Into Formalism right now:

• The aim is to produce "a science of literature that would be both independent and factual," which is sometimes designated by the term poetics.
• Since literature is made of language, linguistics will be a foundational element of the science of literature.
• Literature is autonomous from external conditions in the sense that literary language is distinct from ordinary uses of language, not least because it is not (entirely) communicative.
• Literature has its own history, a history of innovation in formal structures, and is not determined (as some crude versions of Marxism have it) by external, material history.
• What a work of literature says cannot be separated from how the literary work says it, and therefore the form and structure of a work, far from being merely the decorative wrapping of an isolable content, is in fact part of the content of the work.

c/o Wikipedia.

Reading this short story by Thomas McEvilley III, called Wakerobin, it is very good, and I recommend it. He's a dude that is into formalism, hence my scouring of wikipedia for further information .

My experience with the Halifax Pop Explosion is now over, and I loved it. I only went to two shows, but there were really only two shows that I really wanted to see, so things could be worse. On Thursday I saw Cadence Weapon (for the third time) at the Paragon, and it was amazing, as usual. He did some new jams, and though I was quite drunk, I seem to remember them being excellent. He opened with an impassioned reading of a really good poem, after having mentioned his recently attained Poet Laureate title. I love a poet laureate can be this drunk rapper I love in a club in my city. My generation rules ass.

Yesterday afternoon Owen Steel, Babs and I all played a set at Taz records as sort of another fcs showcase, and it was a really good time. I was more than a little nervous, which is sort of odd for me at this point since it's been so long since I've been legitimately nervous before a show, but I think that's fair since the last proper acoustic set I played was last April. I did one new song, that I'm pretty happy about, and an old b-side that I've recently fallen in love with. I'm currently talking to Tuna and Dan about producing and performing on a solo album by yours truly, tentatively titled Believing In Iron, after a poem by Yusef Kumonyakaa that posted on this very blog recently. This is the album art:

I feel it is somewhat representative of the over-all tone of the album, which won't be anything new for ol David R., but that's okay. I'm thinking the level of production value and sparse instrumentation will make up for that. And I like the new song a lot and think it will do well as a closing track. I also plan on putting a low-key version of Summer Lines on the album, since I think it's an important part of the over-all aesthetic of the album, which is essentially about leaving my hometown and adjusting to a bigger and better city, etc. Anyway, here are the lyrics to the two songs I played yesterday that people had not heard before (most people).




Dark pours in, she's saying what she means.
Another glass of wine, glowing from the TV screen.
Just overwhelmed,
a blue just barely gray,
a verse just barely started,
a line I wouldn't say,
she comes on like it's morning all day,
spares me the disguise,
I'm never one for apathy.

And sends me with a casualty.

Flippant with her eyes,
and tellin me I've,
brought it to light,
right as the flame fell.

A little cautious, I get what that means.
Obvious is easy, you won't owe them anything.
Just when it hits,
that night is turned to day,
a line I would've quoted,
instead of what I'd say,
she breathes in like the air is crisp all day,
spares me the lies, and understands the empathy.


Here are the lyrics to the aforementioned b-side:

Call it what you want,
I'll erase the rain,
standin at the bridge,
where the sun dies everyday,
with those two big darkened eyes
and her thumbs gripped to the keys,
in the sunset all ablaze,
wearing heartache on her sleeve.
Call it what you want,
girls are all the same,
but her hair is red like sun,
and I still call out her name,
when the day is down to dust,
and the night is dark and cold,
she still believes in hope,
but the story's getting old...

Tell her just to wait,
it'll all come around someday,
when the sun dies the blue and gray,
and angels always say,
you should all stop pretending...
Mary's just a female with her own happy ending.

Call it what you want,
I'll outline your pain,
standing in new kicks,
but the rest is just the same,
with that wet look in her eyes
and her fingers wrapped in rings,
she tells me I'm alright,
caged birds always sing.

And here's a pic:

with love,
David R.