Author: Christopher Patton

I write curate teach & blog in & from Toronto, Canada.

1. A plague-year reader

Another from Horsetail Rhizome. I wrote it about Dumuzi, my 2020 book of poems, for a reader Gaspereau Press made in lieu of the in-person promotions – launches & tours & the like – that had (because pandemic) migrated online or just gone. The questions are Andrew Steeves & the answers me. Find the whole reader here.

What interests you about these figures from Sumerian mythology, Dumuzi & Inanna? Is there something about their story that is particularly relevant to the present day reader?

They seem a long way away, right? What’s that ancient couple got to do with us? Their stories live on in museums, on musty tablets & cylinder seals. I suggested to a class recently, it’s other people’s beliefs that look like myths – your own look to you like axioms. Space & time aren’t myths, right? They’re facts, verified by science. But if Benjamin Whorf got Hopi verb tenses even roughly right, not every culture sees the future as an expanse spreading out from the present wholly apart from mental action. Space time & causality are myth for us: they arrange a world. A myth is a form of mind, often a story form, that has worked for some group of persons to make, on earth, of earth, a world. Myth is psychic terraforming. I’m writing with my voice, and it’s funny how Apple’s dictation software turns “myth” to math, mess, Matt, met, Ms. As if Apple wanted to get free of myth, and trying to, made materials for a new myth. I wanted in Dumuzi, which Apple calls And Get Amusing, to touch on the currency of myth. Dumuzi, wistful, curious, inept, persistent, horny, beaten down by his demons & not down for good, is just me. Inanna, his lover, sending him to hell, mourning him, in some versions rescuing him, is me too. A myth is a story you find more of yourself than you knew of in. And of the world. By currency I also mean money. Dumuzi & Inanna begin in suchness. (Apple: Do news he Andy Nonna begin in suction us.) They are to each other meanings that can’t be sold off. And the story of their going, one then the other, to Hell, is the story of their fall into commodity. Wild grasses become fields of cultivated grain. The grain is cut down & goes to market. Eating the bread, you eat a god. In time grain becomes a unit of measure: in England 7,000 of them made a pound. And no one needs me to say how Inanna’s daughters have been made commodities by a look. Dumuzi & Inanna fall into the exchange whose present end is capitalism. (Those who describe the benevolence of capital in circulation are recounting a myth.) The insight myth, language & money share is that everything is inter­changeable. For a god, that’s the notion that anything can be anything else. For a salesman, it’s how anything can be had for something else. The capitalist gesture, in whose shadow Dumuzi cannot not be read, is a faltering reach for a spiritual fact. The book is, too.

Can you talk a bit about the book’s form, such as the use of word grids & the use of illustrations built up from a single scrap of an envelope?

There’s a note in my journal, 20 years or so old, about the structure I wanted for Dumuzi (Apple: Dumb Uzi): “mixed as a weed plot & shapely as a symphony.” Later I read Williams’s Paterson and thought I’d found, in its heterogeneity & dispersed point of view, my exemplar. In the end, Spring and All, where he refracts his language through Cubist compositional techniques, was a better model. The word grids or “colour fields” are my effort to do something sort-of-Rothko in words. Each of the fields alludes to a place: an orchard, an altar, a gravesite, a marketplace. As important, though, is the place the words are, on the page. The words don’t really do syntax, and the grid invites your eye to move in more than one direction. So the meaning you get depends on choices you’ve made. Similarly, you can start the book at any spot & read from there in more than one order. The images were the last part of the book to come. I’d been working with security envelope linings for another project, & one started to yield representational figures, a fly, a woman fleeing, a man in meditation. It felt like discovering beings hidden behind the surface of the page. Bringing them out was rescuing someone – myself? a stranger? – from hiddenness. They remind me a bit of the stylized figures incised on old cylinder seals. Those are rescues too, of a form of the mind from forgetting.

Schematic of an impression a cylinder seal of the Uruk I period (ca. 3000 bce)
held by the Staatliche Museen, Berlin.

The image atop is a detail from a version an illustration in Dumuzi, reworked for Dark Mountain 22 “Ark.” The full massy beast below.

Click on me for a proper look.

Typographia I Asterisk

In the summer of 2022, as Guest Curator at the Centre for Renaissance & Reformation Studies, I curated a small physical exhibition of handpress-printed books, Typographia, exploring six distinctive glyphs found on the early modern page.

