Lauren Levin Responds to Merry Fortune’s Ghosts by Albert Ayler, Ghosts by Albert Ayler

I’m reading books by 3 musician-poets right now.

I imagine a desire in Ghosts by Albert Ayler, Ghosts by Albert Ayler for poetry to refresh itself.  From state to state, flux.

In coffee shop with laptop, so here’s some Wikipedia Heraclitus: “The death of fire is the birth of air, and the death of air is the birth of water.”

The book won’t stay fixed.  To undo texture with staggering texture:  Minnie Mouse, aphorism, conversation, k.d. lang, arts, artist, man-hour mantis jugular.  I remember the turning.

This writing so far feels solemn, while the book is funny.  It’s hard to gloss a book that doesn’t believe in fixity.  My petulant mind that wants to have a perspective.

Shift the frame of response – click – or let it dissolve like a party conversation.

All essential disturbances turn for the great, greater, greatest

Mind rolls along.  It’s in the eye, but maybe it doesn’t want to be?

See what the dog cares, see what the dog cares!

Mind in the ear, could say reminds me of a song but I’m boycotting and dead against segues of any kind.

I always feel the fear of killing immediacy with the mind.  That’s in my writing.  A response is a response.  It’s here.  It’s automatic. What could I do?  Horse assembled was horse assembled.

And I wonder if Merry Fortune also thinks of her mind as a killer. When I subject the object of my desire I objectify the object of my desire and it changes.  The object of my desire becomes the object of my disdain.

Hence, the refusal of perspective, the description of relation as a fixative. How not to scrabble for understanding, though the mind is in the eye?

How could I have thought this place a reservoir?

A place not a reservoir but is time a reservoir?  Can I go mixed metaphor or mixed something and say that time is the reservoir of rhythm?

Because, in the book, of the rhythm of certain desires, of over-turnings coming around again.  Hunger more rhythmic than spring.

The return of Wikipedia Heraclitus: all things come into being through strife necessarily.  Transcription:  rhythms converge at now to fix a moment.

Because there’s stillness in the book, too.  Quiet.  A feeling of reservoir.

So maybe the book is all about fixity.  The states that are the frames of change.  Without understanding, because to be in one state you can’t understand the next.  I am here I am not next.

No amount of disassembled horse could take away the joy, the pleasure, of horse assembled, and no amount of assembled horse could take away the pleasure of horse disassembled.

I have a feverish response to this book because it leads me there.  To where time is not time when it doesn’t have its words.

No money, no clothes, no motive

No words, no language, no time

Evil math penchant or list

The book as insomniac scribbles through the night. A fixed star is a minute. A blue star, a transcription.

No good, no more, no never

Not always, not me, not you

No dog, no movie, no ticket

Bundles back breaking of ever.  Yes stars?

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