Jim Leftwich -- Ann Buchanan: Night Reflects Blinking Expectations

Ann Buchanan: Night Reflects Blinking Expectations

Emotion those crevices or spells, independent method already always away and everready, the tears that compounded Ann Buchanan, which into the swelling wellsprings roil down the dawn followed by the bottom of night. At pinpoint of musical cheek-quiver, directly at the unborn Ouroboros, slight eyelids reflect the images of the minute. Arises inspired and connected dripping refrains from blinking, modular along the camera lingers chin, becoming deeply decided. Although the expectations of teeth waffle to wax and mucus in striped fire as a sea, in that this is a thousand thoughts per minute, we are more playful because of the camera than we were before the Beat writers socialized our silences. Any encounter with affect is seen as mythic experience. Films are machines for generating attempts at witnessing (the wings and nests of) optical songs of the variegated self. Vagaries of dissent result miraculously in uncanny lights. Blinking fires the portrait, fires the permit, fires the facts, the audience is on fire, fires the response, a multiplicity of works and nothings out smoking on the fire escape. Static inexhaustibility, the books cohere in the acts of unified paper, construct socks and mad suits foreclosing serial reference, unpredictable notions of a mischievous praxis, the slurp of its subtext slapping against a reef. Music not yet sleeping in the frequent facts and epic shift, watch quite cheek halfway heroically weep, in something the reporter describes as "appeared elusive tests" (the crest or crust of Elusinian pears). Bohemian with summer, apartment model on the road and eventually in the factory (1964), the strain of widening doom in chosen teeth, like the shock of a beautiful fact. Shadows are similar. This followed neatly the eye rolling, rolling like a pair of dice across the pavement to abolish chance. Never the broken cadence into a shipwreck or two, bubbles in the cave of the imagination. Fever magic of the spoon was a Beat wash nesting in glazed tones and mosquitoes of the floating world. It was a piano fried in territorial drive with thought-mattresses of an insidious spring. Standing in a trunk of milk with portable memoirs. The sea beyond the melody tempting until dusty. Coaxed living candles with minor church and barn. Shifting, unraveling, stitched walking country roads. Poetry magazines arrived like hats in the canyon. Many stories are gone, left to their several histories.

jim leftwich

05.11.2017