I also began a digital version of Typographia, coding it on Twine, an open-source platform for interactive, non-linear games. The first part, on the history & deployments of the asterisk, recently went live. It starts like this:

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check it out ☞

Working on Twine was fun & arduous. I approached it as an experiment in digital typesetting and learned everything I could from my handpress forbears about typeface & page design. In my note on the project I put it like this:

An exhibition is a story, or a suite of stories. Some can be told in a straight line. Others are more shrub than tree – more rhizome than taproot – and ask to discover their own shapes. I’ve created Typographia on Twine, an open-source platform for creating non-linear narrative games, in that exploratory spirit. I haven’t seen Twine used for an exhibition before. This is a trial run, as the first pages printed in Eu­rope also were.

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Still to come, lever of the pilcrow , sprawl of the fleuron ❦ .

0. Horsetail rhizome

This week I signed a contract with Palimpsest Press to publish Horsetail Rhizome, a book of nonfiction that began, much of it, with this blog. You will also find there dreams, poems, epigrams, reviews, mildly dirty jokes & much unclassifiable. Here, for your perhaps muted pleasure, is the first entry.

In high school I was called by one boy, he’s a family doctor now, and also, thanks to a low charisma you often see in autocrats in the news, by many others there, Horse. I don’t know why. I don’t have a snout. My nose extends about as far as yours. Something about my jaw? Dentists pulling my teeth, and they pulled a lot, said I had deeper roots than they’d seen before. Horse. Haven’t thought about it in years until just now. I do hate seeing myself from outside as others might – in profile, in a shop window, on a Zoom call – and can’t abide sitting in a restaurant where one wall is mirrors, facing the mirrors. My hope of being gently with others, notwithstanding a firestorm in me I can quiet but not extinguish, comes in part from that sad conflicted boy & I thank him for it. As to the horsetails, they broke through every quarter of the painstook landscape I made of native plants on the patch of ground where a lot of what’s here was written. I hated them, couldn’t destroy them, so they became teachers, too. They’ve longer roots than can be believed. Spread underground in oxygen-poor soil & any work to kill them makes them stronger. The Greek myth of the Hydra must begin with them – cut one stalk & two three four grow from the neck stump – brutal generative power of the earth in one of its green forms. Has no flower, predates dinosaurs, scours pewter, treats UTIs. When I dig down deep enough I connect with an occult network of pulpy tubular tissue going no direction in particular. One comes up through a crack in my garage floor white & blind like a cave fish. My first title for the shambolic omnibus, the unholy hybrid of myth & reason, accident & dream, now in your hands was Nothing New. I had thought to set that phrase in equable counterpoint with Ezra Pound’s insistence, first & last to himself, to “day by day / make it new.” Then this other scheme broke through some crack in my mind that thought made.

Horsetail Rhizome, the first of two volumes, begins in the Upper Paleolithic & runs to around 1900. Its companion, Occam’s Aftershave, will pick up where Horsetail leaves off & reach to the Singularity & beyond.

The image up top? My backyard in Bellingham WA where I lived once. All native species, including the deer. Apparently once in my time there I managed to pull all the horsetails? I find it hard to believe.

A message to my students

I was derailed tonight from grading and documenting to write this. I guess this is what Mother’s Day means to me these days.

My friends. I need to share with you that I am appalled by how much cheating there has been in this class. The bond between teacher and student is a creative and intellectual friendship that depends absolutely on trust. When you cheat by, for instance, using AI to find sources, write your outline, draft your paper, or polish your prose, you break that trust and test that friendship sorely.

As a good writer, a better reader, I can see the signs of generative AI in student work in, at most, 5 minutes. It takes me about 5 hours to verify and document it for the University that will assess and act on my findings. For that 4 hours and 55 minutes, you are losing the allegiance I assumed between us as a starting point for our work together.

Those to whom this message is most directed – you know who you are – I was always on your side. I do not care now for your attestations of innocence or ignorance. Please do not degrade us both by offering them. I told you, you were told, what forms of assistance were permitted and which were not, and if you were unclear about anything, you should have asked.

