University of Calgary Press,
2020
Back in the day, the historical Buddha gave a stunning
lecture on the five aggregates. These aggregates – perception, thoughts,
sensing form, consciousness as well as feelings (both physical and mental) –
were thought to represent the performative divisions of the brain. The Buddha
was less interested in where these aggregates reside in the brain tissue than how
they undermine our individual presumption of I – the self that we believe “calls the shots”. Thousands of years later,
modern psychology is still fascinated by these aggregates, none of which being
particularly in charge but each capable of overwhelming the others in order to
express itself, regardless of what the supposed self wants.
Gil McElroy’s Long
Division reads like a fascinating account of his own aggregates at work. Over
its 143 pages, the author employs a variety of voices that range from stoic to
manic, introspective to outlandish, with each vying for a clearer experience of
its surroundings. Given that this latest full-length dabbles in early twentieth
century surrealism, such a tactic – a strategical surrender to the unconscious,
if you will – works wonders at destabilizing and transporting the reader.
“To understand the
room
the eyes must
flow. The eyes
themselves
tremble. The ear
is far too late.
Cheeks slide
around such faces.”
(Reverdy, pg. 7)
Taken from the first sequence, “Twentieth”, which
originally appeared in chapbook form via above/ground
press in 2013, this excerpt can be read as both instruction and meditation
for the pages ahead. Ostensibly, these poems explore mental and anatomical
forms but it’s the reader who directs the gaze. Occasionally McElroy’s
line-breaks bend time, like Dalí’s melting clocks; in other places, his strong,
disassociated imagery (i.e. “cushy foreskins, suddenly”, from “Aragon”)
provokes in the spirit of Luis Buñuel’s eyeball-slicing Un Chien Andalou (1929).
Underpinning the disorientation of each entry,
however, is a line of demarcation wherein McElroy weaves some of the founding
surrealist poets into an emotional compass. Massaging the names of Paul Eluard
and Pierre Reverdy, among others, into sentences that reject clear meaning, they
eventually become mantras. In this timeless repetition, the author creates a
web of vague proximity between these artists and his own voice. So begins a
cosmic through-line that permeates this book well into its final sequence
“Standard Candles”, which itself performs a similar webbing of psyches from across
the spheres of science and philosophy.
Yes, Long
Division is a cosmos in the true sense of the word; it has an internalized
order by which McElroy’s personal, familial and literary spheres find residence
in a surrealist whole. And that whole includes its share of chaos – a
boundary-less fray of highly intuitive, experimental writing. Let’s take a look
at “Proper 32” from “The Merton Lake Propers”, excerpted below:
“Because to me, I
had read of it for
Because to me, the
mystery of the view begins to degenerate for
Because I know
this concretely for
Because the
explanation or nothing for
Because as far as
seeing goes, I was drunk with all of that for
Because of little
impatiences for
Because diversity
tires me out for
Because my tongue
is tied for
Because it seems
to me that words are hopeless for
Because at first
sight, perhaps for
Because there, or
because they hurt for
Because the hard
discipline of for
Because I also
shamed for
Because I wish I
wished for
Because I wish I
knew for
Because the stones
have no ideas for
Because the
stories found out for
Because of
goodness knows what for”
(pg. 53)
Here, McElroy’s aggregates prove to be his arsenal in
breaking down perception to its raw data. Like trains of thought skipping
tracks, “Proper 32” sounds no different than our default mode networks – the
random chatter that consumes our brains when we’re in an unfocussed state. Little
about the construction of this poem appears random; if I omit every “because”
and “for”, it presents a rather poignant poem. But as is, McElroy’s runaway
momentum transcends verse and taps the unconscious. One can trace a similar
dynamic happening within “ABC (IOU)”, which is excerpted below. The repeated
assonances and consonances of McElroy making his way through the alphabet take
on a sensory thrust, through which old words are sold for scrap and new meaning
is fused from the wreckage.
“A back. A bash. A bawdy hand of impulse. A beam. A bed of
wild things. A blanket of gravity. A bloom. A blush. A board.
A body astonished by change. A body yearned for, in a way. A
bound. A box to take too quickly. A brade. A breast. A bridge.
A but. A buzz.”
(pg. 122)
While McElroy delivers a breadth of material that should
appeal to both seasoned and novice experimental poetry readers, I must warn
fellow constituents of the latter group: with Long Division, you’re getting exactly what it says on the tin. Not
only does the text feature full-on experiments (including a revisit of the Word Maps visual poetry McElroy
conceived of in the late 1970s), but actual mathematics as well. (In choosing
to review this book – by admission, putting far more enthusiasm on “Gil
McElroy” than the prospect of actual long
division – I’ve put myself in the Catch-22 of facing my high school math
failures or giving short shrift to this sequence.) Adventurous readers will
have to tell me what I’m missing out on, but I found the ten or so pages of
integers impenetrable.
Revolving back to Long
Division’s second sequence, it’s “A Colborne Psalter” that arguably comes
closest to unifying all of McElroy’s aggregates into a true apprehension of the
world. Set in the orchard’s sepia hues and the rustic confines of the familiar,
McElroy presents dialogues in stanzas so precise, a quietude answers them.
Save me
from my
tongue”
(pg. 26)
This stanza really drives home the aftermath of so
much aggregate in-fighting. There are no spectral personalities or stuttering
mantras here. Instead, readers are suspended in a mournful headspace of memory
and absence as McElroy comes to terms with his selfhood. The geography is less
surreal than spiritual.
Considering the contrast of voices that shape its six
major sequences, Long Division hangs
together well. And although he isn’t striving for enlightenment with these
experiments, McElroy’s comfort with his multitudes creates an unstable but
fascinating consciousness.
Ryan Pratt writes from
Hamilton, Ontario. His criticism has appeared in literary journals such as The
Puritan and Lemon Hound. Cannot transform myth (Ghost City
Press, 2020) is his second chapbook.
