More for the Barbecue book and note on narrative

 NOTES ON COLLAGE NARRATIVE

Transitive theories of narrative that are based on a-priori structuralist story and written form, as a theory of narrative or narratology, are unable to provide a pragmatic poetics for collage narrative as immanent to itself. Such narrative practices are not transitive productions in the way the formal story/discourse is set out by structuralist narratology.

Despite claims to the contrary, structuralist narratology cannot account for the immanent appearance of narratives and those narratives which can be said to be experimental and modernist, in a way that allows a pragmatics and poetic practices. This inability is so since lyric and narrative are already given as separate categories. How the difference is made and how lyric and narrative can be a-priori given as different cannot be accounted for. It is as if god has already proscribed for each what cannot be said in lyric or in narrative. (Deleuze's conceptual problem of difference in itself may be of use, here.)

It seems we can only get so far with Aristotle and run into problems that do not allow us to get to making and thinking narrative in the first place, so to speak. So, as if from a new beginning narrative needs a new thinking. A novel discourse and the collisions of collaged images may be one way, following suggestions taken from Mikhail Bakhtin's dialogic novel discourse and polyvocal or multi-verse ways of writing.

Barbecue is being written as a novel, more so using accidental collage then any set out plan, which is to say the narrative emerges as a narrative image. The images and verse are often written as an encounter with other media forms and technologies. Encounters may be critical and what Barthes may say is a writerly text. Narrative is a circumstance as an occasion and encounter.




(WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, working title to delete)



    ...and where have you been; he demands
                    this is no country, for those
                                       your phobia, your fear, will not let near.




And it was such an easy day dreaming lost in the clouds, idle
and a plot to make oneself a fool's many secrets and is this
what you want. You are wanton; say this again, repeats, yes in
sexy wet dreams where I lay your body bare and command your hand

in a day; and multiple orgasms when we meet in dark moonless air
so the mystery is? Perhaps a thing that is not to be spoken yet,
written; even that is proscribed, etymology is a prevention here
enough to demand silence as a trickster's opening on the babble;

too many words fall and slide over each other, like another trick
walking and drifting into disassociation, skipping over the horrors
and you piss in your pants; that's the fright. Command your feet
they will walk. Sharp teeth, love bite neck to blood metal taste.

On a lover's tongue. A word forbidden and outlaw to write, so
what can be said. Not much it seems. Proscription, lots of noise.
Changes not registering on any meter, that as much can be said
carry a cold dead skin as an absolute leaky container, let it bleed.

Earth quakes and big sea waves wash the borders clean away, so go
far inland to dry dead desert sand and return this sewage to sea.
Big wild fires burn fast across dry forests dying with drought
wild late afternoon storms pelting ice block rain melting in flames.

With his boy tied to his torso by hard rope he jumps into the sea
hoping to save his boyfriend with himself, love is not lost, hope
day after day after day they cling together, sea soaked skins,
take on sweet tastes and out of the hard acid sea, sweet smells.