Everyone else – thankfully that’s most of you – please forgive this intrusion on your attention. I hope that if, in the future, you are tempted to cut corners at the cost of your integrity, this message will incite you to think twice. I hope too that if you find yourself leading others in inquiry, commerce, governance, family time or simple play, something here might stay with you, and be of use.

It might be no coincidence I feel moved to write this on Mother’s Day. No matter how angry you make your mom she doesn’t give up on you.

Chris

Love letters to the oligarchs

A day after the national and global Hands Off protests – we were maybe 300 in Toronto – all the honks & waves & shouts in support were especially gratifying – I got round to writing these love letters.

Dear Meta,

I am writing to inform you that I have revised my retirement plans to eliminate all Meta assets from my portfolio. I am also winding down my use of Instagram, Facebook, and WhatsApp and plan to close my accounts by year’s end. Mark Zuckerberg’s anticipatory obedience to the autocratic ambitions and lawless actions of the present Administration are shocking, shameful, and, sad to say, unsurprising. My divestment will mean little to you financially, of course, but as one of millions of like decisions, it may prick your corporate conscience.

Respectfully,
Christopher Patton

Dear Amazon,

I am writing to inform you that I have revised my retirement plans to eliminate all Amazon assets from my portfolio. I am also winding down my use of Amazon as a shopping site and plan to close my Prime account by year’s end. The anticipatory obedience of Jeff Bezos to the autocratic ambitions and lawless actions of the present Administration are shocking, shameful, and, sad to say, unsurprising. His heavy hand on the Washington Post is especially disappointing after his years affirming its editorial independence in his words and actions. My divestment will mean little to you financially, of course, but as one of millions of like decisions, it may prick your corporate conscience.

Respectfully,
Christopher Patton

Dear Tesla,

I am writing to inform you that I have revised my retirement plans to eliminate all Tesla assets from my portfolio. Elon Musk’s psychopathic rampage through a government whose rules and structures created the economy in which his companies can thrive is nothing short of appalling. I urge you to remove him from any position at Tesla involving management or oversight or requiring an iota of ethical judgement. My divestment will mean little to you financially, of course, but as one of millions of like decisions, it may prick your corporate conscience.

Respectfully,
Christopher Patton

Columbia’s capitulation

Sent this off the other day. I encourage my fellow Columbians to do likewise.

Dear President Armstrong,

I am writing to express my disappointment and anger that my alma mater has capitulated to the bullying and coercion of the Trump Administration. I understand how worrisome a threat to withhold hundreds of millions of dollars in funding must be. I recognize how complex and contested issues of free speech and peaceful protest on Columbia’s and other American campuses are in these fraught times. Nonetheless, as an institution of higher learning in a free society, you have a duty to resist, even at great cost, powers that want to replace American democracy with an authoritarian and even – I no longer think the term is hyperbole – fascistic state. Next time they come demanding concessions, and you know as well as I that they will, please do the hard thing, and say no. You should be a model to other institutions of rectitude, not cowardice.

Respectfully,
Christopher Patton (SOA ’96)

Some bonus content from one of many newsletters I’ve begun following:

This week I want to talk about a small thing that gives me hope. A “green shoot,” if you will, in a time when so much seems to be withering.

It’s early, it’s scattered, and it’s more of a tendril than a surge of green.

When the leadership of institutions bows down to the autocrat — happening a lot these days — that’s often not the end of the story. In many key cases, the people who make up those institutions are refusing to go quietly. The individuals with less power, not more, are stepping up to defend our democracy.

… If this trend continues, with ordinary people showing courage where their leaders fail, that may just be the determinative factor in whether the autocratic project ultimately falls short.

—Ben Raderstorf, “When leaders fail, people… step up?”

Nero again

We’re watching an administrative coup unfold in real time. Call it what you like, competitive autocracy, illiberal democracy, techno-authoritarianism, patrimonial state, First Galactic Empire come home to eat its makers, this is world-historical bad, end of the Pax Americana, its repressed terms & disjected others unleashed.

If it were it up to me, our world would be small egalitarian communes, each developing its own inner science & making such tools as subsistence requires, each at a cautious distance from the others, permitting & inviting trade in the goods that make this, let’s just say it, hard life, worth living & sometimes a joy to. The bow that so moves me in Japanese public life as diplomatic axiom. Now you know me.

