing. He thinks it not too unlike the writer who went out to the desert to chisel his poems on rock so that the re-population following another apocalypse will know that he is the poet that was.

The journal is a writer not getting into print, long having given up being a published writer. The journal has beside it a file of unpublished letters (that habit also given up): no one can stop, interrupt, have a say on what goes into the journal, it, also commenting on the society that has excluded the said writer as writer. John T refuses to read books whose first lines do not impress him: maybe, this, a rebuttal.

The background to the journal is letters, notebooks with thoughts & poetry and narrative; some description. I have filled more than 10 such books of scribbles plus 2 or 3 boxes of writings. A journal would allow some of this to slip in to become the dissertation novel in which the writer is a character in the book, as well as a regular of Bill’s Bench, the local, where he’s lately become a cleaner. Many people will meet at Bill’s Bench, including Lenin’s ghost who may think the writer, John T, Hamlet because he often comes dressed like Dr Who: logic belonging on the sidewalk sometimes, paradox reigning.

No it’s because I play Hamlet’s father, that I call you hamlet: this travelling garb you don, not beside the poin. Lenin’s ghost explains that he died a horrible death in the open face of the public, watching, unaware. Lenin’s ghost reminds John T. to remember what he foreboded when he had read Yevtushenko’s poem on Lenin’s burial.

This dialogue stops and starts throughout different parts of the novel.

The novel will include any other writings, stories, poems; maybe textually, maybe as in appendix, maybe re-textualized; developing ideas, theories; autobiographical bits, always considered; the journal, also a letter in dedication to a cousin & pen pal. This journal grew out of the 30-40-page letters that used to written between Singapore, Malacca, and Penang (three separate parcels of land counting as one British political territory, earlier: The Straits Settlements) communicating instead, as though in three different suburbs: so, opening the can of post-colonialism. At least, one of them thinking most of the world, suburbs.

The structure of the proposed novel, working titles:
occurs within a phrase, the two weeks ––boxed! ––in a short story,
(Both working titles have since, been put aside.)

‘I did not: I had three other women the two weeks she went on holiday, five days after the day we joked we would date: alright I’ll come see you, and you can cut my hair, then did meet. We clicked so quickly you’d think we had been dating for yonkers!: that much our behaviour was already more like taking each other for granted.’

One huge change in the novel is, chapter one’s pub-cleaner found drunk in the morning by the publican, switches to the closing-scene of the novel.
To the morning after: the morning cleaning and setting up the pub for business, the ordinary, daily ritual that symbolize a new day; opening the doors, the sun bursting through at the opening, symbolize the daytime potential of daily re-birth, existentially \theoretically, any second. One, being the same as one’s last decision, until the subsequent re-decision. In the novel, John T works out an existentialism based on ‘now’ which he read as definition many years ago; deciding that there was more to be said for now than existentialism’s whatever the stop-watch records length of explanation for the existential now. Accounting for now should involve other than its explanation, which should be understood as given, available in parenthesis…

  • * * *


While I was trekking the journal I remember reading Journal Of A Thief by Genet, but what kept the idea strong was more the many writer’s journals I saw, read of, then visualized. Immediately I thought a sea captain’s journal, a log, to be more interesting, imagining it having recorded, everything that occurred, was the case with that ship. I used to write with a pen to which different sized nibs could be attached to; used to write to candlelight, enjoying the smudges more than the writing sometimes: definitely the ink stains on my hands!

I started thinking of the novel as the record of the writer’s choice of manifestations, the characters no more than the novelist’s stance, then.

I read Edmund Wilson trekking realism or naturalism through to Joyce , whose attempt covered the happenings of one entire day. I did not complete Ulysses. I had already realized that time was too short to read everything. I started reading books haphazardly from any page at all. It was a matter of desperation, this way of reading \of thinking of a novel. This must have come from reading the quotations from books, instead of the books themselves (probably not immediately accessible, anyway!) in books of quotations. This probably also came from the early habit of looking for the sex scenes in the books. Then I came across a book called Mulligan’s Stew, which did have everything in it including bus tickets, grocery bills… ––All kinds of format. You associate that with modern art form. ––Also Joyce: you start thinking that inclusions should have a precise significance: you start to take it that you do not have to be aware that any inclusion (like that bus ticket in the text of the novel) has to be within your gasp. Roth’s attempt with The Great American Novel also covered sports, and therefore jam-packed, sardine-paragraphs with nothing but juxtaposed names, just as spectators are in stadiums. When I read Allan Ginsberg (Wolf… 311) say that On The Road was actually over 800 pages long, and had more than Joyce had.

