In the history of the American prose poem from 1965 onward, I would argue that one writer and one collection stands above the others. The writer is Lawrence Fixel, and the collection is Truth, War, and the Dream-Game: Selected Prose Poems and Parables, 1966-1990 (Coffee House Press, 1991). Fixel specializes in the “modern parable.” Such a parable, exemplified in the works of Kafka and Borges, offers a “devastating illumination of a world split between psyche, spirit, and material concerns.” Fixit adds that in this kind of parable, “paradox is a key element, opposing the identity of opposites to any commonsense, linear, or literal world.” Here is the first parable in TWD, called “Flight Patterns.”
“Flight Patterns”
“Between the void and the sheer event . . . .”
—Valéry
1.
It is said, of the millions that undertake the journey, that the greatest number are lost somewhere along the way. To prove this, evidence is produced, statistics gathered, witnesses summoned. There are even films of the long, straggling procession, which presumably reveal the fate of the missing. Yet it appears no one-—ourselves included—is deterred by this, for it is equally intolerable to remain where we are.
2.
. . . Word continues to arrive from monitors at the highly equipped tracking stations. They report a whole series of unexplained dots and dashes on the flickering screens. Even the most experienced observers-—using the most advanced techniques—concede that the habitual flight patterns can no longer be interpreted . . .
3.
I have seen some of the incoming messages. They bear such strange notations as “missing in action,” “dead on arrival,” etc With so many different languages, from such different worlds, the gap between what is transmitted and received continues to widen.
4.
I have resolved not be upset by any of this. To limit myself to what can be verified by sensory evidence. One thing is clear, whether we travel the direct route of desire, or detours of illusion, we still miss connection. Something is there—ahead or behind us—and we are drawn in that direction. For a time we seem to have arrived . . . . But as the wind changes, the mist descends, we can no longer tell where we are.
5.
Let us suppose, for instance, that you have been where I have been. We meet one afternoon in a village in Jo a neighboring country . . . .Jining the crowd in the plaza, we observe the stately walk of the costumed women. Moving on, we notice in contrast the immobility of the vendors: the heavy bodies squatting beside earthen jars.
6.
Is the scene familiar? Then let memory take a further step: to that moment when armed men in gray uniforms appear . . . .Suddenly we feel a sharp intersection of competing gestures, of inviting and disturbing fragrances. Someone drops petals in front of the candle-lit altar; someone else throws poisoned meat to the hungry dogs . . . . Speaking of this later, disturbed by our fragmented impressions, the question arises: What name can we give to this land?
7.
We may of course continue the search, each producing letters, photographs, documents. Or simply recognize that, between any two witnesses, we can expect these differences. Each might then retreat into a private retrospect . . . . But what if we decide to give up these wanderings, returning to this body, this present time? It may then occur to us that what signifies this world is nothing else but the current of our feeling. And as for the flesh that dissolves. Disappears. Who can say it will not appear again? If not in this form, this familiar image, then perhaps as an intention that moves through silence and the quickening wind.
“Flight Patterns”―What a wonderfully ironic title, juxtaposing both the freedom and uncertainty of taking wing with the certainty of a preconceived pattern, which we may choose to follow so we don’t get lost. It’s an ideal position to be in, but one that, ironically, Fixel’s parables always argue against, since no matter how hard his narrator tries to find a fixed location from which to make sense of his surroundings, uncertainty prevails. It’s appropriate, then, that “Flight Patterns” begins with this Kafkaesque opening: “It is said, of the millions who undertake the journey, that the greatest number are lost somewhere along the way.” Still, the narrator adds, we persist because “it is equally intolerable to remain where we are.”
Marvelous writings -- beautiful and mysterious. How potent to approach the idea of travel (travel or disappearance? Travel but in what form?) in the Age of the Virus when so many the world over are enclosed -- most hours -- in their homes
Posted by: Suzanne Lummis | April 11, 2020 at 05:39 AM