So. No fan of empire. Have always sided with the Rebel Alliance. You too, I assume. But now it’s on its way out, the American Imperium, I can see the good it did, anchoring a fraternity of democracies, extending soft power around the globe. Witness the demolition of USAID occurring in real time in a digisphere that really is too much with us. Getting & spending we lay waste our powers.

A caul of illusion has been torn from my eyes. Liberal democracy, those rights & freedoms, in the sweep of history they’re the exception, not the rule. Even at the best of times, some folks are granted them freely, others have to fight for them, bitterly. And this is not the best of times.

What does #resistance look like at this moment? I’ve signed petitions, written to my reps, disinvested from corporate bodies performing anticipatory obedience with balletic ease, had beers with Democrats Abroad, scheduled recurring small donations to groups advocating for migrants & trans folk & Zen peacemaking & practice, and committed with less than perfect followthrough to withdrawing my attention & business from Facebook, Instagram, Whats­App, Amazon. What else? What works? Boycott? General strike? Divert sums owed the IRS to beleaguered NGOs & university departments? What can we draw from the repertoire of the roshis of civil disobedience who achieved independence for India & civil rights law in America? Do we need a Ghandi, an MLK, or in a time when charisma belongs to the con man, can we do it dispersedly?

And will I, if my one country invades my other, take up arms? I bawled when I killed a mouse my cat only half had. Can’t see myself killing a person – killing a world. Maybe my little cottage up north can be refuge for women & men brave in other ways than I. Meanwhile I read & watch counterfactual fictions, Plot Against America, Man in the High Castle, Civil War & try my hand at same. Here’s one, the last piece I’ll write for Occam’s Aftershave, prospectively dated 2028, the earliest it might see a public or private shelf.

9 March 2028

Last year Articles of Impeachment fell short by three votes. Republican senators who voted to convict have enlisted Academi (né Blackwater) mercenaries to guard their families 24/7. Key cabinet positions, Defence, Commerce, Agriculture, have been arrogated to the Presidency. Elon the Ketamine Jester is halfway to Mars.

Talk-show historians describe the Republican Party as a cult of personality with patrilineal followthrough. Comparison to the People’s Republic of North Korea is the common socmed cliché. Tiktok has resumed operations & benefits from lucrative government contracts. The Democratic Party has split along ideological fault lines. Armed secessionist movements in restive west coast & northeastern states have given President Vance, who assumed power last year upon Donald Trump’s full incapacitation by an assassin’s bullet – late-night comics vie for the best riff on the term “vegetative state” – a pretext for suspending civil liberties & postponing federal elections, even as Trump’s children vie for the Republican nomination.

Among our new entertainments are cagematches between AI-generated corporate avatars of competing socmed algorithms. Hesitant to gather in streets patrolled by federal troops – the Posse Comitatus Act has been invalidated by the Supreme Court, the extent of whose financial enmeshment with the ruling family has only been properly understood since last year’s exposé in the Washington Post, awarded a Pulitzer on the day the paper published its final issue, a gesture whose poignancy was lost on no one – opponents of the regime gather in virtual spaces established by Meta offshoot Maté to cheer progressive factions on to victory over TelegramX8Chan. Bluesky always wins. In WWII the Japanese Imperial government encouraged citizens to dedicate their leisure time to haiku about cherry blossoms. Detention camps bloom in the desert.

In Canada, the newly formed People’s Party, a separatist entity formed by disaffected holdouts from the Liberal–Conservative merger, holds 23 seats in Parliament & is negotiating a Pacte avec le Diable with the Bloc Québecois.

NATO has reformed its Charter to eject the United States & Hungary. Serbia has been admitted. France & Britain extended their nuclear umbrellas to all European Union nations in 2026 upon the latter’s return to the EU on terms compared unfavourably in the tabloid press, which against all expectations continues to thrive, to those of the Versailles Treaty. Iran, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, South Africa, South Korea, Indonesia, Brazil, Argentina, & possibly Japan & Colombia – policies of strategic ambiguity are the norm – have the Bomb.

A climate change feedback loop is releasing vast sinks of carbon stored in northern tundras, laying waste arable land in equatorial & sub-equatorial regions & prompting speculation in diplomatic backrooms that Canada, enjoying robust population growth thanks to an influx of climate refugees & the opening of swaths of land to newly bioengineered supercrops, will be a global power in two decades.