I followed a particular way of writing from Mailer to Vidal to Gunther grass (esp, From The Diary Of A Snail) to Rushdie’s Midnight Children, which Rushdie I have not found in his banned book or later writing. It is possible I kept chasing\tracing my development as seen suggested by bits in now arbitrarily selected texts. I kept abandoning \returning to Ernest Hemingway very often; spending a lot of time with V.Nabakov and Lawrence Durrell; enjoying reading plays instead of watching them. I started with Tennessee Williams, still often thinking of SuddenlyLast Summer, still having as favourite, the very first I read, \he never had success with on stage of screen: The Milk Train Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore.

I am thinking of many ways of tackling an admixture of Dialogue, Narrative, Chronicle, Meditation, Poetry, Aphorisms, Theology, Philosophy, Cultural Studies, essays, short stories, prayer; formats of plays, film-scripts and scholarly texts. (Constantly a Collected Writings of an Unpublished Writer project is kept in mind.) The result, may be a letter, a field report, a suicide note, an ironic letter from death-row; may be, a journal format; may be of \including what constitutes a message in the bottle…: the possibilities, ever on menu.
The novel will address: –what is writing? –writer? –postcolonialism? –queer theory? –existentialism? –is the writer dead? –is God dead? –given theory, are we present?: keep thinking re the fella from Cartes.

I use a Lacan inspired idea of self, measuring wanting to write a novel against all the accumulated sensory data absorbed by brain that knows this, this particular to write desire. The writing (when it comes to include writing, the physical push of the pen) then, causing a comprehensive realignment of decades of data in a way a computer cannot yet do. Words, phrases, ideas, awake compass point progress possibilities, at each step. This has the image of writing merely being the secretarial work of a process of achievement long begun: the record, if any, in the brain, now leaking out conjoined in the consciousness of the moment as though immediately.

I envision a large novel; I do not claim I will be able to achieve it: it is that of which I will write the one I am writing now. The theme, epic, self-discovery: how to delude yourself convincingly. The plot will climax, when Thomas reaches an enlightenment; exhaustion; boredom with the self-imposed task.
Is this the end?

I threw a die thrice and declared it happened on page 156…

Imagine now that all in the novel that happened from page 157 did not! occur.

September 11th looms large, has become a forebodence, just like the burying of barrels of radiation-waste, now wait to surprise future archaeologists; perhaps, heralding a call for:
(not the ones
that Jack built).

although I quoted queer theory last year
enjoying someone at last saying that all categories are suspect, I did not know until these seminars that queer theory involved self-definition and some enlightenment denoted as a silence which \because it is something you can not posit your finger or brain for immediate realization


decided for man otherwise, thinking again it would not / did not effect him/their…selves; they went with the two towers those years ago, ironically/poetically as well for the plane that flew between the towers made an H soon spelling Hiroshima…

not yet getting into print \long having given up thinking in terms of having to be a published writer. He thinks himself fulfilling a new category of writing, the one who does not want to be published: if there were others before him, his should be a political stand. He will make the declaration on the internet, creating a site, declaring it private…
certain considerations
writing should be declared professional writing seen, if cited,
is restricted to writing chosen to be published: this, also locating women and men, again, in the same camp, both inflicted with publication (he does not go so far as the cricketers who saw the professionals as lessers cricketers). That John T refuses to read novels where the first lines do not impress him (giving a second chance to some he’s read before by _chance_opening to a line in the middle of the book: although buying anyway whom he admires, affordability ruling) it is not to suggest that some ought not to be in print: but to remember that potential readers make up their minds about any parts of novels, when they decide on buying.

what we are is nothing definite some finger tangibly prods upon to cite as substantial \ evident
but then, anything, any finger can indicate familiar territory

insistent we, our hidden experientials tentatively so there to be \ almost miss registering as existent beings
existential ticks! of now tick!

