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Time:08:25 am

Hey, Subminimalists!

This is a question especially for Jason and Alice.

Assume for a moment that in 1998 Engine House 9 in Tacoma (and its brewery) became the center of a revolutionary movement in literature and art - the Subminimalist Movement.

What would Tacoma look like today?

What would E-9 be like today?

One of my nebulous thoughts is to take a look at what happened to Seattle following the explosion in grunge music, but I'm not sure this is a valid basis for comparison.

Whaddaya think?
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Subject:The Clock of the Long Now
Time:10:03 am
Given the subject and the Borges reference, this just seemed appropriate. A fascinating web site.

The fate of really old things leads me to think that the clock should be copied and hidden. The idea of hiding the clock to preserve it has a natural corollary, but it takes Teller, the professional magician, to suggest it without shame: "The important thing is to make a very convincing documentary about building the clock and hiding it. Don't actually build one. That would spoil the myth if it was ever found." In a way, Teller is right.

The only clocks that have ever really survived over the long run (like the water clock of Su Sung, or the giant hourglass of Uqbar) have survived in books, drawings, and stories.
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Time:05:38 am
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Time:04:07 pm
The Ugly Speed

Here's the worst of it:
I move away
at the ugly speed of boiling,
through my last words
scratched in wood.
all the rats are on the table now.

I'd like to think I am Charlemagne
on heroic horseback conquering
but all I can claim for my own
is the space abandoned behind me
nothing before me is mine

Beneath and between
and taken from the sun.
here's the worst of it:
all I own is the emptiness of running
scratching, clutching and dropping
with ugly speed
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Time:10:31 pm
A Survey of the Works of Jorge Borges
By Dr. Kumar Singh

“If you only followed the parables you yourself would become parables…” Franz Kafka

What do we truly know of Jorge Luis Borges? Born in Buenos Aires in 1899, we’re told, to British and Argentine parents, he grew from an obscure librarian to a literary treasure. The blind enigma, the literary ghost, creator of continents and libraries and authors.

Authors? Here we refer to Pierre Menard and Herbert Quain. But one would make a common mistake to group the two together. Of Pierre Menard we can say with certainty he did not exist but Quain is altogether another matter.

Conventional scholarship would hold to the idea that Quain didn’t exist beyond Borges’ misleading obituary of the author, “A Survey of the Works of Herbert Quain” (1941). But Herbert Quain was not fictional. The truth is startling.

A dark, brooding misanthropic but brilliant man, Quain found a unique solution to the problem of attaining literary fame while retaining privacy. He created an author for his own stories- a pseudonym with a backstory, if you will. Thus is born a certain thick-spectacled Argentine bookworm with a fondness for Shahrazad (herself a nonexistent author).

Perversely, this so-called South American author’s launch into prominence came by announcing the death of Herbert Quain. In a sense, it truly was Quain’s death.

Of Quain’s writings, Italo Calvino once wrote, “I love his work because every one of his pieces contains a model of the universe or of an attribute of the universe…with an exemplary economy of expression” (Six Essays for the Next Millenium, p.119).

Quain also marked an early influence on Franz Kafka, as is evidenced by the short piece, “The Bucket Rider.” In a letter to Ranier Maria Rilke, Kafka described Quain as “deeply lost in the night.”

Because every word of Borges is in fact that of Quain, we find ourselves with an oeuvre in disguise which, like Perec’s La Disparation, gives itself a subtext of persistent questing for the unattainable and in fact, unmentionable. Thus the “god” of the Borgesian labyrinth, is Quain looking for himself and finding he is a ghost within his own reflection. Titles alone, such as “The Mirror and the Mask” “Mutations” “The Mountebank” or “The Two Kings and the Two Labyrinths” give ample evidence of Quain’s self-obfuscation. Look to the masterpiece “The Circular Ruins,” for a clear example.

In closing, I ask you to consider the true obituary of Herbert Quain- the bleak contradiction that became Quain/Borges illustrated in the following poem:

I Am

I am he who knows himself no less vain
than the vain looker-on who in the mirror
of glass and silence follows the reflection
or body (it’s the same thing) of his brother.
I am, my silent friends, the one who knows
there is no other pardon or revenge
than sheer oblivion. A god has granted
this odd solution to all human hates.
Despite my many wondrous wanderings,
I am the one who has never unraveled
the labyrinth of time, singular, plural,
grueling, strange, one’s own and everyone’s.
I am no one. I did not wield a sword
in battle. I am echo, emptiness, nothing.

(Selected Poems, p. 357)
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Subject:long essay part two
Time:09:24 am
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Subject:Critique Links
Time:04:25 pm

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Subject:First Post by Moderator
Time:10:09 am
This community supports both the Subminimalist School and the Wombateem Writers' Group. All fictions posted here for review or critique should be posted "friends only".

Other random gibberish may be posted as the members see fit.
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