With Canada’s admission to the European Union the world has cohered into four spheres of influence – United States, European Union, People’s Republic of China, Russian Federation – inviting comparison to the nineteenth-century world of Great Powers. Nations of the Global South play these actors against each other as best they can. More align with China than with others due to China’s skilful projection of soft power. International organizations such as the WTO & IPCC have not survived American withdrawal. All but the second listed above are authoritarian regimes with democratic facades that fool no one but are sustained for the injury they inflict on constructs of objective or intersubjective truth. Masha Gessen has taken the lead in close-reading the post-truth world.

The European Union remains committed to representative democracy but is under assault from within by neo-fascist movements that harness popular discontent over immigration, a fraying social safety net & draconian pollution controls. Petrol is €15 a litre. Execution by firing squad is making a comeback. Ukraine is a rump state centred on the city of Lviv, prey to an AI-driven disinformation campaign & slipping in spite of the best efforts of its elites into the Russian sphere of influence. Vladimir Putin was embalmed last month in rosewater. Historical mocudramas set in the early Roman Empire continue to gain in popularity.

Axon, signal, text

The book I started work on in November has become two! The first, Horsetail Rhizome, starts in Sumer & ends with Gerard Manley Hopkins. The second, Occam’s Aftershave – for which I just drafted the text below – picks up where Horsetail leaves off & reaches into a future of quantum-genomic computing long after the Singularity.

I first met the polyvagal model of the autonomic nervous system (ANS) when looking for ways to tackle a chronic illness. It now strikes me that, whether or not it helped with my migraines, the model offers an approach to the relation of poetic rhythm – on the scale of phoneme, sentence, or canto – to our beings as innervated mammals.

As conceived by Dr. Stephen Porges, polyvagal theory says that a long branching parasympathetic cranial nerve, called vagus, “wanderer,” for its reach from earwhorl to bowel, gives us three frames (one more than we thought) for responding to stimuli.

Its ventral branch allows rest & digestion & opens us to affection & attunement. It goes quiet when a threat is perceived & the sympathetic nervous system readies heart lungs muscles sense organs &c. to fight or flee. The two we learned in school.

New to the picture is the nerve’s dorsal branch. It’s how a deer freezes in your headlights, or a bird your cat caught in your palm, or you or I raddled by rape or earthquake. Yeats’s rag & bone shop. Destination of every katabasis. The heavy hopelessness I feel a week into Trump’s second term. Freud’s death drive. But last resort of the life force. Can’t fight back? Run. Can’t run? Hide, go small, disappear, dissociate, die inside, for now. Notice how sentences & fragments, declaratives & imperatives – the ones you just read – affect you differently, bodily. That’s what I’m talking about.

Lot more to it, of course, as a physiological theory of mind. It has helped me some with mine & others I know with their troubles. I’m asking now though about its potential for literary theory. What might it disclose about the physiology of the poem – the poem as it addresses one’s imaginal body (mind’s eye, mind’s ear, mind’s limbs & organs) through kinetic & proprioceptive signals in its language?

Poem as embodied imaginal transcript of journeys up & down the vagal ladder.

I can say this much. I make a poem by enacting transits – lived the moment of making or recalled & relived – across realms of ease, activation, paralysis. I translate animal postures in the world into bodily aspects of human speech – stress pitch duration tempo as they register in mouth chest gut musculature – and image – direction of the gaze to curve line jag field & pattern. I do it, for instance, with the ampersand. I did it just now by omitting one. In “Weed Flower Mind” I used a fractured lyric form to chart the ups & downs, blisses crises & overwhelms, I met in zazen. My Dumuzi & Inanna poems make of their motions, from heaven to earth & underearth & back up, mythic correlates for states of attunement & danger & despair. My script for SCRO attempted the same in a sort-of confessional sort-of stream-of-consciousness.

Here’s the grandiose part. Maybe it’s not my method but the method.

Notes towards expansion of that idea – reductive as poetics in this form – hopelessly impressionistic about the science – maybe worth pursuing even so –

Divine Comedy. A vagrant’s journey from arousal (dark wood) to dorsal (Hell) to arousal (Purgatory) to ventral (Paradise) with many loops & sub-loops. To be frozen helpless abandoned by God is Hell. To be wholly at rest in the wholeness of being is Heaven. Beatrice as an icon of the attunement – heart-connection self-connection mirror neurons blazing – ease in the ANS makes possible.

