John Ford IT’S ALL ABOUT CUBIST PACIFIC…. Cubist in longitude … cubist in latitude…. Memory is cubist… perspectival…. shimmershift…. Sphera…. John Ford on his yacht in Baja California… in Mexico…. Maybe for Beijing you will look at the life of the rocket man Thread of the Silkworm…. It’s Underworld… It’s Americana… but its where the American frontier is Pacific…. Its oceanic…. Its the fracturing deep of the psyche-soul out in the ocean…. It was always in the ocean…. The primal return….
The dyad the breathing couplet, history not as a line but as the byeshadows of resonance pivots, thrown from one into the next, Dec 7 1941, a lesion, and trauma is not languid, trauma is an engine etched into the soul…. The military souls saw the island for what it was, one great scream across the Pacific, a means, a machine, one huge hulking mass ejecta screaming in the face of Dear Joe, they were under the machine, but did they know what conspiracies, what gathering dust line and sight, what recordings, and hearings and silent charges were being met as they walked, breathed fought the line, the fission line, and the day with your name written on it, coming closer, coming like the weight of water that collapses over you, and your heart has three souls, and you’re running on deep blue subconscious shock throughout the whole thing, the reds and lighs, ant blurring signatures of celestial deliverance, of fuel and blub and
Mechanisation act, the dockmen becoming fuselage to the machines, redundifying – the soul was giving up the wake… we’re losing Robert, we’re fucking losing it, this island treated like second class fucking peoples, I couldn’t capture the times, I couldn’t capture the times, yawning, distant, headspace I didn’t know moments I coulldnt catch, the human serene a smear across the browbeat horizon, the rainy days picking cane in the fields, mother with broken feet, and Robert coming across the Pacific on his steamer, the depth of the soulfreight, you could never know
The Rashomon Effect. The Kessler Syndrome. Writing’s two speeds, depth The war came and went and Robert came home, and Gail was born in 43, in 49, we organised longshore strikes, and Gail sat on the shoulders of Robert, The Honolulu Advertiser smeared Jack and the ILWU and us: 1950, it was not automatic style of writing, it was an explosive style it was penning and penning and penning, and release, abruption, depth and blow, depth and blow, the psyche’s model, depth and blow, the way they hulked cargo into the bowels of the passing ships, and their shoulder sockets merged with the rhythm of the steamers and they were bound to the San Franciscan nightlights like any other god damn moth-balled fanatic finding god in the steelworks – organising, organising, if only they knew what Stalin was doing in Kolmya, deep cold Siberia, the conspiracy of a shelf a deep shelf
The 1950s came and Eisenhower went and the psyche became a frontier, the psyche became a frontier, just as the ocean became a frontier, and space became a frontier, it was a re-dimensionalising of the mind as world, as this corrugation of steel and depth and speed, and missile, missile paranoia, missile LSD, missiles growing, missile spotting, missiles imagining, atomic death, atomic death, atomic blows brought around you cannot contain the free spirit soaring of the U.S., and this was what some man wrote that the American frontier started east coast and drew out west but then kept going kept going after the war that the real resonance flight of the nuclear heartland was an ocean-infill boom, boom Atlantic, Pacific. All nation’s souls ran by the logic of expansion, of explosion, of resonance, of fighting to blow out across all dimensions, and that the U.S. blew out across all of them east, west, north, south, up, down, left, right, everything had a name, had a number, had a study group, had a project number, had a classification, had secrets, had names, had deaths, had