furtive actions like pickpockets procuring valuables in forests of fabrics thinking of rabbits and squirrels and beavers; moles, otters

the Garden and them and the snake
ever the bite that changes the moment into forever
shocked then to discover a new nakedness accused upon us

often again peas a-pod we’re green \ ungendered
still stretching latex-white lines

hungry like the infant’s urgent phase
which thinks to suck the blood from the finger

very Marco Polo, Amundsen, Tenzing Norgay, Magellan
traversing contentment; coordinating \ negotiating G-Spots; seeking zeniths; circumnavigating successively
another perimeter one more spider-crawl
consecutively treading \ massaging cartographic demarcations
as though as
ways of

we trek also to attenborough ken
shrubbery and
giant karri
tracking depths through earth like chasing another source of

the river standing tall: its length, its depth instead

the life that channels the juices in the lengthy roots know such rivers

study biochemistry at the same time as astronomy
the planet’s the grain if you think Einstein
becoming the other as you conceive becoming Atom Ant to who is ‘Atom Ant’ to Atom Ant

what if-timed to Chopin; Robert Johnson; she who looks like Weerona Ryder
the ability there to easily record on blank tape
knowing too the senses are the recorders
(you can video \ record yourself hearing music while you’re rooting, reading, jiving; singing \whistling along; drumming on the table; having radio(s) \TV \ other tapes on, also)
crowding the lyrics \annotating scores
:that hyena-laughing downstairs
the cars not stopping quietly
body-articulating sounds

(black-holed! all: so speeds perception!)

also reading; thinking; gushes of the body’s many cataclysms

happening in this room
all size gone loose
even pores are the size of caves
sex is not a street fight
but earthquakes, volcanoes, tidal waves, thunder and, lightening and
the too, too solid flesh, a-swamp
postmodernism is the drug!
remember the poet who said he would pull you into his bed
as he
pulled at the cord of the telephone line
as though you were next door,
that bed and his, head to head, state-to-distant-state-wise?

this morning we sat back to back: unknowing
I was reading Grave’s poem to Sassoon:

what was she doing
so close?
we could have touched
back to back, shoulders, each other’s pillow
cheek to cheek

the made-of-bricks curtain \ chaperone
gently to breaths breezing
as ‘twere a thoroughfare
only leaves on branches there

they may not be able to see
this, not substance-controlled

not visual: is _abstract

they_ too may not see this
who need permits from those who flaunted: now hide their collars
those are collars you see!

open again the score
the tape
the page

stripped naked of what was
present to the page now there

the music
now also
in the ink

now dipped in
to perform
as this script


word-constructions line-incarcerated on the paper; spread-eagled all
like the first dead body Graves then

‘………………… saw was on theGerman wires, and cannot be buried’

black-spot extensions:
arranged in the pre-agreed patterned, width-lines (parallel as are washing-lines) but the position of the dot-extension on the line means a certain sound
the word in fact
that hand reaching again out to grab at the straw
representing what is seeable but ignored
no more than a bit of length upon a wave

dimensions: just some more not seen things
like fish flying in the sea
and birds ‘swimming’ instead

another dimension would see our atmosphere a liquid-thick experience of water, like we see the sea
see us walk the sea bed

dimension also sees me alone as
saint Francis of Assisi who
walked off naked
even the shirt on his back, was owned by his father

I still can’t think outside
inside the head
any think

(what is in front of it?)

nothing exists except
the five ways I become informed about things around me

other people look like what looks at me from the mirror with me
conditioned to believe, shows the exact shape and likeness of
what’ s in front of it

there is communal hypnosis
like when countries forgive themselves, redefining what is meant by human
that way re-describe what they have done
as though repainting
free to remove the paint again
that way
allowing freedom for
from the ashes
now they’ve torched it again

the individual—state—country—u.n.
no country more free than its citizen;
as free as its country at the u.n.

u.n.—country—state—the individual.
individuals equal then to countries

(does she exist when I close my eyes?)
my other senses say she
was closer when she telephoned
as I closed my eyes:
next to
pressed close
the kiss of the French body stocking
the chill \ burning of the sudden realisation of what would mathematicise now
dimensionalise her, the voice suggesting contours
cartgraphing via sound-waves
such proximity approximating

is she inside my mouth:
am I: the depth, so inside her head?

we are tested every time we open
our mouths
hindsight \ intention
only negotiates
tongue, cheek

they will also take twenty years to
realize the significance of the

only heard
this new pope
some bit say

MY BLACK BOOK 60 to 65: "'the beau's songs re helen (not of troy)' poetry, Novel; incorporating the "juddarwin ................" entitled poetry [both series whether or not textually used].


Joined June 2009

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