The Tempest. Begins with a shipwreck (arousal) then assigns subplots to each nervous domain. Stephano & Trinculo are essentially predators (arousal). Alonso is immobilized by grief (dorsal) & pricked by Gonzalo (executive function) into movement. Miranda & Ferdinand savour intimacies (nexus of ventral & dorsal). Prospero engages in magical combat & is never ruffled (nexus of ventral & arousal). In the end everyone converges in a grand reconciliation (ventral ease). A comic or romantic schema.

“Ode to a Nightingale.” One begins in a murky crossover of ease & numbness (nexus of ventral & dorsal), ventures toward the nightingale seeking attunement in its song (ventral), finds instead the sound of death (dorsal), returns to one’s body more alert (nexus of ventral & arousal).

“To Autumn.” Intimacy with all life (ventral) in heightened alertness (arousal) conducted knowing it’s soon to end (dorsal). The poem stands at the intersection of all three modes. Where its wonderment comes from & how it makes peace with death.

Mrs. Dalloway. Rapid irregular cascades among ventral arousal & dorsal. An interior realism – convincing, compelling, whatever the artifice – because its verbal activity enacts how these states actually play out in the nervous system.

Tender Buttons. Every phrase a site of play & heightened vigilance & the insoluble.

It may be no more than warmed-over Structuralism. Or a poorly thought-out update of Aristotle’s catharsis. But I can’t shake my sense of the text as a verbal map of a nervous system – a map in periplum of one transit through a nervous system – a transit a reader can take as a sort of inner guided walking tour – because whatever the accidents shaping a life, we all as human animals have roughly the same nervous system. That system – it seems to me now – is the poet’s real instrument.

Maybe Jung was right about a collective unconscious. Not seated in the brain box – emergent in our nervous tissue, taken all together, as interface, as rhizome.

Dove sta memoria

I am, as so many are, shocked, appalled, frightened, dismayed by the re-election this week of a convicted felon & rapist who views the Presidency of the United States as his own private fiefdom. I’ve also been grappling again with Pound & his legacy. This wrote itself last night, for a book of prose I’ve started to build, on the theme of fascism, & complicity, & refusal of same.

Dove sta memoria

I remembered this morning in a flash two days after re-election to the office of the Presidency of a moral idiot, a man to call whom a sociopath would give sociopaths a bad name, a moment in the fields of St. George’s, the private boys’ school in Vancouver I attended awhile, the moment I finished a round of push-ups, one I was weakly armed for & had been decreed for me as part of a detention I may have, I can’t remember how, I was an awfully obedient boy, I may have earned, a moment my tormenter, a redheaded boy whose face & name have long since disappeared from view, said, yeah, okay, you’re done, I remembered this as I stood peeing – the toilet a site of introspection almost as rich for me apparently as the long indulgent showers I have long resorted to in retreat from an inner life that feels at times an onslaught – I remembered the rush crush & cascade of gratitude I felt, a sudden grateful self-abasing love for him, that moment, the boy who’d owned & commanded me, for ten ordinary moments, when I had to do what he said. Fascism is built out of such unexceptional surrenders. Let us never use the word detention again except historically. Yesterday morning I found myself sitting crying for children I had never met & could hardly imagine watching their parents shoved onto planes for locales they had for good reason fled, & those children to follow, once the notion that they belong here by birthright has been evacuated by men who can shit but not give life. This evening on the subway home an orange more orange than I’ve ever seen rolled down the aisle. I put out my foot & stopped & picked it up & walking home took a route by the liquor store where a gaunt-faced woman around my age in a puffy white coat was sitting against the building, as I thought she might be, and I asked would she like it. She said sure yeah thanks. Only thing I’ve done since the felon’s re-election that has felt meaningful as response. The world does not make sense but it does rhyme.

Three poets walk into a bar

and read to their unsuspecting admirers. Because troubadours gotta trouve. I’m excited for this tour with Jim Johnstone & Klara du Plessis:

I look forward even more to seeing some of you there.

The author takes no responsibility for AI-generated excerpts attached to this post.